by Mai Pham, chef/owner of the Lemon Grass restaurant
and cafes in Sacramento.
Editor's note: This Sunday marks the 25th anniversary of the day
the North Vietnamese Communists seized control of Saigon, marking
the end of the Vietnam War. Chronicle food columnist Mai Pham and
her family were among the thousands of Vietnamese who escaped
during those final days.
Recently, under the auspices of the Culinary Institute of America at
Greystone, Pham led a group of American food professionals to her
native country. She discovered that, after years of post-war
hardship, the Vietnamese food scene has once again begun to thrive.
"See this rice?" asks Pham Thi Ngoc Tinh, her voice full of excitement
as her fingers run through the translucent grains of gao thom.
The group I'm traveling with steps up closer to the front of the
stall. It's hard to hear over the chickens and ducks clucking and
quacking nearby. At midday, Cho Ben Thanh -- one of the main markets
in Saigon -- hums with activity. Curious passers-by stop to see why a
group of Westerners is crowding into this corner when there are
plenty of other things to see at this colorful market.
Tinh holds up the rice in her palms. "It has a very distinctive
aroma and a sweetness characteristic of the long-grain variety grown
in the South, in the Mekong Delta," she explains.
Before we can even smell it, she digs into another big pile.
"This one here is a medium-grain from the Red River Delta in the
North. People there say it's the best, but to me it's too firm."
It's not hard to understand why Tinh, the chef and owner of Thuong
Chi Restaurant in Saigon who's helping me with this tour, speaks so
passionately about rice. In fact, mention April 30, 1975 -- the day
that South Vietnam fell under Communist rule -- and the first thing
that comes to her mind is rice.
"In the beginning," she says later over a glass of mango juice,
"it wasn't so bad. But then in the early 1980s, food became scarce.
I remember having to stand in line for hours at the crack of dawn
just to buy rice. And it wasn't even rice that you would want to eat.
Sometimes, we even had to stretch it with sweet potatoes."
Tinh says she couldn't afford much more than rice and cooking oil
because her husband had been sent to a reeducation camp, forcing her
to care for her children herself. "They were the darkest days of our
l ives," she says.
As Tinh recounts her story, her smiling face turns sober. Her
quick, energetic demeanor dampens. "What about you?" she asks.
"What do you think of when you look back on April 30th?"
Immediately, I'm overwhelmed with images. I remember the day my
family and I left our home with just the clothes on our backs. My
frail grandmother was standing at the front gate, her tiny head
banging against the post, crying as I have never seen anyone cry
before. She was hysterical and fearful that we would never see one
another again.
I also recall the day in early May, 1975 when my family and I
arrived at Camp Pendleton, a refugee resettlement center near San
Diego. A few days before we had made a horrifying escape from Saigon,
fighting and muscling our way through the pandemonium at the airport
before climbing aboard a plane that would fly us to safety.
As the cold desert winds howled, my siblings and I huddled inside
the tent, dried grass and rocks beneath our cots. We were so
depressed, we didn't utter a word. But on the third night, our
silence broke. Instead of discussing our future and how we would
survive in America, we spoke about pho, the beloved Vietnamese beef
noodle soup. Strange as it sounds, talking about our favorite food
pulled us through our first few days in America.
Tinh shakes her head. "Quite a paradox," she whispers. "To think,
you went to the States and struggled with loss and change. I stayed
behind, with my family and home intact, yet we almost didn't survive.
Which is better?"
We sip our mango juice. Even at night, the air is balmy. Saigon
hasn't changed much over the years except for the tall buildings near
the Caravelle Hotel, where I'm staying. The Continental Palace Hotel
where I used to hang out is still there, its facade tired but
resilient. The ice cream parlor across the street still serves
coconut ice cream inside the shell.
Tinh falls back into the thick cushioned rattan chair. She isn't
saying much but she knows in the next two weeks, we'll be talking
about more positive things, like all the sumptuous foods we'll be
cooking and eating.
By the third day, our group is used to eating two or three times
before lunch. One morning, we head out to see Ba Tu, who has been
selling xoi -- sticky rice -- at the same street corner for the last
30 years. Across the street, we savor succulent noodles floating in a
clear, aromatic broth. Then we finish our breakfast with hot, fresh
soy milk perfumed with pandanus leaf.
A couple of hours later, we find ourselves staring at the glass
boxes filled with noodles and meat at the food stalls in Ben Thanh
Market. The noon hour is fast approaching, and hungry shoppers are
pouring in.
"Chi oi (Oh sister), have a seat here!" yells one vendor as
we're walking by. Another grabs my hand, trying to be more
convincing.
But we sit on the empty stools in the center of the market, the
ones near the juice stand. We sample dishes from all the regions,
including those from the central part -- bun bo Hue (Hue-style beef
noodle soup) and mi quang, a turmeric-tinted flat noodle served with
pork, shrimp, toasted rice paper, fresh herbs and a sauce made with
minced pork.
For dessert, we taste several versions of che, or puddings made
with coconut milk with bananas, or other cooked fruits and dumplings.
Then, for a cold treat, we sip on a thick, icy drink made with
blended soursop and condensed milk.
"What you see at that market," says Nguyen Dzoan Cam Van, a TV
cooking teacher in Saigon who recently rose to fame by championing
traditional Vietnamese culinary arts, "reflects the cooking style of
the South, particularly of Saigon. We embrace and emulate all
regional cuisines but with the typical Southern flair -- with
vibrancy and sumptuousness." As an example, she shows us how
Northerners prepare bun cha, a Hanoi noodle dish that is served with
both grilled pork patties and pork slices.
