05x10 - Vietnam: There's No Place Like Home

[bunniefuu]

There is a famous legend in Vietnam about
a young scholar.

One day in his travels, he met a beautiful
fairy from heaven.

They fell in love with
each other, and he begged

the fairy to allow him
to travel to her world.

The fairy warned that time in her world is
a lot slower than that on Earth.

But he decided to go anyway.

She warned him, once
you go back there, you will

never be able to come
back here and see me again.

He still insisted to go back home.

They parted in tears.

When he got back to Earth, things had
changed.

He didn't recognize his city and all his
friends and family had long since died.

I mean, it's a surprise.

I don't see a surprise from there.

I'm Anthony Bourdain.

That's right!

I write, I travel, I eat, and I'm hungry
for more.

From the very first minute that I came to
this country, I knew my life had changed.

You know, my old life was suddenly never
going to be good enough.

I needed a new one where I could keep
coming back here.

Author Graham Greene wrote that Vietnam
can hold you like a smell does.

He goes on to list images like this,
and this, and this, and this.

His character finishes the
passage saying he doesn't give a

damn about his old home, that
home has shifted 8,000 miles.

It goes on, it's from the quintessential
Vietnam book, The Quiet American by Graham

Greene, which of course I read every
single time I come to Vietnam.

That's how I felt years ago when I first
came to Vietnam.

Almost immediately I was in love with the
country, its food, its people,

the way it smelled.

Right away the thought was planted,
how do I get to come here more often?

What do I have to do to live here someday?

Thick, hot Vietnamese coffee drips slowly,
slowly in a sweetened condensed milk.

Saigon, easing back into focus after long
absence.

Then the streets, the stop, start, stop
of negotiating the never-ending traffic.

The seemingly impenetrable patterns.

The mental preparedness necessary for
simply crossing the street.

But with the sensory overload, a
caffeine-like rush of heightened perception.

One that always leads to good things.

A comforting sizzle.

The pouring of batter.

The smell of good things wafts from the
kitchen out into the street.

A smoky invitation.

This morning I'm having breakfast with a
new friend Ha and her friend Han.

How do you pronounce it again?

Bánh sào.

Bánh means cake.

Cake?

Sào is the sound you can hear when they
cook them.

Sào.

Sào.

Like sizzling.

Sào, yeah, sizzling.

Sizzling crates.

Yes, 11 out of 10 Vietnamese for long.

Yes.

Yeah, good.

It's a wonderful mutation of the classic.

Left over from the cruel and evil French.

But you can see some very basic
differences post-yen bien phu.

Like the addition of pork, shrimp,
saffron and bean sprouts.

The secret is how you mix the flour.

You have to mix the flour with the coconut
juice.

It's mixed with the rice flour.

Ah.

That gives it a special flavor.

So that's not French at all.

No.

Same, same, but very different.

Right.

All of the senses are engaged here.

Already, the colors are so nice.

Bright red.

White.

Orange white.

Different use of cream.

A still life of Vietnamese condiments.

Fish sauce.

Peppers.

Citrus.

You can throw out the chopsticks.

Oh, it's by hand.

Use hand, yeah.

So this is a custard cabbage leaf.

And then you use that for as wrapping.

You just take a little bit of the
different herbs.

What we call Thai basil, mint,
uh, shi so.

But this one smells like, uh, raw fish.

Yeah, you're right.

Blackie.

Ooh, spicy.

Good spicy.

Very crispy.

Very, very fresh.

Oh, that's great.

Very rich.

So you think you can make this back home
when you go back?

No.

You just don't see food, this ingredients,
this fresh.

For me, you need to eat this outside,
like this.

I like the sound of the motorbikes.

I don't want to eat this in a dining room
with a, you know, chairs and a carpet.

And you have to come here.

So when you go back, you can tell all your
friends to come here and try this.

I'm doing that now.

The moon over Saigon.

A car battery sits on a motorbike.

And the sound system, it powers.

The song stylings of this guy.

One man karaoke bar, street performer,
wandering minstrel, tonight's entertainment.

And the moon over Saigon.

A man like Yunnan.

The moon over Saigon.

We're the young, young, young...

Yian Chong Hen.

Or as it was described to me...

Hawk Street, Street of Snails.

Sizzling snails.

Another performer.

A boy fire-eater.

Music, snails, grilled things,
charcoal smoke, and cheap, plentiful,

screamingly fresh seafood.

