Removing shoes in deference to some local deity or muddy track barefoot onto worn tatami mat we sit cross-legged at newspaper covered low tables the irony of the next-door pet hospital’s proximity to the restaurant is not lost a tray arrives with rau ram leaves piled on plates small saucers of salt hilled in lime juice cold bottles of Bia Ha Noi the anticipated main is served and thankfully does not taste like chicken but delicious dark smoked uncrackled pork later after helmetless monkey-hug motorbike ride along the Song Hong through Bladerunner streets skydiving at ground level you ask me…