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The Dining Out Column
by
Harry Buschman
Part 2 - Sum Lum Duck
To keep our 'High On the Hog' dining out column vibrant and "happening," Old
Dick and I dropped in on the new Sum Lum Duck Vietnamese Cuisine & Takeout
last Thursday. I let Dick do the talking, and within fifteen minutes we were
invited to a free dinner ... dinner mind you ... for a full one half page
write-up
in the Guardian.
Sum Lum Duck is the only restaurant in Westlake Village to boast of valet
parking. It takes you by surprise because Sum Lum Duck, like all restaurants
along Westwood Avenue has no parking lot. But with typical oriental cunning,
Brian
Ho, the manager, rushes to open your car door, helps you get out and takes
your place at the wheel. He's off like a shot followed closely by his brother
Gung on a moped. He parks your car in the neighborhood, returns in a flash on
the back of the moped and escorts you to a table before you've got your coat
off.
The tables at Sum Lum Duck seem far larger than they need to be and in the
center of each is an array of bowls and bottles. Americans, used to the simple
salt, pepper, and catsup routine will be overwhelmed. There is no bread, but
there is a glass dish with what looks like sticks of incense. There is music
sung and played by a tiny chanteuse on a triangular banjo.
"A complimentary aperitif, monsieur?" It was spoken as a question. Apparently
all statements by Vietnamese, however vehement or accusatory, are uttered as
questions. Brian's brother Gung brought us two extremely small glasses of a
colorless liquid. It became obvious that the Ho family was not going to let us
forget our business agreement. If your restaurant is featured in the Guardian,
you are guaranteed a complimentary review, and the reviewers in turn, are
guaranteed a complimentary aperitif. Our rating system at "High on the Hog" is
one
through five, beginning at 'splendid', and running through 'spectacular' and
'sublime,' all the way up to 'sensational'.
"Do we sip or swig?" Old Dick asked me.
I have learned from bitter experience never to swig anything. Sipping is
safer, but even safer is extending the tip of one's tongue, serpent-like, until
it
just touches the surface. The aperitif seemed harmless enough, but sipping
brought out the definite flavor of jet fuel.
"Maybe it's to keep us from having too much of an appetite," I said.
"What's a Chinese guy callin' you 'monsieur' for?" Old Dick asked me. He was
unaware that Vietnamese spoke French.
"I don't know, Dick ... finish your complimentary aperitif. But I'll tell you
this, we're in a strange place, I'm not sure this will ever be a family
restaurant for the likes of Westlake Village." I thought back to when my kids
were
young and I couldn't imagine bringing them here. But then, my kids and Old
Dick's kids were and still are Burger King people -- tried and true.
All the patrons knew each other; knew the waiters, and the cooks in the
kitchen. It was obvious they came here for the Gemutlichkeit, or whatever the
Vietnamese call it, as much as the food. The presence of two elderly Americans
in
their midst mattered very little as they shouted and joked to each other across
the room. Occasionally they would ask us to pass something from our table to
theirs never dreaming we had no idea what they were talking about.
There are dozens of languages in use in Southeast Asia. I'm told the
Vietnamese speak Lolo, a variety of Miao-yao--or maybe it's the other way
around.
However many languages there are, I am sure all of them are spoken at chez Sum
Lum
Duck. Every attempt is made to speak English to the patrons of the
restaurant, but once the waiters and the cooks get together in the kitchen all
hell
breaks out and before long it has spread to the patrons out in the dining room
as
well. Perhaps the business of feeding people, which has reached such great
heights of artistry among the French and Italians, does not come naturally to
the
Vietnamese.
We were granted one small female of indeterminate age as an exclusive guide
through the mysteries of the evening meal. If either of us did something she
considered improper she would race to our side, waving her arms and shouting,
"Hatsu, hatsu ... no hatsu!!"
There is little food in a Vietnamese restaurant. There are leaves of many
kinds; things that look like nuts, but may not be, and pale indistinguishable
flesh from animals at the bottom of the food chain. What makes all of it
palatable is the mind boggling array of spices, sauces and dusting powders that
are
gathered in the center of the table. If the incorrect seasoning is selected, the
game is lost. Therefore, the small black haired bird of a woman was provided
to charge across the room, crying "Hatsu, hatsu ... no hatsu!!"
