Note to Self: Stop Trying to Order Pizza in Vietnam

I just can’t help myself. I want it so bad. I stooped to taking the kids to a Pizza Hut in Saigon. Pizza Hut. I don’t think they’d ever been to Pizza Hut in their entire lives. But I was walking down a high traffic street with a kid in each hand, trying to navigate an inconsistent and sometimes non-existent sidewalk, sharing the road with passing vehicles, dodging puddles and other pedestrians, maneuvering around parked motorcycles and business store fronts, all while looking for a place to eat lunch. We had just come from a park playground and the kids were hot and sweaty, as was I. I needed to find an air-conditioned facility that sold food, and I needed to find it fast. The boy had already started whining about having to walk too far even though we’d only been walking for about 30 seconds. Our options were extremely limited. I saw a KFC on the next block but decided to press on. Then I saw a Pizza Hut across the street. It beckoned to me, with the promise of air conditioning, clean tables, ice cold beverages, slices of greasy, cheesy, doughy goodness, a slice of America. The kids assented and in no time we were behind the glass doors ordering a medium pepperoni, sausage, onion and bell pepper supreme with two sodas. It was terrible. The crust was soggy, the pepperoni dry and burnt, and the ground meat tasted rotten. And it was tiny. Ordinarily that might have been a problem but two small slices per person of this awful stuff was plenty enough. Never again. From now on I’m holding out for Grimaldi’s. The kids, having unrefined and undiscerning palates, didn’t mind the pizza at all and wolfed down their slices.

 

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