Metro II: Electric Boogaloo

This is not a pet store

Over the weekend Reyna and I hosted a dinner party.  HCM has excellent food, but there is one ethnicity that is woefully underrepresented: Mexican.  I know it must come as a shock to know that there are no Taco Bells, Guadalaharas or El Pollo Locos, but it's true.  And for the reader or two located in Vietnam know this: REFRIED BEANS SHOULD NEVER EVER CONTAIN LIMA BEANS.  Consequently, Reyna volunteered to cook a Mexican feast for us and a few friends.  After we agreed to host the party at our house, we realized that we needed a few things beyond the standard tortillas, beans, meat and cheese.  We don't generally have more than one person at a time over, so we didn't have enough plates or glasses.  So we jumped on the bike and went to Metro.

Before we moved I dreaded going to the big box stores.  Not anymore.  I'm like a kid in a ball pit at The Metro now.  Going to The Metro is like jumping into the swimming pool filled with foam at the gymnastics gym*.  The whole experience is so oddly incongruous to everything else in the city, apart from other Metros around town. 

*I know you had a friend growing up who had a birthday party at the gymnastics gym.  I admit I was skeptical at first, but my god.  I went to a lot of birthday parties growing up, but I can't remember anything more joyous than jumping face first into the foam pit.  When I lived in Vegas, my roommate had been a bigtime gymnast in college and is now a coach.  He took me to his adult class a few times.  Everyone else in the class was flipping around and looking beautiul and lithe.  I was like the little fat kid.  While everyone else did punch back flips and tumbling runs down the trampoline path, I tried to do a handspring.  I never could do it.  I did manage to jump in the foam pit a dozen times, and I'm happy to report it's still as fun as it was when I was six.  I wish I had one at my house.  I think I'd be a lot less of a curmudgeon. 

Before we left I decided I should bring a real camera so I could properly document the experience.  When we got our temporary card scanned, the card scanner lady took my camera, put it in a plastic bag and stapled it shut.  So much for preparedness.  Luckily I still had my phone so all was not lost.  Here's a couple other photos:

Stacks on deck. Skinned Frog on ice.
We can pop bottles all night
Baby you can have whatever you like
I said you can have whatever you like.
Yeah
Late night frog, so hot and so right
I'll gas up the grill for you tonight and baby you can have whichever you like
I said you can have whichever you like
Yeah
Shouldn't these be behind glass or something?  Could I at least have some tongs?



Have you ever asked yourself, "I wonder what it would look like if I cooked a chicken without first removing its head?"  The answer is something like this.  I'm glad it's not my job to arrange the chicken heads so that they're all in the same position.  Seeing these things does beg this question: How do they kill the chickens if they don't cut their heads off?  I'm not sure I want to know.  The most fascinating thing is the chicken stoma.  You can see it in the upper left hand bird.  What is the purpose of that?  Were these chickens smokers?  I have this image of a chicken covering the hole with a wing so it can cluck, and keep the gravel it eats from falling out of the hole.  You have to admit that the idea of a wheezy chicken is pretty hilarious.

One area where I didn't take a photo and am now kicking myself is the beef section.  The beef is all quarantined in it's own refrigerated room.  That's not the interesting part, though.  It's hot in Vietnam all year round, so walking into the thirty degree meat locker can be a shock.  To combat this, the Metro provides coats for it's patrons.  Half the people wandering around the beef stock are wearing bright red coats with a METRO patch on the back.  Beside the entrance is a coat rack with a dozen more.  Genius.  I suppose the next time I'm really jonesing for some cool weather, I can just go hang in the Metro meat locker in a sweatshirt.  Hey, it beats buying a plane ticket to Dalat.

You know how under normal dinner party people offer to bring items to help out?  Well that happened, but instead of saying "dessert" or "drinks" we had our guests bring sour cream and ice.  We didn't know where to find it.  We figured, they've lived here longer than us so they probably know the secret spot to find this stuff.  Nope.  They had just as much trouble as we had.  But we did learn a valuable piece of information:  Sour Cream and Creme Freche are essentially the same thing.  Don't be fooled by the fancy french name.  I'd rank this discovery on par with the realization that Goat Cheese and Chevre are basically the same thing.  Exciting times!

Overall a grand time was had by all.  Reyna, of course, was hyper-critical of her own cooking, which was fabulous.  We sat on our rooftop terrace, drank margaritas and gorged ourselves.  Later in the evening a chocolatier showed up with his company's locally made chocolate bars* for us to sample.  Delicious.  We talked late into the night, and I'm sure we drove the neighbors crazy, but it was wonderful.

*This is one of the greatest things about living in Vietnam.  There are little independent companies making all kinds of killer food.  The weekend before we met a guy who makes cheese.  That's his job.   Cheese Maker.  Another friend of mine is thinking of starting a business making hot sauce. This is a fantastic country if you have the entreprenurial spirit.

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On an entirely separate topic, I got an email from a reader* suggesting that Lance Armstrong and Sheryl Crow may have split up because of the sexual side-effects of performance enhancing drugs.  I have to admit that I'd never really considered that possibility and it got me to thinking. 

*Do you have any idea how much I loved writing that?

No one much talks anymore about the fact that LA and his first wife, the wife who sat by his side through the cancer and the first four Tour victories, split up when he was poised to tie the consecutive Tour wins streak.  I've always assumed that this happened because Lance suddenly realized he was a celebrity and could bang other celebrities.  Why stick around with your aerobics instructor wife if you could be nailing Sheryl Crow?  Aerobics instructors don't get famous (except for Denise Austin: still hot after all these years.  How do you do it?  Oh yeah -aerobics). 

I think this goes along with my Lance Armstrong is an Asshole theory.  All his ex-teammates hated him so much that they'd do anything to beat him, including cheat.  Also, there is very little I loathe more than writing a book about your struggle and spending entire chapters lauding your wife, and then dumping her two years later.  Exhibit A: Lance Armstrong It's Not About the Bike.  I guess it was about the bike, huh Lance? 

Or maybe the ladies just get tired of sleeping with a guy who's had his testicles removed?  Maybe that's how he won seven straight Tours.  No nuts getting in the way of his peddling stroke.  Those seats are narrow, you know.