For The Dogs We Eat

The three weeks of vacation in Vietnam passed like a blink of an eye. My friend Trang and I experienced this trip as a symphony: The Four Seasons of Vivaldi.

We went through light emotions like the dew of spring, then warm moments of a hot summer. Then, nostalgia shook us: the taste memories of our childhood had the sweetness of an autumn, when the trees return to the earth the leaves they borrowed from the summer. And then there's winter. The one that makes us appreciate the other three seasons so much, because it is cold, icy and freezes our hearts. An inner winter, brutal, which surprises you even when the sun continues to burn outside. A season that does not come from the climate, but from the emotional shock.

As I write you these lines, I see this woman's face again and I still hear her voice. I don't know if her story is true. But the sincerity of her timbre, the pain she felt in telling us about it, push me to believe that she is.

Here is the winter I went through during my trip back to the sources, in Vietnam.

When we arrived in Da Nang, a seaside resort in central Vietnam, Grab's driver advised us a restaurant renowned for its bún chả Hà Nội. Our journey being signalled by culinary discovery, Trang and I were looking forward to tasting this traditional Northern dish. We arrived at a restaurant with walls covered with photos of celebrities. All the stars seem to have been there. Something tells me that the meal will cost us the skin of our buttocks.

The waiter installs us at a table for two. I sweep the room with my eyes: many tourists and some locals on vacation. A young waitress brings us the menu. The signature dish of the house is a bún chả with frog legs. I'm not a fan of these green batracians, but I'm curious about everything. I'm ordering some for myself. Trang prefers pork:

- "As usual: I taste your dish and you taste mine."

She shakes her head vigourously.

- "No, I'll leave you your dish. I don't eat frogs."

I burst out laughing.

- "Sounds good to me, I'll have my dish to myself, and I'll still taste yours.”

Then a voice, in French, takes us out of our bubble:

- "It's the height: you eat dogs and you don't eat frogs."

We turn around. A European-loomed woman, in her sixties, is staring at us. I frown.

- "Excuse me, can you repeat what you said?"

She repeats by weighing every word:

- "I say it's a blend that you eat dogs and don't eat frogs."

My whole body starts shaking. My heart sends blood into my arteries at full speed. I hesitate between getting up to hit her or crying. In my family, we have always had dogs and cats. We love them more than anything. Imagining that someone can eat a dog hurts me terribly. So being accused of eating it... I feel the tears running down my face red with anger. Trang, who has known me for more than forty years, gently puts her hand on mine.

She signals me not to react.

I stare at the woman. She supports my gaze with the same anger.

I'm getting up.

- "Good morning, Madam. Can I sit at your table?"

She is alone. She nods her head. Before I can pour out my anger, she bursts into sobs. I had come with so much rage, a list of insults ready to come out, the worst I had ever dared to say for fear of dirtying my mouth. They all flew away in front of his tears. 

I ask her:

- "Why did you say we eat dogs?"

She is sobbing.

- "Have you seen anyone eating it here? "

She sobs even louder. The whole restaurant is turning to us. I'll spare you the details: handkerchiefs, hugs. Trang joins us. Here is her story.

She had started her journey in northern Vietnam, in a village whose name I no longer remember, nor exactly where it is. But forever, I don't want to go there. A local family had welcomed her. They had visited the city together, shared good times. In their home, there was a dog called Bắp, "corn" in Vietnamese. She quickly became attached to him. Before leaving for Central Vietnam, she came back to say goodbye to them. They shared a farewell meal. 

Looking at the carcasses in the dish, the master of the house said with regret:

- Bắp would have loved to eat these leftovers."

She asked:

- "But where is Bắp?"

The master replied:

— "We just ate it."

She ran away and vomited everything she had eaten. Well, this part, I imagined it, she hadn't told me. But by putting myself in his place, I would vomit until the last piece of Bắp. Later, her guide explained to him that, in some families, to honour a guest, we kill a chicken, a rooster, a duck... and sometimes a dog.

She asked me if it was like that everywhere in Vietnam.

NO! Absolutely not like that everywhere! All Vietnamese do not eat dogs, nor do they kill their dogs to make a festive meal.

I saw in her eyes that she was not convinced.

It hurt me deeply. I didn't touch my dish of bún chả Hà Nội. I went back to the hotel and spent the day there to recover from my emotions. I didn't sleep that night.

This story still haunts me. Since my arrival in Australia, where in my family every home has two or three dogs, the slightest barking brings me back to this nightmarish story.

Has anyone had the same experience? Why do people eat dogs? Is it cultural? A necessity? A question of taste? Where is the boundary between our emotional attachments and the habits of another world? From what moment do we judge, and from what moment do we seek to understand?

I don't know. Help me, dear readers, to understand.

---

Kim Chi Pho is a Belgian artist and author. Born in Go Cong, Vietnam, to a Chinese father and a Vietnamese mother, she is the eleventh of twelve children. She lives in Paris with her two daughters, Lou and Jolie.