Two Margaritas

My arrival in Hanoi was not as smooth as I might have liked. My flight from Danang was delayed by three hours. The hotel who had promised to pick me up from the airport didn’t show. I arrived at the hotel at 11pm and they didn’t have a room for me. They did, however, have a room at their ‘sister’ hotel. The sister hotel was being renovated such that whilst water and power were in dubious supply, loud drilling noise and dust were in constant supply. And I had to fight for the privilege of leaving the next morning. I re-established myself eventually but my good humour was rattled.

Every guide to Saigon speaks of the wooonderful colonial hotels which have just faaaabulous interiors and bars which don’t just serve drinks, but are historically significant in and of themselves. Having installed myself just down the road from the Rex, apparently famous for having hosted American brass during the war, I betook myself to the rooftop cocktail bar for a drink, well-earned, in my opinion, and a snack. I found, to my disappointment, that the heyday of the Rex had passed. I should have known: any bar in Vietnam which has bratwurst on the bar snacks menu is a little suspect. The sound of ice against cocktail shaker cheered me no end and I could have drunk fourteen more margaritas but still… even with a fibreglass elephant in the background, this was not the post-colonial drink of my dreams.

Fast forward to my last night in Saigon. I had a plan and that plan was to eat at a swanky Vietnamese haute cuisine type number. Everything else in Saigon is shut on a Monday night and so was dinner option number one. Fortunately, I had been tramping around town all day and so had scoped out the B-List. Somehow, and I fear this is not entirely to my credit, I wound up spending my last night in South East Asia on a Tex-Mex jamboree. Plenty of time for breakfast pho and swanky Viet-lunch tomorrow.

Anyway, La Cantina screamed Tourist! Expat! Margarita! When I arrived, I was the only one in the restaurant upstairs. Orange couches, no small talk. My entirely excellent margarita arrived fast and so did tortilla chips and loads of salsa loaded with onion and garlic. I had a pang of Newtown nostalgia when the baby burrito, all cheese and beans, hit the table with a hearty, wholesome, leaden thump. Is Guzman y Gomez licensed yet? And why not? All that place needs is a few more tables and readily available Coronas and margaritas. Back to HCMC. I had vetoed sushi as a dinner option earlier in the evening on the grounds that raw fish on the eve of a long haul flight is not a good idea. This sensible approach fell by the wayside when I was faced with ceviche on the menu. Glorious, glorious, ceviche! And jalapenos, in this land of birds-eye chillies! Of course this warranted another margarita. Note that the martini glass full of ceviche is smaller than the margarita glass full of margarita.

I got excited by my coaster and took a picture of it. Instead of treating me like the crackpot who takes photos of coasters, as she would have been entitled to, the waitress brought me a box of coasters to go. Splendid.

As I soaked up my margarita, I realised that there is a nexus between Tex-Mex food and Vietnamese food. The marvellous combination of lime, tomato, coriander, onion and chilli (with or without coconut) shared by the two cuisines mandates all culinary intersections. Whensoever I should make my way to Mexico, I pledge to eat Vietnamese food. And drink margaritas.

Best non-smoking ad ever

Ho Chi Minh City, where the air you inhale tastes like daisies.

Three men

If this blog is to document my activities with any accuracy, then the severe spike in internet use (wireless in the hotel room…) must be reflected.

Hence, three wise men online.

a) Jeffrey Steingarten wrote a book called The Man Who Ate Everything. He also wrote this article instructing the novice omnivore. He is greatly to be admired. I am lamentably bereft of a clear vision of desirable employment. I do, however, think I could manage being Jeffrey Steingarten’s witty and youthful offsider and platonic dinner companion. Who am I kidding? I don’t want to be Jeffrey Steingarten’s Girl Friday and I certainly don’t want to be his mistress. We are in All About Eve and Single White Female Territory here. I want to be Jeffrey Steingarten and usurp his life. Condé Nast, I'm waiting for your call.

b) This excellent article, which I first read in an anthology of travel writing abandoned in a guesthouse, is not normally the kind of thing I get excited about. It’s written by a professional hardcore-adventurer-dude, Mark Jenkins, who used to write a column on extreme outdoorsiness for Outside magazine – macho mountaineering, climbing, paddling, biking, preferably in unstable political environments. This article is about his efforts to trek the Stilwell Road, a road built by an American general to link strategically India and China via Burma. Military history, again, not often my first choice of subject matter. I read ‘Ghost Road’ in an anthology of travel writing and was absolutely engrossed Anyway, this is an extraordinarily interesting, well paced, and ethically engaged account of the author’s attempts to get off the beaten track in Burma. My own travels in Burma had little of this kind of hardcore about them – staring down armed officials was about as tough as it got – but his confrontation with his compromised, egotistical position, playing the role of a romantic vagabond against the backdrop of a scenic and brutal military dictatorship did make me squirm a little.

