The room was dimly lit in the candle light, the smoke of incense wafting gently over a makeshift altar of fruits and flowers gracing the counter-top. In the near dark, I sat waiting for his return, unsure as to how he would appear.
"What are you still doing up?! Go to bed!"
My father flipped the switch, startling me like a deer in the headlights. He looked angry.
"Baba, I'm waiting for Ông Táo!"
Many would claim that my childhood was nothing short of an unusual one. It was the night of a new moon and rather than spending a mindless evening in front of the television, I attentively waited for the arrival of the Kitchen God. I know, the concept sounds laughable. But if my classmates had no qualms looking out for a pot-bellied man plopping down their chimneys, or keeping one eye open for some magical woman with a tooth fetish, waiting for Ông Táo suddenly didn't seem so ludicrous. The benevolent Kitchen God, keeper of the hearth and protector of the home, has been our family friend for a good two thousand plus years. Every year on the eve of Tết, the Vietnamese lunar new year, the Kitchen God would pay a visit to our home before returning heaven-bound. It was only proper etiquette to welcome this faceless guest with offerings of citrus fruits, hot tea, sweet narcissus flowers, and aromatic incense. Milk and cookies are for chumps.
What intrigued me the most about the Kitchen God was his role as a celestial messenger, reporting back to the Divine with stories about every household from over the past year, and evaluating whether our deeds warranted the bestowing of blessings over the next. Anyone who knows me well would know that I absolutely love a good story; and if this spirit has held this job since the dawn of time, it seemed certain that he had plenty to divulge. What could he tell me about my obscure paternal family history and culture? What could he teach me about rich Vietnamese new year traditions and mastering the art of hospitality?
Altars to spirits and ancestors play key roles in Vietnamese spirituality
My family's altar to Ong Tao on the occasion of Tet 2015
As neither of us could sleep, my father gave in and let me wait. In the meantime, he recounted to me a few family stories. As a kid growing up in a country ravaged by war, he had a library of tales that never ceased to shock and awe. Unspeakable crimes were committed during those times, particularly following the 1968 military attacks known as the Tết Offensive, a string of atrocities that ironically began on what was supposed to be a joyous lunar new year holiday. While many of his tales were heartbreaking tragedies of physical struggle, family dissolution, and miserable deaths, a few anecdotes were "uplifting" enough for the ears of a 10-year-old. He supplemented his stories with what few photographs were able to survive both the war and a severe typhoon (95 percent ofthe family's photographic heirlooms apparently sit on the seabed of Hong Kong harbor). It wasn't uncommon for children growing up in war zones to go without proper supervision, for parents had bigger issues to contend with as the country began to spin out of control. Living in a tumultuous environment as an odd and inquisitive 10-year-old himself, my father's idea of playtime included the making of homemade Molotov cocktails that he and his friends could explode in the street against enemy kids from rival neighborhoods. One evening, after dropping a bottle of kerosene near an oil lamp, he watched my grandmother's kitchen rapidly go up in flames. Fleeing the scene in panic, he stopped in his tracks when he realized that the family cat was still trapped inside.
"I couldn't just leave little Gù behind. He was my only friend."
As a bullied child who always kept rocks in his pocket to fend off bigger kids, he quickly befriended the only creature that could give him unconditional love. He ran back into the scorching room to retrieve the frightened feline before making a clean getaway. In some bizarre twist of fate, a nearby counter-government faction fired an anti-tank missile through the courtyard wall that effectively destroyed the back half of the residence, possibly mistaking a flickering light bulb in the house for an encoded signal. My father still thinks about how he could've ceased to exist that day. But he simply sat back in the chair and chuckled.
"I was so relieved the kitchen got bombed. If Bà Nội ever found out I burned it down, she would've spanked the life out of me!"
