As a man of not inconsiderable means and taste, I’ve grown accustomed to having a glass of whiskey of an evening. A little snifter, if you will. So when I noticed that the cafe—coffee is ca phe in Vietnamese: I like mine nong with sura—where we drank our morning coffee had bottles and bottles of pretty serious-looking whiskey on display, I thought: Aha! Here we shall enjoy our nightcap. When we asked the really quite lovely lady with the furry dog who will definitely not ever be eaten (more on that later) for hai glasses of extra premium whiskey sans da, she was at first perplexed. But, intrepid and determined linguists that we are, we persevered in communicating to her that, although the tea she brought was indeed delicious, we needed stronger spirits to help with the sleeping and digestion (more on that also later). Mission accomplished, she went back into her home (the shopfronts are often the entryways to people’s houses here) and retrieved for us a stunning, stunning bottle of 18-year old Chivas, which I will forever and always call “Cheevas,” along with some tasty jackfruit to munch on. The really quite lovely lady joined us for a glass. We toasted, took a selfie, and were comforted in the knowledge that whatever was in that bottle wasn’t going to kill us. For 18-year-old Cheevas it was not. And I’m fine with that. Better than fine, really. I prefer it. Because I assume it was indeed the mighty snake whiskey, which I also assume will bring long life and extra virility to me and my ancestors. Cheers.