Stickyrice

The Slap

As I nostalgically wallowed in the aisles and stalls of Melbourne's foodstores a few days ago, I did intimate that I was becoming a bit myopic to the food scene around me in Hanoi. Asparagus had me in a spin. I had cheese and rustic loaves of bread on the brain. I even went into one of those tiny expat foodstores in Hanoi last weekend and trotted out with poncy paper bags filled up with air-dried pasta, olives and marinated feta. Last night I was eating food matched with wine for God's sake!

What the bloody hell is happening to me?

Am I having some kind of culinary cataclysm? Is my Sticky alter-ego transitioning out of my consciousness?

I need to take a good long hard look at myself. I need a slap back to the streets of Hanoi, a good crawl in the gutter. I need to get stuck into ingredients that look like they've been raked off the grass at the park.

Wake up Sticky! Remember where you're from but write about where you are!

Alarm Bells

It's the last day of November and the word Christmas is being uttered with abandon. Bells are starting to toll.

Alarm bells!

DING! Where the hell did that year go?
DONG! Do I have to eat all that Xmas fare again in a few weeks?
DING! And drink the wine?

There's no point in resisting it so I'm getting into the spirit early at the Hanoi Cooking Centre. Tomorrow night, my silly season will be officially launched at an evening of festive wine tasting. Tracey, Linh and staff are matching some funky Christmas nibbles with wine supplied by The Warehouse.

For more details, check out the centre's website or email info@hanoicookingcentre.com

I've got hate-mail

I've received criticism before.

I understood that when I chose to start blogging I was putting myself up for it. It's a very public forum and food generates some very passionate discourse. As they say, "one man's meat is another man's poison." Not sure where women fit into that idiom but no doubt they have their own significantly more complicated one!

Anyway, in the four years that stickyrice has been inhabiting its tiny, cruddy corner of the blogosphere, my dozen or so loyal followers have kept me honest, correcting me on the detail and giving me a subtle tongue-lashing if I push the wrong buttons here and there. I appreciate it. As an expat commenting on a foreign cuisine and culture, I do try to tread fairly carefully. I don't actively seek to patronise or belittle the locals nor do I want to be branded a wanker by those from other shores.

But it's happened. While in my inbox this morning I opened an email entitled 'great blog', only to be greeted with the following vitriolic spew:

"it's always so much fun to listen to a pretentious, self-important
expat brit try to work out his colonial complex by fawning over
primitive cultures.  wake up.  no amount of sycophantic swooning will
ever change the fact that asians will eat anything that doesn't crawl
out of the bowl before they can get a chopstick into it.  asian
cooking is the truly the antithesis of food as art.  the emperor isn't
wearing any clothes and for all your pretending to the contrary, pho
is not ambrosia from the gods--it's thin noodle soup.  get over
yourself."

I'm loathe to admit that it's quite articulately expressed vitriolic spew. I also love the fact that my critic has simultaneously managed to attack me, pho, Asians, Asian food and, just for good measure, the Brits. And all that in under 100 words, which must come close to some kind of Guinness Book Record for concise but sweeping invective.

What I am just a tad confused about is why this magnificent tirade wasn't posted in the comments for all to see? Not enough pluck, eh? A bit shy maybe?

Well, John Cain (I believe that's your name?), in the spirit of a public forum in which I am the main contributor, allow me the right of reply. Firstly, I feel sorry for you, your family, friends, colleagues and even acquaintances...in fact, anyone who comes into even passing contact with you. You are obviously a deeply unhappy person.

Secondly, fuck off!

And just for the record, John - not that I'm the slightest bit patriotic - I'm an Aussie, arsehole!

Chasing Porky

Between the slaughterhouse and the butcher, Porky was going pillion on a Honda Dream, albeit in a slightly unorthodox position and in defiance of Vietnam's helmet laws.

This was worth a chase.

I was driving and the god was on back with the viewfinder at his eye. The whole scenario had a touch of the papparazi about it, the pig playing the celebrity part well. The flailing limbs could 've been mistaken for a wave and every left turn saw the trotters scrape the bitumen. Dramatic stuff!

Porky's chauffuer was not so impressed by our pursuit and started driving like Henri Paul. Weaving in and out of the dire traffic on Hanoi's Dai Co Viet Street, he was mindful that we were drawing attention to him and his fat mate. I was mindful that I may never be presented with this photo opp again as the powers that be have earlier this year decreed pig pillion passengers illegal, dead or alive. Apparently, Porky must now be taken by specialised transport which is licensed by veterinary departments and meets specified safety and hygiene standards.

But the citizens are protesting and the Ministry of Justice is on their side.

Every day I love Vietnam a little bit more.

The Beach Supermarket

The beach is a supermarket in Nha Trang, Vietnam's south-central coast beach resort town. Earlier this year, I spent two weeks in its aisles. As is the case in much of the country, particularly the major towns and cities, there's no need to actually physically go shopping. From my front gate in Hanoi's West Lake district or indeed from my banana lounge on Nha Trang's golden sands, I let the shopping come to me.

This morning in Hanoi, where the variety of travelling vendors pounding the pavement meets virtually all my retail needs, I could've bought hot corn on the cob, a studded dog collar, a wedge of pumpkin and a handful of chilies, a padded pink bra, a cornetto, a bunch of flowers and a hoola hoop, among other things. As I stood on my doorstep, I could also have had my shoes shined, my knives sharpened and my cockroaches exterminated.

In Nha Trang, the beach supermarket caters more for tourists and holiday-makers. One afternoon as I laid about like a sloth on the beach having just turned the last page of a fantastic book of food stories, I scribbled down a list of the products walking by. From this list I could eat huge rice crackers as big as dinner plates, fresh fruit peeled and cut, sugar coated cakes carried on aluminium trays on the vendor's head, boiled peanuts, chewing gum and candy, potato crisps and, for the main course, a seafood buffet served under the fine spray of the sea on yellow plastic plates.

