There was a girl of about nine, a boy of about seven, and another boy of about five. The eldest led the interview while the youngest peered quietly at me from behind. They giggled when I said I was not married, and gasped when I said I was 30. They rubbed my head; they laughed like no bald person had ever let them rub their head. The old man smiled and continued pouring tea cups of moth booze for us.
The girl grabbed my hand and yanked. Come, she said, you come with me, okay?
I shook the hand of the old man first, then the mechanics, and then this loud band of munchkins led me down the street. I crouched so their hands didn’t have to strain to reach mine, listening to the sound of their sandals slapping the sidewalk. I walked a surprisingly straight line. Then the girl turned quickly toward a nondescript door and pushed it open, leading us all in.
There was a very large room, like a ten-car garage with couches and hammocks and a kitchenette under a tin roof. A TV played a soap opera on mute in the background. A score of adults sat cross-legged in a circle, surrounding a huge assortment of food laid out on the floor on white plates. The loud conversation died down as a very large, very sweaty foreigner was led into their midst by his pinky fingers.
The girl said something to the family, and they laughed. A bowl of rice and some chopsticks threaded their way across the circle toward me. Several of the adults scooted over and made room on the floor. There were big plates of roast duck, grilled fish, sweet pork belly, fried spring rolls, and vegetables I had never seen before. I probably didn’t need more beer, but I didn’t say no quickly enough. Only two of them spoke English, and we went through the same questions about age and marriage the kids had asked me. I pulled out my phone to translate a message about my bike being welded back together. I wrote another one complimenting the food, easily the best Vietnamese food I’d eaten since I arrived a month before. They insisted I have some more.