Read Online The Language of Men by Anthony D'Aries - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony D'Aries
Ads: Link
Planet's
restaurant index.
Apocalypse Now. DMZ Bar. The Raging Bull.
I imagine Ngon flipping through a guide to Vietnamese restaurants in the U.S. and reading:
Saigon Palace, Lucky Grasshopper, Pho Getta 'Bout It.
Ngon's parents often spoke to her in French. Perhaps Ngon remembers enough to walk through Boston, gaze at
Au Bon Pain
and imagine opening a restaurant in Hanoi called
To the Good Bread.
"Think Ngon would be up for a "roadhouse?" I yell to Vanessa while she's in the shower.
She laughs. "They serve pizza?"
"Of course," I say. "Just like a good Vietnamese roadhouse should."
"It's your call."
We tell Ngon we want the restaurant to be a surprise.
I hear The Cowboy Saloon before I see it. Michael Jackson had died the week before, so they are blasting a re-mix of "Smooth Criminal." As we approach the brightly-lit saloon—a two-tiered building with wooden railings, wrap-around porch, and spring-loaded doors—I see a banner advertising a Michael Jackson tribute show, an arm-wrestling competition, dollar drafts, and personal pan pizzas.
"Wow," I say.
"Nice work," Vanessa says.
Ngon giggles. "You picked here? This place is very loud."
I look up the block at the long row of dark store fronts.
"Give it a shot?" I ask.
They stare at me as if my question answers itself. We walk up the steps, pay the ten-dollar cover charge to the Vietnamese bouncer dressed in a pink cowboy shirt and Wranglers, and push our way through the saloon doors.
The inside is dark save for flashing neon lights. A massive disco ball spins above the bar. Vietnamese women in cowboy shirts knotted above their navels deliver glass boots full of beer to the dimly-lit tables. We appear to be under-dressed. The customers are mostly white men in suits, ties loosened around their necks, top buttons undone. On the wooden stage, beside haystacks and wagon wheels, several Vietnamese women move back and forth, swaying to the music.
We sit away from the bar, in line with the stage. The three of us lean close and yell in each other's ears. The laminated drink menu offers margaritas, sangria, Long Island Iced Teas, Sex on the Beach, Fuzzy Navels, and something called "Hot Screw against Wall." I pass the menu to Ngon and look around the bar.
"See anything you like?" Vanessa asks.
"Hey, I didn't know it was gonna be like this."
"I was talking about the menu." She grins.
"This place is different now!" Ngon yells. "One time, it was a family place! Now different!"
I can't imagine families sitting here, even if the lights were bright and the cowgirls only served juice. Our waitress, an older Vietnamese woman, moseys over and tips her white straw hat. We pass around the menu and point at each drink. Ngon speaks into the waitress's ear. They giggle.
"What did you say?" I ask.
"I say no tequila in Hot Screw."
We eat our pizza and have several drinks. A man dressed in black, wearing a heavy, rubber, Michael Jackson mask, moonwalks onto the stage. He grabs the microphone with one hand, his crotch with the other. The crowd goes wild.
As he brings the microphone to his lips, I notice the rubber jaw has been cut out, allowing him to sing without removing his mask. He sounds exactly like Michael Jackson. Even the yips and squeals seem as if they are coming from the jukebox, and not the speakers at his feet. His backup dancers are young Vietnamese women who move like this is the first time they've heard the song.
Perhaps it's the opening chords to "Beat It" or the several empty glass boots on our table that encourage me out of my seat and up to the bar to request another round. The place is jammed and many of the waitresses are no longer circulating among the tables. Instead, they are perched on stools, yelling into the mens' ears beside them. I peel a wet menu off the bar and point out my order to the bartender. She wears a black cowboy hat with an LED screen on the front that flashes H. O. T.
Beside me, a red-headed man who looks to be about my father's age
restaurant index.
Apocalypse Now. DMZ Bar. The Raging Bull.
I imagine Ngon flipping through a guide to Vietnamese restaurants in the U.S. and reading:
Saigon Palace, Lucky Grasshopper, Pho Getta 'Bout It.
Ngon's parents often spoke to her in French. Perhaps Ngon remembers enough to walk through Boston, gaze at
Au Bon Pain
and imagine opening a restaurant in Hanoi called
To the Good Bread.
"Think Ngon would be up for a "roadhouse?" I yell to Vanessa while she's in the shower.
She laughs. "They serve pizza?"
"Of course," I say. "Just like a good Vietnamese roadhouse should."
"It's your call."
We tell Ngon we want the restaurant to be a surprise.
I hear The Cowboy Saloon before I see it. Michael Jackson had died the week before, so they are blasting a re-mix of "Smooth Criminal." As we approach the brightly-lit saloon—a two-tiered building with wooden railings, wrap-around porch, and spring-loaded doors—I see a banner advertising a Michael Jackson tribute show, an arm-wrestling competition, dollar drafts, and personal pan pizzas.
"Wow," I say.
"Nice work," Vanessa says.
Ngon giggles. "You picked here? This place is very loud."
I look up the block at the long row of dark store fronts.
"Give it a shot?" I ask.
They stare at me as if my question answers itself. We walk up the steps, pay the ten-dollar cover charge to the Vietnamese bouncer dressed in a pink cowboy shirt and Wranglers, and push our way through the saloon doors.
The inside is dark save for flashing neon lights. A massive disco ball spins above the bar. Vietnamese women in cowboy shirts knotted above their navels deliver glass boots full of beer to the dimly-lit tables. We appear to be under-dressed. The customers are mostly white men in suits, ties loosened around their necks, top buttons undone. On the wooden stage, beside haystacks and wagon wheels, several Vietnamese women move back and forth, swaying to the music.
We sit away from the bar, in line with the stage. The three of us lean close and yell in each other's ears. The laminated drink menu offers margaritas, sangria, Long Island Iced Teas, Sex on the Beach, Fuzzy Navels, and something called "Hot Screw against Wall." I pass the menu to Ngon and look around the bar.
"See anything you like?" Vanessa asks.
"Hey, I didn't know it was gonna be like this."
"I was talking about the menu." She grins.
"This place is different now!" Ngon yells. "One time, it was a family place! Now different!"
I can't imagine families sitting here, even if the lights were bright and the cowgirls only served juice. Our waitress, an older Vietnamese woman, moseys over and tips her white straw hat. We pass around the menu and point at each drink. Ngon speaks into the waitress's ear. They giggle.
"What did you say?" I ask.
"I say no tequila in Hot Screw."
We eat our pizza and have several drinks. A man dressed in black, wearing a heavy, rubber, Michael Jackson mask, moonwalks onto the stage. He grabs the microphone with one hand, his crotch with the other. The crowd goes wild.
As he brings the microphone to his lips, I notice the rubber jaw has been cut out, allowing him to sing without removing his mask. He sounds exactly like Michael Jackson. Even the yips and squeals seem as if they are coming from the jukebox, and not the speakers at his feet. His backup dancers are young Vietnamese women who move like this is the first time they've heard the song.
Perhaps it's the opening chords to "Beat It" or the several empty glass boots on our table that encourage me out of my seat and up to the bar to request another round. The place is jammed and many of the waitresses are no longer circulating among the tables. Instead, they are perched on stools, yelling into the mens' ears beside them. I peel a wet menu off the bar and point out my order to the bartender. She wears a black cowboy hat with an LED screen on the front that flashes H. O. T.
Beside me, a red-headed man who looks to be about my father's age
Similar Books
