I rolled into Manassas, Virginia this evening and decided the first thing I needed to do was satisfy my addiction to Chinese food. I'm not overly familiar with the area but I knew where all the retail stores were and I also knew that in one of the strip centers here there would be a Chinese resaurant. There always is. I prefer the small carryout shop as opposed to the big Chinese buffets because I have this strange inability to stop eating the stuff. If a buffet table has twelve kinds of chicken (General Tsao's, Honey, Barbecue, Sesame, etc.), I will go for all twelve. It is an awful thing to watch.
Well, this evening I ran into a dilemma. It had to do with the language barrier. I pulled up to this small restaurant that had the name "Rho Nguyen" on the facade of the building. Hmm. I looked closely at the door and windows to see the familiar "Chinese Carryout," or "Chinese Quisine," or something. Nothing. So is Rho Nguyen Chinese?
The thought went through my mind of an incident several years ago in Chicago. I walked into a restaurant thinking that it was Chinese. It was Philipino. I accepted my error and asked for a menu. Twenty minutes later, I'm still trying to figure out what phanduong pot is. My creative mind was racing. I ended up ordering something that looked like beef and hoped for the best.
I had a similar incident in El Paso about five years ago. I was travelling there regularly and, because I was focused on a business project, I had made no attempt to get out at night and take part in the local quisine. A friend was shocked when I told him I had never tasted the Mexican food the whole time I was there in El Paso. It was suggested that what I needed to do was to walk across the Rio Grande into Juarez and try the food there. I had no burning desire to get my head handed to me over there so I made the decision to go out one night and find some honest-to-God Mexican food - on the El Paso side of the river.
I drove around for a while, looking at several restaurants but each one made me feel like, when I entered, I'd be the only gringo in the place and that nobody would be able to speak English. So I ended up at Taco Bell. Excellent Mexican by the way.
So this evening I had to decide if I was going to try "Rho Nguyen." As I was starting to enter, something came to mind - the name of the last president of South Vietnam before it surrendered to the North Vietnamese in 1975 (I know. I'm the only remaining person on earth who knows who that was. I was always great at Jeopardy.) His name was Nguyen Van Thieu.
Nguyen.
This was a Vietnamese restaurant. And Vietnamese would not satisfy my craving -- at least I don't think it would. Besides I hear they eat dogs over there. So I got back in my car and found the "Chinese Palace." Yes. Oh, yes.
I sit here now, two hours later, completely bloated and uncomfortable. But at least I don't have to worry about some dog having bought the farm at my expense. As it turned out, it was only a chicken. A very tasty one to be sure.
