Stickman Review--Lan Tran-Etiquette

It was the most tedious experience, Khue Van’s evening meals with her family:

Khue! You’re holding the chopsticks too low on the stem! Not up and down, it’s side to side! Dip your vegetables, don’t dunk them. Lift your food, don’t stab it!

If she tried to escape her father’s critical assault on her eating skills by pausing to drink he’d say, You’re sipping too loudly. You swallow too quickly! At times, it seemed even her breathing was inappropriate. While her classmates wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls, Khue wanted a reprieve from dinner.

Then one day, her father made the most surprising announcement: “I have invited Sabena to come over for dinner.” Khue’s mother froze.

Sabena Brown was the head librarian at her father’s job. And, while it was quite common for her parents to host dinner parties for their Vietnamese friends, they had never invited any American friends home for dinner, much less an unmarried American woman.

“Why did you do that?” asked Mrs. Van.

Mr. Van spoke gravely, as if he had anticipated her resistance. He explained something about the importance of Sabena’s role in his annual review saying, “This is what American co-workers do, invite each other to dinner.” His wife was unconvinced. When had anyone invited them?

Mrs. Van stabbed at her vegetables instead of lifting them with her usual grace but Mr. Van did not comment on this. Seeing this, Mrs. Van set her drink down loudly. She had put the glass to her left instead of her right, upsetting the meticulous placement of carefully chosen rice bowls, entrée dishes, dipping saucers, drinking glasses, chopsticks and chopstick rests which Mr. Van dictated at every meal. The orchestration was as complex yet precise as a chess match. In light of this, Mrs. Van’s drinking glass had committed mutiny.

“Dad, did you know the Japanese have elevator etiquette?” Khue asked. Given her father’s tendency toward verbose lectures on etiquette, Khue figured this might be comfortable territory.

Earlier at her best friend Hannah’s house, Khue had read an article in a Reader’s Digest back issue. The article was about social differences when doing business overseas. Apparently, many American businessmen were taking classes in international social protocol, particularly for dealings with the Japanese. In the battleground of corporate negotiations, the true secret weapon for an American was not memorizing industry statistics but learning the intricacies of when to bow, how to accept proffered eats, and even rules for Japanese elevator etiquette.

“Everybody has elevator etiquette,” her father scoffed. “Haven’t I always told you it’s rude to push the call button more than once?” When he took her to the mall, her father would frown at Khue’s vehement poking of the call button in the parking garage. “It’s not a dead chicken,” he would say. He looked at his daughter now, shaking his head.

“No Dad, the Japanese rules are different.”

In the article there had been simple illustrations like football plays: when entering an elevator, lower executives (the X’s) always assumed positions nearest the front of the car. Higher ranking executives (the O’s) were conceded the back. In accordance with ancient Samurai code, this pecking order assured that Japanese CEO’s were well protected by their “front men.” And, Khue noted, the CEO’s never had to bother with pushing the button for a floor.

She started to share these differences with her parents, tickled and surprised to have discovered a set of behavioral rules her father knew nothing of. “The Japanese—“

“When is she coming ov—”

“I bet the Japanese would still find it rude that you push the button for ALL the other floors whenever you exit your floor,” Mr. Van said to Khue, cutting off his wife.

“That’s more inconvenient than rude, isn’t it?” Khue asked, smiling to herself. Inconvenient was her 5th grade Word for the Week and she had been instructed to use it in a sentence. “Besides, I only did that once and it was a prank.” Prank had been a vocabulary word two months before.

“When is she coming over?!”

Mr. Van swallowed his bite before answering. “Saturday.”

“And I suppose you expect me to cook for her?”

“Dad, Hannah told me that in her grandma’s building in New York they program the elevators to stop on every floor on Saturday since you’re not supposed to make fires on the Sabbath.

“They make fires in the elevators?” he asked.

“No, electricity counts as making fire and if you’re Jewish, you’re not supposed to do that on Saturday.” Then remembering one of Drew Hoberman’s t-shirts—he was one of the long-haired heavy metal boys at school—Khue added, “that’s why they call it Black Sabbath. No lights so it’s like a blackout, see? Black Sabbath.”

