Now I have to admit that I am in no way as sensitive and eloquent as Marcel Proust in In Search of Lost Time, as a neurologist, I have an added visual dimension to this particular process of our brain. The molecule floating up from the bowl of pho in front of me finds its way to the smell receptor in the nose, then the message gets carried into the olfactory bulb, which then synapse with the neurons that then carry that piece of information directly to the amygdala and hippocampus, the organs of emotion and memory respectively, that trigger our emotional response to food due to the evocation of certain scene, certain moment or peoples in our lives.
Having left Vietnam 45 years ago at the age of twelve, I have passed many Tet missing the sights, the smells of food and flowers, the sound of family and relatives, and most of all for a kid, the sense of anticipation of this Vietnamese Christmas, Thanksgiving and New Year all rolled into one. The anticipation of new clothes, red envelopes, of sinking my teeth into that banh tet, and most of all, of seeing everybody so happy and carefree for a few days. Now that I am not too busy working full time and more, I am allowing myself a little bit more access into memories of Vietnam, allowing the luxury of nostalgia seep in and make me more conscious of the memory contained in certain sight and smell of food. Like when the waiter at Pho restaurant asks if I want fatty soup in my pho, I am reminded of my father who ordered that the few times I had pho with him. Whereas pate chaud reminds me of Mom who made the best pate chaud in whole world, with buttery fluffy pastry contained therein tender juicy pork with the balance of lean and fatty meat, plenty of chopped onion, and most important, a whole load of black pepper to give it a zing. Braised mackerel brings back the memory of my grandmother who brought a whole pot of it every time she visits us in Saigon from Phan Thiet, a seaside town four hours or more away. I still can’t imagine how she would carry up the crowded bus and sat for hours with it sitting on top of her lap, sharing the fragrance (or odor, depending on how much you love nuoc mam) with the rest of the passengers. And then there are bento, beautiful lacquer boxes with many different size compartment to hold tiny colorful morsel of food in air-conditioned Japanese restaurant where the door is closed against the outside world (in contrast to the many Vietnamese restaurants with their door wide opened), so that when one finishes one’s meal, there is no refugee children waiting to empty your left over bowl of rice or soup into their own metal or plastic container to take home. The smell of Japanese restaurant, that combination of raw fish, soy sauce and vinegared-rice reminds me of how privilege I was and still am, living my whole life without being hungry for one single day.
And then there is bao, cha siu and hum bao. I used to love them when I was younger, but then for some reason became somewhat apathetic about them. As I said before, with more time on my hand, with less stress to deal with, I regained the memory of that one day in 1975. It was not April 30th when the South fell. It was a few months later when my father and his coworkers were supposed to show up at a local high school for re-education. They were supposed to pack food for one month. At the time, all my nine year-old brain did was to occupy myself with figuring out how one gets a whole month worth of food into a backpack. It was just a math problem for me to figure out how many cups of rice he will be bringing with him. Nothing more. Dad would just be away for one month, as he had been before in the past, at times even three months in the US attending University of Michigan for an executive program.
But at the end of that month, on the day that he was supposed to come back, he did not. Mom was busy that day and the day before cooking his favorite dishes, and I remembered walking in and out of our home, waiting and waiting. At the end of the evening, when we had accepted that he might not come home that night, I grabbed a banh bao and took a bite, but before I chewed I caught my Mom’s face from the corners of my eyes. I have never seen her look so sad and so scared, while trying her best not to burst out crying in front of us children. What followed inside my mouth was the most tasteless banh bao I have ever eaten.
That memory got tucked in the recess of my mind for many years. A memory of deep personal pain and loss. Not only of my own pain, but also that of my mother. My father would spend three years in re-education camp instead of one month. Four months after he was released, we all received legal papers to leave Vietnam except for him. Three weeks after we left, he died.
And so meanwhile banh bao continued to be made or bought, I only ate it perfunctorily, without really tasting it. Whereas I can close my eyes to inhale and chew a croissant with my utmost devotion, reliving my almost perfect year in France, I usually ate banh bao quickly, without joy, to get it over with.
But as time can heal all wound—as long as one recognize it and allow it to heal over, it will heal. As one goes on in life, new memory gets created and laid over the old ones, and hopefully their sum is positive. In banh bao’s case, it was my wife My-Linh who transformed its memory. She too likes banh bao, but not enough to make a point to go buy it. Until she won the election in 2018 to become Washington state first Vietnamese state representative. Now through every winter she has to spend 4 nights a week in Olympia, our state capitol. Soon she discovered that banh bao is the perfect food. All you have to do is to keep it refrigerated, and when you are ready to eat, you just pop it in the microwave for one minute, and voila, dinner is served. Banh bao now provides her sustenance and reminds her of the comfort of home after endless hours of meetings and being at the table, so to speak. It is also easy for me to pack her three and keep one for myself. Now as I hold it in one hand and take a bite, the touch and the smell, the textures and the blend of flavors, reminds me that though I just sent my loved one away for the week, she will come back. Each and every time.
But though banh bao has lost its grip in my psyche as a symbol of loss, every year April 30 comes along and messes me up for the day. For the other 364 days of the year, if I just mind my own business, I am fine being an American. But each year on April 30th, even after almost 50 years, it is still the day that I lost my country. After half a century, that wound has not healed and still triggers deep emotions, the sense of loss and the pain of exile. Once or twice a year— the other day being my father’s memorial day— I would let myself go and wallow in those emotions. That particular wound, I don’t know if time will eventually heal, but I know that, by focusing on the present and the future, I can let bygones be bygones, and not let an event that happened years ago beyond my control wreak havoc onto my psychological well-being. Feeling a little pain is poetic, but carrying too much of it reflect a lack of self-discipline.