Pa meets me after work
for a typical Friday evening

street snack of snails and
other beer-friendly morsels.

Good evening, hi.

It's Friday night tonight, right?

Snails and beer.

Ba-ba-ba beer, poured over ice,
of course, and good people watching.

I love the bell.

Every time an order is ready, brrring.

Buttersnails and tamarind sauce.

Buttersnails and tamarind sauce.

Yes.

The sauce is so good.

Yeah, I can eat this like soup.

It's sweet, it's spicy, it's hearty,
it's good.

Grilling on the street only happens at
night.

Open flame, technically, it's ill*gal.

Every now and then, the police come by.

Grills are covered.

Street performers stop.

All clear.

Everything resumes as before.

Oh, chicken meat, excellent.

I don't know why, but we are Vietnamese.

We love this texture.

This is America's favorite flavor.

I mean, grilled chicken, there's nothing
more beloved by Americans.

But that chewiness is very difficult for a
lot of people who didn't grow up with it.

Not even for me in the beginning,
but I got used to it quickly.

The boss, as is so often
the case in Vietnam, a

hard-working woman runs
the money end of things.

Barking orders at a cadre of male
employees.

Yes!

Counting the money, a dog at her feet.

Head chef, a 60-year-old woman.

She works seven days a week.

Freshwater crabs.

These are freshwater crabs.

Good.

You eat the shell.

He's right.

It's easier to just eat the shell.

The shell's good.

Oh, that's fantastic.

Oh, my God.

This is like the ultimate beer-drinking
food.

Oh, that's so sweet.

Can I bring my family here?

I'm buying a bunch of T-shirts at Costco.

I don't have to buy a whole new set of
clothes.

End of splattered with all sorts of
wonderful sauces and peas.

Next door, the internet cafe is hopping
with kids, playing interactive video games.

Up and down the street,
beer after beer, poured

over rice, live shrimp
on the grill, order up.

Hawksbreed is just getting going.

And go.

It's a day that feels like an open den.

Of all the bars and
gin joints in the world,

how come this old friend
had a walk-in a mine?

Do you want to eat, uh, scorpion?

I'm joined once again in Vietnam by my
former boss, Philippe.

Mayhem ensues.

No reservations.

When I came here first, you could still
see the Saigon of Green's novels.

It was still a city of bicycles,
motorbikes, and cyclos.

There was the smell of
burning jaws from the pagodas,

charcoal from storefront
eateries, diesel fuel, and jasmine.

Women, in their graceful eyes and peaked
hats, would pedal past.

And the landmarks, like the Majestic
Hotel, the Opera House, the Caravel,

from whose rooftop you could once watch
the w*r.

Today...

Saigon has changed a lot.

Holy crap, that wasn't there before,
Louis Vuitton.

You know, everything changes, everything
stays the same.

Maybe not.

What was once a dream
of one day owning a Honda

seems to have come
true for almost everybody.

Bicycles have been replaced by scooters
and motorcycles.

Traditional peaked hats by helmets.

The old is still here, but around and in
between the old French colonial

architecture everywhere there's modern
construction.

A building boom.

The shock of the new.

But underneath, I like to think,
some things will never go away.

The first time I came
here, it's worth pointing out,

I met my former boss
from Leal, Philippe Lajonine.

When he heard I was returning to Saigon,
he said, oh yeah?

I'll meet you there.

Which is why I'm walking into a car wash
slash motorbike service station.

Past the Saigon
version of a local quickie

mart, though this one with
home cooked goodness.

Up a flight of stairs in an unmarked
building.

Shoes off, through a door.

And of course, where else would I find
Philippe?

Philippe.

Back in Saigon after how many years?

Seven years.

Philippe's been here far
more often than me, even

more obsessed with
everything Southeast Asia.

Nice place.

It's a place that feels
like an open den,

but there's just
smoking it out, that's all.

Already I'm remembering with mixed emotions
what it's like to travel with Philippe.

Take, for example, Philippe's morning.

Ah, I love those snacks like this.

Some quail eggs.

What do we have here?

Saigon is filled with street food vendors
of every imaginable variety.

This morning, it turns out Philippe was
doing what he always does.

Appetizing.

He's indefatigable, always running off the
reservation, trying everything.

How do you go?

What's the name?

No name.

Wanting to know everything about things I
wouldn't even ordinarily notice.

It's amazing.

She has absolutely everything.

