One Enchanted Evening

Ngon lam em, mua di!” yells a Vietnamese vendor, pointing to her huge mound of sweet potatoes. For a moment, I feel as if I’m in Vietnam, not at this farmers market in Sacramento. Shoppers swarm behind me, trying to squeeze closer to the stand, especially where the rays of the morning sun are hitting the sweet potatoes. In the bright light I can scrutinize them, looking for those that are neither too big nor small, with smooth skin and heavy with moisture.

Lately I’ve been coming here to see the beautiful remnants of the late harvest, such as the mounds of Thai bird chiles, the fragrant herbs and the winter arrival of sweet potatoes and kabocha squash. But I’m also here to plan my holiday menu. This year, I want to cook a very special meal--a meal that celebrates the incredible experience my sister Denise and I shared when we journeyed back to Vietnam this past spring.

There we were, sitting at a joyful dinner table with our 102-year-old grandmother in the Mekong Delta. My sister’s eyes and cheeks were swollen pink from tears, but her words were filled with laughter and smiles. After years of agonizing over returning to our native country, she had finally overcome her apprehensions and was now reunited with our grandmother and relatives. How amazing, I thought, for me to make this trip with her.

I had experienced the same emotions during my first trip back four years earlier, but I was reliving them through Denise, who hadn’t seen our relatives since our family fled to the U.S. in 1975. Like my parents, she still harbored tragic memories of the war and, up until now, had been fearful of stepping foot in a country ruled by our father’s former enemy. The final days before the fall of Saigon had haunted her for 26 years. But here with family, all of that seemed to be a distant memory.

Our journey from Saigon to our ancestral village of Quoi Son had started at daybreak. Highway 1, the main road that leads south from Saigon to the rice basket in the Mekong Delta, was jammed with buses and trucks hauling rice, produce and livestock. As our van followed the dusty caravan of vehicles, hundreds of motorcycles weaved in and out of traffic, some carrying live pigs strapped to the seats. The sight was jarring, but I looked past the traffic into the distant rice paddies, where tombstones rose among homes and temples, and I realized it was all just part of the landscape.

To get to the other side of the Mekong River, where our grandmother lives, we took a ferry in My Tho. Denise remembered the many ferry rides from her childhood, but marveled at how much wider the river and bigger the ferries seemed as an adult. “I never thought I would live to see this panorama again,” she said, pointing to the sweeping palm trees along the distant banks and to the boats sailing up and down the river, many adorned with the current Vietnamese flag. Her heart must have beaten faster, as did mine the first time I saw those blazing colors--that lone yellow star against red. Like other Vietnamese who grew up during the war, our hearts still race anxiously at the sight of the Communist flag.

When we neared our grandmother’s village, our rented van was too tall to clear an entrance gate. So we hopped on a xe loi--a scooter-pulled wagon used as a village taxi. “Look at that!” cried Denise, her head slightly shaking, her voice trembling and her fingers flying in every direction as we rode down the bumpy dirt road. We passed schoolgirls on bicycles, their pearl-white ao dai dresses flapping in the wind like butterflies and their conical hats fixed perfectly on their heads. We saw silhouettes of farmers and water buffalo slowly plowing the rice fields. At a roadside thatch-roofed store, a woman dished up a bowl of noodles while singing to her baby lying on a hammock. Indeed, the country looked far different from the one we had fled. Back then, artillery fire and bombings had sounded throughout the countryside. Army fatigues and vehicles had dotted the streets, and fear was part of life. Now the only noise was the rustling of rice plants in the breeze.

Denise barely recognized our grandmother’s home. Pomelo and longan trees almost obscured the front of the house. Thick moss had pushed through the cracks in the brick steps leading to the front door. “Granny, granny!” we both cried as soon as we saw our grandmother sitting under the shade of a tree. “It’s been so long,” sighed my grandmother. Except for the silvery hair framing her face and her frail 90-pound body, she was the same jovial person we’d remembered. Denise was awash in tears.

In the back of the house, the outdoor kitchen was humming with activity as our aunts worked to prepare the meal. Denise and I were greeted by the sounds of knives chopping on thick wooden blocks, the pounding of garlic and chiles in the mortar and the sizzling of hot woks over the open fire.

