Aug 28

Aug 28 Hanoi: The Snake Feast

A cacophony of horns toot around the van as it trundles out of downtown Hanoi amid the end-of-day traffic. Four of my travel companions and I are sitting in the middle and back rows, captivated by the words pouring from the front seat. Johnny is holding court. Mid-thirties, small stature, massive personality, Johnny is a Vietnamese local and our guide for this adventure.

“Two kinds of bikers in Vietnam: Honda bikers and Yamaha bikers. Honda’s are for the parent’s – more practical, better price. Yamahas are younger, faster, sexy.”

On cue, a bike going twice our speed swerves through a nonexistent gap in the traffic. Its shirtless driver steers with one hand and texts with the other as if he’s not one pothole away from being an obituary. The commonplace nature of sightings like this one has me convinced that there is only one type of biker in Vietnam – insane.

I raise the point with Johnny. He just laughs.

“Vietnamese are more freestyle. Rules can be flexible. It can be good and it can be bad. There’s a problem, though, when money gets involved. Vietnamese working overseas send money back and suddenly there are kids with too much cash. Fifteen-year-olds go to a bar no-problem because they can pay for no-problem.”

He sighs deeply and, in doing so, finds the words to sum up his sentiment.

“In Vietnam, it’s like this: Have money. Do anything.”

The irony of this is not lost on me. That’s essentially why we’re in Southeast Asia: wild experiences at affordable prices, bang for our buck, experiential arbitrage. This outing with Johnny is a perfect example – for a fistful of American dollars, we are going to eat a snake.

Specifically, a King Cobra.

How this came to be is simple. When we arrived in Vietnam yesterday, Kam, one of the friends now sitting in the snake van, brought up that a friend’s acquaintance knew a guy who organized Vietnamese snake feasts. I’m a curious soul and, barring serious threat of death or imprisonment, will try almost anything once. It was agreed we’d meet the guy.

That guy was Johnny. Johnny has a gift for sales.

The eye twitch is my subconscious processing what's just been agreed to.

Arrival

The van stops with a squeal of brakes. We unload, and follow Johnny into a rather unspectacular courtyard. The encircling buildings are rough brick topped with the wavy, off-orange terracotta tiles that equatorial nations can’t seem to get enough of. A few tasteful trees offer shade. The centerpiece is a small pond with some koi moving sluggishly under a gratuitous layer of algae. Then, a final detail registers – animals.

As we move through the courtyard, we pass enclosures. Most are terrariums, each home to a different variety of sub-tropical bird, but some hold bigger creatures. It’s as I pass a cage with two porcupines in it that realization dawns on me: snake isn’t the only thing on the menu. Apparently, you can order pretty much anything here and expect to get it fresh.

Somehow, it feels much more normal with supermarket lobsters.

The Snake

We’re brought to a set of what appear to be lockers, little wooden doors set into a cement bank. There’s a locked steel panel on the front face that restricts access to the doors. If you were going to store poisonous cobras anywhere on this property, this would be place.

It’s for this reason that I’m shocked when, in the span of a few seconds, a teenage employee materializes, wordlessly unlocks the security panel, pops open one of the little wooden doors, and plunges the entirety of his arm into the exposed cavity. Someone in our group gasps. Mentally, I prepare to watch a man die.

If you listen closely, you can hear Steve Irwin cheering from the afterlife.

Johnny laughs at the panic on our faces as the boy pulls a writhing coil of scales from the locker and hands it to him.

“No worries! A rat snake! A friendly snake!”

Factually, I understand: rat snakes are not venomous, rarely bite, and are a prime example of an entry-level serpent. Still, no snake in any story I’ve ever read is friendly – from Genesis to the Jungle Book these guys are bad news. Johnny, though, loves holding the snake. He even passes the snake to Chris so he may share in the joy of sentient, predatory rope. Less love ensues.

Friendly snake is returned to its cage without incident. Now it’s time for the main event.

The Cobra

This time two teenage employees report for the task. One is armed with a hook that has been fashioned from what is unmistakably a clothes hangar. The other is using his iPhone as a flashlight. Godspeed. Operating as a team, they go about the cobra retrieval process. Door number one is opened, there’s a loud hiss, and the locker is immediately slammed shut.

Too angry.

They try another door. This one is evidently more promising. The first employee, we’ll call him ‘Lucky’, stands back and illuminates the locker interior. The second employee, Unlucky, gets to coax the venomous snake from its den using the coat hanger hook and his bare hand. With a slow pull, the length of the snake is drawn by its tail into the open. Deathly hissing fills the air, like a punctured balloon leaking nerve gas.

I can’t help but notice this leaves the bitey end free.

The bulk of the cobra is dropped to the ground to be displayed to us. It is restrained only by the one-handed grip Unlucky maintains on its tail. Our crew, who had been gawking, scrambles to give it sufficient berth. The snake is shockingly big, a thick cord of muscle that stretches well over a metre. Dark brown in colour, there’s a dry whisper as it flagellates and the scales of its underbelly slide on the courtyard tiles.

