The Delightful Mr. Cu, Hue Vietnam

March 2009

He was standing in the broad open doorway of his restaurant, at the top of a short flight of stairs. As we walked towards the stairs, he opened his arms in welcome, smiled, and said: “come in, come in please!” As we mounted the stairs, I asked “Are you Mr. Cu?” He admitted that he was, and I said “We've been looking for you!”

We shook hands – he exuded unusual warmth and grace even in this simplest of gestures. He cut an elegant figure – a little taller than most Vietnamese, slim, and well-dressed in a nicely tailored dark suit. He had a handsome face with strong chiseled features – softened by the wrinkles of age, and warmed by his lively thoughtful eyes.

Photo: Mr. Cu and his grandson.

Mr. Cu came from a poor family – his father worked as a cyclo (bicycle taxi) driver in Hue. The family lived in a sampan on the Perfume River, a broad river that separates the modern business centre of Hue from the old city. Mr Cu, the second of six children, was born in the spring of 1945, on the sampan. Mr. Cu's mother was particularly anxious around the time of his birth: the Americans were bombing a bridge on the river not far from where they lived. Thankfully he arrived without incident.

Mr. Cu went to school, completed grade twelve and went to work as a bus driver. Then came the Vietnam War. Hue is located on the coast of Vietnam, almost precisely in the middle, between what was North and South Vietnam. It lies just south of the DMZ or 'Demilitarized Zone.' The Americans had a base here, and recruited locals for a variety of jobs.

Mr. Cu was keen to work for the Americans – they paid well. He applied for a job as a driver. Apart from his experience, Mr. Cu had the right credentials: his family was 'clean' – no connections to the Hanoi government. He was hired by a US Army contractor to drive a stand-by fire truck at Hue's airport. But the job lasted only two years: in 1971 the U.S. began their withdrawal from Vietnam. Mr. Cu was let go.

However he was soon re-hired by another US Army contractor, this time driving 'big trucks.' The U.S. Army's withdrawal from Vietnam meant that its equipment, furniture and the personal effects of its service men and women had to be transported to depots for shipment back home. But by 1973 the troops and their paraphernalia were gone, and Mr. Cu was again without work.

There was little work in Hue, so Mr. Cu went south to Qui Nhon, a larger city on the coast, about half-way between Hue and Saigon. He looked up one of his old bosses, a Vietnamese woman who had managed the transport of goods for the U.S. Army in Hue. Now she was supplying rice and vegetables to the Korean Army, which had a base in Qui Nhon. Mr. Cu became her chauffeur.

In 1974 Mr. Cu met and married his wife in Qui Nhon. After the American withdrawal, the Hanoi government had difficulty controlling the population. There was widespread violence and looting. It was a 'crazy time.' Mr. Cu decided that he and his wife would be safer in Hue, closer to his family.

They arrived in Hue on May 15^th, 1975, the day before their first baby was born. Mr. Cu took his labouring wife to the hospital, but there were no doctors or nurses available. Mr. Cu looked after his wife himself, washing her sheets and bringing her food. Their next child, another daughter, was born two years later, in 1977.

From 1975 to 1990 Vietnam was ruled by a communist government located in Hanoi. During this period Vietnam was almost entirely dependent on Russian aid. There was no private enterprise: the Hanoi government owned everything. Mr. Cu, having worked for the Americans, was unable to get work. For him, this as a 'very difficult time.' But when he spoke of how he got through it, he laughed a lot.

“The North Vietnamese were very poor. They had three dreams: to own a watch, a radio and a bicycle. They particularly wanted self-winding watches, the ones where you can just wave your hand: you don't have to wind it. Many South Vietnamese had been given such watches as presents by U.S. Army personnel. Some of them were broken, but I learned how to fix them.”

“I would fix them so they worked. Sometimes they would only work for a few seconds – just long enough for me to sell the watch. But I had no shop. I just sold on the street. So when the watch stopped, they would have no way of finding me! Radios I knew nothing about. I couldn't fix a radio. But my brother-in-law could. So he fixed the radios, and I sold them too. And I learned how to repair bicycles.”