Indeed, Saigon always has been the economic epicenter and the
culinary mecca of the country, even since the French colonial days.
Southerners are known to be more open to Western influence and
culture. And since the rice basket is in the South, the cooking style
is more lively, diverse and abundant than in other regions.
Cam Van says in recent years, many new restaurants have opened,
catering to both locals and tourists. "The improved economy is
triggering a demand for higher quality products such as premium-grade
nuoc mam (fermented fish sauce)," she says, holding a bowl to show
us. "It used to be hard to find nuoc mam as delicious as this. You
can see it's thicker, almost like oil, and light yellow as opposed to
the more common dark brown liquid."
Cam Van says artisanal fish sauce is making a comeback, and it's a
good thing since the cuisine relies so heavily on this one staple
ingredient. This is especially true as our group discovers one night
while feasting on banh xeo, or rice flour crepes.
After maneuvering through a parade of cars and motorcycles, we
arrive at a tiny outdoor restaurant in an alley. The place is packed
with diners at long tables on both sides of the alley. Thick smoke
and enticing smells fill the air.
Up front, five women sit on low stools, each commandeering a bank
of charcoal braziers. To make the delicate crepes, they start by
stir-frying a few slices of onions, pork and shrimp in a blazingly
hot wok. Then they pour in the rice batter, quickly swirling it to
make it thin and crispy. She moves the wok to an adjacent brazier
where the heat is lower. After a minute, she moves it again to a
cooler stove. It's quite clever -- someone has found a way of cooking
crepes on charcoal braziers.
Sitting at our long narrow table lit with just the street lights
above and the half moon, we await our crepes with great anticipation.
As soon as they arrive, we tear off a piece, wrapping it with tender
mustard greens, along with sprigs of rau ram, or Vietnamese
coriander, and red and green perilla leaves. We dip the packets into
the Vietnamese dipping sauce nuoc cham. All of a sudden, the bright,
crisp flavors explode in our mouth. It's hard to imagine how these
flavors can all come together without the sauce.
Like the locals dining all around us, we joyously feasted into the
night. To think 10 years ago, this place used to be a dark, quiet
alley. As we travel north, we find that the culture, landscape and even
attitudes vary, much like the way the flavors of the cuisine are so
intricately and delicately combined and layered.
In Hue, the former imperial capital, we each hop on a cyclo, a
three-wheeled pedicab. We tour the town, weaving through the tree-lined
citadel, passing the moats where lotus pads and flowers will soon
bloom. There are remnants of a glorious past -- the stately tombs,
the palace grounds and the few tired structures that escaped the
wrath of war.
One night our group dines in the former home of Emperor Bao Dai's
mother. The palace, with its classical European art and traditional
Chinese furnishings, stood idle up until a few years ago when the
government allowed caterers to recreate royal dinners.
As is the custom with these events, we arrive dressed in royal
robes. While a traditional band performs, we nibble on bite-size
foods, many presented on ornately carved fruits and vegetables.
Although we're not served the 50-some dishes that were typical of the
meals of the Nguyen dynasty in the mid-1800s and early 1900s, it's
clear that royal cuisine is more about art and presentation.
We savor pate, shaped like a peacock, shrimp mousse on sugar cane,
jackfruit salad with toasted sesame seeds, and spring rolls wrapped
in a lace-like rice paper. "It is a special wrapper that originated
in recent years in the Mekong Delta. But people in Hue love it, it's
more crispy than the traditional rice paper," says Nguyen Thi Mai,
who oversees the catering events. "People are becoming very
innovative with food."
Royal cuisine aside, the diet of the Central region mirrors other
parts of the country although more spices and mam, or fermented fish
or shellfish, are used. The harsh, cold climate and the difficult
terrain leads to a more frugal cuisine, as evident in com mo cai, or
pressed rice, served with muoi xa, or salt seasoned with lemongrass
and sesame seeds. Hueans are known for being cau ky, -- extremely
particular and opinionated -- about food. "We may eat peasant
food," says Tinh, who's from Hue, "but we have the opinions and
demands of a king."
In the mountainous North where the climate is also harsh, the
cuisine is simple and straightforward and foods are delicately
seasoned. Moreover, the cuisine suffered immensely during the war
years. Cam Van, whose family is from the North, says it was as if
people had forgotten what good food should taste like.
But all that is changing. Even though the impact of doi moi --
economic reform -- has been a long time coming, noticeable
improvements can be seen, especially in the larger cities that have
attracted foreign investment and tourism. The cuisine has become
lively and generally people are eating better. Ingredients are more
plentiful, and unlike during the war years, people and recipes can
now travel freely from one region to another. When I was growing up
in Saigon, I never knew what bun thang (Hanoi noodle soup) or cha ca
(grilled fish with dill) tasted like. Likewise, Hanoians say the
Southern favorite, goi cuon -- rice paper-wrapped salad rolls -- have
only recently become available in the North.
That's why I always get so excited whenever I'm at a market or
street food area in Saigon. Chances are there's something new. A
slight modification to a recipe. A dish from a different region.
But for me, the most heartwarming thought is knowing that all the
cooks that I met are not only cooking to survive as in previous
decades, but cooking to thrive. From the looks of their sumptuous
foods to their passionate and meticulous manner, it's clear that
after 25 years, the Vietnamese table is reemerging in a vibrant way.
Mai Pham, chef/owner of the Lemon Grass restaurant and cafes in
Sacramento, is the author of "The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking."
You can e-mail her at food@sfgate.com.
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Copyright 2000 SF Chronicle