Mãn

Like Kim Thúy's first book Ru, Mãn is a slim and poetic volume, and clocking in at 140 pages, some with just a paragraph or two, it doesn't take long to read. While this format worked really well to capture the fragments of memory of a war-traumatised child in the first book, here it felt rather meager and insubstantial. Not to say I didn't enjoy Mãn -- I truly did -- but it left me wanting more. This review will be spoilery…

The main character is named "Mãn", which means "perfectly fulfilled", or "may there be nothing left to desire", or "may all wishes be granted". I can ask for nothing more because my name imposes on me that state of satisfaction and satiety…I grew up without dreams. Having been abandoned by her birth mother during the Vietnam War, rescued by a nun, and eventually adopted by her Maman, Mãn has a relatively happy and stable childhood, full of motherly love and covert learning from contraband novels. Food figures prominently throughout this book, and Mãn's cooking lessons began early:

When mothers taught their daughters to cook, they spoke in hushed tones, whispering so that their neighbours couldn’t steal recipes and possibly seduce their husbands with the same dishes. Culinary traditions are passed on secretly, like magic tricks between master and apprentice.

The link between food and seduction is also prominent, and when an expatriate bachelor (and restaurant owner) from Montreal comes back to Vietnam looking for a bride, Maman secures the role for Mãn. She emigrates to Canada, works long hours in her husband's kitchen, and makes a success of the restaurant by cooking traditional dishes that can bring customers to tears of nostalgia. They become more prosperous, have two children, and thanks to Mãn's enthusiastic Canadian friend, a cookbook and TV show raise her profile as a serious chef. Throughout all of this success, Mãn remains affectless; merely doing her duty without enjoying any of it; love for her children or husband assumed rather than demonstrated. 

My husband just had to turn towards me and I would understand my wifely duty. It was enough for him to be happy for all of us to be.

Into this cold existence is introduced a Parisian chef, Luc, and for the first time in her life, Mãn feels the lightning-strike of desire. 

I still knew nothing about this man who had suddenly become the centre of my universe, though I had neither centre nor universe.

Their affair is sensual without being smutty, as in Luc's discovery of a childhood scar on Mãn's thigh (unnoticed by her mother and children, unremarked upon by her husband):

Only Luc had observed that slight discoloration of my skin long enough to make out a map of the world there and to draw the road he would walk along towards me.

And it is for Luc that Mãn perfectly blends food and seduction:

I wanted him to taste the pleasure of feeling the crepe give way and crack between his lips. I could feel the fine crust melting in his mouth and disappearing instantly, as fast as the beating of wings. And I hurried to wrap the second mouthful with a leaf of white mustard so it would leave a hint of bitterness and freshness on his tongue.

That's pretty much the flavour of the book, and as for its intent, Kim Thúy explains that in this interview:

I wanted to show how there are so many stories behind immigrants that we tend to forget to look at. The Vietnamese community is so quiet. They work hard, you never think that there's a story behind them. I have made this mistake myself. There are many shades of people around us which we don't take the time to look into. This book is about that. The next time you meet an immigrant or a person from abroad working in some restaurant, take some time to talk to them.

That makes Mãn a very Canadian story, and although I admit it is a worthwhile and enjoyable read, I'm left hungry for more.