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 had been invited to a free dinner...dinner mind you...for a half page write-up in the Guardian.
Sum Lum Duck is the only restaurant in Westlake Village to boast of valet parking. It comes as a surprise because Sum Lum Duck, like all restaurants along Westwood Avenue, has no parking lot. With typical oriental enterprise, 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 on a moped. He parks your car in the neighborhood, returns in a flash on the back of the moped, and escorts you to your table before you've got your coat off.
The tables at Sum Lum Duck seem larger than normal and in the center of each is an array of bowls, bottles and sauces. Americans, used to the simple salt, pepper, and catsup routine, will be overwhelmed. There is no bread, but there is a glass dish of 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 and insulting, are uttered as questions. Brian's brother Don 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 is in five steps, beginning with '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 safer still is extending the tip of one's tongue, lizard-like, until it just touches the surface. It 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 is going to be a family restaurant for Westlake Villagers." I thought back to when our kids were young and couldn't imagine bringing them here. But then, my kids and Old Dick's kids were, and still are, dyed-in-the-wool, Burger King people.
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. They would shake their heads at our blank stares, then get up and do it themselves.
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 round-eyed patrons of the restaurant, but once the waiters and the cooks get together in the kitchen, all hell breaks out. I think the business of feeding people, which is done with such aplomb and has reached such heights of artistry among the French and Italians, is not a natural gift with 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, crying, "Hatsu, hatsu ... no hatsu!!"
There is little if any 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 God's second-string animals. All of it is made palatable, however, by 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, a small black-haired bird of a woman is 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 like the breast-plate on a Wagnerian soprano. It was to keep the soup hot, I presumed, 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 baby's bath water. Lying in the center of each bowl was the hoof of a small animal. We both felt something must 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...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 old 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 equally 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; whatever goodness it might have possessed 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 slime trail through your tomato patch. We shared one between us for the sake of the Westlake Village Guardian. Dick and I had been nurtured on the thin layer at the top of the food chain and we were not anxious to grub at the bottom.
But it wasn't over; a sort of tureen was brought in. Its 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 never fails to infuriate 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 at us, wondering, I suppose, who these wealthy 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 Sum Lum Duck.
There were differences: squid for example, cut crossways and longways, depending on the whim of the chef. The remainder of the piglet that had lately left its feet in 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've had enough, how about you?"
"Well, I think we ought to assure Brian and maybe dig up a tip for little Hatsu 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 the lot of drama critics, 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 so I can only assume that the half dozen six-legged creatures he had eaten were beginning to have their effect on him.
Because of the busy dinner hour, we volunteered to get my car if Brian would give me the key and tell us where it was. It was at 145 Jeremiah...the number 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...."
(Copyright 1997 by Harry Buschman - No reproduction without express permission from the author)