My father's family picnicking in the highlands of Da Lat, c.1958
My father (center) with grandmother in Saigon's central garden, c.1961
My father at age 7
The family cat, Gu ("Hunchback")
While my father felt heroic for saving cats from burning buildings, the war ultimately witnessed the emergence of real heroes in our family. He told the story of Uncle Dương, who had bravely fought in the South Vietnamese army against the encroaching Marxist northerners. Captured by the Việt Cộng, my uncle spent 10 years imprisoned in a concentration camp somewhere in the jungle. He was bound and isolated to solitary confinement within a dark bamboo shack for days on end, starvation forcing him to capture and devour any lizard or beetle that crawled within reach of his emaciated body. Following forced "re-education" at the hands of communist propagandists, he was eventually released and nursed back to full health (albeit one finger and half an ear less). Years later, he found himself struggling to survive yet again, though this time as an immigrant factory worker in the United States after having fled and being granted asylum. For years he labored (and lost more fingers) in the industrial sector to support his family, ultimately saving enough to put Cousin Châu through the prestigious University of California for a real education.
"I never wanted my daughter to know the pain of hunger. Her success was worth my every sacrifice."
Only surviving photo of Uncle Duong
My uncle endured and overcame nearly 20 years of turmoil, though not everyone was as lucky. The story of Aunt Quynh's escape during the Fall of Saigon has always traumatized me with its graphic nature. When the communist army finally captured the city, panicking civilians scrambled to gather their families and flee, with so many lives lost or left behind in the utter mayhem. My aunt out-clambered countless others onto a fishing boat frantically setting off down the Mekong river towards the sea.
"I don't like the word F.O.B. ["fresh off the boat"] used in this country. I was one of those miserable people."
Even international waters weren't safe. Days into the journey, the overcrowded boat was captured by pirates who robbed them of what little they had, then slaughtered the captain and innocent passengers. Instinctively, my aunt took the hands of a few children and silently hid with them in a cargo hold beneath the blood-soaked deck.
"I didn't know them and they didn't know me. But it was the human thing to do in spite of such inhumanity."
The pirates left the boat to drift aimlessly in the ocean until it eventually washed ashore off the coast of Thailand, where my aunt later lived in an overflowing refugee camp. While she now lives a comfortable life with her family in Orange County, a long overdue blessing for good karma, the fortune she gained would never make up for the faith she had lost in mankind.
Aunt lighting firecrackers for new year
Every story in my father's collection seemed depressing enough to make even a licensed therapist question the mental health of our entire family. Even his own adolescence was marked by hardship, separated from his parents and surviving independently as a teenage refugee in Taiwan, while caring for his sisters and struggling with English to get through school. But not all of his narrations were the tragic products of war. In the joyous spirit of the coming new year, my father had much to share concerning our rich cultural history dating back to a time when Vietnam was unified and relatively at peace. Orally translated from my grandmother's recollections, he also recounted to me wondrous tales of our family's elevated status amongst the nation's ruling elite, during the last decades of Vietnam's imperial age, stories that had long been kept from me as a result of unfortunate linguistic barriers between me and my grandparents.
The following are rare photos taken by Uncle Khánh, a year before the fall of Saigon
One of countless mobile roadside street food stalls
Old woman selling shoes on the sidewalk
Rows of motorbikes in the downtown shopping district
The main boulevard in downtown Saigon
My great-grandfather, Lê Văn Chạc, was a respected nobleman and mandarin, or royal official and bureaucratic scholar, in the imperial court of Vietnam's last rulers, Emperor Khải Định and Emperor Bảo Đại. He succeeded as one of the last individuals in history to take and pass the notoriously rigorous Confucian Imperial Civil Service Examination, an intellectual legacy that had spanned across East Asia for nearly 1500 years before its end in 1919. Throughout the course of his lofty career in the early 20th century, he assumed a variety of positions that elevated from the rough equivalents of cherif to district attorney to court judge, before ultimately being selected by the emperor as quan tỉnh, or provincial ruler over what was at that time the provinces of Kiến An, Hà Đông, and Hải Dương, northern areas that today stretch between Hanoi and Haiphong.
"Your great-grandfather used to carry a sword and ride off on horseback with his troops to catch bandits in the highlands. Then he'd preside over the trial and later deliver the punishment. He was a one-man show of imperial justice!"
My father exclaimed with a wide-eyed sense of pride. I was completely entranced.