The grills, the dough, two burners,
one stronger than the other.

What's that?

How do you make it?

How does that work?

Where do you come from?

Can I borrow your cyclo?

With this crisis, one has to learn
different trades.

So I'm going to try this.

It can be worse than Paris on the Place de
Concorde here.

He's absolutely fearless and seems never
to pay a price for his fearlessness.

I could do this.

It's healthy.

It's borderline dangerous.

There.

Do I get the job?

Look, I have this laundry list of things I
want to eat while I'm here.

Do you want to eat scorpion?

I leave that to that bald guy who wants
his name, Zimmerman.

He's got his new series, by the way.

Bizarre world.

He's expanding.

Oh, he's expanding, all right.

To a size 48.

And, of course, only Philippe would ask
about the Ural, the Soviet version of the

Harley Davidson, popular
in Vietnam, and how

he could get us
chauffeured around in one.

And notice, by the
way, that it's me that gets

sideswiped in a fish meal
if this guy takes a long turn.

That's good for slipping in and out of
traffic.

I don't want to be hitting this thing,
man.

Are you kidding me?

This is a coffin.

Then the legs get crushed, and then the
head bounce it back.

So, you know, before
the end of the ride, we are

going to have your will
about the foot on the floor.

He's trigger happy on the stunt.

My testicles feel like they've been
completely crushed.

But, as always with Philippe, things turn
out okay.

We end up at our destination.

The center of the world.

A rare, quiet corner in the middle of a
noisy, chaotic city.

A shady square in what
seems like an enchanted

neighborhood where every
day something magic happens.

They're supposed to be, I mean,
absolutely amazing.

To even begin to
appreciate what's going on

here, we have to roll
back the tape a little bit.

Step back in time and relive the early
morning.

Every morning as the
sun rises, ferries on the

Saigon River load and
disgorge their passengers.

Construction workers pick up their tools.

And this woman, Madame Tan, goes to
market.

All the vendors know her well.

They save her the best cuts of meat,
the noodles she wants, the best produce.

All the ingredients kicked off like the
elements of the periodic table.

She comes back here, to this corner.

Then, it begins.

So, in a city where, as you know,
how do you eat?

Everything that's good.

How do you even make a dent?

This wasn't a difficult one.

This lady, very famous.

She's known as the lunch lady.

She's a legend.

Go ahead.

Google it.

Foodies from all over the world know about
her cycle menu of daily soups.

She's something of a maverick,
because she does, like, a different soup

every day, which she makes from scratch, in
a sort of a cycle menu throughout the week.

Today, I believe, it's way-style beef.

And I think there's pork blood involved.

Stock of pork bones, beef bones...

Then sliced beef, sliced pork,
pork leg, pig feet...

Coagulated pig's blood, onion,
ginger, rice noodles...

A host of special spices, nasty bits,
and jealously guarded trade secrets.

The magic of a soup among soups.

You'll notice I got to see her early,
because I hear, there's a line.

You know, if you don't get here in time,
she can run out fast.

A small number of lucky people,
some days less than a hundred,

will line up here on this very corner,
succeed in scoring a bowl.

Where do I begin?

And I'm told, according to such impeccable
sources as the internet, when she makes

the broth, she throws a whole pineapple
in.

The acid and enzymes tend to rise the
meat.

Ah, good tricks there.

The fat has melted just properly,
not too much.

In this case, it's all about the stock.

So there's a lot going on here.

I'm getting neighborhoods in this soup,
you know.

It's like discovering new neighborhoods,
every few mouthfuls.

Especially with the
introduction of the Arabs, there

must be some more reaction
or chemistry happening there.

Universal goodness.

This is a broth that the gods were suckled
on.

And everyone eats in silence, which is
always a good sign.

Nobody's talking.

Just quiet, slurping of noodles.

Like all truly great soups, it soon
becomes center of the universe.

You pass through an event horizon of
pleasure.

Moments ticked off in mouthfuls.

Everything else ceases to exist.

Another 10 on the pleasure meter.

It's kind of like that scene in Spinal
Tap.

You really got a guy, you're turning it up
to 11 in this.

And the price for this journey to the
center of your mind?

A mere 75 cents, America.

Yeah, I wonder what she's doing tomorrow.

Good idea.

I'm gonna have to rearrange my schedule.

How do you become a regular in one place
on the other side of the world?

I guess I move here.

Next, a specialty unique
to central Vietnam, and

you probably don't
know how to eat it either.