“Black Sabbath,” her father repeated, nodding slowly at this new concept. “Black Sabbath.” He said it again as if to indicate that this new information had now been processed, catalogued and stored. “Well even if she doesn’t push the button, isn’t she still using the elevator if she rides in it?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I think there’s some loophole if you don’t actually push the button.”

“Loophole,” Mr. Van muttered, “all these Westerners and their loopholes.”

Loophole was a vocabulary word he had only recently learned. While Mr. Van faithfully paid his taxes to the U.S. government, his American neighbors were buying new cars with the money they saved finding loopholes in the new tax laws. Mr. Van had driven the same white Toyota for the last 8 years. He bought it used.

There were many photos from when they first got the car. Khue was still a baby and her father had proudly propped her on the hood. His two prize possessions. In the pictures Khue looked like she was more fascinated by the neighbor’s front yard, their colorful array of plastic woodland critters, than the car itself.

“I don’t know what to cook for her,” Mrs. Van said.

“You have a thousand wonderful dishes,” said Mr. Van.
“Not for her. She’ll think it smells funny. Americans think our food smells!”

“I’m sure whatever you cook for her will be fine,” Mr. Van patted his wife’s arm. Mrs. Van did not answer. She took another sip of water and placed her glass back in its proper place.

On Saturday afternoon, Khue went to Hannah’s to play. Hannah lived down the street. The girls were standing in Hannah’s mother’s walk-in closet as Khue explained the rules of a new game.

“No, no, no. You’re not supposed to stand there. I am.” She pointed at the back wall. They were amidst a swirl of flowery smelling white cotton shirts and ethnic prints. “I’m the princess so I get to be in the back of the elevator.”

“Well when do I get to be the princess?” Hannah whined.
The closet door opened then and Hannah’s mother peered in. “There you are.”

Khue pushed a skirt aside. “Hi, Violet.”

Back at home, Khue referred to Hannah’s mother as Mrs. Rodriguez. But there in the freedom of the Rodriguez household, Khue addressed her, as Hannah did, by Violet’s first name.

Violet was wearing a black tank top and a long, root beer brown skirt with marks on it like cave drawings. Doughnut-sized wooden bracelets were around her freckled arms. Violet and Hannah had the same chopstick blond hair and wide-set blue eyes.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. Didn’t you hear me?” asked Violet.

“We were playing Vietnamese elevator etiquette,” beamed Hannah. Though Khue rarely shared her Vietnamese experiences with classmates and friends, when she did it was only with Hannah, who has half Jewish and half Mexican, though no one ever guessed it. The entire Rodriguez family was fair-haired and light-skinned.

“Oh,” Violet said to Khue, “ I didn’t realize you had elevators.”

“Of course we do.”

“Oh I’m sure you do, it’s just that when I was in Vietnam,” Violet referred to her extensive backpack travels, “it was very Third World. I didn’t see any elevators at all.

“You didn’t?” Khue skipped over her other question which was, what does Third World mean?

Violet shook her head. “I didn’t see any.”

Vietnam not have elevators? Her father had never said anything about this.

“Anyway, Khue, your mother called and wants you to come home for dinner.”

“It’s only 4:30!” Hannah pouted.

“We’re having company,” Khue told them.

“Well that should be fun,” said Violet.

“Not really,” Khue rolled her eyes, “you know how it is.”

“Mm,” Violet hummed with sympathy.

“Are you coming over tomorrow?” Hannah asked. “You still have to teach me elevator rules for empress and imperial slave servant.”

“Maybe after church,” Khue nodded. The thought of service at St. Philomena’s seemed more bearable if she had empress etiquette to think about.

“Don’t cross my floors!” Mrs. Van warned when Khue walked in. Her mother was vigilantly guarding freshly mopped kitchen floors. Khue climbed onto one of the vinyl barstools to wait out the drying with her mom.

“Mom, what does Third World mean?” Usually, Khue asked her father about American vocabulary words but he was out buying Coca-Cola and Sprite for their special guest.

“Have you taken a shower yet? Go change.”

“But I can’t cross the floor.”

“Go in through the side. I unlocked the sliding glass door.”
Khue huffed in retreat, her question unanswered.

