Two Hits of Acid in Cambodia - A Novel
Just a Taste
Eli & Michael - 2017, Night 1: Phở
We sit at a table on the sidewalk outside Phở Cô Dần. Online, they claimed to be the best late-night phở in Saigon. As luck would have it, the restaurant is just three doors down from our hotel. The menu is packed with noodle and rice dishes. Besides our polite waitress, Michael and I are the only ones on the street. We order two beers and two bowls.
In America, phở was my first tangible experience of Vietnamese culture. At first, I mispronounced it—it’s fuh—but even in the Midwest, the savory bone broth and tender marinated meats felt like a portal. It gave me a taste of something beyond my small world and became almost ceremonial. I know it’s just soup, but it showed me how something unfamiliar could be extraordinary. That kind of thinking isn’t common where I’m from. As odd as it sounds, phở is one of the main reasons I wanted to take this trip—to honor the version of myself who once feared he’d never leave Wisconsin.
Every Vietnamese restaurant I’ve been to in America serves the same side garnishes: fresh basil (on the stem), bean sprouts, lime or lemon wedges, sliced chili peppers, Hoisin sauce, and Sriracha. This place is no different, which makes my past experiences feel surprisingly authentic. Here, they steam their bean sprouts—keeping the soup hotter longer—and instead of Sriracha, there’s a metal spice rack filled with powdered and wet options. The waitress brings us 650ml bottles of beer with a tiger on the label.
A few minutes later, she returns with two steaming ceramic bowls and sets down ornate soup spoons and stainless steel chopsticks. The brackish aroma floods my senses. I ordered my beef slices raw and on the side so I can cook them in the bowl to a perfect medium rare.
I slap the basil against my palm to release its fragrance, pluck the leaves from the stem, and toss them in. I add the bean sprouts and squeeze fresh lime over the top—then come the spices and Hoisin sauce. I’m careful not to overdo the chilies; I’ve made that mistake before. With chopsticks, I pull the glass noodles from the bottom, weaving them through the ingredients to mix everything perfectly—the thin broth shifts from clear and oily to deep maroon with flecks of green. I fill my spoon and sip the spicy nectar.
“Mmm, this is Vietnam.”
Slurping is all I hear. Every ingredient is fresh, bursting with flavor. The years of anticipation pay off. I’ve arrived.
“This is the best phở I’ve ever had,” I say.
“And it’s only going to cost us 80,000 Dong,” Michael adds.
“What’s that, like two dollars?”
Michael thinks. “Three and a half.”
I’m grateful his mood has improved. I lean back and take in the quiet street. Next to us stands one of those tall, gray trees. I place my hand on its wide trunk, feeling its energy. The chilies make my lips tingle. The warmth of the soup in my belly mirrors the humid air, blurring the line between me and this place.
“We’re here,” I say. “I mean, obviously, I knew we were coming, but the idea of being here and actually being here feels different.”
“I’m glad we got out,” Michael says. “America is broken. I still can’t believe we voted that narcissist into office.”
Even though it’s only been a day, it feels like I haven't thought about America at all—the people or the politics. But now, it all rushes back. Will anyone respond to my letters? Is Los Angeles where I want to live forever? Will I have withdrawals from my meds? Is the part of me that pushes people away the same thing that pissed off Window Guy? Am I just difficult?
Despite Michael’s fears, I’m more worried about my flaws than my country’s. I haven’t voted since I was eighteen. With all the gerrymandering and blatant voter suppression, it’s hard to take elections seriously. I know I should participate, but I’ve grown apathetic. In the ’90s, they preached Vote or Die—maybe, by not voting, I did die, and these next four years are my purgatory.
In America, phở was my escape. But here, in Vietnam, it’s reminding me of everything I was trying to leave behind.
“Yeah, we both needed out,” I say.
We empty our bowls and sink into our chairs like fat kings.
Could I live here? If I stayed, I’d eat this every day.
“You tired?” Michael asks.
“Nah, I’m awake.”
As the N. Vorderbruggen Substack grows, I’m thinking about serializing my novel 'Two Hits of Acid in Cambodia' from the beginning, maybe releasing one chapter every other week. While I'm still determining the subscriber count that would make this sustainable, your help spreading the word would make this decision much easier. I've pulled my guts out for this book, and I’m excited to share it with all of you.
I'm currently seeking beta readers. The ideal candidate would be someone who doesn't know me personally, can finish the novel within a month, and is an avid reader. Since this project represents six years of dedication, I'll be selective about early readers to ensure I receive the most helpful feedback. Please understand if I determine you're not the right fit for this particular stage.
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