Stickyrice

Streets of Fire

 

There is fire on the streets of Hanoi.

It's beating down from above and reflecting back up from below. Temperatures are peaking in the capital and the midday walk to lunch is a scorcher. Hand fans are waving, umbrellas are shading folks from the sun and eyes peer out from cool, darkened cracks in the streetscape. There is a general reluctance to go out. Even the traffic is in a strange state of sedation in July.

But the heat's no reason to go hungry. If I collapse with heatstroke, I will do so on a full stomach.

A stomach stuffed with a specialty from Phu Ly, a town in Ha Nam province. This dish is just a regional variation on a theme really. Its foundation is pre-prepared sheets of banh cuon, a steamed rice pancake which can be eaten straight from the steamer all over Hanoi. Here the sheets are bought elsewhere, cut up into ribbons and loosened in a bowl with a bit of oil. Handfuls of moorish dried shallots are scattered amongst the white before porked grilled roadside is placed on top.

It's essentially bun cha meets banh cuon.

On the side is a basket of incredibly fresh mint and coriander and a dipping sauce consisting of fish sauce, vinegar, lime and fresh chilli which I doctor up myself at the table.

My table is next to the fire where fat fueled flames are licking over the curb, dangerously close to a line of motorbikes. My mercury rises and patches of perspiration develop on my shirt as this light, satisfying lunch slides down.

This place is hot on my list of current lunchtime favourites.

Lunch Money

One serve banh cuon, one iced tea - 20,000VND (USD$1.12, AUD$1.40)

Banh Cuon Phu Ly
64 Bich Cau
Dong Da District
Hanoi

Herbs and Tubes

I seem to be facing a few of my culinary demons lately. Chewy is the demon here. It's not often that I find myself attacking the garnish with gusto before that which lies beneath it. I'm making the same choices as a rabbit.

But it becomes rather obvious to my eating companions. They are chewing with relish as I continue to mow through the botany. I do eye the cuts of tube trying to identify a piece that is small, that I can get down with minimal chewing and a trap-door swallow. I don't want my mates to place a gnarly thick bit in my bowl for me. In these situations in the past, there has been an expectation that I demonstrate some kind of adverse reaction. I want to be brave. I don't want to offend. I want to communicate a 'water off a duck's back' kind of vibe.

It's hard, when I know that poo used to travel these tubes.

Pig intestines (trang) are commonly available across the city, along with other organs and offal. They are not a delicacy but something eaten on an everyday basis. They are clean, all traces of poo long flushed out. If I'd been born Vietnamese like my friends, I wouldn't be getting so worked up about this.

I do eventually bite the bullet...and it is kind of rubbery like a garden hose.

But it has had me thinking since. What has happened to me and my ilk? Why is it such a challenge to eat these parts of an animal? Surely they were part of the diet in generations past. In parts of Europe they probably still are. Where do these parts of the pig end up in my country? Perhaps I have regularly eaten them disguised in a sausage or spread on toast as liverwurst, in an altogether different form.

Can I acquire a taste for them in their original form, before any processing, when they were not that long ago clearly related to the vital functions of a living thing? Pulsing, beating, belching, farting living things!

I would have to practise long and hard.

A Bun Cha Experience

The luck of the new year is definitely in when a new haunt for an old favourite is discovered. For the uninitiated, bun cha is arguably Hanoi's signature lunch dish, consisting of pork grilled over coal embers served in a subtle sweet, warm soup alongside oodles of fresh white rice noodles and salad greens. It's been featured in these pages before, described in more detail.

This particular incarnation of bbq soup is a very fine one, in familiar stomping ground, in the same market street as these noodles and this pho. At street level, it's a tiny grimey rectangular cave with a pulled back vertical shutter upon which hangs the most rudimentary signage. In this box, no-one eats and I think this is why I had baulked at this place in the past. It seemed that the smoky meaty fumes were emanating from a bun cha shop which was take-away only.

It pays to go with somebody who knows. My mate, Khai, lives in the vicinity and when his sister-in-law needs a day out of the kitchen before she cracks the heads of the lazy males in the family, they all scoot over to this, their local bun cha outlet.