As we're eating, there are like four or
five ladies laughing their asses off at us.

It's like we're an amusement.

Exactly.

No reservation.

An airless tube in space.

The dull throb of engines.

Ears pop, and we begin our descent.

The random patterns
of clouds give way to the

seductive crazy quilt green
of rice paddy fields below.

Not home, but home.

Both foreign and familiar.

Hoi An in Vietnam's central region.

A part of the country I haven't been to
before.

It managed to mostly escape
destruction during the w*r,

surviving much as it was before
the dawn of the 20th century.

I know these little bows with the eyes
there.

That's really a nice touch.

Beauty, peace, tradition, history,
great food.

I mean, this being Hoi An, there is
nothing more authentic.

This is the real thing.

There is no improvement district here.

There is no effort.

This is it.

And that's the beauty of it.

Picturesque streets and ancient shop
houses date back to when it was a shipping

and commercial capital for wealthy Chinese
and Japanese traders.

And there is a peacefulness here that is
really specific of the central region.

Given its extraordinary and
uniquely preserved architecture,

it's unsurprising that there
are visitors from elsewhere.

But ten minutes to the left or right from
the town centre, there's this.

Philippe, as usual, is
undeterred by the big picture and

hones right in on the important
details, like where to eat.

In the heart of the old town, the Central
Market.

What are these, dragon fruit?

Exactly, the local fruits
are... The colors are very vivid.

It's extremely fresh here.

I mean, everything has come from less than
ten kilometers.

Philippe and I wander with no set agendas.

Good-looking veggies.

Quail eggs, thousand-year-old eggs,
cured eggs.

So here we are now getting into the fish
department.

You can picture yourself, right?

Your market in the morning, after coffee.

Yeah, but you notice something,
Philippe.

Where are the men?

No men.

Women are in charge of the business.

I don't know if they're
doing the fishing,

but they're certainly
bringing it to market.

All the people selling the fish,
cleaning the fish, running the business.

And making breakfast.

I think these are the noodles they use.

Yeah, the famous Oya noodles.

Yeah, for Kowlao.

An entire warren of stalls dedicated to
one local specialty.

This place clearly seems to be the most
popular.

Talon in the Oya.

Chintou.

The noodles themselves
are a trademark secret

of just one family,
available only in Hoi An.

Supposedly ash and
water from the village's

central well give them
their unique flavor.

So let's see, we got a little,
tiny little limes, we got a little

peppers, we got that vinegar, pickled that
looks like garlic, or shallots?

Uh, shallots.

That's a meal.

Kamal.

Fresh greens, slices of pork, dried pork
skin, spicy broth.

The proprietor steps in to show us how
it's done.

I'm doing what she told me to just do.

She handed me lime and spicy sauce.

That's the way I'm eating.

Uh, that's real breakfast.

So it's really the perfect dish.

Healthy and tasty.

And it involves pork.

You know, my favorite part of my Vietnam,
one of my many, but I say there's only

five minutes, but what I enjoy also is,
as we're eating, there are like four or

five, you know, ladies laughing their
asses off at us.

It's like, we're an amusement.

Exactly.

Look at those hideous westerners.

He's trying to eat our... Entertainment
for them, the perfect moment.

That was a reasonably sized, fully
satisfying breakfast.

Under ordinary circumstances, it would be
enough.

I saw some serious banh mi up front.

I'm hoping I still have room for it.

I suspect I will.

Perfect.

Thank you so much.

A passerby whispered to me that this banh
mi was the best in town.

And I can well believe it.

Look at this thing.

Good.

Wine with everything.

Oh, that's a beauty.

I mean, certain banh mi are very light.

This one is loaded with everything.

That's a banh mi deluxe.

That's a banh mi platter.

With everything in it.

Is there anything the addition of a
gratuitous egg doesn't make better?

I think not.

This has to be the most elaborate banh mi
I've ever seen.

Only the best for us, man.

That's right.

Thank you.

Good for us.

There's your half, my friend.

Oh, yeah.

Look at that goodness.

Oh, yeah.

So, you got your little, like,
liver pate on the bottom, right?

Yeah.

I'd say the cucumbers is kind of ham.

Kind of ham.

Fish base.

Fish base.

There is the dressing.

There is the mayonnaise.

It's endless.

That's a symphony in a sandwich.

And a complicated symphony at that.

And the liver pate there gives it a kick.