"Was it exciting like the Wild West, Baba?"
He slowly sipped his tea and took a dramatic pause before chuckling.
"So much more than that. We're talking about the Wild East."
The exoticism and romantic nature of my family's history was veritably cinematic. I learned that my great-grand uncle married into the royal family itself, to a lesser princess sporting the title Công Tằng Tôn Nữ, reserved solely for the great-granddaughter of the dynasty's second monarch, Emperor Minh Mạng. But traditional court life still thrived even during the youth of my grandmother, who as a teenager would hear pulsating thuds emanating from distant drum towers raucously relaying a signal from one village to the next to announce the emperor's approaching procession. In the days leading up to the new year festival, the emperor would pay visits to the provinces to ensure that order was being maintained and that the people were properly being served by officials like my great-grandfather. My father told me stories of summons to the Forbidden Palace of the Nguyễn Lords in the old capital of Huế, when great-grandfather would don traditional robes of embroidered silk brocade and pay his respects to the royal family through elaborate Confucian rituals, held in courtyards flanked by fearsome dragons and qilins. He spoke of great-grandfather holding public audiences in our own lavish family estate, and the tribute that villagers and aristocrats alike would bring, from offerings as humble as rice, wine, and animals to treasures as fantastic as gold ingots, jade carvings, and porcelain vases. A stone tablet was even erected in the district of An Dương to commemorate the people's satisfaction with great-grandfather's governance, even while growing discontent began to loom over the weakening Nguyễn Dynasty. Despite the encroaching interferenceof French colonization, followed by increasing Japanese aggression during World War II and the rise of communist insurgents, the Viet people have always managed to make time forfestivalscelebratingtheir heritage and their blessings. One colorful celebration in particular outranked all the others in terms of cultural identity, spiritual unity, and national pride - the lunar new year.
Great-grandfather in traditional attire
Great-grandfather archival photo
Mandarins in ritual attire
Gateway to the Forbidden Palace of the Nguyễn Emperors in Huế
Performing royal court music in the throne room, where my great-grandfather would prostrate before the emperor
Northern villages haven't changed much since my great-grandfather's days
Living up to my mandarin roots?
My father always felt that the Western concept of new year was somewhat of a joke.
"I never understood it. Everyone frantically gets fancy after work, counts down a couple seconds to a dropping ball, then BAM! - no one remembers a thing the next day."
As a time of year that possesses so much significance in terms of renewal, physical rejuvenation, and spiritual reawakening, he couldn't understand why Americans would reduce the transition to something hasty, meaningless, and anticlimactic.
"Just like on freeways, Americans are always in a damn rush. When they finally reach the start of a brand new year, they go and plow a water buffalo right through it."
Vietnamese water buffaloes, for the sake of analogy
He had a valid point. The West only truly celebrates in the final few seconds between 11:59 pm and midnight. In Vietnam, however, the festivities go on for nearly four days, not including the days of exciting preparations that precede the actual date. Every moment is an intimate experience not only with family and friends, but with society as a whole. Imagine throwing the ultimate block party of shameless gorging and drinking, explosive firecracker lighting, playful gambling, and rowdy lion dancing - except the entire nation shows up and no one leaves for a week.
But the new year festival is about so much more than merely having a good, rambunctious time. It is an invaluable facet of ethnic identity, an ancient springtime celebration steeped in ceremony and symbolism that satiates not only physical senses but metaphysical senses as well. Whether performed in a temple or in one's home, the rituals of Tết are a commemoration of the past and an anticipation towards the future, both simultaneously occurring in the sacred present. It is a genuine thanksgiving for blessings that have come and have yet to come. As my father eloquently explained,
"Tết is about honoring and expressing gratitude towards four blessings, without which your life would be futile: your ancestors, your family, your mentors, and your friends. It's not about making wishes for yourself, but rather asking for fortune, prosperity, and longevity to be granted to them. And hopefully, they'd love you enough to wish the same"
Why limit these amazing tenets to an annual holiday when they could ideally serve as the foundation for life-long principles? Ancestral "worship" is the cornerstone of all East Asian cultures. Unlike intangible gods with questionable existences, the ancestors were real people to whom we offer praise and devotion for the very gift of our own existence. We simply would not be were it not for them. We visit and give thanks to our family for being the support system that we can always rely on through the binding contract that flows through our veins. The sacrifices of our parents and grandparents are priceless, selfless gifts made to ensure a better life for us all. Unlike in the United States, teachers and mentors are some of the most revered and elevated people in society. We visit and bring gifts to those who are so gracious to share with us their knowledge and help us on the path towards any form of enlightenment. Finally, we honor and open our homes to friends and neighbors, whose trusted presence make the hardships of life bearable if not inconsequential. In some cases, the fine line between one's friends and one's family can be as thin as a silk thread.
