HO CHI MINH CITY—Pierre Dupue, a French expatriate, revels in the French influences that have sprinkled their essence across Vietnam. The architecture of Ho Chi Minh City captivates him; every colonial building stands as poetic evidence of French ingenuity and artistic ambition. Eating snails (escargots) is a genuine pleasure he enjoys, pairing them with a glass of wine secured under his beret. The Thai-style toilet bidet is now his closest ally in hygiene, while French bread banh mi fills his belly with worthy sustenance.
Yet, on a fateful sunny day, Pierre’s bravado met its match as he approached the doors of “Oc Gay” he was met with a bold proclamation: “Monsieur, désolé, we are fully booked!”
Confused, Pierre squinted through the vast, unoccupied dining area with only a lone table for two. “Fully booked? But it’s so empty!” he exclaimed, incredulous and slightly agitated. The staff, clad in crisp aprons, maintained a stoic demeanor reminiscent of a Parisian museum guard, firmly repeating their unyielding policy: no reservation, no entry, regardless of the physical capacity of the room.
“I could fit a whole family of five at that table!” Pierre argued, his bemusement turning to utter frustration. After all, he had entered this space with the swagger of someone accustomed to the laid-back charm of French dining etiquette, where spontaneity is key and reservations are for those who lack the joie de vivre.
As he exited, Pierre mulled over the paradox of French restaurants abroad that seem to embrace rigidity over the relaxed charm that characterizes much of French life. “Here I am, defending the great French legacy! But why must I navigate these bureaucratic hoops?” he lamented.
Despite his outrage, Pierre remains hopeful for a culinary revolution within Ho Chi Minh City. Perhaps one day, the French attribute will reclaim its spontaneity, and the cafes will once again welcome patrons with open arms—or at least a modest “Bienvenue!” without the need for a pre-planned invitation.
As Pierre sips on a fake bottle of Bordeaux he procured from a local market, he can’t help but dream of a future when he can wear his beret into any establishment and not be turned away—unless it’s truly full, in which case, he would still happily resign to enjoying his banh mi with a side of snails at the next street vendor, just to keep his spirits from boiling over.
Pierre acknowledges that while he treasures every French influence from Parisian pâtisseries to bicycle-lined streets, he may have to concede that the new rules of dining in this bustling metropolis are the real “pain” in his daily culinary escapades.