Other vendors offer to adorn me. Bead and shell bracelets, fake gucci sunglasses and straw hats would ensure that I return home looking like I'd been on holidays. More cerebral stimulation can be purchased in the form of photocopied Vina-themed literature and mass-produced asian landscape paintings from a vendor whose catch-cry is "Hello...is it me you're looking for?" I can get fags, tissues and postcards that will never be written on. If I'm feeling lucky, another vendor will sell me a lottery ticket. The list goes on and the shopping keeps coming to me. If I bought everything on offer, I'd need a trolley.

And that would be a real bastard to push through the sand to the carpark.

The alluring deep frying of food

In Hanoi, at one of my favourite soup slurping stations, one of the teenage helpers was on wonton duty. A blackened wok on a high gas flame was set up on the footpath and extra long cooking chopsticks were keeping the hot oil safely at bay. Trays of limp uncooked wontons lay nearby awaiting crispification.

The alluring deep frying of food.

In Australia on Friday nights, I'd volunteer to go with Mum to the fish and chip shop to witness the same kind of action. The Greek proprietors would turn white fish and potatoes into magic golden brown via a finely tuned system where raw product entered the first bubbling oil vat at left, gradually moving right before being lifted, drained, salted and wrapped. "Can't you drive any faster?" I'd say to Mum on the way home. I would be salivating like a rabid dog.

A recent TV program on Discovery T&L showcased America's love affair with grease. They take the technique to a whole new level with anything from bacon to mars bars to a Texan creation known as a chicken fried steak getting slathered in batter and immersed in oil. I did watch in horror at some points but more at the eaters than the food.

I could see myself in them.

I do love a good fry-up. The heat, the bubbles, the crispy crunchy outcome, the possibility of third degree burns, the oil stains on the groin of my tousers, ill-fitting trousers struggling to house my expanding arse... the onset of obesity. It all adds up to excitement, adventure, risk, living dangerously. Some people jump out of planes. My personal favourite extreme sport is eating deep fried food. 

And these cracking giant wontons (banh hoanh thanh), filled with minced up pork and liver, are a fine exponent of this cuisine.

Pretty Food

It could be a delicate celebration dessert, the invention of some enfant terrible in a Michelin starred kitchen. The gastro-poetry might allude to raspberry coulis, hints of mint, crushed peanuts, lime. Creme fraiche could be dolloped on top. The restaurant critic might describe it as risky, triumphant or crazy.

But currently I am not of that world.

I am in the goat restaurant.

The crimson circle before me is drained from this hollow-horned mammal. Bottled in used la Vie plastic, it is poured into the bowl over a diced mix of other goat bits, mostly chewy ones, and clipped up coriander. Peanuts and lime juice finish out this delicacy, known as tiet canh de.

I have eaten blood of goat.

Coffee then Tea

The coffee shops I frequent in Hanoi are mostly old-worldish. Stories have been told in these cafes, family skeletons unveiled, relationships rocked and broken, tears shed.

They have history.

And dust. Good dust. Dust which belongs. Dust which cannot be rubbed, even scoured away.

Stained teapots and little handle-less cups are proferred to the old-timers in a quaint custom following their morning coffee. The green tea cleanses the palate and legitimises a further half-hour of memoir and yarn. The Vietnamese love a chat.

And I really love watching them.

Number 22

Not long ago Stickyrice was included in a list of '50 of the World's Tastiest Food Blogs'.

This week in Nick Wyke's follow-up series of articles, Meet the Food Bloggers, I have been exposed, my thoughts laid bare. Nick is threatening to even put a pic of my ugly dial up for all and sundry to see. I hope he has the latest version of photoshop!

Food bloggers included so far in the series include Jaden Hair of Steamy Kitchen, Joy Wilson of Joy the Baker, David Lebovitz, Matt Armendariz of MattBites and Julie Parsons of A Slice of Cherry Pie. I'm in illustrious company and Nick has a big job ahead of him as, by my estimation, he has about forty-four more bloody food bloggers to interview. I reckon he might be over it by then! He deserves a medal!

Welcome one more time to readers of The Times.

Introducing the Hanoi Cooking Centre

Stickyrice readers, particularly those on the way to Vietnam, often make food related enquiries about Hanoi, many of them concerning cooking classes. Until now, I haven't been able - with any confidence or first-hand experience - to recommend a cook nor a kitchen.

Drum roll, people. Twenty-one gun salute, even.

Allow me to introduce the Hanoi Cooking Centre, the brainchild of long-time Vina food-phile, chef and cookbook author, Tracey Lister, and business partner Linh Phung Dinh, Hanoian born and bred expert eater and local hospitality insider. Launched softly a few weeks back, the centre is aiming to promote and teach Vietnamese cuisine from up and down the country, offering classes ranging from the dishes of Hanoi and the northern highlands to vegan tofu cookery to my personal fave, Vietnamese street food.

But, local expats and Vietnamese citizens sit up and take note. The centre is also catering for those who may have noodle and rice fatigue, those who may want to dip their cooking chopsticks into the cuisines of other regions, those who may have a new oven and don't know what to do with it. Graduate in bread, biscuits or elegant finger food if you like. This week just gone, Tracey has been earnestly bashing out dough for that old Easter favourite, hot cross buns.

So, I know that the Hanoi Cooking Centre is going to be a happening place where food will truly be celebrated. I'm also looking forward to collaborating with Tracey, Linh and the god on some unique street food tours, routed through markets and some of my compulsory eating haunts in Hanoi. But more on that later.

In the meantime, visit the centre's website...book a class. Have an espresso in their cafe.

Tell them Sticky sent you!