A typical Vietnamese neighborhood of friendly homes and family-run shops emits a lovely communal ambiance
New year fruits and flowers represent wealth, abundance, and renewal
Children are always enthralled by the magic of the lion dancers
Many people make pilgrimages to sacred temples during Tết, including the holiest Chùa Hương (Perfume Pagoda)
When I moved to Southern California for my graduate studies, I knew I would have to leave my family and the festivities behind. It wasn't until later when I realized I didn't necessarily need to leave behind my traditions. After slowly establishing a life and accumulating a very close crew of friends, I decided to openly share the beautiful customs of Tết. And it all began with two friends and a large box from the Vietnamese market. I could hear Captain Matt locking up his bike to my patio railing, followed by a gentle tap on the back door. I had just made a rare purchase that set me back a hefty 65 dollars, yet I wanted nothing more than to share it with him and our friend, Ankoor. They anxiously inquired about it, though their anticipation quickly changed to perplexity.
"You seriously spent that much money on... fruit?!"
"Not just any fruit. Special new year fruits I grew up eating, imported all the way from tropical Vietnam to you!"
I laid out before them my sweet childhood, a treasure chest of juicy ripened jewels that included fresh mangosteen, rambutan, longan, dragon fruit, jack fruit, pomelo, and mango. Fruit in Vietnamese culture, especially around the lunar new year, has long been associated with the reoccurring themes of wealth, abundance, and Nature's bountiful reward for earnest work. It also plays a role in reminding us to be grateful for our sustenance and blessings, as noted in the well-knownproverb, "Ăn quả nhớ kẻ trồng cây" ("When eating the fruit, rememberwho planted the tree"). Givingfruit to those you love is comparable to giving precious currency. Growing up in India and a celebrated culinarian in his own right, Ankoor had at least heard of, if not already tasted, some of these organic sweets. But sharing them with Matt, who has always been like a fresh canvas for me to freely color with exotic delicacies and cultural ideas, was absolutely thrilling.
"I remember the first time I had a mango. It wasn't that long ago."
"Matt, you never ate sweet, juicy mangoes growing up?!"
"My family would see them at the store... but we didn't know what to do with them!"
My casual late-night fruit tasting party was probably more of a treat for me than it was for them, as I had the pleasure of spending quality time with two of my dearest friends and gorging on nostalgic edibles. If this cross-cultural culinary exchange proved to be a success, then I knew I'd be ready to throw a genuine new year party.