He knows the drill. I follow him into a crack in the wall two doors up from where the meat is being grilled. I step between two curbside butchers, beef being dealt to the right, pork to the left. A labyrinth of domestic clutter, the belongings of several families confront me as I follow Khai's shadow to the depths of a rabbit warren I may never exit from. Squalid bitty rooms with makeshift lofts and mezzanines are crammed with beds, wardrobes and altars honouring departed family members. An obstacle course of shoes, baskets of washing and bicycles is negotiated in the narrow thoroughfares and perilous staircases up which we ascend to the second or is it the third floor.

Here, an oasis of open space appears. It's a family living room, the smudged glass of the wall unit housing a decade of trinkets, gifts and souvenirs alongside the TV, the stereo equipment and the home karoake system. On the wall hangs a huge poster sized photograph of a proud moment in the family history - a young lad receiving a hairdresser's award, surrounded by friends and family.

And it is here, in the private world of a family I don't know and will never know, that I tuck into my Saturday lunchtime bun cha.

Family Donation

Two serves of bun cha, two nem ran (fried spring rolls) - 36,000VND (USD$2.25, AUD$2.52)

Bun Cha
3 Hoe Nhai
Hanoi

Out of the Gutter and into the Slickstream

A gradual sanitisation of street food is occuring. I have alluded to it before, as have others. It's not happening overnight but to an attuned observer, the subtle changes in Hanoi's foodscape are hitting like a sledgehammer. A certain slickness along with a raised level of hygiene awareness is creeping its way around the city's streets and alleys

The forerunner of this change was the now ubiquitous Pho 24 chain of noodle soup franchises, all fresh, green, glassy and somewhat global, these days. Minimalist decor and stainless steel surfaces abound in these outlets which have now really gained a foothold in the Hanoi market, after some initial resistance from northern pho slurpers earlier on.

Now, their success is spurring others to move out of the gutter and into the slickstream. I hit a spot just before venturing to Laos that exemplifies the trend. A non-descript side street just off the north end of the old quarter provides an address for this noodle house. Fancy green signage and lick of paint on the interior walls - a la Pho 24 - greet me but what I notice are the gleaming surfaces, grime free cooking equipment and spotless floors. For local eateries, this is the exception rather than the rule.

Deeper incursion into this unfamiliar territory uncovers objects from some hygiene time capsule from the future: tongs and plastic food handling gloves, objects that ten years ago were met with "What are they?"and five years ago with "they'll never catch on." But Hanoi's street food operators are slowly adopting food handling practices long established in the west and, it must be said, this is a welcome trend.

I think.

Fearless as I am, peace of mind in this regard is a pleasant change. In this place, I don't have to rub dry napkin on bamboo chopsticks in a futile attempt to clean them nor do I have to examine the fingernails of the girl dropping ice blocks into my glass. I don't have to kick myself a space free of spat bones, squashed lime wedges and soggy napkins to settle my big hooves. In the moments before the food arrives, I don't quite know what to do with myself except to take in all of the cleanliness around me.Then I notice something else.

Plastered across the back wall is a mighty big expensive brand new flatscreen TV, volume turned down (another first!) showing a dead boring Russian docu on Russian luxury cars. The docu is not the only thing that's dull. The entire culinary experience has been altered along with the paintjob and signage. I slurp down my banh da tom (brown Haiphong noodles with shrimp) in silence and, instantly I'm longing for the barking grunt and grime of real street food.

Market Street Noodles (Southern Style)

Hu Tieu is a 'ring-in' noodle dish from southern Vietnam available at the odd shopfront or street stall in the capital. In Hanoi, it's not a soup and while the actual noodles look similar to Hanoi's pho, they are in fact a dried noodle which is re-hydrated. From my experience in the south, this is standard practice when you order Vietnam's signature dish down there.

I don't mind these noodles, as they actually end up slightly more 'al dente', if that's an expression that could even be applied to a cuisine a million miles away from Rome. But, you know what I mean....you do have to bite through these threads slightly, unlike Hanoi pho, which just slide on down the throat, chewed or not, no danger of choking on those softies.

What the vendor does with them here is pretty bloody faultless. After rehydration, other ingredients get dealt to the noodles. Thinly sliced pork is portioned carefully on top, a concoction of warm sauces and vinegars are sloshed over that before the dish is topped with crushed peanuts, dried shallots and generous clippings of mint and coriander. Add chili sauce at the table, toss it with your sticks and pincer it to your eating orifice.

Another fine marriage of flavours that suits my palate to perfection.