The cobra rears its head, flares its signature hood, and parts its jaws to afford a glimpse of deadly fang. The result is terrifying. I’m consciously fighting a primal urge to flee. To my right, on the periphery of what I would estimate as cobra striking range, is (inexplicably) a Vietnamese toddler. She is totally unphased, wearing a bored look that says, “Pfft! I eat snakes like this for breakfast.” Perhaps she does.

Sufficiently demonstrated, the snake is corralled into a green mesh back and plopped on a scale. Two-point-three kilograms. What was moments ago a terrifying, proud, beautiful animal has suddenly been reduced to grocery status. I feel a pang of guilt. This will be the last time that snake slithers. In that cobra’s world, we are the apocalyptic Horsemen, in MEC tops and dirty Keens, ushering in Judgement Day.

Because it’s rude to just ask someone’s weight.

I’ve always believed that this is the price I must pay for the privilege of eating meat – I should confront the death I cause. Otherwise, I’m the dietary equivalent an armchair general: content to wage war, to sacrifice lives, without understanding the horrible cost. As a city-dweller, however, the actual confrontation part of this philosophy doesn’t happen very often. I harden my resolve. This is something I must watch.

The bagged snake is carried to an alcove outside the kitchen facility. Unlucky, naturally, establishes a hold behind the cobra’s deadly head. Lucky takes the tail. They pull it from the bag and stretch it, displaying its impressive length in full. Lucky produces a blade, nothing ceremonial, just an industrial paring knife. The Greece Fates of lore, poised to snip a thread.

Disney’s really dropped the ball with these live-action remakes.

There’s an incision down the snake’s length followed by a moment of anatomical exposure – lungs, heart, liver hanging in the open air – then an expert nick severs the aorta. Blood spills into an empty plastic bucket with a dull, hollow sound. The snake slackens, dead, and is whisked into the kitchen.

Appetizer

We turn to each other as a group to address what we’ve just witnessed. Not a word is out before Johnny comes up and thrusts a small, white dish into our circle.

By God, it’s still beating. Full on Edgar Allan Poe, systole and diastole, eight-o-eight beats. Blood pulses harder in my ears as my own heart reacts to seeing its relative pumping on a plate.

The plate is retracted, but it isn’t over. Johnny is back, this time brandishing a shooter glass. The heart is now sitting in the bottom of a shot of vodka, the formaldehyde preserve of a classroom shelf in miniature. Johnny’s voice booms.

“WHO…IS…THE…LEADER?!?!”

In Vietnamese tradition, eating the heart of a King Cobra – essentially a biological infinity stone – is a big deal. As such, it goes to the guest of honour. In this case, the leader of our ragtag group.

Nobody is forthcoming. As go-getters who value autonomy and mutual respect, electing a leader would be a serious exercise at the best of times. Also, it’s clear the leader drinks the heart cup. Correctly sensing stalled momentum, Johnny tries a different tact.

“WHO…WILL…EAT IT?!?!”

This is a much more pragmatic question. Not even who wants to eat it, but who will be the first to consent and follow through. The answer, it turns out, is me.

I came to eat cobra, might as well go all the way.

I’m handed the glass. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I see a feeble beat. Lord have mercy. Mentally, I rehearse the actions of dropping my jaw, lifting my arm, and swallowing. Three. Two. One. I’m moving.

The cup hits my lips. There’s the sensation of expansion as the back of my throat accommodates a pill with which it shares a consistency. Then, the cleansing and familiar fire of vodka. There’s a scattered round of claps from a few of the staff. Some “Wooos!” and “Augghs!” from my friends. Chris pats me on the back smiling.

“You’ve eaten a cobra heart, buddy!”

Before I can mull over the fact that for the rest of my life that statement will be a true one, Johnny adds on.

“Yes! Now you will be strong! Very strong man! Go five times in the same night!”

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, like Chinese Viagra!”

I’m confused. I notice a few of the staff are nodding along with grins that imply knowledge of some lewd secret. I inquire and Johnny explains.

There is an idea in Chinese culture that, upon eating an animal, you gain some of its attributes. This has, hilariously and to the detriment of global rhino and tiger populations, led to a bank run on nature's most impressive phalluses. Snakes, resembling thick, long, nightmarish well… you know, are thought to contribute to a man’s sexual prowess, virility, and stamina. In Vietnam, this is referred to under that catch-all banner “strength”. Since we’re about to eat a whole King Cobra, this theme will continue to, well, rear its head.

Ceremony completed, it’s time to drink.

Aperitif

Johnny brings out a tray with two varieties of shooter on it. One, unmistakably, is blood. The other is hazy with a slight yellow-green tinge. Lime juice? Lime juice as chase. Yeah, that makes sense. Still, I double check.

“Are those ones lime?”

“Not, lime. Lung!”

Now is a good time to introduce Kelly. Kelly is a friend joining us for the Vietnam leg of our trip during her time off from medical school. The world should be thankful that Kelly is becoming a doctor because Kelly is the type of person to remember your name, genuinely care, and back it up with medical knowledge to make everything better. Upon hearing Johnny declare the cloudy shot to be lung, Kelly chimes in excitedly.

“Lung! We’re drinking pleural fluid! I just drained pleural fluid from a patient’s lungs last week and it smelled so gross!”