Fresh fruit is ubiquitous in Vietnam, particularly at mobile street carts
Sharing my treasures with my best friend
Lychees, longans, rambutans, and mangosteens
Market in the central coastal town of Hội An
Two consecutive years, I attempted to bring the color and cuisine of Vietnam to my humble apartment by hosting a Tết dinner for friends whohad essentially become a second family to me. Much like back in Vietnam, preparations started two weeks in advance as I lavishly decorated the ancestral altar, purchased small gifts, and contemplated my five-course menu. The most exciting part of the process involved making the journey to Garden Grove's "Little Saigon" and joining the masses of other Vietnamese immigrants in a chaotic shopping spree. Over the course of a week, eight trips were made to five different markets, spending just short of 300 dollars on raw ingredients alone. As food is serious business in Vietnamese society, no expense could be too great when honoring my Irvine family. The final stretch until Tết witnessed the most grueling (though no less riveting) task of four consecutive days of cooking. If Matt hadn't returned to help with the duck soup, I likely would've ended up cooking straight into the next year.The wonderful aroma of fresh lemongrass, coriander, mint, chili, galangal, and coconut wafting throughout the complex took me back to evenings in my grandmother's kitchen. Of her many specialties that I so delicately tried to recreate for my guests, personal favorites included:
Gỏi Cuốn - Fresh salad rolls with shrimp and peanut dipping sauce
Canh Vịt Dừa - Coconut milk soup of duck and bamboo shoots
Chim Cút Quay - Roasted quails with a glaze of honey, 5-spice, and lime
Chả Cá Thăng Long - Grilled cod marinated in tumeric and fennel
Thịt Bò Lúc Lắc - Wok-shaken steak with spiced soy sauce and rice vinegar
Bò Kho - Beef stewed with tomato, lemongrass, and star anise
Cá Kho Tộ - Caramelized palm sugar catfish with green onion cooked in a clay pot
Preparing a banquet for ten people from scratch proved to
be a valuable practice in patience and perseverance, reminding me of
the hard work my parents endured to provide for me and our own family - entirely out of pure love. It also
confirmed my family's personal philosophy on diligence, and how the
quality of Life's rewards is directly proportional to the time and
energy sincerely invested towards them.
Vietnamese markets are always fun to explore and simply get lost
Ingredients for duck soup
Chopping up catfish steaks
Hand-wrapping fresh salad rolls with shrimp
Typical Southeast Asian produce
A sampling of some of my preferred dishes for the feast!
Getting more experience with mass cooking Viet dishes as the invite list grows every year!
Before any intense feasting could commence, important rituals first needed to be observed. It never ceases to amaze me how heartfelt and willing my friends were when it came to respecting my cultural heritage. On the eve of the new moon, I opened my door to each of them surprising me with chrysanthemums, orchids, and other floral bouquets to welcome the arrival of spring and connect with nature. Together before the sacred altar we gave thanks to our ancestors, many of them having brought photos of their own departed family members to grace the table beside mine. Solemn prayers were offered with the lighting of incense and the ritual burning of gold-leaf paper for the wealth of departedsouls. After cracking open fresh coconuts, the ravenous feast ensued in an animated display no different from that with my own relatives. The evening was also largely spent laughing to several rounds of the traditional gambling game, Bầu Cua Cá Cọp, with winning bets marked by swigs of Vietnam's signature Ba Muoi Babeer. And finally, no one could go home without receiving a red lì xì envelope of lucky money to promote a year of great prosperity. But the way I see it, one intimate night with the people I cherish was all I really needed to prove to myself just how prosperous my life already is. Besides, what good are Life's greatest treasures if you can't share them?
Celebrating my first Tết in Irvine, Year of the Snake. We all apparently felt intense Vietnamese pride that evening
Makeshift tables, but genuine friends
Ritual burning of gold-leaf paper
Traditional gambling with Bầu Cua Cá Cọp
Celebrating Tết 2014, Year of the Horse. It was a night I'll never forget
Celebrating Tết 2017, Year of the Rooster. First New Year party in my new house!
Celebrating Tết 2018, Year of the Dog. The party just keeps getting bigger and bigger!
Having the opportunity to share my traditions with such a loving and enthusiastic group of individuals served beyond simply bringing me honor and pride. It became a new story to inscribe on the colorful pages of my life, a grander memoir in a perpetual state of composition. And for once, it's a family story that focuses not on the pain of hardship, but on the pleasure of homecoming. That night of the new moon, I naively waited for the Kitchen God to arrive, hoping he'd be able to spare some time for a few engaging tales. Alas he never showed, and I ultimately dragged myself off to bed rather tired and somewhat disappointed. It didn't occur to me until recently that the gentle spirit was actually there all along, telling me volumes of stories highlighting the importance of family, tradition, honor, and compassion - lessons to usher in the new year, every year, for the rest of my life.
"Cảm Ơn Bố..."
Thank you, Dad.
See how we celebrate Tet in California through my video!
Learn how to make Vietnamese coconut jelly dessert through my video!
