Adventures and Eating with Dad

I wrote this a while ago and never found the right place to put it.  It seemed appropriate for Father's Day...

Non, rien de rien,
Non, je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal
Tout ça m’est bien égal
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien

We are so happy to see each other, Dad and I. I used to see him once a month. Work hasn't allowed that luxury in some time. Mom is in Vietnam now, on a prolonged visit, so Dad is more or less alone, excepting frequent visits from my cousins Terri and Nellie, who bring him sushi for dinner and stay to watch movies with him. I tell Dad I am craving a particular Vietnamese dish; my cousin Annemarie suggests a restaurant downtown. So Dad and I go to have lunch.

The restaurant ("Little [former name of Ho Chi Minh City]") proudly proclaims that it is one of the top rated Vietnamese restaurants in Orlando. A custom banner notes its many Zagat commendations. Orlando food reviewers apparently lack tastebuds. It is easily the worst Vietnamese food I have ever eaten and the service is correspondingly bad (if not worse). At first we are ignored; barely acknowledged. I notice however, that non-Vietnamese occupied tables are being pampered.

"Are you kidding me? Are we being subjected to reverse discrimation?" I say to Dad.

He just smiles gently, splaying his right hand at me -- it's a verbal shorthand: Be patient. Relax. The waitress, when she comes, is impatient, pushy, and insistent that we order the day's special, beef marinated in ginger and served with steamed bok choy. I firmly tell her that we only want banh beo and banh cuon. She ignores me and turns to Dad, telling him that the special is great for older people. I'm on the verge of belting her. She isn't much bigger than me. I have a fair shot at this. I'm quick to go postal, but Dad, like Hubby, picks his battles; and they are both gifted with the ability to defuse a situation. Dad turns to me and says, "You know, I think I'd like to get that dish." I sigh and give in to his desire for a peaceful meal.

We have ordered two appetizers and one entree each. My Vietnamese iced coffee, which I have been looking forward to drinking, arrives, little more than watered down coffee and diluted condensed milk. I'm appalled. It is followed by all five dishes we have ordered arriving at the table at the same time. The waitress simply shoves our stuff out of the way and proceeds to bang our plates on the table. She walks away before I have a chance to sputter a protest. There isn't any point in describing the food.

When we are done -- and it does not take long because we are not enjoying the food -- I ask Dad to leave the restaurant and wait for me outside so I can pay the bill. Frankly, I'm about to leave the worst tip I have ever left in my life and I don't need Dad in harm's way when the waitress comes after me. No matter how deserved it was, I still feel guilty about leaving that horrendous tip. She doesn't come after me because she doesn't care; she's busily smiling and chatting with a table of enthusiastic older ladies in red hats. Under the custom banner proclaiming their Zagat's ratings and "best in Orlando" award, Dad and I look at each other. Having lived three decades in Washington, outstanding Vietnamese restaurants were a dime a dozen. Not so in Orlando.

"You know, all the Vietnamese food around here is complete shit," Dad says.

"So all that sign really says is that they're top rated shit," I finish.

We both begin to giggle. I loop my arm through his and lead him off.

C'est payé, balayé, oublié
Je me fous du passé
Avec mes souvenirs
J'ai allumé le feu
Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs
Je n'ai plus besoin d'eux

We listen to Mom's CDs in the car, a mix of very old rock songs, folk songs, and French music. It reminds Dad and I of the parties he and Mom used to host in Vietnam, and later at their house in Arlington. These songs, imprinted in my head. Dad sings one of the French songs; it's one of his favorites.

"Tango?" I ask trying to hear the rhythm --

"Rumba." -- and failing miserably --

Dad used to be a great ballroom dancer.

"Can you teach me to rumba later?"

"Sure."

Balayé mes amours
Avec leurs trémolos
Balayés pour toujours
Je repars à zéro

We dance, Dad and I, slowly and with more enthusiasm than grace. He lacks strength to lead; I lack timing to follow (Hubby during our first dance as husband and wife: "Honey. Take care of the bottom. I'll take care of the top." [translation: "Stop stepping on my feet and stop trying to lead."]).  What we're doing is more shuffling than dancing. We (I) stumble and we laugh.

He counts off softly for me. "One-two-three, one-two-three...now listen to the music."

Edith Piaf is belting -- there's no other word to describe the sheer power of this woman's voice -- out the same song we danced to at my wedding. I specifically chose this song for him, because of its lyrics -- simply: I regret nothing; my pains and pleasures, my loves and sadnesses, all the past is swept away; because my joys and my life begins today with you.

"I'm not very good at this," I say.

"No," he agrees, lacking the social tact to disagree. "You should learn."

"I'm getting old," I tell him.

For a moment, his eyes are lost and I know he is thinking of the past.

"So fast," he murmurs softly. "You were so little."

I am nearly half his age now and yet I can't completely grasp that the man is the same age as my grandparents when I knew them. Time's a brutal thing. I cling to the fantasy that he isn't much more than his mid-fifties, because this was when I last lived daily under his roof. In my head, I see him as he was when I left to go to college -- dark haired, smiling, strong, still prone to moments of hot-headedness, a bit of an Alpha male. After his heart attack, he became beatific, Zen-like, gentle. His hair is white now and despite the smoothness of his skin, it's clear from his shrinking frame and his soft wrinkles that he is nearing three-quarters of a century in age. People love him. They can't help it. Even before achieving his current Buddha-like state, it was not hard to see the shining, glowing simplicity of the man; he has no airs, no conceits and no agenda. A former boss of his once described him as a "whole man." Any wonder that we are all in love with him?

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal
Tout ça m'est bien égal
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien

"What do you want me to make you for dinner?" I ask.

"What do I like eating that you make for me?"

"The banana pecan cake with buttercream frosting?"

"Oh no! Too fattening. I better not." He pauses and says gleefully, "But your mom's not here..."

His illness has stripped him of his flexibility and he moves now as he speaks: with faint tremors.

But God it's wonderful to dance with my dad.

Car ma vie
Car mes joies
Aujourd'hui
Ça commence avec toi...

Banana Pecan Cake with Coffee Buttercream

The recipe comes from the Sweet Serendipidity cookbook.  Email me at ablithepalateAT @ gmailDOT . com if you'd like the recipe.

Comments

[Ivonne]

Cath,

As someone who used to dance with her dad all the time, but lost the chance to do that 5 years ago, I thank you for this post.

Thank you for reminding me of the beauty of that relationship between father and daughter.

My father passed away in 2001 and it's still hard for me to hear the strains of a waltz and not think of my papa.

I'm so glad that you've had this time with your father and that you're enjoying every moment together. That is indeed true beauty and true joy!

[Stephanie]

Ok; I'm in tears. I truly am.

This is the most touching, heart-felt thing I've read in...a very long time.

And it's stories like this that make me so keenly aware of how much I missed, not having a dad of my own.

Just beautiful, Cath. Thank you for sharing.

[Geneve]

Cath,
This is such a special post - you've captured a beautiful moment.
Thanks for sharing,
G

[barbara]

Cathy - that was a joy to read. I'm so envious of people that have good relationships with their parents. Fortunately I have great relationships with my children.

[beastmomma]

I agree with all of the above.
What a perfect Father's Day Post.

[cath]

You are all so wonderful. Thank you for letting me share a sweet moment about my dad...and for sharing your moments with me, too.