c) Cable television is the fragile strand which has kept me vaguely in touch with a select version of popular culture of late. Thanks to hotel cable, I know that there is another Harry Potter movie on the way. I have been utterly captivated by Who Wants to be a Millionaire in Russian and my resolve to get to Mother Russia and to trounce the language of Rasputin has thus been steeled. Who knows, maybe Wheel of Fortune à la Russe will be my ticket to greatness. I’ve watched many, many crap movies; I’ve been mesmerised by repeats; I’ve had ample opportunity to indulge my slightly shameful love of MTV; I have scoffed and snorted at CNN… Character building exercises all.

I have also discovered David Tutera’s Party Planner. This is sublime reality television, so far beyond awful, so many light years beyond irony that it is sublime, delirious, hypnotic, divine. I watched this man stage manage a lavender themed divorce party. Solid gold. And of course he has a website.

Choose your own epitaph

My arrival in the narrow land of my birth is, all of a sudden, imminent. I hit the tarmac of Britannia on the 11th of July, as a matter of fact and I am muchly looking forward to some interaction with my long lost human peers. I am also, however, eagerly awaiting the chance to renew my relationships with the dogs of this world. Since my arrival in Asia, I have been a little reluctant to get too friendly with the local canine population, mutts and mongrels the lot of them. My reluctance can be explained in one word: rabies. I was ambushed when cycling near Chiang Saen in the north of Thailand by a pack of overfriendly dogs. It was close to twilight but I’m sure there was a little frothing going on in the glistening fang area. Certainly, maniacal rays glinted from bloodshot eyes. Numerous encounters of this ilk have rattled me.

It is the human tragedy that we cannot, except in extreme circumstances, determine the means by which our mortal mosquito coil will burn out. It is of course possible to take some steps to reduce the likelihood of certain modes of exit. Preventative health. Stopping smoking will cut down the chances of lung cancer and emphysema, for instance. (Here, the nicotine-free author pauses to inhale deeply, clearly, and not a little self-righteously.) Similarly, avoiding getting bitten by rabid dogs will reduce your chances of dying a frothy, painful and extremely undignified death.

Lord knows I have availed myself of many opportunities to act in an undignified fashion. But to die in such a fashion? Jamais! Imagine if one of my poor grief-stricken little sisters had to hack into this blog (no need right now) and post a notice reading: ‘The Pike Family regrets to inform you that Catriona was bitten by a Rottweiler poodle cross outside the Post Office in Hanoi. Unfortunately, this dog was rabid and so, briefly, was Catriona. She died as she lived. Etc.’ Would you even believe this? Nice girl, died of rabies. Shame, really. Would you think of me and guiltily swallow a sad snicker every time your egregiously hungover self started to intone on the curative powers of the hair of the dog that bit you? Would you be able to think of me as anything but a rabid feminist/gourmand/partisan of the mangosteen/lush/bookworm? Would this bring me posthumous gravitas? No! I would be forced to whimper like a kicked cur in the corner of the dingiest doghouse the sky has to offer in perpetual bloody purgatory. And of course all the rumours propagated by that bloody Alighieri about purgatory would turn out to be true if I happened to shuffle through the gates with a dog bite on my calf and froth still settling on my chin.
I do know that there is a widely available rabies shot which, if administered within two hours of a nip, will ward off doom. I would still rather avoid this. As far as I am concerned, lining up for a rabies shot is tantamount to an extremely overfamiliar slow dance with death. My death-drive has been weakened by the heat. Rabies is my primary concern, but mange and all manner of fleas are also on my mind, as are good old-fashioned dog-bites. I have felt sorely compromised in withholding demonstrations of my love because, to generalise, the dogs of South East Asia are not showered with affection. The pampered pug-uglies and yapping pedigrees of Rushcutter’s Bay are not what the proverbial they mean when they talk about being treated like a dog. The dogs around these parts are much put upon – deprived and forlorn and neglected. Their insecurities are understandable. After all, you can order dog for dinner. If you pat at them, they snap. If you throw a stick and there’s more than one dog around, you’ll start a fight. If you make silly barking noises at them, they (and their owners) look at you like you’re off your rocker and then snap.