When she came out of the shower, Khue heard her mother yelling in the kitchen. She couldn’t make out the words but from the tone and volume it sounded like more than the usual you-stepped-onto-my-freshly-mopped-floors tirade. Khue slunk quietly towards the kitchen. From the hallway she heard her mother say angrily, “If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you cook for her? How am I supposed to know what an American woman wants to eat?”

There was a low murmuring from her father in reply. He was uncharacteristically deferential. Khue heard him say, “I need this raise…I’m sure whatever you cook will be fine.”

“Whatever I cook will have fish sauce. Or shrimp paste. She’ll think it’s smelly! I’m not letting her think Vietnamese food is smelly!”

More murmuring from her father. Then, “No! I am not cooking for this woman. If you think it’s that simple, why don’t you do it? I have a headache and I am not going to cook!”

There was a long silence. Khue held her breath. As much of a tyrant as her father could be, her mother rarely put her foot down. Finally Mr. Van said, “fine.” Then Khue heard him call her name. She scrambled, not wanting her parents to think she’d been eavesdropping. She snuck back towards her bedroom then jogged to the kitchen loudly as if she was just now making her way to them.
“Yes, Dad?”

In the kitchen, her parents were both sitting at the table. Her mother looked away as she entered the room. Her father was slightly tense.

“Your mother is too tired to cook tonight. We are having a very important guest and we have to feed her American food. What kind of food do you eat when you go out with your friends and their families?”

“Um, I don’t know. Burgers. Fried chicken. Pizza.” As she said the last one it dawned on her that they might actually be having pizza for dinner. Pizza! She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, clenching her fists to contain the excitement.

“Burgers and fried chicken?”

“And pizza. Especially if there’s a special occasion, like someone’s birthday. Burgers are kind of everyday and fried chicken is for after church. But pizza is for when there’s something really important.” Mr. Van nodded at this. The Vietnamese had their food hierarchy, so why shouldn’t the Americans? Burgers, fried chicken, then pizza. Clearly this was a pizza occasion, he decided.

“What’s the nearest place to buy pizza?”

Khue was too young to give directions by street names so it was decided that she would accompany her father. It was 6:15 and Sabena Brown was due at 7 p.m. so there was just enough time to drive to Lamppost Pizza and back. She bundled herself into the car.

“Dad, what does Third World mean?”

“What?” He sped around a corner, throwing Khue against the car door. She grabbed onto the seat belt.

“Third World, is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Is it on this block? Third World countries are poor countries that aren’t developed.”

“No, two more blocks. Past the fabric store,” she gestured. “So Japan’s not Third World?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“And they have elevators, right?”

“Of course they have elevators. Are you watching me? Which side of the street?”

“Left side. That sign over there.” She wanted to ask Is Vietnam a Third World country? but instead questioned, “So who’s considered Third World?”

He spun into the lot. “Third World is like Africa.”

They grabbed a parking spot in front of Lamppost Pizza just as a faded blue station wagon pulled out. Khue scurried to keep up with her father as he walked through the double glass doors.

Inside, Mr. Van quickly decided that the Combo #3, featuring the Meat Lover’s Pizza was suitable and he went to the counter. “Numbah dree,” he said to the spiky-haired surfer boy behind the register.

“What?” the boy asked. He turned to Khue. “What are you ordering?”

She glanced awkwardly from her father to the boy. “He said combo three.” The order was punched up and the boy turned back to her asking, “Do you want breadsticks or salad?” He did not look at Mr. Van, who had stiffened.

Khue turned to her father, but he waved his hand saying, “I don’t want.”

“We don’t—“

“It’s a combo,” the boy shook his head. Mr.Van started to say something but the boy’s glance brushed past Khue’s father back to her and he said, “It’s a combo so you have to pick breadsticks or salad.”

She started to explain the combo deal to her father but he cut her off and said more forcefully, “I don’t want.”

The surfer boy tried again. “It’s a combo. You understand me, right?” He ignored Mr. Van once more and looked at Khue. She saw her father grit his teeth and her eyes retreated. Maybe pizza wasn’t such a great idea.

“You have to get breadsticks or salad,” the boy repeated.