Before my grandmother suffered from severe arthritis, she used to cook in this open-air kitchen, preparing the intricate banh it, or sticky rice cakes, made with freshly grated coconuts wrapped in banana leaves that were harvested from her plantation. She also made delicious, simple fare such as a soup of bamboo shoots and pork, and smoky, gooey dishes cooked in clay pots. Aunt Bay, who lives with my grandmother, now oversees those chores and devotes most of her time to caring and cooking for the entire family, about a dozen members.

That day Aunt Bay stood guard at the stove, adding more coconut husks as she stirred the big pot of ca ri ga, or chicken curry with sweet potatoes--one of my childhood favorites. The chicken--with the bones and skin left intact to impart a rich, savory flavor--looked succulent in the bright yellow curry sauce. My mouth started to water as I thought about ladling a big spoonful over rice noodles and fresh herbs, instead of eating it with a baguette, which my cousins prefer because it has become a status food of sorts.

The ingredients for goi bap chuoi, or banana blossom salad, had already been prepared, including the thinly shredded “curls” of the blossom, the carrots, the cucumbers and, of course, the spicy and tart herb called rau ram. To me, this is one of the best dishes to emerge from the Vietnamese kitchen, especially if the banana blossom has just been cut and is still sweating with sap, like the one my cousin had whacked earlier from the tree in the backyard. Once dressed with nuoc cham--the quintessential dipping dish made of fish sauce, garlic and lime juice--the salad bursts with vibrant flavors. This contrast of tastes and textures is what makes our cuisine so distinct and appealing.

Chao tom, or grilled shrimp on sugar cane--which we ate by pulling off the meat and wrapping it with lettuce and green perilla and other herbs before dipping it into a sauce--was yet another highlight. It was a classic example of how the Vietnamese love to wrap small pieces of food with greens and dip them into sauce before eating.

Our Aunt Tam prepared her famous nuoc mam gung, or ginger-lime dipping sauce, which can turn simple foods such as grilled freshwater prawns and fried fish into the most delectable, scrumptious meals. Since my grandmother is now a strict vegetarian (her vegetarianism is a form of “merit-making,” a pledge made when my grandfather died a sudden death), our aunts included a few meatless dishes, such as cha gio chay, or spring rolls with mung bean paste, black mushrooms and tofu, and one of her favorite desserts, che chuoi, or warm banana stew with tapioca pearls.

On important events such as the anniversary of our grandfather’s death or Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, our aunts would cook a whole chicken (symbolizing prosperity and abundance) and place it on the ancestral worship altar. Similarly that night, before we could begin our meal, we each took turns at the altar paying respects to the ancestors. I couldn’t help but pray that someday my parents would put the war behind them and return to this village, where they were born and raised.

By the time we gathered at the table, the sun had descended and the quiet of the evening was settling in. The food, arranged on two round tables in the courtyard outside, was bathed in the purple-blue sunset and the flicker of small candles. It had been a long time since the tables looked this sumptuous, boasted Aunt Tam, as she arranged the toasted rice papers on the plates. Laughter and jokes filled the air as arms and hands crisscrossed the table. Aunt Tam hovered over our shoulders, instructing us to eat the freshwater prawns before they got too cold. I couldn’t help but gaze at the overflowing platters and think how lucky we were to gather at such a table.

Just a few years ago, a meal like this was probably impossible. Back then my parents received letters from Vietnam about our families struggling to survive on less than $50 a month, and that rice rations had to be stretched with starch such as yucca. Even though our parents had lost nearly everything coming to the U.S., they felt obligated to send what little they had to help support our extended families. Fortunately, now that Vietnam has established diplomatic and trade relations with the West, my family’s economic picture has greatly improved.

Denise and I will forever remember that evening, and this holiday season we’ve pledged to re-create a similar meal for our loved ones in America. We’ve started scouring our local farmers markets--Denise in Boston and I in Sacramento--for the freshest ingredients, such as these dappled sweet potatoes before me. We’ll pay respects to our ancestors by lighting incense sticks and candles on the family altar and saying prayers. We’ll thank them for allowing us to see our grandmother, to touch her soft, friendly face and hold her tiny hands.