That is really impressive.

The baguette alone is something of a
miracle.

How do they stay so crunchy, crispy,
and fresh on the outside?

So airy, so perfect on the inside.

So you got your baguette and your pate
French.

But a long way from France to here.

That's right.

There is a real balance of every
ingredient.

I think we kind of went over the top of
the egg, too.

But you only go around once.

Oh, this is the best.

And you get the news, too.

Blue Sammy Hager's in town.

I plan to move here.

I plan to live here.

Coming up, I begin to get a handle on what
that might involve.

I would make this my little Kurtz's
compound.

And they could point to him and say,
wait, did I put any of this over there?

His methods have become unsound.

It is rumored that he's gone over the
edge.

No one's seen him for some time since he
moved to that island.

No reservation.

Wanted.

Rental property for two adults and child.

Access to ocean and fresh food,
a plus.

Preferably with endless views of rice
farming, maybe a river.

Water buffalo good?

Pristine, unspoiled, traditional Vietnamese
rural farming community, perhaps.

I've long planned to move to Vietnam for a
year or so.

And Hoi An, I'd hoped, would be the
perfect place.

A little reconnaissance is definitely
called for.

To find out if indeed,
this is a place my

family and I could live
and be happy for a time.

Philippe and I are out
house hunting with Lee, who's

acting as our unofficial
real estate agent today.

Come on, come on.

Lee and her husband
run a couple of restaurants

in Hoi An, and she knows
just about everybody.

This house around here is very typical,
if you look around.

Really nice, huh?

It's also very open.

All these are rice meals.

I'm just deliriously happy to be tooling
around the countryside, driving along dike

walls, look left, look right, and see
this.

But Philippe, he's got to know everything.

You can grow your own rice for season.

Yeah, that's me.

Farmer.

You think Tony could buy a water buffalo
there?

Yes, easily.

And Philippe, you should take a place here
too.

A place out here?

Yeah, look, I'm thinking about it.

Oh, yeah?

I'm thinking about a bigger boat.

They come and pick you up.

We go out fishing.

I guess I do need to consider a number of
factors seriously.

While I'm not signing any
leases this time around, I

really need to know what
kind of things are available.

House number one is truly traditional.

Unobstructed light.

Alarm clock included.

Garden food supply on premises.

Wood burning hearth.

The way that many, if not most, Vietnamese
in the countryside lived for centuries.

And very often, still live.

How hot does it get here in the hot
season?

Very hot.

A little bit uncomfortable hot.

AC might be a consideration.

Sure.

Before, very quickly, we
can, you know, get back

to the old ways and
forget the air conditioning.

The well?

The way of getting water, and I think they
still use it.

I'm looking for some serious water
pressure, you know.

I have a thing about, like, good,
strong...

But if you fill here, then it goes down
here.

That's the pressure you get.

Always the optimist.

I should point out that Philippe,
who lives a far more exotic lifestyle than

I do, is always talking about huts and
living in huts or on boats.

Looks lovely.

I think it's a serious contender.

For who, Philippe?

Me or you?

I'm a flush toilet sort of a guy.

Running water.

If I gotta drop the kids off at the pool,
I want dependable water pressure.

TV room?

Entertainment room?

That has to go.

The TV has to go.

My Woodstock Burning Man three-day rock
festival days are over.

Actually, they never happen.

And this is the kitchen.

Oh, man, that's old school.

Oh, this is it.

A little fire in the morning.

You start it at night.

You keep it under the ashes.

I don't even have to
imagine my wife shaking her

head in tears looking
at this as her new home.

Philippe's ready to move in.

You think, is it going to be clams today?

Or is it going to be duck?

If I were single and I wasn't a dad,
I would totally be in at this place.

This is kind of how I'd imagine things
prior to...

becoming... morphing into Bill Cosby.

House number two.

Wow.

I desire this.

I want this.

Unfortunately, I'm not Mick Freakin'
Jagger.

Maybe if I start saving now
and do that Cialis ad they've been

offering and the Imodium and
the liver-flavored toothpaste.

Maybe I could, like, never, ever afford
this.

You get to have it all.

Oh, yeah.

You get the rivers, the swimming pool.

Swimming pool.

All that.

Very important.

Suddenly.

Any chickens here?

Are you and your chickens?

Some fish.

Fish will do.

Some serious plumbing.

That's huge.

That makes a big difference to me.

Oh, yes.

Did you see that shower head?

