Read Online Stealing Buddha's Dinner by Bich Minh Nguyen - Free Book Online Page A

potato appeal,” as the commercials promised.) He was fond of gadgets and purchased the first microwave oven on our street. I bragged about it to all of my friends. The microwave was so American in its efficiency and sleekness, with its green digital display and buttons that beeped whenever I touched them. In a flash I could make my favorite snack of instant cocoa and baked potatoes.
    One thing the whole family could agree on was fast food. Like the Chicken Coop, which offered up tubs of fried chicken with delicate, super-crispy coatings that smelled of butter, herbs, and fat. Happy were the evenings my father brought home an extra-large bucket, with sides of coleslaw, biscuits and honey, and mashed potatoes and gravy. Anh and I liked the drumsticks for their portability and ease, and because kids on Shake ’n Bake commercials always looked so happy crunching on them. Crissy only ate the white meat of the breast. My father, uncles, Noi, and Rosa reached for the thighs where the meat was darkest and juiciest. When at last only bones remained, cleaned by my father and Noi, Anh and I picked up the little fried bits left at the bottom of the bucket. We tipped it back into our wide-open mouths to catch every last crumb.
    The Chicken Coop napkins were printed with laughing roosters and somber psalms. Upon the wicked He shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup. The words turned translucent from the grease on our hands. When I asked Rosa what such sayings meant she snapped, “They mean nothing,” and threw the napkins away.
    In the fall of 1982 Burger King launched a campaign to make the Whopper America’s number one hamburger. My father happened to love the char-grilled taste of Whoppers—the tomato and onion, creamy with mayonnaise and ketchup; the thin slices of pickle. Burger King was a family treat, and any car ride toward it meant blissful calmness; no one dared to fight and ruin the experience. One day my father heard that Burger King was running a fantastic promotion: to celebrate winning a national taste test they were giving away free Whoppers for one day only. All you had to do was step up to the counter, say, “Whopper beat the Big Mac,” and you’d get a free Whopper Junior, one per person. To the Burger King my family urgently repaired, wondering if we would get there in time, and if the place would run out of burgers. There was quite a line at the restaurant, which created an audience for each person’s statement. My father spoke the words proudly, having rehearsed them in the car. Rosa went next, then Crissy and Anh, then me. I froze. Suddenly it felt like everyone was staring at me, and I lost the ability to speak. For one terrible minute I was the stupid, funny-looking girl to mock and deride.
    My father nudged me, then made a tsk -ing clicking sound. It was the noise he made when he was getting angry. I knew how swiftly that noise could escalate into a shout, his red-faced temper taking over. He would hurl keys, plates, shoes—anything nearby—against a wall. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my sisters looking intently away, as if already separating themselves from me, freeing themselves from tangential blame. I leaned forward and whispered, “Whopper beat the Big Mac.”
    My father clapped, and I got my burger. He ordered fries and pop for everyone, and as we claimed a table I saw how happy he was. He was practically cackling, as though being here with our free Whoppers signified some true victory.
    Noi was the holdout. She might go along with us to Burger King, and would even accept a few fries, but her disdain for the place was as visible as the paper crowns Anh and I wore while we ate. Noi had little use for American food. She would have preferred to avoid it completely, but she couldn’t ignore the way I started pushing her beef and onion sautés around my plate. I hadn’t stopped