“I don’t want!”

“Sir, you’re ordering the combo, you have to pick.” Finally the boy addressed Mr. Van directly.

Turning to Khue, Mr. Van said in Vietnamese, “What an impudent boy! We don’t have to anything.” He was mad in the same way he had been when Khue first explained that she had to stay late after school as part of her student council duties. Mr. Van had ranted about freedom and not having to anything then as well.

“This not Communism! I don’t want breadstick!” He waved his arms and the boy stepped back from the counter. “This democracy!” Mr. Van continued. Several nearby customers stared at him. From their expressions, Khue saw him as they did: a dark, raving Asian man.

Pizza was a very bad idea. It was all her fault.

“I don’t want salad!!!” Mr. Van grabbed Khue’s hand to leave.
As they exited, they heard the high-pitched laugh of a different boy. Mr. Van spun around and shouted, “Very rude!!”

Back in the white Toyota, Khue was reluctant to give directions to Arturo’s Pizza, which was closer to the mall. Did they have combo deals too? She imagined that in Third World countries, there were no such worries. In addition to not having elevators, they probably didn’t have pizza.

Luckily, there were no combos to be ordered at Arturo’s. They were given a satisfying choice of topping selections. Khue counseled her father against a sausage and anchovy pizza. Instead she suggested her favorite, a Hawaiian.

When they arrived home there was already a dark green two-door in the driveway. Mr. Van and Khue walked in to find Mrs. Van tear-stained and being comforted by an overweight woman wearing a ketchup-colored outfit and large round glasses.

“You took so long, I thought something happened!” Mrs. Van wailed.
“I tried to tell her I’m sure there was a good reason for your delay,” the woman said.

“Oh Sabena, I sorry you wait,” Mr. Van said.

“Not at all,” the woman replied. She had basset hound eyes. “This must be your daughter.” She bent down to talk to Khue and Khue noticed that the woman had beef jerky breath. This was the woman they had gone to so much trouble for?

“We had to get pizza,” Mr. Van gestured at the boxes.

“Pizza?”

It puzzled Khue that Sabena wasn’t more excited.

“Very American, pizza. Yes?” asked Mr. Van.

Sabena glanced from Mr. Van to the boxes to Khue. “Uh, yes. Pizza is very American. Thanks. Thanks for getting pizza. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, no trouble,” he said.

Khue’s jaw dropped. No trouble?

As they all walked towards the kitchen Khue pulled her mother aside. “He got mad again,” she whispered, tilting her chin at Mr. Van.

The area around Mrs. Van’s right eye twitched and she said, “later.” Then she ushered Khue into the kitchen.

Everyone moved to their seats. Mr. and Mrs. Van sat on one side while Sabena and Khue sat on the other. The two pizza boxes sat atop the table, larger and more cumbersome than any graceful place settings the Vans normally had. Khue fidgeted with excitement at the smell of pizza in her own house. This was uncharted territory!

When Mr. Van lifted the lids, the boxes nearly took up the whole table. Khue leaned in to claim a good piece then drew her hand back. The pizzas were undercooked and slightly runny. She looked at her father with alarm but he didn’t seem to notice. She realized it was because he’d never eaten pizza before. To Khue’s left, Sabena was peering at the pizza behind her eyeglasses. She adjusted her frames and said to Khue, “looks great, ” then smiled. Khue glanced back at the wet pizza and saw Sabena nod at Mr. and Mrs. Van. It was sad, soggy pizza and she knew Sabena knew.

And yet, when she watched Sabena pull out a droopy, stringy piece with enthusiasm, Khue saw that this hound-eyed woman was genuinely not bothered by the inappropriate pizza. Across the table, Khue’s parents were awkwardly trying to eat pizza for the first time. They had armed themselves with the good silverware and linen napkins but quickly followed Sabena’s hands-on approach.

It was a mess. A liberating mess. Suddenly, Khue wanted to giggle.

She dove in, chomping with abandon. Her father might reprimand her later but she could always tell him that was how you were supposed to eat it. She was only following proper pizza etiquette.

“Sabena,” Khue asked, “did you know the Japanese have special elevator rules?”

“Really? How interesting.”

