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Since I've been doing absolutely no cooking in my "shared kitchen" (aside from rice... so gourmet) I had to get back into the throng ASAP. So for the last two weeks I have been volunteering in VietKitchen Spring (check out the website for the sister restaurant http://www.vietkitchen-restaurant.com/home/gioithieu.asp), a higher end restaurant in my opinion since entrees go for about $8. I arrive at 9am on my first day and am greeted by the kitchen manager, Tho. She speaks decent English and is excited to introduce me to the staff. Located on the third floor of the restaurant is where all the magic happens. And it happens with woks, cleavers, chopsticks, and MSG. Initially the cooks look at me with confusion. Puzzled looks convey: "How do you pronounce his name? He's working for free? We don't have any kitchen sandals in his size!". I'm just like "hand me one of those cleavers, let's go!". Tho sneaks out, leaving me translator-less. Sous-chef Quang leads me to a wooden cutting board and plops down a grocery bag of chicken legs. I'm watching him, frantically making mental notes. Make a central cut down the length of the bone, pick up the leg and crack it backwards, cuting into the joint, turn the cleaver over and crack the top of the bone, hold onto what remains and pull off the meat. "No No NO NOO", Quang grunts at me, waggin his finger and hip-nudging me out of the way. "Do it like this", he shows me again, no slower than before. I did do just that! Why does mine look like it's been chewed up by a dog? My fingers slip dangerously on the chicken meat while I try to manage this brick of a knife with a surgeon's precision. The cooks look at me out of the corners of their eyes, excitedly waiting for the tips of my fingers to go flying. The head chef, Minh, enters the kitchen speaking quickly to sous-chef Quang, who been patiently babying me through 10 sub-par legs. Poor chickens, as if a Vietnamese execution weren't enough. Quang quickly take the knife from me and sets it down with the manner of a parent placing the cookie jar just out of a child's reach. He leads me to a tub of water and all of a sudden I'm squatting on the floor cleaning water spinach for the duration of the lunch shift.

So much of my time in the kitchen has been spent watching, swerving out of people's way, and honing my ability to cut flowers out of carrots with this abomination of a knife. I am always grabbing for my pen and pocket book; jotting down the phonetic spelling for common items, drawing pictures of mysterious produce, "stealing" recipes. After sometime, the crew becomes comfortable with this big white buffoon in their midst. Give it a few days, it's sorta like any kitchen: crude jokes, male-to-male ass-slapping, pork fat throwing. My co-workers include Sous-chef Quang (Chief), Ngoc (Leo), Nam (Old Timer), Cong (Flea), Luan (Punky), Huy (Loud Mouth), and Trung (Bad Ass). So far, there isn't any hostility towards me or my (lack of) abilities with the wok; egos seem to eerily absent at VietKitchen, practically unheard of in the states. The work load here is minimal compared to the last place I worked, perfect for the Vietnamese who never seem to pass up the perfect opportunity to squat on their children-sized plastic stools, play on their cell phones, and sip on a cup of iced green tea. Then the orders come in, someone hits a switch and the hoods roar to life. On cue, the cooks suck down the last of their cigarettes and Huy begins barking orders off the tickets, hence his newly acquired alias of Loudmouth. It's an appetizer of fish soup (canh ca) and fresh spring rolls (nem cuon). Old Timer is at his board dicing fresh tomatoes and pineapple for the soup, passing this on to Bad Ass who fires up the giant wok over a raging blue flame. "Zake! Zake!" (that's my cue!) calls Flea, excitedly pointing to the rice paper he's laid out for me. In my time here at VietKitchen Spring I have become proficient in the language of preparing the spring rolls, a task that doesn't seems to require anyone to babysit me. Chopped lettuce, mint, cilantro, rice noodles, poached pork and shrimp rolled into tiny packages of deliciousness. Served on a plate with the famous dipping sauce nuoc mam (fish sauce, sugar, lime juice, and chile), this is the "hamburger" of Hanoi, a national dish. Just as soon as it began, the hoods are killed and fresh smokes glow in front of toothy grins. Good work boys! "Berry Goot!" yells Leo in my direction. He has a striking resemblance to the actor, not-to-mention a golden singing voice. Later this night, he'll have a grand opportunity to flaunt this ability.

It's one of the managers' birthdays and this is taken very seriously in Vietnam, just as seriously as they take their karaoke clubs. We arrive at the establishment, take the elevator to the 4th floor, and enter the private room. 4 plasma screen TVs hang from each wall. Humongous candles drip onto tables adorned with bottles of beer, red bulls, fresh fruits, fish jerky, and chips. Laser lights and disco balls' shimmer against the potted palms swaying lightly in the breeze from the fans... it's about to get very hot in here. The birthday boy shows up with the rest of the guests, maybe 40 people total. Someone opens a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Across the room people are cheersing at the volume of a passing train. Everyone takes turns crooning into the microphone, the cheesiest of cheese love songs (I don't need to speak any Vietnamese to know that). They drop to their knees, pleading with the flat screens to never let the lovers fall astray. My glass curiously never seems to empty, I'm making friends that fast. I want to say that someone hands me the mic to do a song, but that just wouldn't be the complete truth. I glance at the DJs screen and land on Ace of Base's "The Sign". People are whooping and cheersing each other to my foolishness. All eyes on me. No time (or audibility) for checking my pitch, I plunge into a song that is about 3 octaves to high for me. Halfway through this massacre, the novelty wears off and people go back to their mass cheersing. People might be eagerly willing to accept me, but thank God they have enough integrity to not ask me back for seconds.