A Hanoi Homecoming – by Deborah Brand Probst
One of my earliest travel memories as a child was staring through a 2” hole through the floor of a taxi as it hurtled down the road from the airport of what was then Saigon. I was 3 years old and this was my first trip to visit my grandmother. The hole was big enough for me to put my little hand through and I was tempted to reach through and touch the road. I did not. Luckily, I distracted myself with the chaos ensuing right outside; baskets balancing artfully on bicycles hiding a diligent rider within, small children clinging to mom and dad on scooters meant for one, trucks loaded with food, cars in all manner of disrepair dodging traffic, and the ever present cycle, with cyclists patiently and serenely transporting their passengers through a cacophony of honking horns and screeching tires.
Comparatively, the street where my grandmother lived seemed like an oasis. The silence was mostly broken by food vendors. The fresh French bread in the morning; “banh cuon” a wide rice noodle served a fish sauce lime concoction, fried shallots, and green onions; breakfast “banh mi” sandwiches made with the same French bread and stuffed with assorted meats and pickled vegetables. In the afternoon, the whole thing starts all over again at tea time. I would wait excitedly for the dessert tofu pudding. Once my mother bought the eggs that I only know by the Filipino name of “balut.” She accidentally dropped one in the sink and the vision of the baby bird that fell out of that cracked egg still haunts me today. I’ve eaten many interesting things in my life, but I have never had the courage to try it.
Some Things Never Change
Though I wouldn’t eat the balut, I ate everything else. The smell of fresh French bread, the ubiquity of pungent fish sauce, cold noodles, perfect for a hot sticky day. 51 years later and these textures, tastes, smells are still there, now artfully presented in tourist facing restaurants with trendy names – signs that Vietnamese food has joined the ranks of sushi and Thai food as widely accepted and revered in many parts of the Western world. Certainly in Houston, where my mother now resides along with one of the largest populations of Vietnamese outside of Vietnam.
This trip we followed in my mother’s foot steps as we chose places to eat our favorite foods. The ubiquitous Banh Mi, Vietnam’s version of the submarine sandwich. Filled with savory assorted pork fillings, pate, crisp pickled vegetables and a mysterious concoction of soy sauce, Maggi sauce, and fish sauce – no two are the same. We found a lovely restaurant whose specialty was Cha Ca set in an old mansion in a delightful garden. The grilled fish heartily seasoned with turmeric to be eaten with a plethora of fresh herbs, peanuts, and of course fish sauce dip. Another restaurant was introduced to us by our gracious hosts for a day at the Temple of Literature. We were introduced to Tam Vi, a gorgeous little restaurant meticulously decorated in an artful traditional way, down to the cascading plants and koi pond in the little terrace garden to the artful treasures placed on homey bookshelves in side the garden. Located on a small unassuming alley near Hanoi’s West Lake, we luxuriated in a 2.5 hour languid lunch. Perfectly cooked clay pot pork belly, cold tender sweet prawns, served with crisp lettuce for wrapping with herbs and spices and dipped to your hearts content. Fried freshly made tofu with green onions were at once succulent and soft creamy pillows, airy in the middle, and yet slightly crispy on the edges. I can never understand how all these textures come together in one dish.
Since our visit, Tam Vi has earned the auspicious one Michelin star, soon to be overrun by global hipsters. We are happy for them. But we are happy to have the place entirely to ourselves this day.
Our guide for the Temple of Literature is one of the foremost translator of Vietnamese literature in the world. His connection to my mother is that he searched out my mother’s late husband, a renowned academic in the field of classical Chinese and Vietnamese literature. They would spend hours debating the finer points of classical texts. Their debates would often last days, sometimes months.
My step father died a few years ago, and Dan, now married and living in Vietnam, graciously invited us to a tour of the Temple. His wife is the special events program director for the tour. They met when he was a special guest for an engagement at the temple. They are now married and expecting a child. To my mother, one of the “students were going to take us to the temple and to lunch,” To people working at the temple, we were “special guests.” Little did we know we would be treated to a Michelin star lunch afterwards.
The next day we were invited to their home to eat Bun Cha. A staple of Vietnamese cuisine, Bun Cha is a cold noodle dish served with tender grilled pork and the ubiquitous lettuce, pickled vegetables, sauces, and a side of water cress soup. It’s one of those simple, time tested dishes, that when done correctly, provide that sublime happiness that can only come from comfort food all over the world. Their family house was amazing as well, as it was full of antiques and relics from generations past. Now they are lined up along the silent walls of a huge living room, like the lobby of a museum, except you are served multiple cups of tea before lunch at the gigantic dining table which has clearly seen many family meals together.
Past and Present
My mother is now 81, and lives thousands of miles away from Hanoi. I don’t know how many more of these trips we will do in our lifetime, so we cater to her whims and go to the neighborhood where she grew up, listening to stories of her shuffling notes from her grandfather’s house to the house across the street where her uncle’s girlfriend lived.
She would watch him play marbles on the sidewalk. She remembers the flowers that would cascade down the balconies and the beautiful garden that surrounded the 3 story house, resplendent with song birds and the aroma of tropical blooms on a hot humid Hanoi afternoon.
Now it is strewn with electrical wires wrapping its faded façade and hosting a nail salon where the garden used to be. It is only fitting that we get our nails done.
Hanoi’s Blue Note
These days, mom goes to bed early. So after a very rigorous 2 mile walk from her old neighborhood back to the hotel, I drop off a banh mi for mom as she settles in for the night. Mark and I hit Binh Minh jazz club, where the music is scorching hot, the beers deliciously cold, the bartender friendly and warm, and the star saxophonist / part owner, is as cool as the other side of the pillow.
After a couple of sets we wander off to the appropriately named Beer Street on a Saturday night. This touristy spot is like like Khao San Road in Bangkok, Patong Beach in Phuket, Kuta in Bali, Sihanoukville in Cambodia, and the myriad of copy cat hot spots that pop up all through Southeast Asia. Teaming with colorful pubs, massage parlors, street food, hostels, and buskers, it’s festive and packed most nights. The uniform of choice for tourists here comes with an oversized backpack.
As usual, Mark makes friends with a pile of Vietnamese tourists who are taken with his size, his loud booming friendly American voice, his willingness to speak Vietnamese, and his ability to keep up with them on shot after shot of bad Vietnamese whiskey and tiny beers. They don’t realize they are dealing with a professional. I leave them there at the wee hours of 2am and wander home, avoiding scurrying rats and the shopkeepers hosing down sidewalks, shutting down for the evening, and prepping for the next day of adventure.
