Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
The last time I ate at a restaurant with my father, we enjoyed delicious noodle bowls filled with Vietnamese beef broth called pho. He picked a place he discovered with my sister a couple of years before.
My father had always been a large, Santa Claus-esque man with his white beard, large tummy, and jolly nature. He loved food, and, especially, Asian food.
I had come into town after a particularly long bout of travel for work. My father had recently devastated the family with news of a cancer diagnosis so the visit was imperative. The tumor was lodged in his esophagus and he was having difficulty eating.
He looked thinner than he had in over 40 years. His forehead was etched with more lines than usual, and his usually obnoxious spirit was mute. Being obese for so long, he was now not far from a normal weight range for his size. But this wasn’t the way he’d hoped to lose weight.
The restaurant had no other patrons and I was glad for the privacy. When we were given our menus, my eyes darted to the delectable pictures of Bahn mi, rice noodle soups, and vermicelli plates. I intended to keep the conversation light and optimistic. Since I hadn’t been to this restaurant before, I asked him about various dishes on the menu and he was happy to oblige that type of conversation.
As I paused to consider my order, he looked over at me. “I’m going to have trouble eating. I just want to warn you,” he said, his cheeks tinged with a rosy color.
“Don’t worry, it won’t bother me,” I smiled. I had noticed earlier in the day he was struggling to put food down. But I didn’t let on that I knew.
As we waited for our food, I asked him about his recent cancer procedures and what the road looked like ahead. He joked about the side effects of his medication and we both laughed as if this crazy cancer event wasn’t happening to our family. He briefly touched on the uncertainty of his future, then changed the subject.
As the gorgeous bowls of noodle soup were set down in front of us, the aroma caused my stomach to growl. The tendrils of steam wafted from the soup, spreading its wonderful fragrance. I grinned. “This looks good!”
He gave me a weak smile and hesitated as he looked at his bowl. “It’s probably best if I wait for it to cool down first.”
I nodded, grabbed some of the fresh mung beans, basil, and jalapenos, and threw them into my bowl. He watched me as he took a sip of his water.
My father introduced me to the wonders of Asian cuisine when I was just a child. It was plentiful in this city. During my teenage years, we visited Chinatown and ate meals his wife shied away from. I remembered the first time I ordered a combo rice plate at a particularly busy Chinese market.
“Try the intestines and cow stomach — you’ll love it,” my father had recommended. And he was right. The chewy meats mixed with glistening sauces promising notes of garlic, black beans, and mushrooms were an overload to my senses. After a few years of Chinatown’s delicacies, we graduated to Vietnamese pho (before it became a staple to the area) and Vietnamese coffee, Thai noodles and Thai tea, then Korean barbecue with sikhye. Each fascinating cuisine created a new adventure for us to share.
I looked at the bowl of pho in front of me, now nicely garnished with the appropriate vegetables and sauces. Just how I liked it. Whenever I went to a new pho restaurant, I always started with a single sip of the broth. My father, knowing my ritual, watched me in anticipation.
The broth was hot and comforting, the essence of the beef and spices caressing every part of my mouth. “Mmmmm, a little bit sweet but not too sweet. I like it!”
He nodded in appreciation and pushed the shrimp spring rolls toward me. Their translucent rice wrappers teased at their deliciousness inside. I took one and dipped it into the sweet and tangy peanut sauce. “Yum. This sauce is great.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I think this is my new pho place in town.”
“When was the last time you came here?”
“Last year. I had lunch with some old co-workers.”
The moment lingered for a few seconds. Last year. Before the cancer diagnosis.
He watched me eat the spring roll, his eyes trained on the shrimp threatening to fall out of my overzealous bite. “Are you going to eat the other one?” I asked, motioning to its twin on the appetizer plate.
He shook his head. “I can’t. It’s too much for me now.”
A choke caught in my throat but I ignored it and kept eating. “When was the last time you fully enjoyed a meal?”
My father had kept his medical issues to himself until the diagnosis, only mentioning once or twice he was having trouble “swallowing”. He waited 8 months before gathering up the courage to go to a doctor. Once he was diagnosed, he couldn’t keep the news from us anymore.
He looked up, mentally calculating the answer to my question. “Maybe a year ago?”
The bite of pho I was taking at that moment froze in midair. I put my chopsticks back into the bowl. I contemplated how difficult the last year must’ve been for him, a man who lived for food. “You know, we can take this home. We don’t have to eat this here if you’re uncomfortable.”
He shook his head. “No, I want to try.”
His face resolute, he picked up his chopsticks and wound them into his noodles, being careful not to take too much. I saw the blood from his eye-round steak mixing into the broth. I noticed he avoided adding spice to his broth, very unlike his usual self. I left it alone.
He glanced my way and carefully proceeded to take his first bite. It took some effort to go down, but he managed it.
We both smiled at this little victory and continued eating. The last time we had eaten pho out together was just over a year before. That time my flight had been diverted to my folks’ city due to bad weather, and I spent an unexpected night with them. Conveniently, they lived near the airport.
It was rare when my father and I got to eat out together alone. We were usually accompanied by my husband or sister. The past few times my conversations with him broached profound topics related to religion and the meaning of life. I didn’t dare bring up these topics now.
Ten minutes into our meal, my father’s eyes widened. He grunted an apology, stood up, and made his way to the nearby bathroom. I could hear faint sounds of him gagging through the walls. I kept eating.
I thought about how much my father had taught me about food over my many years of life. He’d been raised in the Midwest by “meat and potatoes” parents who didn’t like to eat anything with bold flavors. When my father joined the military and was stationed in Asia, a whole new world of food opened up to him. Once he tried the local cuisine, he ate anything offered to him and never looked back. His current wife wasn’t an adventurous eater so my father had to wait for one of his children to visit to eat something beyond commercial take-out and fast food.
Eating was my father’s one true pleasure in life.
My father returned to the table. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
I waved him off. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”
“I can’t eat anything else so when you’re done, I’m ready to go.” He looked a bit pale and defeated.
“Do you want to take your leftovers home?” I asked.
He blanched. “No.” He started to pull out his wallet. “I’m going to pay the bill.”
I nodded and he disappeared for a few minutes. I rushed to eat the last spring roll and the remainder of my noodle soup. When he returned, I stood up to indicate I was done. I thanked him for the meal.
That was the last meal I ate out with my father. He never ate at a restaurant again. He died within the year.
My father taught me many life lessons. But the one I cherish is his enlightenment of culture and foreign foods.
Don’t be afraid to try new foods. And if you like something, eat it.
Life is too short.