The Pocket

One bowl will set you back 12,000VND (USD74c, AUD83c)

Hu Tieu
Hoe Nhai Street

Fish Porridge

Right at the beginning of the main tourist drag in Hanoi, Hang Bong, just up from a junction where half a dozen or more roads intersect, there's a little slot in the streetscape. Hardly noticeable amongst all the fashion boutiques, this crack is inhabited by a family purveying chao ca, or fish porridge.

The number one son is a jolly chap with bad teeth and an almost constantly lit fag in his hand or hanging from his lip, the ash from which, just by the law of averages, I'm sure has dropped once or twice into someone's porridge! He manages a handful of young relatives with ease - a nudge or a bit of banter enough to keep them on the job. Mother it seems has retired from active duty and, on the night of my visit, was dozing in a banana lounge on the footpath, completely oblivious to the mad and deafening cacophany of motors and horns shooting by. Occasionally she lifted the eyelids to wave patrons to a safe parking spot or to curtly direct one of the staff.

There is a simplicity to this dish that actually doesn't require much human intervention. Mother ain't moving anytime soon, that's for certain though she no doubt got the ball rolling earlier in the process. Broken rice is used in the making of chao. Water is added says number one son, only water. His wry smile does not convince me of this fact nor the actual flavour of the stuff once I got it to mouth, with a clear hint of seasoning or stock evident. Bland thick ricey water it was not! His reticence is either to guard the family recipe or an unspoken admission that Ajinomoto is involved.

Assembly is straightforward once the porridge has been stirred to the right consistency - essentially that of a nicely pureed soup. Flaked pre-cooked ca chep (carp) and chopped herbs are drowned in a large ladle of porridge and, to be honest, the product delivered to table resembles grey paint.

It is transformed by the sprinkle of chili powder and pepper and the stir of a spoon, revealing hidden colour and texture. A basket containing additional sprigs of hung que (Asian basil) and ngo gai (saw leaf herb) can be torn at and flung in the soup at the table. After almost six years in Vietnam, I'd begun to take the fantastic herbery for granted but this dish is a nice reminder of just how they can be used to complement and lift both flavour and appearance.

A fave since 2002 which still rates highly in the 2007 Hanoi foodscape.

Fish Fix

Two bowls, two serves of cha ca (fish cakes), two beers - 68,000VND (USD$4.80, AUD$5.10)

Doan Xom Chao Ca
213 Hang Bang
Hanoi

Push and Shove Noodles

On Sunday morning, I was just around from Hoan Kiem Lake, right smack bang in the middle of 'tourist central', pirate CDs, sleazy bars and dodgy tour companies all around. I was on the look-out for a feed, of course. These days, the weekend looms ominously as the only quality chunk of time for stuffing my cakehole with street food, scribbling a few notes and taking some quick snaps. Research is best done early in Hanoi, when the eating houses are crowded and, hence easily identifiable as decent.

This particular morning, I struck a pumping two story noodle hall where the rumbling and elbowing starts with procuring a motorbike park. I politely let a couple of young upstarts nose in front of me into slots on the footpath across the road before resorting to a bit of push and shove myself. When in Rome....

Not surprisingly, the same techniques were required inside where, at the point of my arrival, the influx of customers far outweighed those downing chopsticks and getting out. Their looks of sinister pleasure and procrastination over tooth-picking were cruel and hurtful to those of us hungry and gunning for their positions. There was frantic running up stairs. And then there was frantic running downstairs. A couple of waiting families had scouts on both floors. It was a kind of strategic foodsport, dodging and weaving around tray-burdened waiters being a particularly dangerous manoeuvre.For the winners, a big bowl of bun ga was awarded. I had assumed I was in an ultra-popular pho stop but during the battle to secure a berth, somehow, whatever the dish was on offer became secondary.

Turns out this establishment is actually churning out bun moc (noodles with pork balls), bun thang and bun ga, the latter being my choice only because I thought I was in a chicken noodle soup shop and they'd run out of pho. I would've ordered the balls. Of course, bun (rice vermicelli) are noodles anyway, just rounder and whiter. A nice tasty dimension is added with a handful of tangy Chinese mushrooms but there's not much herbery to speak of, unfortunately.

The balls will be sampled on a return visit.