Did you see that shower head?

That thing's a monster.

Wow.

Wow.

Indeed.

Even if this place were free, there's a
problem.

Right across the bridge,
a cooking school for

tour groups of Australian
and Western foodies.

Foodies.

If that don't up paradise, I don't know
what does.

At the moment, 60, 70 people come through
here and do a cooking class every day.

Every day?

Yeah.

Very popular.

Proximity to foodies, that's kind of a
problem.

I tell you, if I could blow up the bridge,
if I could cut off that bridge,

it's like Bridge of the River Kwai,
you know?

I just blow the bridge.

There's a couple of big
Montagnard guards standing there

with AK-47s, like, dressed up
like the end of Apocalypse Now.

I would make this my
little Kurtz's compound, only

slightly more luxurious
and more Danish modern.

They could point to him and say,
you know, AK-47 lives over there.

His methods have become unsound.

It is rumored that he's gone over the
edge.

No one's seen him for some time since he
moved to that island.

I do like that shower head, though.

Next up, the Tuban River cuts through
Vietnam like a cable, bringing me closer

to a nice family meal with people who
might soon be my neighbors.

So, am I to understand both of this
couple, during the w*r, one was drafted

into the South Vietnamese Army and the
other for the north?

No one's seen him for some time since he
moved to that island.

I do like that shower head, though.

Next up, the Tuban River cuts through
Vietnam like a cable, bringing me closer

to a nice family meal with people who
might soon be my neighbors.

So, am I to understand both of this
couple, during the w*r, one was drafted

into the South Vietnamese Army and the
other for the north?

Something you see in Vietnam.

A cemetery and a paddy field.

In a culture where one reveres one's
ancestors, you keep your family close.

A few yards away, life continues much as
it has for centuries, planting and

irrigating rice in the same
back-breaking way, the same

deceptively simple-looking
patchwork of canals and dikes.

It's something I'm kind of obsessed with,
rice paddy fields.

Views like this.

It's what I've dreamed
of having outside my

window if I could ever
find a way to live here.

Today is my last day in Hoi An,
and I'm headed upriver.

Your

muffler, get it fixed.

My local guide, Tuan, has
arranged a meal with some people

who live very much like my
future neighbors probably will.

Our destination in this case is an island
accessible only by boat.

A community of fishermen,
riverboat captains,

and people who make
their living on the water.

This in a place that was located just
below the 17th parallel, not too far from

the DMZ in what they call here the
American w*r.

Smoke from a wood fire fills the kitchen
as a meal cooks.

Look at that.

It's... You have your
different areas of heat.

Perfect.

Fried fish from the river seasoned with
turmeric.

Boiled greens, hard cooked duck eggs and
fish sauce, a hearty fish soup,

green bananas, taro, tamarind,
and starfruit all from the family garden.

Our hosts, the Lees.

A not atypical extended family.

Mom, dad, kids, grandkids, nieces,
and nephews.

Nearly the whole family make their living
from the river.

Dad and son are boat captains.

The son-in-law, a fisherman.

What's your favorite dish in here?

Well, I love the fish.

The soup is terrific.

It's all great.

Really adoring.

Well, this egg there with the fish sauce
was six whole area.

So, am I to understand both of this couple
grew up in this area?

Yes.

During the w*r.

One was drafted into the South Vietnamese
Army, and the other worked for the North?

It sort of happened in the Vietnam w*r.

In a not uncommon twist of fate,
the Lees, Mr. and Mrs., just married in

fact, found themselves fighting on
opposite sides of the conflict.

Was this very difficult?

Yeah.

They just have to do whatever they have to
do.

They take a pretty dispassionate attitude
towards this rather incredible-sounding

scenario, something one encounters again
and again here.

When he was drafted, did he actually have
to fight his countrymen at any time?

He actually did have to fight.

In the front, in the field, you have no
idea at all.

Right.

Can't see the enemy, so you just have to
fight when they're fighting you.

If you don't fight, you'll die.

He asked questions like, are you angry,
or how could that happen?

And people look at you like you're naive.

I mean, how does he feel when he sees
Americans come?

He said he didn't mind whoever you are,
American or others.

And just look at normal people.

Nothing special, nothing serious.

What about the French?

They're terrible people, the French.

Oh, I'm sorry.

How about the French-Americans?

Oh, yeah, right?

Oh, yeah, right?

Oh, yeah, right?

No, no, okay.