“Oh yes,” she nodded with sloppy satisfaction.



	contributors\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|stickman home\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|V3N1 home Etiquette By Lan Tran It was the most tedious experience, Khue Van’s evening meals with her family: Khue! You’re holding the chopsticks too low on the stem! Not up and down, it’s side to side! Dip your vegetables, don’t dunk them. Lift your food, don’t stab it! If she tried to escape her father’s critical assault on her eating skills by pausing to drink he’d say, You’re sipping too loudly. You swallow too quickly! At times, it seemed even her breathing was inappropriate. While her classmates wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls, Khue wanted a reprieve from dinner. Then one day, her father made the most surprising announcement: “I have invited Sabena to come over for dinner.” Khue’s mother froze. Sabena Brown was the head librarian at her father’s job. And, while it was quite common for her parents to host dinner parties for their Vietnamese friends, they had never invited any American friends home for dinner, much less an unmarried American woman. “Why did you do that?” asked Mrs. Van. Mr. Van spoke gravely, as if he had anticipated her resistance. He explained something about the importance of Sabena’s role in his annual review saying, “This is what American co-workers do, invite each other to dinner.” His wife was unconvinced. When had anyone invited them? Mrs. Van stabbed at her vegetables instead of lifting them with her usual grace but Mr. Van did not comment on this. Seeing this, Mrs. Van set her drink down loudly. She had put the glass to her left instead of her right, upsetting the meticulous placement of carefully chosen rice bowls, entrée dishes, dipping saucers, drinking glasses, chopsticks and chopstick rests which Mr. Van dictated at every meal. The orchestration was as complex yet precise as a chess match. In light of this, Mrs. Van’s drinking glass had committed mutiny. “Dad, did you know the Japanese have elevator etiquette?” Khue asked. Given her father’s tendency toward verbose lectures on etiquette, Khue figured this might be comfortable territory. Earlier at her best friend Hannah’s house, Khue had read an article in a Reader’s Digest back issue. The article was about social differences when doing business overseas. Apparently, many American businessmen were taking classes in international social protocol, particularly for dealings with the Japanese. In the battleground of corporate negotiations, the true secret weapon for an American was not memorizing industry statistics but learning the intricacies of when to bow, how to accept proffered eats, and even rules for Japanese elevator etiquette. “Everybody has elevator etiquette,” her father scoffed. “Haven’t I always told you it’s rude to push the call button more than once?” When he took her to the mall, her father would frown at Khue’s vehement poking of the call button in the parking garage. “It’s not a dead chicken,” he would say. He looked at his daughter now, shaking his head. “No Dad, the Japanese rules are different.” In the article there had been simple illustrations like football plays: when entering an elevator, lower executives (the X’s) always assumed positions nearest the front of the car. Higher ranking executives (the O’s) were conceded the back. In accordance with ancient Samurai code, this pecking order assured that Japanese CEO’s were well protected by their “front men.” And, Khue noted, the CEO’s never had to bother with pushing the button for a floor. She started to share these differences with her parents, tickled and surprised to have discovered a set of behavioral rules her father knew nothing of. “The Japanese—“ “When is she coming ov—” “I bet the Japanese would still find it rude that you push the button for ALL the other floors whenever you exit your floor,” Mr. Van said to Khue, cutting off his wife. “That’s more inconvenient than rude, isn’t it?” Khue asked, smiling to herself. Inconvenient was her 5th grade Word for the Week and she had been instructed to use it in a sentence. “Besides, I only did that once and it was a prank.” Prank had been a vocabulary word two months before. “When is she coming over?!” Mr. Van swallowed his bite before answering. “Saturday.” “And I suppose you expect me to cook for her?” “Dad, Hannah told me that in her grandma’s building in New York they program the elevators to stop on every floor on Saturday since you’re not supposed to make fires on the Sabbath. “They make fires in the elevators?” he asked. “No, electricity