We had a particularly trying time with the soup. Each bowl came with a tight
fitting tin cover - to keep it hot I presume. But I couldn't help feeling that
its darker purpose was to keep whatever was inside from getting out. The soup
was colorless yet slightly cloudy, like the sky on a rainy November day.
Lying in the center of the bowl was the hoof of a small animal. We both felt
something should be added from the center of the table before it could be eaten.
"Tell you what, Dick. See this green powder? I'll pretend I'm going to put it
in the soup ... when Hatsu comes running, you grab her by the arm and don't
let her go until she shows us which one to use."
"Sounds good," he said nervously "... I'm ready."
I reached for the green powder and held it above the soup bowl ... no
reaction. I took the soup spoon and dipped it in and a motherly smile spread
over the
little woman's face.
"By God," said Dick, "I think you've got it on the first try."
"How much do you suppose I should put in, Dick?"
"Well," said Dick, "you take half and I'll take half, that sound fair enough?"
"Ah, Gumma! ... Hatsu sun yet ... crazy man!!" Like an avenging angel she
bolted out of her chair and stomped across the room waving her bony arms. Other
diners looked our way and shook their collective heads. It was obvious that
choosing the right spice is only half the problem. Knowing how much of it to use
is even more important.
The dinner went on. Occasionally Brian would drop by and smile inscrutably.
The soup apparently had no name but was indeed made from the foot of a pig. It
was considered poor taste to eat the foot; all of its goodness had been passed
on to the broth. The powder was a 'taste powder,' the recipe for which had
been passed down through generations of the Ho family like a hot potato.
I've never been especially fond of pickled sea slugs, but Brian insisted that
Old Dick and I try a few before the main course. If you are a gardener you
are well acquainted with slugs and snails. A sea slug is almost
indistinguishable from those you might find leaving a slimy trail in your tomato
patch. We
shared one between us for the sake of the Westlake Village Guardian. Dick and I
have been nurtured on the thin layer of sustenance at the top of the food
chain and we were not prepared to grub for slugs at the bottom.
But it wasn't over, a sort of tureen was brought in. It's radiated heat could
be felt as it neared our table and by a shaking of hands, and a "Hoo ... eee,
Hoo ... eee" -- we assumed we were not to touch it. Brian removed the lid
with a flourish, and the aid of a pair of barbecue gloves. Our corner of the
restaurant was immediately enveloped in a cloud of steam. He smiled that tight
little self-satisfied smile that always infuriates frustrated westerners, and
said, "Sum Lum Duck!! ... fruit of the sea ... treasures of the field, all the
same together ... you will remember!" Diners at nearby tables cast envious eyes,
wondering I suppose, who these fortunate occidentals might be. I must admit
it wasn't bad. My mother would have called it a stew. Whatever was on sale or
left over from the day before would have found its way into her own version of
Sum Lum Duck.
There were differences, squid for example, cut crossways and longways,
depending on the chef's mood. The remainder of the piglet that recently graced
our
soup, and recognizable components of birds, which I assume were squabs or
perhaps pigeons. (I had noticed a lack of them on the street outside when we
entered the restaurant.)
Dick asked, "Have you tried the little brown things?"
"No," I replied, "I don't want to alarm you, Dick, but have you noticed they
seem to have six legs?" He hadn't of course, and not being a naturalist, he
was unaware there are no creatures in the mammal or bird world with six legs.
When I explained it to him he put his fork down hastily.
"I had just about enough, how about you?"
"Well, I think we ought to assure Brian and maybe dig up a tip for little
Hatsu over there in the corner."
"You will not stay for dessert? It is all complimentary! Fermented bean curd
... flambeau!"
Old Dick is good at this kind of thing. I am not. He convinced Brian that
deadlines are deadlines and much like a drama critic, we are often compelled to
leave after act one. He assured him that in our considered opinion the
'quality chart' would register between Spectacular and Sublime, ... "and please
give
my friend's five dollar bill to the very helpful lady in the corner." Dick
doesn't normally hand out five dollar bills - even when they're mine, so I can
only assume that the half dozen six legged creatures he had eaten were
beginning to prey on his mind.
Because of the busy dinner hour we volunteered to get my car if Brian would
give me the key and tell me where it was. It was at 145 Jeremiah ... the
location rang a bell ... it should have. It was the Taco Bell's parking lot.
"I'm still hungry," I confided to Old Dick.
"Well, I'm not, but maybe by the time we get there ... "
©Harry Buschman 1997
(1760)
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