Bloopers in Beer Land (I & II)

What a weird experience. I was standing against a wall, watching people shuffle around the room. I glanced over at him. He looked calm and peaceful, maybe for the first time ever, lying there in his black belt.

I hadn't cried since the week before when he had passed. But that week was a mess and I cried a lot. I had been working on a packaging line at a crappy little brewery in the middle of no where. I talked to him almost every day on the phone and he sounded fine, but that day he called and asked when I would be coming to see him. I dropped everything and left.

By the time I got there, he was in a coma. I could feel him holding on. I could hear it in his rattled breathing. His wife had been with him and she left the room when I came in and gave us a moment alone. I held his hand and even in this fragile state, it was still huge. I told him that I loved him and that he had been the best dad ever. I told him that it was okay to go. We sat for a moment longer and then his wife joined us again. With me on one side and her on the other, he took a breath in and then he was gone.

“You doing okay Buddy?” I asked my son who had wandered in my direction. I gave him a hug. He was much taller than me now and it was difficult to get used to. “Yeah” he replied shortly, the way teenagers do, and then walked away.

The room was beautiful. I had been there before. I remembered it as a child, from my granddads funeral. It was elegant and classy. And there were so many people there. More than I would have thought. I never really saw my dad socialize in large groups of people. I saw him address rooms full of people and crowds of people, but this seemed different.

His Judo friends all showed up in their referee uniforms. That made me smile. He had told me all my life that he wanted to be buried in his black belt. Here they were and here he was, wearing his black belt.

Not that anyone is every prepared for the passing of their parent, loosing my dad came much too soon for me. He had first been diagnosed ten years earlier. I remember the day. He asked me to meet him at the dojo and we sat in the front seat of his Ford as he told me. “I have prostate cancer. Now, I don't want you to worry and they are going to treat it, but I wanted you to know.”

As usual, I freaked out. My dad was my support system. I didn't know why but my mom just never had time for me. Looking back I'd say its a mixture of a lot of things, among them post-pardem depression and subsequent substance abuse. But that was par for the course in our family. And I'm not a doctor. But dad never mentioned it. He just picked up the slack where mom left off.

After my parents divorce when I was 14, initially my brothers and I lived with our mother. Then not too long after, I went to live with my dad. When I became a young mother myself, my dad often inserted himself in my life in ways that I thought to be overbearing. He'd just show up at my door, a lot. Looking back, I'm grateful.

Now, here I was. Standing next to his casket, ten years later yet far too soon. What would I do now? My kid was legally an adult. He had almost finished school and was on his way to a career. I didn't so much as have a career myself, rather a series of interesting accidents it seemed. I had managed to make my way through a few breweries at that point but I hadn't really found my footing in the industry and I was not in a good place.

The weeks after my dads funeral were a blur. Another promising brewing opportunity had fallen through, leaving me sleeping in my friends guest room. Feeling like nothing made sense, I opened my computer and started looking for a new job.

I saw an ad online for a brewery in Ho Chi Minh City Vietnam. They were looking for a brewer. They were just expanding from home brew size to a 500L system. On a whim, I sent a resume. I had fancy college degrees and plenty of brewing experience. I had always loved science and when I found the brewing industry (or it found me), I was hooked. But that is a story for a different day.

They wrote back pretty quickly. After probably not enough conversation and virtually no background check, they bought me a one way plane ticket. I stuck around America long enough to sell everything I owned, give my car to my kid and watch Hilary lose. I left for Vietnam the next day.

The air hit me the moment I exited the plane and started down the jet way. It was nighttime; hot and thick and smelled like old vegetables and charcoal grills. I noticed now that I was standing, how much taller I was than my fellow, weary, international travelers. And no one around me was speaking English. Everyone was tired.

I had been traveling internationally since I was a little girl and I always liked airports. I liked to see all the different kinds of people and imagine what their stories are, what their lives are like where ever they come from. I always loved the physical sensation of flying; the way the gravity of taking off and landing felt to my body.

I made my way through customs. No, I did not bring any fruits or vegetables with me. Yes, I did bring American snacks as requested by my new employer. Then, it was off to baggage claim. The baggage claim area was a large room with all of the conveyors lined up next to each other. My bags were to come through conveyor number 7, as stated on the monitor. As I waited by the conveyor in the crowded space, I glanced over to my left and saw my two pink suitcases turning the corner a few conveyors over. Ha! I walked over to collect them. Welcome to Vietnam, I thought.

I saw him straight away, shiny and smiling. “Hi! Are you Allison? I'm Mike” he said. He was tall and tan, wearing an old turquoise whiskey t-shirt with a hole in the collar. He had on ripped khaki cargo shorts and flip flops. I thought he was handsome.

“How were your flights? Let me take your bags” he said. He certainly was courteous for ten o'clock at night. He explained that they would take a taxi to the taproom. There were bedrooms above it and I could use one when I was in the city he said. The brewery was at their house in the countryside and we would go out there in a couple days.

Was I hungry? Was I tired? Everyone was so excited to meet me. They were staying up until we got there, he said. A taxi driver took my bags and stuffed them in the trunk of a car. We climbed in the back seat and shut the doors. The air conditioning was nice already and I watched out the windows at the lines of people selling things along the road leaving the air port. Even at night it was busy. As we pulled away from the curb, Mike motioned and spoke to the driver in aggressive Vietnamese.

