The Underdog

I wasn't even thinking of eating dog until I met Alec. He has a way of smiling and raising his eyebrows that suggests trouble, but the kind of trouble that you just have to get into.

Alec is German - the first German that I have ever liked. He could be my boyfriend if he didn't have a girlfriend. He giggles at my unspoken jokes (a nod at a kid picking his nose, for example) and speaks excellent English. Alec is also insanely hot, a triathalete who still drinks enough beer to not be featherweight but enough muscle to have a tight, convext chest. Swoon.

During our first drink, he told me about the time on when he cheated on his girlfriend back home. It had been after a long bus ride through Laos, during which a beautiful girl had suggested that they seek accomodation at the same guest house. He aquiesced. After dinner they had some drinks and headed to her room. Just before they started making out he felt a bit sick but his hormones got the best of him and he forged ahead. Halfway through the act, with her on top, he began having severe gastric pains. She thought it was him getting more turned on and thrashed harder and faster, which made him offer a clenched whimper. She interpreted the whimper as ecstasy and rode even harder. At that point, Alec said, "I shit on bed a little but she never know". This made him my best friend for life.

"You know. We should go for dog".

We were out drinking whiskey at four in the afternoon when he offered it up, straight from the 'ol Lonely Planet. I could only hear Anthony Bourdain whispering in my ear not to be a wimp, not to be the safe American consumer. So, I agreed to eat man's best friend. Alec was thrilled. I was thrilled to thrill him.

We continued the evening by drinking free beer on the roof of our hostel, the well-run, Australian-owned Hanoi Backpackers. Alec looked at me and tried to speak code as we batted off two frumpy Polish girls who would not stop hitting on us. Had it been a frumpy Polish guy, I may have considered a bit more discussion.

Alec. Giving me the accent. "Time for D-O-G now?"

Certainly.

We hailed a taxi and took a drive to a decidedly sketchy neighborhood, at which point the cab driver continued and took us five miles further to an even sketchier one. It's a universal rule that no good comes of establishments near an airport. There were no people, no cabs, no stores and no cyclos. Only a semi-fancy shack with ten tables and no customers. "Dog! " Said our driver. "Woof Woof".

The anxiety of eating Lassie was quadrupled by the apalling neighborhood and certainty that we would never get home. That feeling went through the ceiling when we realized that there were about ten canines wandering below the eatery. The reality that dog came from DOG was almost too much. Tony Bourdain kept whispering in my brain, cooing me closer to the tables. Before I knew it, my shoes were off and I was sitting at a Japanese style table on the floor. It bears repeating that Alec and I were the only customers.

Two men served as our cooks and waiters. They looked like mechanics more than restauranteurs. Between the two of them, they knew three words and gracefully laid out the dining options. "Boy Dog? Girl Dog?". We shrugged our shoulders and told them to pick what they wanted. Not understanding a word of what we said, they moved quickly towards the back. Chef's Special it was. I worked in a rib joint once and it is best that the customer never knows what really happens behind the door that swings both ways. I shuddered to think.

Dinner arrived before we could even think about bailing out. Two small plates of grilled dog were placed in front of us, with three equally mysterious dipping sauces. The meat was brown and rump-like, chunked and sliced. The smell coming off of it made me momentarily gag. I proceeded to momentarily gag four more times.

There was no backing down, as our two hosts were now watching to make sure we partook. I grabbed my chopsticks and shoved a piece in my mouth before I really had time to process what I had in front of me.

Dog was a completely new and distinct taste to me. It had never struck me that at my age I might discover a new taste. It was like the first time I tasted licorice or lemongrass or coriander. Except more horrible than anything I had ever eaten in my life. Years of Liver Night as a kid had taught me how to convincingly fake-eat with a quick napkin spit, which is exactly what I did. Unlike in my childhood, the dogs under this table would probably not appreciate my palmed scraps.

"Boy Dog", said our waiter as Alec took a bite from the same stinking pile. Some people turn green - he turned neon. Our waiter departed and he hacked out his bite into a napkin.

Of course we should have stopped right there but we didn't. Neither one of us was leaving until we successfully downed one piece. We both went for the other sliced pile and I guess that I can compare female dog as something pork-like. It was only half as bad as the first pile, which was ten times worse than anything I have ever had. We swallowed. Dog had been ingested. We pounded our orange sodas and looked at each other with grim faces.

There was no pride in the achievement. We were just two dumb guys doing something for the sake of saying that we did it. Neither one of us enjoyed a single second of the experience and neither one of us felt good about what we had done. We had psyched ourselves into doing something because it felt adventurous and non-tourista. It was a horrible mistake and a nasty decision.

We paid quickly and left as if it was a brothel, grabbing the first cab back to the city. It charged us three times the going rate and neither one of us cared. We just wanted that behind us. We deserved to be ripped off.