One evening, I sat down at a large open-air restaurant in Da Lat, Vietnam. I already knew this place catered almost exclusively to locals. No problem, I thought. I’m an adventurous eater.
A few days earlier I’d used Google Translate to scan the menu with my phone. Many of the dishes sounded familiar. Easy enough.
Not quite.
Even after visiting some 27 countries, I didn’t really know what I was getting into.
Since I’m still recovering from a stomach condition, I was looking for something simple. Using my phone, I picked three menu items: non-spicy vegetables with beef, mango with salt, and a chicken dish the waiter recommended.
Then the food began arriving.
First came a giant mound of dark green leafy vegetables sprinkled with what looked like flattened kidney beans. As I dug in, I discovered plenty of beef, mild red chili peppers, and strange crunchy things about the size of croutons. They tasted fine. Maybe deep-fried pork rind? I still don’t know.
Then the mango arrived.
Surprise.
I had pictured sweet, juicy yellow mango. Instead, I got crisp green mango served with chili salt.
Months earlier in Thailand, I’d learned that green papaya behaves more like a vegetable than a ripe fruit. I hoped green mango worked the same way. It seemed like a reasonable gamble.
Like the vegetables, the mango platter was enormous. Each slice was firm, crunchy, and only slightly sweet. With a touch of chili salt, it was delicious.
(So far, so good.)
By now I was nearly full and secretly hoping the waiter had forgotten my chicken.
No such luck.
He soon appeared carrying a portable tabletop burner topped with a huge platter of chicken pieces…
…including a foot.
Thankfully, no head.
Uh oh.
Well, I can always take most of this home.
After boxing up the leftovers and walking back to my room, I thought about what had just happened.
I’d noticed the same thing in both Thailand and Cambodia: people often gather in groups, talking and sharing food throughout the evening. Suddenly it made sense.
The menu hadn’t been designed for a solo foreigner.
It had been designed for families and friends.
I’d misunderstood not the language…
…but the culture.
The bill came to about 350,000 VND (roughly $13.50 USD). Expensive by Vietnamese standards for one dinner—but I had accidentally bought three meals.
Beware menus you can’t read.
Or perhaps more accurately…
Beware assuming you’ve understood a culture simply because you’ve translated its words.