Bustle Money

Two large bowls of bun ga, one tra da (iced tea) - 41,000VND (USD$2.55, AUD$2.95)

Bun Moc
10 Bao Khanh
Old Quarter Hanoi

Waiting Out the Rain

The skies were darkening on Saturday morning when I ventured out for a feed without a raincoat. I misjudged the way the clouds were moving and as I pulled up outside this random eatery, the patch of sky above me was armageddon black. Awnings were being wound out, washing pulled in, motorbikes pulled up, raincoats pulled on. The old bloke across the way lit up a fag on his upstairs balcony. The lime vendor on the step of the eatery slipped a pink plastic bag on her head. We all knew what was happening.

I ordered my breakfast and then the sky spat a lake.

I watched the water rise and the drainage fail from over a bowl of banh da cua. This noodle dish originated in Haiphong, a port city just over 100 kilometres from the capital. I'm not sure how far the Hanoi variation has strayed from the original but it appears to be very much a worker's dish that is cheap and filling. Thick dried brown noodles constitute the carb element in this soup. They are wetted momentarily with a fistful of rau muong (water spinach) and slapped into a bowl with a cut of crab paste, before the customer's selections from the servery are added just before a ladle of crab stock finishes off proceedings. My ingredients of choice are tofu (dau) and fish cake (cha ca). The dripping customers who file in during the rainstorm choose otherwise, from rare beef, gio (sausage) and deep fried fish bits. A chili sauce not unlike sambal olek gets added at the table.

We are all forced to dwell longer than ordinarily necessary. There's the well-to-do couple who pull up in a car that would fit in a matchbox, a barefoot teenage bloke and his girl slapping and tickling each other and the next door neighbour who's in for a natter and to borrow a handful of MSG. The old boy across what is now a river has slipped into his pyjama pants and lit another choker.

Three quarters of an hour of observation later, I'm over the rain and the crabs are being driven up the wall.

Crab Grab

One bowl of banh da cua, one iced tea - 13,000VND (USD80c, AUD95c)

Banh Da Cua Ly Quoc Su
20 Chan Cam
Old Quarter

Salad Season

The mercury's up. Cooking is out of the question. Today, tossing together a salad would've put a bead of sweat on the brow.

So I didn't.

A bloke in the Old Quarter did it for me. He's got this souped-up little glass cabinet on wheels out front of his shop. It's loaded up with plastic plates, salad ingredients and bottles of liquid all ready for some kind of street food grand prix. He's set to take pole position when I pull up for some take-away salad, having had a brainwave to save myself from a sure-fire meltdown in the kitchen.

From under the bonnet of his cabinet, he tongs out a mess of shredded papaya and carrot, jamming it into clear take-away bags, on top of which Vietnam's fine green leaves are placed. I sense a healthy summer salad signal. Jenny Craig and Weightwatchers would approve.

Dried and cured beef is clipped finely with the scissors into another bag. Crushed peanuts, too. A third bag contains the dressing, a process which conjured up images of Professor Weirdo and his monster formula, the balancing of the flavours vital in its success. Fish sauce, soy sauce, water, lime juice, sugar and chili go in with effortless precision. He's done this before.

I've eaten this before. It's known as nom.

Right now, the nom bags are chilling in the fridge downstairs. I'm going to race down there, tip their contents into a bowl and fork them into my gob.

No sweat!

Bill
Two serves of nom - 30,000VND (USD$1.86, AUD$2.22)

Long Vi Dung
Nom Thit Bo Kho
107 Ma May
Old Quarter

Hoi An Streetfood: Chao Vit

In the evenings, where Nguyen Hue Street runs into the top end of Hoi An's market, a small flock of ducks get the chop and end up in the soup. Well, it's porridge, actually.

Rice porridge.

As the sweat stuck the shirt to my back, I stood out amongst the locals like a bump on a log, standing not far from six feet as they sat squatting on stools a few inches off the ground. A spot was scrounged from nowhere and, before I knew it, the knife was at the chopping block and duck flesh was being mangled barehanded from bones.

Some were consuming duck bits on plates accompanied by generous sprigs of Asian basil (hung que). Most, myself included, were putting spoonfuls of tasty chao vit (rice porridge with duck) to their mouths.

For me, chao is winter warmer fodder to heat oneself over in Hanoi's January fog. It's a completely different experience further south when the temperature is in the mid-30s(C), the humidity is high, the shirt is well stuck like skin as the last mouthful goes down and beads of perspiration drip from the chin.

As Paris Hilton would say, "That's hot."