And with that, Kelly’s medical knowledge made everything worse.

The blood shots are viscous, salty, and disturbingly warm. There’s a strong aftertaste of iron that, given a modicum of rational thought, really shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Given rational thought though, I doubt we’d be drinking cobra blood.

Johnny explains that pleural fluid is to be sipped, rather than taken as a shot. Not a chance, Johnny. We insist that in Canadian culture, it is traditional to take lung juice in one big gulp. Johnny concedes. Cut with vodka, there’s no taste that isn’t completely overwhelmed by alcohol burn. Still, lime would be nice.

Mains

We enter the dining room and it’s laid out beautifully, as if we are aristocracy rather than a bunch of savages who just took shots of hot blood. We sit down with Johnny and the food begins coming. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

The first dish is a soup of snake meat and mushroom. Tapioca gives the broth an almost gelatinous viscosity that, while strange, provides each spoonful with substance. A lemongrass finish adds delicacy. Mentally, I can’t relate this experience to the great beast that was the cobra. Verbally, Johnny relates the soup to male sexual prowess.

Fifteen minutes ago, the contents of this soup could hunt small mammals.

Next are spring rolls, snake meat and herbs packed into rice paper and deep fried to perfection. The spices provide a deep burn that, by some culinary miracle, accentuate rather than distract from the flavour. Johnny reminds us all how virile we’re going to be after a few of these. I’ve decided that cultures can have the immaturity of an eleven-year-old.

A plate of morning glory is set down, a dark green, leafy vegetable, and I’m relieved to have a dish that can’t be tied back to man genitals. My relief is premature.

Just a nice vegetable that couldn’t possibly be penis themed. Right?

“Do you know why it’s called morning glory?”

“No, Johnny, I don’t.”

“In the morning, when young boys wake up,” Johnny uses his finger to mime what is unmistakably an adolescent erection, “Morning glory is like Popeye’s spinach, but it helps make you strong in the morning.”

Johnny gestures to his crotch and beams. For a horrifying moment, I consider how Popeye cartoons could have turned out had they been produced in Vietnam. Banishing that thought, I express thanks for the precedent set by North America’s puritanical 1600’s.

Meat comes out. Technically it’s ribs because, when you think about it, all of a snake is ribs. We’re told to eat in small bites. The meat is very chewy, but its compensates by being incomparably savoury. The ugly physical constraint of having to snap the ribcage back to reach the meat inside is worth it. As Kelly does this, she takes a close look at the cobra’s spine and her face lights up.

“Guys! You can see the VAN! Vein, artery, and nerve! Wow!”

Thank you, Kelly.

Tastes like chicken if chicken were the catalyst for original sin.

It strikes me that, given the amount of meat that’s graced our table, the cobra’s supply should be very close to exhausted. I wonder how the kitchen is going to pull off the last two courses. As if in answer, a waiter emerges with the final trays.

The first is bone caviar. Just thinking the word ‘caviar’ makes me feel like a prince, but ‘bone’ has my guard up. A name isn’t everything. I once watched a guy write ‘social media consultant’ on his resume after three-hundred people liked his Instagram photo of a sneaker. My concern, however, is misplaced. Almost flavourless, the bone caviar’s merit is a nutty texture. It adds a lot to the rice cracker it’s served on.

The final plate comes out. It’s the offal, a word that sounds suspiciously like ‘awful’ but actually comes from a combination of ‘off’ and ‘fall’. These are the organs that used to ‘fall off’ the butcher’s block, left for the dogs in European tradition. We are in for a treat.

Stomach has the texture of calamari and slides down without too much fighting. Intestine is similar, but you can see little villi and there’s a chalky taste. Snake liver is actually great: rich, melt in your mouth, and a small enough portion to avoid having to confront that you’re eating a liver multiple times in the same meal. The real challenge is skin.

Chewing is impossible. Skin is, mind you, a part of the snake normally associated with high-end handbags. Every bite is accompanied by the sound of ripping cartilage and the sensation of elastic resistance. There’s an illusion of progress, but in reality, there is none. Eventually, I just give up and swallow it whole.

With that, the meal is over.

Departure

We’re standing outside the courtyard gate, waiting for our van, still riding the high of true novelty among good friends. I signed up for today expecting a moral cost to be incurred – brash tourists brandishing cash to permit them a destructive thrill. I'm leaving with something better.

For all the horror of the snake killing, it was an honest exposure to what meat is. In the days leading up to this one, I ate pork, beef, chicken, shrimp, fish, and squid all without a second thought. For everyone but vegetarians, it’s a bloody road from farm-to-table. Today, I walked along it.

To boot, this was the first meal I’ve ever eaten that made use of the entire animal. Skin, muscle, bones, heart, lung, stomach, liver, intestine – by the time we stood up Kelly had run through the bulk of her anatomy curriculum. It was the most efficient use of the body possible and, with a few noted exceptions, it was delicious. For me, that's something to celebrate.

The van pulls up and we load in. Johnny immediately starts talking. We drive off into the Hanoi sunset feeling, unquestionably, a bit stronger.

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