So much is changing in Vietnam,
so fast.

Everybody's got a nicer scooter.

The kids are a little bigger.

The clothes are nicer.

The building's going up everywhere.

Is that all good?

From my experience, they've got two sides
in it.

Good and bad things.

People got a better life.

But the Washington culture impact,
I mean, it's not really well organized.

A lot of serious questions, but thank you
so much.

Good food.

Next, Saigon.

Another return of sorts in an unfinished
personal matter.

I owe someone a goodbye and a thank you.

Reservation.

Since my very first trip to Vietnam to
make another TV show in 2000, I was hooked.

Besotted by her landscapes.

Thrilled by the food.

Charmed, utterly enthralled by her people.

Particularly one special person,
Madame Ngoc.

Although we'd only just met, I quickly
felt like I'd known her all my life.

A short, hard-working woman in vintage
Chanel, ultimately smiling warmly and

terrifying her employees, she was the
proprietor and queen of the restaurant,

come new Saigon.

But to us, she was like a mother.

She insisted we call her Mom Gal.

And she doted on us like her children.

Here's a photo of Mom Gal
displeased with executive

producer Chris Collins'
decision to not shave that day.

Bad son.

And here she is with me.

Very pleased that I, at least,
had had the decency to freshen up for her.

Good son.

This is a moment that stayed with me.

And this photo is always on my wall.

A happy time.

Back then, the way I remember it, when I
first came here, it was a noisy mob scene.

Motorbikes crammed with families
putt-putting through the dining area.

A constant din of
breaking crockery, the sky

filled, it seemed, with
discs of sizzling rice.

Mom Gal's unique spin on a traditional
dish.

The table, the dining room brimming with
brightly colored plates of food.

And always, always, when I
ate here, Mom Gal was by my

side, making sure I was
happy, telling me about her life.

So when I heard she
died, I was determined to, at

very least, say a few
things left sadly unsaid.

Come New Saigon, it's all about Mom Gal.

So I, I don't know what
it's going to be like without

her, but, but to, to not
come would be unthinkable.

Even the colors seem more muted now.

The atmosphere, well, different.

My condolences for their loss.

We miss her terribly.

I've never met Mr. Lignoc.

I'll leave it at that.

And though Mom Gal spoke warmly of her son
Bao, I hadn't met him either.

His mother was a very, very important
person to us.

She took care of us as if she were our
mother also.

You know, I remember
she'd be sitting in the

lobby of our hotel when
we woke up in the morning.

I remember that when Chris was sick,
she fretted over him terribly.

A tough, strong businesswoman with a very
good, very soft heart.

Cheers.

All right.

Cheers.

Good to be here.

We ate together in the late afternoon lull
between lunch and dinner.

The half-empty restaurant making the
absence of Mom Gal even more deeply felt.

It was awkward, to be honest.

A meal filled with silences.

Afterwards, Bao took me to Saigon District


To the Buddhist pagoda where his mother's
ashes are kept.

We left flowers.

A stack of fake money.

Lid incense.

Offerings for the afterlife.

A few private thoughts.

The Vietnam I knew and loved has changed
since I was last here.

With Mom Gal's passing, the center of
gravity has shifted.

There's an empty space.

Thank you, everything you give.

Thank you, everyone.

Thank you.

I have much love and respect for your
mother and for your family.

Thank you.

Good luck with your life.

I sit down on the curb
feeling pretty bleak about

things, wondering if I
could really live here.

If I could really love
this place again as I

once did when everything
was fresh and new.

Could I, would my family, be happy here?

But a few moments pass.

Typical ones in Vietnam
when you sit still for

a while and just watch
the street around you.

The movements of bodies and objects
through space.

A mom teaching her baby daughter to sit on
the bicycle seat.

And hang on to the handlebars.

Young girls holding hands as they walk
down the street coming back from school.

A young boy playing with a yo-yo.

People eating everywhere.

Happen drinks.

A family catches up on their day.

The ebb and flow of a crowded city block.

That's when things come into focus.

A neighborhood, a small town within a
city.

I hope that'll never change.

Everything changes and yet maybe
everything does stay the same.

The Vietnam I fell in love with is still
here.

So, that it is a free another year for
different bills.

They are not even as quedan or any others.

And there are more Dears with some波 hat
and drive in the car.

It is hard to stop at somebay and drive,
and there are no annoyances behind it.

So, there'll be lots of things things to
do.