Whilst I understand that the British Isles are not 100% rabies free, I think the odds swing a little better in my favour over that side of the world. Once I clear the pack of sniffer corgis at Heathrow, I’ll be accosting the first British Bulldog I see. I might even have to go to a park and impersonate a barmy Brit for an afternoon, talking to the dogs and ignoring their owners. I suppose too the change of scene will allow me to befriend chickens – similarly off limits for the last few months. Not being a poultry fancier, this is less exciting.

Things to eat before you die

After a not immoderate amount of stuffing around, I have finally installed myself in a hotel in Saigon, my last port in South East Asia. Fortuitously, the hotel has wireless access and I have been taking refuge from the heat and humidity in the cool breezeway that is the internet.

And so it was that I came across this post which called on foodies and bloggers to nominate five things to eat before you die. Being vacillatory by inclination, I generally loathe top-fives but this call, I could not ignore.

And so, this is what I added to the list. By way of qualification, I note that the below shouldn't be understood as favorites or anything so foolish. I would think of them as a non-binding, highly partisan list of good things. Obviously, as soon as I wake up tomorrow morning, I will want to revise the lot. If I were to get into the realm of particular dishes as cooked by particular people or as eaten in particular restaurant at particular times, then I would be entering the world of sentiment and that, my friends, is a dark abyss into which I refuse to plunge.

1. Freshly shucked Sydney Rock Oysters with lemon and salt.
2. Freshly picked raspberries, still warm from the sun.
3. Hot-smoked salmon.
4. Mangosteens au naturel.
5. Brie de Meaux spread on very fresh bread.

(But wait! there's no room for pickled anchovies, chanterelles, any other kinds of cheese, chorizo, freshly picked tomatoes, spring garlic in France, mangos, homemade gingerbread, clam chowder, creme brulee, hollandaise sauce, lime sorbet, an excellent steak bearnaise, any kind of crab, pho, marquise au chocolat, freshly made rice noodles, coq au vin, peking duck, cornichons, scallops seared on the shell, dumplings of any variety, croque monsieur, Byron Bay organic doughnuts, sauerkraut, gazpacho, salade au chevre chaud, olives, home-cooked quinces, avocado on toast, wasabi mayonnaise, eggplant anyway, gratin dauphinoise, tabouleh, homemade pate, poached eggs with truffle butter, jamon serrano, strudel, harira, borscht, rhubarb crumble, arancini, dulce de leche and all the rest... And there's no alcohol involved. See, lists are a pain in the neck.)

Anyway, the Traveler's Lunchbox post links to an Observer article which lists 50 things every foodie should do before they die. I have done 21 of these things. 29 to go. Sigh.

Of course, if I were to make my own list of 50 foodie type things that I have done that I think other people should do, it would again be entirely different. Not only would I include the international jet-setter, big money, eating for status entries, I think there would have to be some character building exercises high on my list. Challenge someone to a vodka enhanced chilli eating competition. See how long you can function for on a diet of bread, cheese, coffee and red wine. Chop up a clove or two of garlic, mix with flaky salt and sprinkle on hot buttered toast. Add pepper. Eat it and enjoy the pleasant sensation of immediately improved health and the disappearance of residual inhibitions about garlic. And so on.

More pedestriana

Put your best leg forward when you cross the road in Hanoi.
That’s because this is what a break in the traffic looks like.
In ridiculously picturesque Hoi An, on the other hand, it more a case of the blind leading the blind.
So picturesque is Hoi An, as a matter of fact, that even the signs warning the hapless away from death by electrocution have a certain charm.

Pho fur or Faux Pho?

As prefaced a few days ago, I took the PHO CHALLENGE in Hanoi a few days ago. How far can you go on three bowls of pho (and a pain aux raisins)? The answer is, a long, long way. In the past, I have, I confess, been a little reticent about ordering pho because I have had pronunciation issues. Is it ph-oh, as in, ‘I wish that little pho and pho over there would quieten down’? Is it ph-urr, as in, ‘Egad, sir, that is a devilish pho you cast on my good reputation’? Or, again, ph-ah, as in, ‘Do, re, mi, pho, so, la, ti, do’? These vowel sounds, I can now inform you, are open too wide to pass muster. My friends, I summon the schwa and exhort you all to engage in the great Australian sport of vowel squashing. To get a fabulous bowl of noodle soup, call for ph-er, rhymes with, the, as in ‘She was askin’ pho trouble.’

