The Traveling Starving Writer: Monsieur Vuong's

My search for Monsieur Vuong’s is a great reminder of why it’s important to write at every chance I get while I’m traveling. As I sit in front of my keyboard now, eight months after that night in Berlin, the details of my memory are faint sketches layered with dust. The only help I get from the notebook I carried in my backpack is, *Write about the search for Monsieur Vuong’s in Berlin. Just a line of text, surrounded by notes of “stuff to research” (which I haven’t) and a story about Amsterdam. No other cues; not a single thing to jog my memory. So I sit and think, trying to picture those darkened streets as they appeared in October.

It was my tour guide who referred me to Monsieur Vuong’s. I’d gotten into the habit of taking cheap walking tours to get better acquainted with the cities I visited in Europe. It was more fun to learn that way than by searching through guidebooks or Wikipedia and then trotting out on my own. Amsterdam became more fascinating when I learned the history of the Red Light District from the mouth of a guide as we passed coffee shops and lively windows. Berlin captivated me when I explored the artist squats and walked through the subway tunnel that connected East and West while my guides elaborated on the ways the Cold War affected the people of that city.

After seeing the Reichstag and the Holocaust memorial one afternoon, I asked my guide to recommend a restaurant. “Do you like Vietnamese food?” he asked. “Yeah, of course.” And he proceeded to point out Monsieur Vuong’s on the cartoony little map I’d picked up at my hostel.

Berlin's Holocaust memorial.

A few hours later, as night was settling in, I hopped on the train toward downtown. Halfway there, my travel plan hit a snag. There was construction on a portion of the subway line, so I had to get off the train sooner than expected and take a bus that would drop me off farther down the line where I could reconnect with the train. Using my two-day knowledge of German and my 28-year-old knowledge of arrows, I figured out where to catch the bus once I got off the train. The group waiting for the bus was small when I arrived. Minutes later, it was a horde. When the bus arrived, it was packed more tightly than the stones in the walls of Cusco. You couldn’t slide a credit card between the bodies in there. I let that first bus pass, then another one. Finally I started walking.

I had a general idea of where I needed to go to get to Monsieur Vuong’s, or at least the next open subway tunnel, and I knew both were a long way away. Just when my legs were ready to buckle beneath me, I spotted a functioning subway tunnel. I boarded the train and rode the short distance that remained. When I got off, I was lost.

I walked down empty streets, then busy ones, then more empty ones, growing increasingly frustrated by the minute. I had already spent more than an hour riding trains and buses, and walking, and was determined to find Monsieur Vuong’s even if it took me another hour. My stomach was doing its impression of the MGM lion, and begged to be filled with Vietnamese food. I’d come so far and endured so much to find this place that came so highly recommended by my esteemed 10-euro tour guide. I couldn’t give up when I was this close to the prize, so I kept looking. I would eat at Monsieur Vuong’s tonight, damn it!

Finally I saw the sign, lit up above floor-to-ceiling windows looking into a crowded little dining room. A bit too crowded, in fact. The only open tables are outside, on the sidewalk. I don’t want to sit out there in the cold. And waiting for a table inside will probably take 30 minutes, judging by the line. And what’s this? The prices are higher than I expected. I’m on a budget. And quite possibly underdressed. And now that I see all the happy people inside, talking and laughing with their friends, I’m suddenly very aware of how alone I am and how uncomfortable it would be to eat in there at a table for one.

I turned back in the direction of the subway station and headed toward the hostel. I told myself I’d at least accomplished my mission of finding Monsieur Vuong’s, so it was OK. And that’s where my memories become faded again. I don’t remember the ride home, and I don’t recall what I had for dinner that night. But it wasn’t Vietnamese food.