We drove along and he explained that Ho Chi Minh was divided into districts. District one was where most of the government buildings were located. District two was the more tourist district with lost of western influence. Similar to Paris, the districts begin in the center of the city and spiral their way out, increasing in number, each having their own identity. He also explained that virtually no one calls it Ho Chi Minh except for airline pilots and mailmen. Everyone just calls the city Saigon.

He had told me on the phone, before I came, that the brewery was located at their country house which was located on an island in the Saigon river delta called Can Gio. It was a similar story to one you hear all the time state side. He and his western buddies started home brewing for fun. His wife had the bars in the city and because alcohol isn't really regulated in Vietnam, they just started selling his home brews.

Eventually business scaled up and they got an investor. As investors do, he wanted a professional to work the operation if he was going to put money behind it. At this same time, there were several other small breweries opening up around the city. A few of them had also hired western brewers to come over and develop beers and processes. But no one had hired a woman, until me.

We drove closer to the center of the city, where the taproom was, on a street called Do Quang Dau. The traffic slowed to a confusing crawl as trucks and bikes and people and animals collectively ignored traffic lanes and lights and forged their way forward. We slowly turned down a barely one lane alley that was lined with bars and restaurants, street vendors and small shops that spilled into the street. We stopped half way down, “We are here” he said and smiled.

I got out of the cab and stepped into the busy street. I was immersed by the sound of music that blared from a club on the street. It was an ethereal techno trance dance music. The kind you don't only hear but feel as well. The driver hoisted my bags into the street and slowly pulled off.

“Have someone get her bags!” Mike yelled into the small taproom storefront. Two giggling young fellas ran out to the street and collected my bags and began lugging them into the taproom and up a small staircase at the back of the room.

The taproom was a tiny footprint that held a small bar back and to the left. A handful of simple raised plank wood and re-bar tables with matching stools packed the room. In front of the bar was a hand painted menu on the wall and below it sat a small shrine. A chubby, golden man sat with bowls of fruit and incense sticks surrounding him. He looked chill.

“The kitchen is on the second floor” Mike said. “I'll show you to your room on the third floor” as he led me to the back of the room and up the same staircase where my suitcases had just went. We passed the second floor and up one more flight of tiny jagged steps.

He opened the first door off the hall way to a small room. It was dark and simple but clean. It had a wardrobe and french doors that opened to a six inch wide balcony. The balcony overlooked the bustling street below. It was cute, I thought. Like girl scout camp, but with a mini fridge.

There was an attached bathroom. “Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you about that” Mike said. He explained that bathtubs aren't common in the hot climate of Vietnam. The shower was a tank-less hot water heater unit with just a floor drain in the tiled bathroom. No curtain, no stall. He also explained that people don't really use toilet paper and if they do, it's mostly to dry. The rest of the time, they use the bum gun.

A bum gun, for those of you who may not know, is a kitchen sink type sprayer attached to the water supply at the underside of the toilet. After business is taken care of, just spray yourself off, dry if you choose, wash your hands and move on with your life. Mike said that the sooner I got used to this, the better off I'd be but in the meantime, there was toilet paper if I needed it.

“Well let's get you a beer an introduce you to everyone” he said as he led me back down the stairs to the tap room below.

I sat on a wobbly bar stool and lit a cigarette. I was tired from all the travel but so energized from my new surroundings that a beer sounded like a perfect way to calm my nerves.

“My wife has gone to bed,” Mike said as he placed a beer in front of me. “She will be up to meet you in the morning.”

I looked the beer. It had to be some kind of IPA. It was a slightly hazy dark tan color with a light tan foam and smelled okay. I took a sip, it wasn't bad. It was slightly sweet, certainly bitter and a touch tannic. From this example, it seemed that they had the basics down, they just needed to brush up on the details.

“Well that's a bummer,” I replied. I was excited to meet her. Mike had explained that he was a writer and had come to Vietnam years ago. He had met his wife, Mai and together they had a son. She was a successful business woman who had come from a family of successful business people.

“This is our new chef, Don” Mike said. “We just imported him from America too. Chicago.”

“So a lady brewer huh?” Don said in a friendly way as he stood and reached out his hand. He was slightly shorter than me with thick dark hair and a matching beard. He was a touch chubby and wore thick rimmed black glasses. He was wearing a black metal t shirt, black shorts and black shoes and socks. “Does that make you the Brewstress then?”

“Brewstress. Ha!” I laughed. “I have never heard that before. Technically women brewers are called brewsters” I told him.

“Ah” he replied. ”I come from the culinary industry. I thought it was like waiter and waitress. Brewer and Brewstress.”

We sat and chatted while Mike poured me the rest of their offerings. There was a Belgian that he said sold well. It was slightly watery but with a little attention, she was sure she could brighten it up. There was a dark malt forward beer that once again was a bit tannic. This told her they needed to give some attention to their grain handling and mash pH levels. Once again, all the basics were there, they just needed to tighten up the details.

“Alright, well that's going to do it for me” I said. It was time to go to get some sleep.

“Whenever you are up in the morning, just come downstairs and Mai will get you breakfast” Mike said. “Do you drink coffee? The coffee here is shit but I know where you can get a decent cup” he told me.

“I do like coffee and that sounds like a plan.” I said goodnight and climbed the skinny stairs to the third floor and my room. After unpacking some clean clothes and figuring out the shower situation, I collapsed onto the bed and fell right to sleep.