The Memory of Compromise

We’re at a loss for restaurants of distinction here in our little corner of Beijing.  On a Friday night when no one wanted to cook my wife suggested we head out for a meal.  “Sure.  Where would you like to go?”  “Any place.”  And so it went between her, my younger one and I, with no one taking responsibility and suggesting that anything would suit.  The staple family-style place we default to we’d visited only just recently.  All the other places at the two closest compounds loomed mediocre.  My younger one, I think it was her, suggested: “Vietnamese.”  There is a place nearby called Mint.  Why is the memory of compromise so much weaker than it should be?

Mint has a long row of windows to sit along, that are ‘high-tone’ in the summer months but we quickly found do little to protect one from the cold in the winter.  We sat next to two wall heaters with our coats on.  I removed my hoodie once and felt a chill on my neck.  I tugged it back up on my head.  My wife commented on how ridiculous I looked with this Gandalf cone rising above my noggin and I’m sure this was true.  I removed it again.  But put it back on again shortly after my neck began to crawl once again.  Comfort over style; I’m OK with that.

The mind settles into the memory of tasty Vietnamese meals.  Goi Cuon where the skin is thin and the shrimp are fresh and the peanut sauce beckons.  A steamy bowl of Pho will warm me up.  And the young kids who are manning the joint are well intentioned.   But there will be no tip and so there is no real leverage other than good will.  The Goi Cuon arrives late and is flavorless; the accompanying vegetables inside are think and abrasive.  There is no peanut sauce.  They bring us two bowls of Pho but we ordered three.   Mine comes much later but I must ask three times for the accompanying plate of lime, spice and crudité.  One sip and it is clear that the broth is pitifully over-salted.   The young man and the young woman who serve us sense how frustrated we are with it all and try their best. 

Leaving the heat, such as it was, creates a suction that makes departing through the exit door difficult.  We push hard and the door pops open with a sound.  I fear that memory’s unreliability may make returning easier than it should be.  I hope we remember next time that this is not an especially pleasant place to celebrate the wonders of Vietnamese food.  I suspect we’ll forget though and be lured back by some other memory that supersedes the actual tastes that Mint has available. 

Friday, 01/20/17