Hey
The Caravelle
Surprisingly, both Benjamin and I remembered the name 'Caravelle' for an entire month -- a feat considering that often, we can't remember what day of the week it is. We learned about the Caravelle at the beginning of our trip in Vietnam, from a girl in Sapa who told us that once we arrived in Saigon, we should be sure to go there. "All you can eat and drink," she said, "cheese, seafood, steak... wine and champagne." Somehow, she knew what made us tick. "All you can drink wine!" I exclaimed. "Steak!" Benjamin added. So we arrived in Saigon with a singular purpose: to eat and drink ourselves back to the First World.
The Caravelle is a fancy hotel, the kind with doormen and marble floors in the lobby. And they, like many other of the fancy hotels in Saigon, have a twice-daily buffet: all you can eat and drink for 21 bucks. And while 21 bucks might not sound like a lot to people back home, it's my entire daily budget! But I was willing to splurge: the buffet offers all the Western food I'd been missing for so long (and all you can drink wine). Actually... forget about splurging, I was willing to empty my savings account and sleep on the street for the night if that's what it took. But, my parents will be happy to hear, things haven't come to that. Things haven't gotten so tight that I have to choose between gluttony and a roof over my head.
"Don't forget your ostrich feather," Benjamin warned as we left our guesthouse, a place that was a little pricey at $12.00 per night (I only mention the price so you get a true sense for the extravagance we were about to indulge). I wiggled my index finger at him. "If necessary, I have this," I retorted.
We arrived to the Caravelle promptly at 6 p.m. I'd been counting down the hours since breakfast and being that we 'starved' ourselves all day in order to have a good appetite, I was ready to dig into the feast. It's always a little awkward, arriving to a fancy hotel when you are not what anyone would consider 'fancy clientele'. As we approached the grand, glass entryway, Benjamin joked, "Here come the backpackers. Quick! Lock the doors! They will obliterate our buffet." I didn't think we looked so rough, so depraved, to warrant such a reaction, though. Afterall, we were both wearing stain-free shirts with collars and buttons. I only wished, after we'd entered the dining area, that I'd hosed my shoes down, too. They've been covered in the same red dirt and dust since we met our 'food intel angel' in Sapa.
We were seated and handed a wine list. Prices started at $27.00 for a bottle of red. "I thought there was all you can drink wine here," I whispered to Benjamin -- one of those urgent, loud whispers that they use in spy movies. And then the waitress came by. Benjamin handed her the wine list, "I don't think we'll get a bottle. I have a headache, you see." Well, he did have a headache... but partly, we didn't want the waitress to know that we were really too poor to be at this restaurant, paying 21 bucks each for a meal. Our just being there was a pretense, all she had to do was look at my dirt encrusted hiking sandals to know that. But, when you move from one world into another, you like to belong there, at least for the time being. And so, we pretended we didn't want wine instead of admitting that it was too expensive.
Again, I whispered to Benjamin, "...that girl in Sapa, she did say there was all you can drink wine, didn't she?" "Yes, she did," he replied, "Perhaps you should ask the waitress about it."
But I didn't want to ask the waitress about it. It's one of those things that, on the surface, seem like a perfectly normal thing to ask -- but you know that it will come out sounding desperate and cheap: "Would you like some wine?" the waitress would ask and my reply, "Is it free? And is it endless... I mean, all you can drink?"... tell me that doesn't sound desperate and cheap! So instead, when she returned to the table, I told her that I would like a glass of the 'house red' and when she returned with it, we found out it was, indeed, part of the deal: we pay 21 bucks, and we drink as much as we like... or can (they constantly refill your glass as if it's ice water).
And onto the food... the display brought tears to my eyes; like seeing old friends after a long separation. I walked around the buffet as if in a daze. The tables were crowded with food, like a cornucopia the size of a Macy's Day parade balloon had been backed up to the Caravelle's grand, glass entryway and emptied onto tables with three tiers of serving platters.
There was an entire table devoted to bread, crackers, and dozens of different kinds of cheeses -- whole wedges and wheels -- and preserved meats: salami, prosciutto, ham. There was a salad table, with all kinds of gourmet treats; a desert table with cakes, pies, berries, ice cream, flan; a SUSHI table full of rolls and three kinds of sashimi; and a table full of meat dishes, with hard-to-pronounce, fancy names like beef roumalade, and just plain fancy meats like braised lamb shanks and veal, and basic indulgences like roast beef. I didn't even make it to the seafood table, which was full of oysters, lobster, shrimp, soft shell crab, fish... all cooked to order.
I looked around the place, wondering if it was everyone's intention to come here and absolutely stuff themselves. This, over my second plate of cheese and crackers. Benjamin, on his second plate of sushi, thought that it was, although probably not to the degree of our purpose. "All I know," he said over his 12th piece of sashimi, "is that I haven't had sushi for 5 months and I'm going to make up for it."
So we stuffed ourselves until it hurt, hitting almost of the tables one or more times. During the month we'd waited for the Caravelle, and the all-day countdown leading up to our visit, we had turned the whole dining experience into a sort of eating boot camp, a feeding frenzy... and we ate as if we were not consuming the food, but putting it into long-term storage, somewhere in memory, from where we could retrieve things later, when we missed them again.