In 1990, when Russia felt apart, aid to Vietnam was abruptly cut off. The situation became desperate. The Hanoi government decided to not only allow, but to encourage private enterprise. Tourists were allowed to visit Vietnam for the first time since before the war. This was the dawning of a new era for Vietnam – an era which has seen an incredible growth in development and in opportunities, and prosperity, for the Vietnamese people.

Mr. Cu's ability to seize an opportunity when he saw it again came to the fore: he opened a small cafe in the government owned 'Hotel #2 Le Loi,' one of only four hotels at that time in Hue, all government owned, but the 'Le Loi' was the best and most popular of the lot.

During his first year of business, Mr. Cu's customers were largely Vietnamese. They'd come for a coffee, and to watch t.v. and videos. By 1991 tourists started coming in larger numbers, and Mr. Cu's cafe became 'the place' to go, recommended in guide books not only for its food, but also for Mr. Cu's ability to speak English, and his willingness to provide information.

Mr. Cu' made friends with many tourists who helped him to steadily improve his service – and his food. An American taught him how to make banana pancakes. These pancakes won his restaurant a special mention in a 1993 New York Times article on Vietnam. Other friends helped Mr. Cu by writing and designing menus for his restaurant and advising him on good business practices.

The popularity of Mr. Cu's cafe was a sore point for the hotel, whose restaurant was almost always empty. In 1994 the hotel management decided to terminate his lease. In his typical indomitable style, Mr. Cu relocated just a few doors away, at #8 Le Loi. He leased a building owned by a French organization that had been running a school and social development centre for Vietnamese children. The building was run down and dirty, but Mr. Cu fixed it up and opened his new restaurant, which he called 'The Mandarin.'

We asked Mr. Cu how his restaurant got its name. “Ah,” he laughed, “that's a good story!” When Mr. Cu was forced to relocate from #2 to #8 Le Loi, an American friend said: “you're new restaurant has to have a name!” He suggested 'The Mandarin.' because, said Mr. Cu, “my friend said 'your restaurant is located in Hue, which is famous for the imperial city and the old emperors of Vietnam. But you are not an emperor. You are just a mandarin!'”

Mr. Cu's tenure at #8 Le Loi lasted only 18 months before the French organization decided they wanted the building back. So he was forced to move again, this time into the huge 'Army Hotel.' Over the next six years, the hotel managers made him move his restaurant three more times – to different locations within the hotel. And then they too kicked him out.

In 2000 Mr. Cu leased another building on one of the main streets in Hue. Again he was wildly successful. And again his lease was terminated, although this time he'd managed to last for five years – the longest period yet.

But this move proved one move too many for the indomitable Mr. Cu. He said he felt “old and tired.' He suffered a debilitating depression. “For eight months I did not leave my room. I didn't care about anything. An American friend was very worried about me. He would come almost every day to visit me. Sometimes he slept in my room. He made me go to a doctor for treatment. I got medication, and started to get better.”

During the eight months of his debilitating depression it was Mr. Cu's wife – his partner and still the cook at the restaurant – who took on the responsibility for moving the restaurant one more time. It was her decision to buy a piece of land and build their own restaurant. To this day Mr. Cu doesn't know how she did it.

Now Mr. Cu sits, or rather perches, on a chair just inside the new 'Mandarin' restaurant. He turns in his chair to face the street, watching for tourists.

When he sees them, he jumps up, and walks down the stairs to the sidewalk to greet them. “Please come inside, I have a table for you!”

His manner is more charming than pleading, and genuinely friendly.

Mr. Cu likes people.

And people like him.

In addition to his other accomplishments, Mr. Cu is a well-known photographer. His many framed photographs – all taken in and around Hue – are hung on every available bit of wall space in 'The Mandarin.'

He has a wonderful eye. He started taking pictures in 1994, when he moved from #2 to #8 Le Loi. Business was slow, so he borrowed his brother-in-law's camera and started taking photos. He learned as he went. In 1997 Mr. Cu's photos were shown at an exhibition in Italy; in 1999 in France.

My favourites are his photos of ordinary Vietnamese people engaged in everyday activities: a barber cutting a child's hair, two children playing with a cat, a group of women sitting on a bench in a park, kids eating ice-cream, and a classic of a couple of very old women, twins, squatting in the dust, their ancient lined faces set in looks of grim determination: what are they thinking?