Minh prepared food as art, each dish a political statement. Beijing roast duck tied in rope, blindfolded head intact, protesting Chinese oppression. Foie gras as severed heads, protesting French nuclear testing. Hamburgers balled in globes, covered in ketchup, protesting American domination. Diners interpreted their meals, took pictures and notes. Minh often offered pamphlets describing his works, changing the menu with revealed meanings.
His most curious meal, though, was seared yellowfin tuna, peppered with toothpicks holding shiitake mushrooms, drizzled with spicy wasabi sauce, served with an unnecessary wood-handled steak knife. He offered no explanation. Patrons ordered the entrée, first pondering the toothpicks, the violence of their impalements the logical starter. A comment on Japanese history, perhaps the Manchurian decimation, or pervasive violence, inescapable even in dining, or maybe the overkill of cuisine, inaccessible, barriers everywhere.
Minh didn't say, tuna was his father's favorite meal, he snacked on shiitake like candies. Toothpicks were his mouth accessory, hip-gangster stylings. The man loved his steak knives, carrying them around the house, one with him at every meal even if he didn't need it. He would let Minh hold it, say, such cutlery is a statement, a man's mark of success. One day his father disappeared, no explanation, taking his knives, leaving behind uselessness, inaccessibility, many questions.