Bia Hơi - Fresh Beer

The drinking scene in Saigon takes on many forms. The gaudily-themed clubs are honey for the barflies, Saigon's trendsetters, and tourists itching to make short work of their foreign currency. There are the pavement bars tucked away in quieter alleys, where streetside food hawkers sell bottled beer to folks who sit cross-legged on plastic stools, pry their teeth with toothpicks, and hold quiet conversations in the darkness. You have the same thing but different in the backpacker district, with its all-night revelry and neon, rock & roll ambiance. Shoestring travelers and locals saddle up to curbside plastic seats to drink cheap beer from shop-house stalls. They amass in excited throngs for late sessions of flirting and cultural exchange.

Then there is the Vietnamese equivalent to the working class hole-in-the-wall. These beer halls are where the blue-collar workers convene to drink lots of a rice-based lager called bia hơi. The weak beer (~3 percent alcohol) arrives at the table in plastic bottles and is poured into glass mugs over a glacial chunk of ice, which further weakens the beer as it melts. At the price of 45 cents a liter, this brew attracts imbibers starting at 8 in the morning and ending at 8 at night, or whenever the place runs dry. You could sit in front of one of these roughshod bia hơi halls as early as 9 in the morning and see laborers stumble out of the door, fumble with keys, and zip off on their scooters. In Vietnam, there doesn't seem to be a law on the books about drinking and driving.

At night, as long as there's still beer, the room is packed with drinkers and the sounds of raucous laughter, clinking of ice against glass and glass against glass, and the hum of a dozen rusty wall fans. It's an image of densely packed tables brimming with beer bottles and white foam food boxes, with glaring fluorescent lights overhead, grimy wainscot-paneled sky blue walls lined with red and gold calendars, and wet floors littered with peanut shells, plastic wrap, and tissues. Next to the cooler is an electric-lit Buddhist shrine to bring luck and fortune to the establishment. The drinkers run the age gamut, from early twenties to old men; there are few women besides the beer ladies who serve, sweep, and toss empty plastic beer bottles across the room into a pile that grows by the hour. A hall to the side leads to a dimly lit back alley used as a urinal--not for the faint of heart.

It's a regular bar, not a bia hơi hall.

Beer, Wine, and a Valuable Lesson
I dropped in on one of these bia hơi halls yesterday with Mike and a friend. We took seats at a stainless steel table against the wall. Before the beer lady had the chance to bring us the bottle, the mugs, and the plate of boiled peanuts, a street vendor had trailed us inside to sell us mango slices and garlicky pickled pork sausage. The beer arrived in what looked like a vinegar bottle. We jammed chunks of ice into the mugs and poured yellow foamy beer over the ice to melt it and make it fit.

We settled into atmosphere of the place. At the table next to us, a trio of construction workers poured beer into each other's glasses as they chattered over a tray of pork loaf and rolled rice noodles. They laughed with half-hearted smiles of green decaying teeth, and smoked cigarettes in a way that seemed as if they were kind of bored. One of them stole furtive glances in our direction. We were the only westerners in the place, and in all the stories about bia hơi halls, the locals invariably approach foreigners with a warm welcome and an enormous language barrier. Sure enough, this guy and his two friends struck up a conversation with us by taking my hat from my knee and passing it among themselves to make comments on it. I think it captured their interest because it's a military style hat, and, well, Vietnam has quite a military history.

The old men were delighted to find that two of the three of us can actually hold their own in spoken Vietnamese. I sat and enjoyed listening to the conversation with the benefit of an occasional translation. First they talked about the hat, then the conversation broadened and the old timers got more and more excited. One of them pulled a chair over to our table. He was leathery tan with salt and pepper hair, and wore a green polo shirt, gold corduroy pants with most of the cords worn away, and a pair of foam slippers. He introduced himself and told us he built houses in a development out of town. Then he let loose the usual questions: are you married, how old are you, what do you do? Satisfied with our company, he pulled forth a lime green box from under his table. It was a bonus he received from work, he said, then opened it and drew forth a ceramic bottle shaped like a pomelo.

Rượu Bưởi Năm Huệ

The guy with salt and pepper hair poured a shot of the brown wine into a ceramic dipping dish. Rule 1: in Vietnam, you let someone else pour your drink. He was about to hand the dish of wine to one of us, when the eldest, a man in a navy jumpsuit whose grey roots were just starting to show in his dyed hair, held out his hand and exclaimed in protest. Rule 2: in Vietnam, the person who is oldest is the first to drink. The eldest man took the wine, spilled a little on the way to his mouth, and spilled even more when it hit his lips. He smacked his mouth, and sighed "aahhh," and as he handed the dish back. Again a shot was poured, and this time handed to us. Our friend, the oldest one in our group, took the first shot. When it was my turn, I passed the dish to Mike. He downed the wine, and as he handed it to me to pass back the old man, I brought the empty dish to my lips to taste a leftover drop. It was slightly bitter, like citrus rind. I returned the dish, but I knew I was headed for trouble. I was about to break Rule 3: in Vietnam, you're expected to accept the drink from the person offering one to you.

The next shot was for me. I didn't want it; I already had enough to drink. To decline the shot was going to cause some embarrassment, but there was no way I could drink it. Not that I minded sharing the bowl or tasting the pomelo wine. But, if I had any more than would wet my lips, I'd be exceeding my limit and mixing alcohols, making me a wreck the next day. Faced with the choice between saving face and avoiding a painful hangover, I warned my companions that I had to refuse the wine. They looked grim because they knew, like I did, that declining a drink was not going to go over well.

The old man with salt and pepper poured the next shot, picked it up with both hands, and offered it to me. My face turned red and my eyes dropped as I shook my head no. The old man jerked back. His companions threw their hands up and spoke in escalating tones. Our friend intervened, telling the men that I had a bad heart, and couldn't drink the wine. They seemed to accept that, their voices calmed, and the old man passed the wine meant for me to his other companion.

I'm so glad our friend was there to explain my refusal. Granted, to say the weakness was in the heart and not in the headache I'd get in the morning was a weensy realignment of truth. Ironically, in Mandarin the word xīn means both heart and mind. But the word heart was enough for the old men to accept my refusal. And now, I can't help but wonder. What did that explanation mean to them? Do they now think I have weak cardiac muscle? Or rather, is there some euphemism, a significance behind the word heart, as if one could only expect a weak-hearted person to refuse the kindness of a friendly stranger?

Looking back on it with fresh eyes, I could have just pretended to drink the wine and then handed the rest to Mike to finish. Or I could have accepted the dish, said thank you, and placed it on the table untouched. In either case, I think that would have been the wiser choice than turning it down. If I could give you any advice for when you go traveling in Vietnam, I recommend you accept the drink poured for you, always.

I still had a chance to make things right, one chance to show some presence of heart and/or mind. As soon as the dish was empty, I reached out and took the pomelo wine bottle, poured the dish full, picked it up with both hands, and offered it to the man with the salt and pepper hair. He accepted it with both hands, flashed a smile of green teeth, and drained the dish in a gulp. The awkward moment behind us, the old timers stayed to talk with us some more. Then they poured a glass half-full of with the brown, opaque wine and placed it on our table. With gentle grips, they shook our hand, then stumbled out the door. Mike said they had a 20 kilometer trip ahead of them, and with no law prohibiting drunk driving, I assume they expected to make it on their own. I hope they made it home okay.


Provender
- breakfast: omelette with green beans, garlic, and ginger, over rice
- snack: blueberry, raspberry, and strawberry sorbet with mint, chocolate, and whip cream
- dinner: Gỏi Gà, mì xào, măng cụt