counts as making fire and if you’re Jewish, you’re not supposed to do that on Saturday.” Then remembering one of Drew Hoberman’s t-shirts—he was one of the long-haired heavy metal boys at school—Khue added, “that’s why they call it Black Sabbath. No lights so it’s like a blackout, see? Black Sabbath.” “Black Sabbath,” her father repeated, nodding slowly at this new concept. “Black Sabbath.” He said it again as if to indicate that this new information had now been processed, catalogued and stored. “Well even if she doesn’t push the button, isn’t she still using the elevator if she rides in it?” he asked. “Not exactly. I think there’s some loophole if you don’t actually push the button.” “Loophole,” Mr. Van muttered, “all these Westerners and their loopholes.” Loophole was a vocabulary word he had only recently learned. While Mr. Van faithfully paid his taxes to the U.S. government, his American neighbors were buying new cars with the money they saved finding loopholes in the new tax laws. Mr. Van had driven the same white Toyota for the last 8 years. He bought it used. There were many photos from when they first got the car. Khue was still a baby and her father had proudly propped her on the hood. His two prize possessions. In the pictures Khue looked like she was more fascinated by the neighbor’s front yard, their colorful array of plastic woodland critters, than the car itself. “I don’t know what to cook for her,” Mrs. Van said. “You have a thousand wonderful dishes,” said Mr. Van. “Not for her. She’ll think it smells funny. Americans think our food smells!” “I’m sure whatever you cook for her will be fine,” Mr. Van patted his wife’s arm. Mrs. Van did not answer. She took another sip of water and placed her glass back in its proper place. On Saturday afternoon, Khue went to Hannah’s to play. Hannah lived down the street. The girls were standing in Hannah’s mother’s walk-in closet as Khue explained the rules of a new game. “No, no, no. You’re not supposed to stand there. I am.” She pointed at the back wall. They were amidst a swirl of flowery smelling white cotton shirts and ethnic prints. “I’m the princess so I get to be in the back of the elevator.” “Well when do I get to be the princess?” Hannah whined. The closet door opened then and Hannah’s mother peered in. “There you are.” Khue pushed a skirt aside. “Hi, Violet.” Back at home, Khue referred to Hannah’s mother as Mrs. Rodriguez. But there in the freedom of the Rodriguez household, Khue addressed her, as Hannah did, by Violet’s first name. Violet was wearing a black tank top and a long, root beer brown skirt with marks on it like cave drawings. Doughnut-sized wooden bracelets were around her freckled arms. Violet and Hannah had the same chopstick blond hair and wide-set blue eyes. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Didn’t you hear me?” asked Violet. “We were playing Vietnamese elevator etiquette,” beamed Hannah. Though Khue rarely shared her Vietnamese experiences with classmates and friends, when she did it was only with Hannah, who has half Jewish and half Mexican, though no one ever guessed it. The entire Rodriguez family was fair-haired and light-skinned. “Oh,” Violet said to Khue, “ I didn’t realize you had elevators.” “Of course we do.” “Oh I’m sure you do, it’s just that when I was in Vietnam,” Violet referred to her extensive backpack travels, “it was very Third World. I didn’t see any elevators at all. “You didn’t?” Khue skipped over her other question which was, what does Third World mean? Violet shook her head. “I didn’t see any.” Vietnam not have elevators? Her father had never said anything about this. “Anyway, Khue, your mother called and wants you to come home for dinner.” “It’s only 4:30!” Hannah pouted. “We’re having company,” Khue told them. “Well that should be fun,” said Violet. “Not really,” Khue rolled her eyes, “you know how it is.” “Mm,” Violet hummed with sympathy. “Are you coming over tomorrow?” Hannah asked. “You still have to teach me elevator rules for empress and imperial slave servant.” “Maybe after church,” Khue nodded. The thought of service at St. Philomena’s seemed more bearable if she had empress etiquette to think about. “Don’t cross my floors!” Mrs. Van warned when Khue walked in. Her mother was vigilantly guarding freshly mopped kitchen floors. Khue climbed onto one of the vinyl barstools to wait out the drying with her mom. “Mom, what does Third World mean?” Usually, Khue asked her father about American vocabulary words but he was out buying Coca-Cola and Sprite for their special guest. “Have you taken a shower yet? Go change.” “But I