We’ll also thank them for the good life in America, and for blessing our parents with good health. We will no longer feel victimized by our country’s turbulent history, nor alienated from our cultural roots. And, finally, when we sit down to savor the smoky grilled shrimp on sugar cane, the luscious chicken curry with sweet potatoes and the rest of the bountiful table, we’ll reflect on that enchanted evening in Vietnam and feel thankful that the spirit of family and tradition in our home is as strong and binding as ever.

Menu

Vietnamese spring rolls with dipping sauce

Prawn and lemon grass soup

Spicy herbed leaf salad

Grilled salmon with hanoi vegetables

Chicken curry with sweet potatoes

Mixed vegetables with lemon grass

Litchi sorbet

Saigon cooler

Bam-bou bellini

Vietnamese spring rolls

Cha Gio

Makes 30 rolls

2 eggs

2 tablespoons fish sauce

1/2 tablespoon minced garlic

1/4 teaspoon sea salt

2 teaspoons plus 3 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

2 ounces bean threads (cellophane noodles),

soaked in hot water for 30 minutes, drained and cut into 2-inch pieces

5 or 6 dried wood-ear mushrooms, soaked in hot water for 30 minutes, drained, with chewy stems trimmed and finely chopped (about 1/4 cup)

2/3 cup minced yellow onion, squeezed gently to remove excess liquid

1 taro root, peeled and finely grated (about 1 cup) or 1 cup grated carrots

3 scallions, cut into thin rings

1/3 pound cooked crab meat, picked clean, or coarsely chopped raw shrimp

2/3 pound ground pork

2 quarts warm water

30 (6- or 8-inch) dried rice paper rounds, plus extras

Vegetable oil, for frying

Beat eggs, fish sauce, garlic, salt, 2 teaspoons sugar and black pepper together in large bowl. Add bean threads, mushrooms, onion, taro root, scallions, crab meat and pork. Using a fork, gently mix until ingredients are well blended.

Fill large bowl with the warm water. Add remaining 3 tablespoons sugar to water and stir to dissolve. (This helps the rice paper turn golden when fried.) Dip the rice paper into the water and turn to moisten sheet completely. Lay rice sheet on damp kitchen cloth. Wet another rice paper sheet and place it side by side. (This allows you to work with one sheet while the second sets.)

Place 1 heaping tablespoon of filling on bottom third of sheet. Using your fingers, gently shape into small cylinder. Lift bottom edge over filling, then fold in both sides. Roll into small cylinder, about 2/3 inch wide and 2 inches long. Place seam side down. Do not stack the rolls. Continue making the rolls with remaining filling and paper. If wrapper has a tear, reinforce it by patching it with small piece of dampened rice paper.

Pour about 1 1/2 inches of vegetable oil into large skillet and heat to about 350 degrees. Test the temperature by carefully placing a spring roll in it. If the oil foams but not too vigorously, around the roll, it is hot enough. Add the rolls without crowding, and fry until evenly golden, about 5 to 6 minutes. (Cook in batches, if necessary.) Remove and drain on paper towels. Serve spring rolls immediately with the dipping sauce and salad (recipe follows).

Vietnamese dipping sauce

Nuoc Cham

Makes 1 cup

3 Thai bird chiles or 1 serrano chile, or to taste

1 clove garlic, sliced

3 tablespoons sugar

2/3 cup warm water

1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

5 tablespoons fish sauce

2 tablespoons finely shredded carrots, for garnish (optional)

Cut the chiles into thin rings. Set aside one-third of the chiles for garnish. Place remaining chiles, garlic and sugar in a mortar and pound into a coarse, wet paste. (If you don’t have a mortar, just chop with a knife.) Transfer to small bowl and add water, lime juice and fish sauce. Stir well to dissolve. Add reserved chiles and carrots. Set aside for 10 minutes before serving.