When we were done, we looked at the clock and realized we'd been eating for 2 solid hours. And even as the bill came, the waitress asked if I would like some more wine. I was feeling a bit wobbly, though... having had so much to drink. The tolerance I worked so hard on back at home has virtually disappeared: there is no wine on the road less traveled. "Maybe just half of a glass," I told her. That was all the room I had left.
The Caravelle is a fancy hotel, the kind with doormen and marble floors in the lobby. And they, like many other of the fancy hotels in Saigon, have a twice-daily buffet: all you can eat and drink for 21 bucks. And while 21 bucks might not sound like a lot to people back home, it's my entire daily budget! But I was willing to splurge: the buffet offers all the Western food I'd been missing for so long (and all you can drink wine). Actually... forget about splurging, I was willing to empty my savings account and sleep on the street for the night if that's what it took. But, my parents will be happy to hear, things haven't come to that. Things haven't gotten so tight that I have to choose between gluttony and a roof over my head.
"Don't forget your ostrich feather," Benjamin warned as we left our guesthouse, a place that was a little pricey at $12.00 per night (I only mention the price so you get a true sense for the extravagance we were about to indulge). I wiggled my index finger at him. "If necessary, I have this," I retorted.
We arrived to the Caravelle promptly at 6 p.m. I'd been counting down the hours since breakfast and being that we 'starved' ourselves all day in order to have a good appetite, I was ready to dig into the feast. It's always a little awkward, arriving to a fancy hotel when you are not what anyone would consider 'fancy clientele'. As we approached the grand, glass entryway, Benjamin joked, "Here come the backpackers. Quick! Lock the doors! They will obliterate our buffet." I didn't think we looked so rough, so depraved, to warrant such a reaction, though. Afterall, we were both wearing stain-free shirts with collars and buttons. I only wished, after we'd entered the dining area, that I'd hosed my shoes down, too. They've been covered in the same red dirt and dust since we met our 'food intel angel' in Sapa.
We were seated and handed a wine list. Prices started at $27.00 for a bottle of red. "I thought there was all you can drink wine here," I whispered to Benjamin -- one of those urgent, loud whispers that they use in spy movies. And then the waitress came by. Benjamin handed her the wine list, "I don't think we'll get a bottle. I have a headache, you see." Well, he did have a headache... but partly, we didn't want the waitress to know that we were really too poor to be at this restaurant, paying 21 bucks each for a meal. Our just being there was a pretense, all she had to do was look at my dirt encrusted hiking sandals to know that. But, when you move from one world into another, you like to belong there, at least for the time being. And so, we pretended we didn't want wine instead of admitting that it was too expensive.
Again, I whispered to Benjamin, "...that girl in Sapa, she did say there was all you can drink wine, didn't she?" "Yes, she did," he replied, "Perhaps you should ask the waitress about it."
But I didn't want to ask the waitress about it. It's one of those things that, on the surface, seem like a perfectly normal thing to ask -- but you know that it will come out sounding desperate and cheap: "Would you like some wine?" the waitress would ask and my reply, "Is it free? And is it endless... I mean, all you can drink?"... tell me that doesn't sound desperate and cheap! So instead, when she returned to the table, I told her that I would like a glass of the 'house red' and when she returned with it, we found out it was, indeed, part of the deal: we pay 21 bucks, and we drink as much as we like... or can (they constantly refill your glass as if it's ice water).
And onto the food... the display brought tears to my eyes; like seeing old friends after a long separation. I walked around the buffet as if in a daze. The tables were crowded with food, like a cornucopia the size of a Macy's Day parade balloon had been backed up to the Caravelle's grand, glass entryway and emptied onto tables with three tiers of serving platters.
There was an entire table devoted to bread, crackers, and dozens of different kinds of cheeses -- whole wedges and wheels -- and preserved meats: salami, prosciutto, ham. There was a salad table, with all kinds of gourmet treats; a desert table with cakes, pies, berries, ice cream, flan; a SUSHI table full of rolls and three kinds of sashimi; and a table full of meat dishes, with hard-to-pronounce, fancy names like beef roumalade, and just plain fancy meats like braised lamb shanks and veal, and basic indulgences like roast beef. I didn't even make it to the seafood table, which was full of oysters, lobster, shrimp, soft shell crab, fish... all cooked to order.
I looked around the place, wondering if it was everyone's intention to come here and absolutely stuff themselves. This, over my second plate of cheese and crackers. Benjamin, on his second plate of sushi, thought that it was, although probably not to the degree of our purpose. "All I know," he said over his 12th piece of sashimi, "is that I haven't had sushi for 5 months and I'm going to make up for it."
So we stuffed ourselves until it hurt, hitting almost of the tables one or more times. During the month we'd waited for the Caravelle, and the all-day countdown leading up to our visit, we had turned the whole dining experience into a sort of eating boot camp, a feeding frenzy... and we ate as if we were not consuming the food, but putting it into long-term storage, somewhere in memory, from where we could retrieve things later, when we missed them again.
When we were done, we looked at the clock and realized we'd been eating for 2 solid hours. And even as the bill came, the waitress asked if I would like some more wine. I was feeling a bit wobbly, though... having had so much to drink. The tolerance I worked so hard on back at home has virtually disappeared: there is no wine on the road less traveled. "Maybe just half of a glass," I told her. That was all the room I had left.
posted by Cheryn at 1:26 PM
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