can’t cross the floor.” “Go in through the side. I unlocked the sliding glass door.” Khue huffed in retreat, her question unanswered. When she came out of the shower, Khue heard her mother yelling in the kitchen. She couldn’t make out the words but from the tone and volume it sounded like more than the usual you-stepped-onto-my-freshly-mopped-floors tirade. Khue slunk quietly towards the kitchen. From the hallway she heard her mother say angrily, “If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you cook for her? How am I supposed to know what an American woman wants to eat?” There was a low murmuring from her father in reply. He was uncharacteristically deferential. Khue heard him say, “I need this raise…I’m sure whatever you cook will be fine.” “Whatever I cook will have fish sauce. Or shrimp paste. She’ll think it’s smelly! I’m not letting her think Vietnamese food is smelly!” More murmuring from her father. Then, “No! I am not cooking for this woman. If you think it’s that simple, why don’t you do it? I have a headache and I am not going to cook!” There was a long silence. Khue held her breath. As much of a tyrant as her father could be, her mother rarely put her foot down. Finally Mr. Van said, “fine.” Then Khue heard him call her name. She scrambled, not wanting her parents to think she’d been eavesdropping. She snuck back towards her bedroom then jogged to the kitchen loudly as if she was just now making her way to them. “Yes, Dad?” In the kitchen, her parents were both sitting at the table. Her mother looked away as she entered the room. Her father was slightly tense. “Your mother is too tired to cook tonight. We are having a very important guest and we have to feed her American food. What kind of food do you eat when you go out with your friends and their families?” “Um, I don’t know. Burgers. Fried chicken. Pizza.” As she said the last one it dawned on her that they might actually be having pizza for dinner. Pizza! She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, clenching her fists to contain the excitement. “Burgers and fried chicken?” “And pizza. Especially if there’s a special occasion, like someone’s birthday. Burgers are kind of everyday and fried chicken is for after church. But pizza is for when there’s something really important.” Mr. Van nodded at this. The Vietnamese had their food hierarchy, so why shouldn’t the Americans? Burgers, fried chicken, then pizza. Clearly this was a pizza occasion, he decided. “What’s the nearest place to buy pizza?” Khue was too young to give directions by street names so it was decided that she would accompany her father. It was 6:15 and Sabena Brown was due at 7 p.m. so there was just enough time to drive to Lamppost Pizza and back. She bundled herself into the car. “Dad, what does Third World mean?” “What?” He sped around a corner, throwing Khue against the car door. She grabbed onto the seat belt. “Third World, is that a good thing or a bad thing?” “Is it on this block? Third World countries are poor countries that aren’t developed.” “No, two more blocks. Past the fabric store,” she gestured. “So Japan’s not Third World?” “No,” he shook his head. “And they have elevators, right?” “Of course they have elevators. Are you watching me? Which side of the street?” “Left side. That sign over there.” She wanted to ask Is Vietnam a Third World country? but instead questioned, “So who’s considered Third World?” He spun into the lot. “Third World is like Africa.” They grabbed a parking spot in front of Lamppost Pizza just as a faded blue station wagon pulled out. Khue scurried to keep up with her father as he walked through the double glass doors. Inside, Mr. Van quickly decided that the Combo #3, featuring the Meat Lover’s Pizza was suitable and he went to the counter. “Numbah dree,” he said to the spiky-haired surfer boy behind the register. “What?” the boy asked. He turned to Khue. “What are you ordering?” She glanced awkwardly from her father to the boy. “He said combo three.” The order was punched up and the boy turned back to her asking, “Do you want breadsticks or salad?” He did not look at Mr. Van, who had stiffened. Khue turned to her father, but he waved his hand saying, “I don’t want.” “We don’t—“ “It’s a combo,” the boy shook his head. Mr.Van started to say something but the boy’s glance brushed past Khue’s father back to her and he said, “It’s a combo so you have to pick breadsticks or salad.” She started to explain the combo deal to her father but he cut her off and said more forcefully, “I don’t want.” The surfer boy tried again. “It’s a combo. You understand me, right?” He ignored