Prawn and lemon grass soup

Sup Tom Xoa Lan

Serves 4

3/4 pound raw prawns

3 lemon grass stalks

2 pints water

1 tomato, quartered and seeded

1 15-ounce can straw mushrooms, drained

6 kaffir lime leaves

1 spring onion

1/3 pound bean sprouts

juice of 3 limes

2 small red chiles, finely sliced

4 tablespoons vietnamese fish sauce

salt and pepper

Coriander leaves, to garnish

Peel and devein prawns and set aside shells. Cut off white part of lemon grass stalks, reserving tops. Cut lemon grass stalks into 1-inch lengths and flatten with cleaver or pestle.

Heat the water in saucepan, add prawn shells and lemon grass tops. Bring water slowly to boil, strain and return to saucepan. Add flattened lemon grass, tomato, straw mushrooms and lime leaves. Bring back to boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook for 3-4 minutes.

Add prawns. When they change color, add spring onion, bean sprouts, lime juice, chiles, fish sauce and season to taste with salt and pepper, then give it all a good stir. Serve in individual bowls, sprinkled with coriander leaves.

Spicy herbed leaf salad

Serves 4

2 bunches each of mizuna (or young and tender arugula leaves) and watercress

1 bunch each of mint, cilantro and asian basil, freshly picked (if possible)

1 large red chile

4 ounces nuoc cham

Pick the leaves from the mizuna and watercress. Wash, drain and combine in large bowl. Pick the leaves from the mint and cilantro. Wash, drain and combine with watercress and mizuna. Repeat with basil.

Remove and discard the top and tail of the chile. Roll it between your hands and shake it. This will remove the seeds. Slice into fine rings.

To serve, combine the chile rings with the salad leaves and fold in the nuoc cham. Serve immediately.

Grilled salmon with coconut curry and hanoi vegetables

4 6 1/2-ounce salmon fillets, scaled and deboned

Sunflower oil, for frying

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Curry sauce

1 tablespoon each of whole cumin and coriander seeds

2 kaffir lime leaves

3 bay leaves, freshly picked (if possible)

2 lemon grass stalks

1 garlic clove

1 large shallot

butter, for frying

1 tablespoon green curry paste

2 tablespoons ground turmeric

1 1/4 pints chicken stock

2 14-ounce cans coconut milk

Hanoi vegetables

1 green papaya

1 cucumber

1 large shallot

1/2 pound mustard greens, freshly picked

To make curry sauce, grind cumin and coriander seeds to a powder and finely shred the lime and bay leaves and lemon grass.

Peel and finely dice garlic clove and shallot.

Melt some butter in a large, heavy frying pan and fry the above prepared ingredients without their turning color, about 3 minutes. Stir in curry paste and turmeric and cook, stirring, about 3 minutes.

Pour in chicken stock and bring to boil. Reduce heat slightly. Stir in coconut milk and reduce mixture to form consistency of a sauce. Pass through a fine sieve into saucepan, using spoon or small ladle to push out as much of the flavor as possible. For the Hanoi vegetables, peel and cut the papaya and cucumber in half lengthwise; seed. Finely dice. Peel shallot, cut it in half lengthwise and finely slice.

Thoroughly wash and rewash mustard greens.

Lightly season salmon. Cook on a grill if available or pan-fry in a little sunflower oil. For best results, cook vegetables in wok. Heat some oil until it becomes hot, then add all vegetables at once. Quickly stir-fry for about 30 seconds and drain.

To serve, arrange the vegetables around the base of serving dish. Top with salmon and pour sauce around the fish or serve it separately.

Chicken curry with sweet potatoes

Ca Ri Ga

Serves 4

3 tablespoons curry powder, preferably three golden bells brand

1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste

2 pounds skinless chicken thighs

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 tablespoon chopped shallot

2 teaspoons minced garlic

2 teaspoons ground chile paste or dried chile flakes, or to taste

3 tablespoons fish sauce

1 tablespoon sugar

2 lemon grass stalks, cut into 3-inch pieces and bruised with the flat side of a knife

1 1-inch-piece ginger, peeled, cut into 3 slices and bruised with the flat side of a knife

1 1/2 cups fresh chicken stock or store-bought low- sodium chicken broth

3 carrots, peeled, cut on the diagonal into 2/3-inch pieces

1 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut milk or cow’s milk

1 yellow onion, cut into thin wedges

1 medium sweet potato (about 1 pound), peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes

1/2 cup asian basil leaves, cut in half

8 sprigs cilantro, cut into 2-inch pieces

2 scallions, chopped

Combine 2 tablespoons of curry powder and salt in bowl. Add chicken and turn to coat evenly. Set aside for 30 minutes.

