I pulled a full-on Melissa our second night in Saigon at a restaurant called Chopsticks, boldly going where no tourist should go.  We had spent the day in the countryside, the Mekong delta, a lush tropical forest interlaced with thousands of canals like capillaries pumped full of mud-brown water that ebbs and flows with the tides.  For details and pictures on all our stops, please see Melissa’s post, Thirty-Six Hours in Saigon. 

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As we approached the hotel after a very long, very hot day, dreaming of a shower, air conditioning and sleep, Mr. Dat, our tour guide, informed us that the company had made reservations for us at Chopsticks and would be treating us to dinner to compensate, once again, for the mishap with the driver who nearly killed us.  We could not beg off.

Lest you feel sorry for us, the restaurant was magical, complete with hanging multi-colored lanterns and a five course pre-fixe menu.  True to form, we ordered a drink and felt the effects of the last 8 hours slide off us.  Somewhere after finishing my gin and tonic and before desert, I let my guard down.  Using my chopsticks, I picked up a small red oval shaped thing, popped it into my mouth and said, as an afterthought, I hope this is a radish.

First my eyes watered uncontrollably, then my tongue began to burn, and finally my throat began to spasm. Perhaps it was the beers from the night before.  Perhaps it was the gin and tonic, or perhaps I am, as they often say happens to couples who have been married a long time, beginning to look and act like my wife, the one who has never seen anything on a buffet she would not try.  On the positive side, my sinuses have never felt clearer.