Revised Personal Essay

Justin Nguyen

Professor Li

ENG 101-005

11 September 2016

Validating Vindication from a Vietnamese Boy

            Why would a person ever eat food that’s older than them? I would almost never eat 50-year-old fish, or congealed blood. In any sense of Western sensibility, how can I eat a dish that tastes like ammonia? Mr. Zimmern must be brave, insane, or both. Under the familiar yellow arches, I dip a French fry into the most artificial ice cream ever. Heart attack bliss.

            In the grand scheme of discovery, weird is delicious, if simply put. The taste of the sweet and salty creates a symphony of flavor. This foodie revelation is only the beginning of an obsession with unique food. At the instant of discovery, the TV’s glow beckons me to the light. A white Caucasian man visits the land of my forefathers, where Pho is home and French food is everywhere. This man is eating a pulsing organ, a local delicacy. As a child in the United States, I did not react with disgust, but interest. My people eat this? As the clock winds away, my brain seems to envelope the experience through every desire I had, but not hunger. After the show ends, I stroll across the kitchen to discover what great masterpiece to make. The peanut butter, jelly, and chip sandwich tastes delightful even though it is a mess to eat.

            In only a matter of time, I’m dragged into a family gathering with recent immigrants. I have never had fresh goose before, or seen one actually butchered in front of my young eyes. “Interesting,”  I say. In the supermarket, food is packaged with gleaming plastics and vibrant colors. From the basement of Grandma’s house, I saw the real work behind eating meat. Everything is used, even the lifeblood flowing through the veins, a rare occurrence in my land. My western side revolts at the sight, but my heritage appreciates a tradition beyond my family. A dash of lemon, salt, and pepper is all that’s needed. A peculiar sight for me at the time, but a familiar sight for myself as time went on. I did not need to taste the dish to understand the essence of it.

            For the end of the party, another dish appeared out of thin air, or more accurately out of the work of 10 people in the kitchen. Cá lẩu! Fish hot pot! As I scurry along to my seat in the grand table, I notice an odd detail. In the hot pot, a fish head lies cooking in the broth. Disgusting may have been the first word I said, but my uncle explains the dish as a cultural blending of France and Vietnam. Vietnam signifies the herbs and freshness, while France represents flavor from all sources. A cultural combination of deliciousness and discovery as I learn how to eat as one of my family.

            In all the thoughts that plague my mind, I involuntarily miss cuisine that coursed through the very same identity that I am now part of. I now understand the importance of food, not just for nourishment, but as a connection to the very DNA that passes down from my ancestors and to me.