Onwards then. Pho is reason to sing the praises of a good chicken stock. As I’ve been eating alone, I’ve been humming small songs of tribute to the stockpot. All the pho stocks I’ve eaten have been chicken-based with plenty of onion thrown in. The best have had lots of star anise and coriander root and ginger added to the mix and have brought tears to my eyes. Basic pho involves poaching rice noodles in stock and chucking them in a bowl with some sort of protein and some chopped spring onions, dredging the lot with stock and serving it all up. Good pho has poached bean shoots, lots and lots of coriander and garlic chives, a bowl of greens on the side and plenty of lime wedges.

Breakfast pho ga
Chicken pho for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. This was the pho of the day, even if there were no accompanying greens. Aromatic stock,plenty of herbs, excellent condiments (pickled garlic…) and good squishy noodles. It provided me with the fortitude necessary to admire the lines of the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum.
Ah, totalitarian architecture.

Lunch pho

I perched on the pavement and had tofu pho for lunch. I ordered this with extra tomato and it arrived with a bowl full of intriguingly bitter greenery. Alas, the tofu pho wasn’t much chop. The stock tasted of chicken bones and tomato soup out of a can, the tofu resembled upholstery foam in texture, taste, and appearance, and the noodles were overcooked. This is a shame because the best pho I have eaten in my entire life was a tofu and tomato number.
I ate this at the markets in Sapa, in the mountains in the north of Vietnam. I didn’t need to wait to see the chook being hauled out of the stock-pot as I was slurping away to know that there was nothing vegetarian about this soup. If you look closely, you can see the plateful of innards I could have elected to have in my soup. This is the Ur-pho (try saying that out loud). Freshly fried tofu, handfuls of greenery, outstanding stock. Oh my, would that word could wield the matter. I fumble for superlatives. How good was it? Firstly, it was a little chilly in Sapa and as I started to eat, steam fogged up my glasses. The glasses went; the eyelashes did not bat. Secondly, this bowl of soup has twice figured in my dreams.

Dinner pho bo
I moved to pho with brisket at another hole-in-the-wall. This was good, workaday pho. A strong stock, decent noodles, lots of herbs, and no weird bits hanging off the slices of brisket. I suspect that one encounters a truly excellent beef pho if one braves more weird cuts of meat. There were crowds outside a pho bo joint down the road. I joined them until I got to the menu and had an attack of squeamishness when I realised that I had arrived in offal central. Specials included beef heart, lots of intestines, beef penis and testicles (way beyond my budget), beef liver… Had I not had a sixteen hour train trip ahead of me, I might have discovered a cache of culinary courage. Instead, I wriggled out of the queue and grazed in slightly more mundane pastures.

Still alive

This is what boats on Ha Long Bay look like in the rain.

Scenic, non?

I came into contact with a generally very accurate adage regarding cruises when I was a naÔve lass at Wesley College: You can run, but you can’t hide. This little nugget of wisdom was administered to first year girls, aka freshettes, by senior boys, and usually accompanied by a schooner of goon and the words ‘Scull, freshette.’ Fortunately, my experience of cruising on Ha Long Bay involved neither running nor hiding but far more wholesome pursuits like lounging and kayaking and eating crab.

Here's proof that I haven’t grown an extra head and that the one I have isn’t in danger of being blown off. C’est moi, windswept on Ha Long Bay.

On this day in 2007

Today...

... I went to view the embalmed corpse of Ho Chi Minh, as one does in Hanoi. Habitual may it well be to shuffle through the mausoleum housing the mortal remains of the father of the nation, I find this nonetheless a very strange activity.
... the sun shone on Hanoi, rain bucketed down on Hanoi.
... I discovered that traffic collisions are the number one cause of child mortality in Vietnam. This is not a surprise.
... I leave Hanoi on a sleeper train bound for Hue.
... I turned down a marriage proposal from a dwarf. If the proposal was not a serious one, it was certainly delivered in earnest.
... is Franz Kafka's birthday.
... I went to the Vietnamese Ethnological Museum and wondered why there was a couple having their wedding photographs taken in the exhibition halls and the gardens.
... I ate pho for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Herpetophiles rejoice, gourmets lament

Not only did I survive two days on a not-so-leaky boat on Ha Long Bay, subsequent to the below, I found myself companions prepared to banquent on snake in Hanoi. I found companions, we made a rendez-vous, I failed to make it. Naps and navigational ineptitude have thwarted my good intentions many times in the past and this time, they arose like a hissing cobra to keep me from my destination. Should you be reading this, Leon, Cathy, - brave souls - I apologise.

As already stated, I'm not eating snake on my own. Unless I happen upon another willing party before I leave Hanoi this evening, I'm going to content myself with a far more modest gastronomic investigation. Pho for breakfast, lunch and dinner. What happens?

Rhapsody in pho to come.