Mr. Van once more and looked at Khue. She saw her father grit his teeth and her eyes retreated. Maybe pizza wasn’t such a great idea. “You have to get breadsticks or salad,” the boy repeated. “I don’t want!” “Sir, you’re ordering the combo, you have to pick.” Finally the boy addressed Mr. Van directly. Turning to Khue, Mr. Van said in Vietnamese, “What an impudent boy! We don’t have to anything.” He was mad in the same way he had been when Khue first explained that she had to stay late after school as part of her student council duties. Mr. Van had ranted about freedom and not having to anything then as well. “This not Communism! I don’t want breadstick!” He waved his arms and the boy stepped back from the counter. “This democracy!” Mr. Van continued. Several nearby customers stared at him. From their expressions, Khue saw him as they did: a dark, raving Asian man. Pizza was a very bad idea. It was all her fault. “I don’t want salad!!!” Mr. Van grabbed Khue’s hand to leave. As they exited, they heard the high-pitched laugh of a different boy. Mr. Van spun around and shouted, “Very rude!!” Back in the white Toyota, Khue was reluctant to give directions to Arturo’s Pizza, which was closer to the mall. Did they have combo deals too? She imagined that in Third World countries, there were no such worries. In addition to not having elevators, they probably didn’t have pizza. Luckily, there were no combos to be ordered at Arturo’s. They were given a satisfying choice of topping selections. Khue counseled her father against a sausage and anchovy pizza. Instead she suggested her favorite, a Hawaiian. When they arrived home there was already a dark green two-door in the driveway. Mr. Van and Khue walked in to find Mrs. Van tear-stained and being comforted by an overweight woman wearing a ketchup-colored outfit and large round glasses. “You took so long, I thought something happened!” Mrs. Van wailed. “I tried to tell her I’m sure there was a good reason for your delay,” the woman said. “Oh Sabena, I sorry you wait,” Mr. Van said. “Not at all,” the woman replied. She had basset hound eyes. “This must be your daughter.” She bent down to talk to Khue and Khue noticed that the woman had beef jerky breath. This was the woman they had gone to so much trouble for? “We had to get pizza,” Mr. Van gestured at the boxes. “Pizza?” It puzzled Khue that Sabena wasn’t more excited. “Very American, pizza. Yes?” asked Mr. Van. Sabena glanced from Mr. Van to the boxes to Khue. “Uh, yes. Pizza is very American. Thanks. Thanks for getting pizza. You didn’t have to do that.” “Oh, no trouble,” he said. Khue’s jaw dropped. No trouble? As they all walked towards the kitchen Khue pulled her mother aside. “He got mad again,” she whispered, tilting her chin at Mr. Van. The area around Mrs. Van’s right eye twitched and she said, “later.” Then she ushered Khue into the kitchen. Everyone moved to their seats. Mr. and Mrs. Van sat on one side while Sabena and Khue sat on the other. The two pizza boxes sat atop the table, larger and more cumbersome than any graceful place settings the Vans normally had. Khue fidgeted with excitement at the smell of pizza in her own house. This was uncharted territory! When Mr. Van lifted the lids, the boxes nearly took up the whole table. Khue leaned in to claim a good piece then drew her hand back. The pizzas were undercooked and slightly runny. She looked at her father with alarm but he didn’t seem to notice. She realized it was because he’d never eaten pizza before. To Khue’s left, Sabena was peering at the pizza behind her eyeglasses. She adjusted her frames and said to Khue, “looks great, ” then smiled. Khue glanced back at the wet pizza and saw Sabena nod at Mr. and Mrs. Van. It was sad, soggy pizza and she knew Sabena knew. And yet, when she watched Sabena pull out a droopy, stringy piece with enthusiasm, Khue saw that this hound-eyed woman was genuinely not bothered by the inappropriate pizza. Across the table, Khue’s parents were awkwardly trying to eat pizza for the first time. They had armed themselves with the good silverware and linen napkins but quickly followed Sabena’s hands-on approach. It was a mess. A liberating mess. Suddenly, Khue wanted to giggle. She dove in, chomping with abandon. Her father might reprimand her later but she could always tell him that was how you were supposed to eat it. She was only following proper pizza etiquette. “Sabena,” Khue asked, “did you know the Japanese have special elevator rules?” “Really? How interesting.” “Oh yes,” she nodded with sloppy satisfaction.

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