Heat oil in medium pot over moderate heat. Add shallot, garlic, chile paste and the remaining 1 tablespoon curry powder. Stir until fragrant, about 10 seconds. Add chicken and cook until the edges of the pieces are golden, 3 to 4 minutes. Add fish sauce, sugar, lemon grass, ginger and chicken stock. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat. Add carrots and cook for 10 minutes. Add coconut milk, onion and sweet potato and cook until vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes. Transfer to bowl. Garnish with Asian basil, cilantro and scallions. Serve.

Mixed vegetables with lemon grass

Rau Xeo Chay

Serves 4

Vegetable oil, for frying

4 ounces solid tofu, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

3 lemon grass stalks, finely chopped

2 large garlic cloves, crushed and finely chopped

1 leek, white part only, thinly sliced

1/2 pound mustard greens, thinly sliced

3 dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked and sliced

2 1/2 ounces oyster mushrooms, torn

1/4 pound snow peas

1 bunch of watercress

6 fresh baby corn

1 long mild red chile, thinly sliced

1/2 cup vegetable stock

1 tablespoon light soy sauce

1 teaspoon brown granulated sugar

1 tablespoon vietnamese fish sauce

Salt and pepper

Heat about 1/2 inch of oil in a wok and add tofu. Cook until golden on all sides. Remove and drain on kitchen paper.

Drain all but 1 tablespoon of oil from wok and reheat it. Add lemon grass, garlic and leek and stir-fry for about 1 minute, then add remaining vegetables, a few at a time, stirring constantly. Add stock, soy sauce, sugar and fish sauce, stir and cover. Cook over moderate heat for about 6 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in fried tofu, season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve hot.

Litchi sorbet

Kem Trai Vai

Makes 1 quart

5 20-ounce cans litchis in heavy syrup, drained, juice reserved

1/3 cup sugar

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Measure 1/3 cup of litchi syrup and set aside. Drain litchis. (Save the extra syrup to flavor iced tea or to drink.)

Combine 1/3 cup reserved syrup and sugar in small saucepan and heat until sugar dissolves. Remove from heat and set aside.

Place litchis in a blender and process as finely as possible. Add syrup mixture and lemon juice and process for 1 minute. Strain mixture through fine-mesh sieve into bowl. Using back of spoon, mash fruit to extract as much juice as possible. Cover litchi mixture and refrigerate for at least 4 hours. Transfer to ice-cream maker and freeze according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Saigon cooler

Serves 4

20-30 fresh raspberries

Crushed ice (enough to fill 1 pint cocktail shaker)

1 ounce gin

1/2 ounce chambord (wild raspberry liqueur)

4 teaspoons cranberry juice

2 teaspoons simple syrup

Soda water

Lime wedge or slice of star fruit, for garnish

In mortar and pestle, mash raspberries into smooth puree.

Fill shaker with ice and add all ingredients except for soda water and garnish. Place lid on and shake vigorously, about 30 seconds.

Fill highball glass with fresh ice and strain cocktail in slowly. Fill to top with soda water.

Garnish with either lime wedge or slice of star fruit. Serve immediately.

Bam-Bou Bellini

Serves 4

Kiwi fruit

1/2 teaspoon sugar (optional)

Crushed ice (enough to fill 1 pint cocktail shaker)

4 ounces champagne

Peel (if necessary), then puree kiwi. If fruit isn’t quite ripe, try adding half teaspoon sugar.

Fill half of cocktail shaker with crushed ice. Add roughly 2 ounces of fruit puree. Slowly pour in Champagne and gently stir for about 10 seconds.

Strain cocktail into champagne flute. Serve immediately.

*

Recipes adapted from “Pleasures of the Vietnamese Table,” by Mai Pham (HarperCollins, 2001); “Lemongrass and Lime: New Vietnamese Cooking,” by Mark Reed (Ten Speed Press, 2001); and “The Vietnamese Collection,” by Jackup Brown (Hamlyn, 2001).