Some Assembly Required – Bánh Xèo

Across the bridges from the beaches of Da Nang is a bustling city devoid of tourists and home to over 1 million Vietnamese. I had missed the opportunity to take an overnight train south to Nha Trang and was planning to be on the first train the next morning so I needed to stay nearby the station. I found a little boutique hotel apartment half a kilometre south of the station called The Oriental and got a food recommendation from the young desk attendant. Up until then, I had relied on ordering with my eyes or sticking to the things I knew, but now with her recommendation, I had the opportunity to explore Vietnam’s wider cuisine. The local dish she suggested I try, along with a pinned location of where to find it on Google Maps, was called Bánh Xèo.

Following the map led me down to the end of a narrow alleyway with signs hanging on either side, all leading to small eateries and all serving Bánh Xèo. On the map, this small alleyway was called K280 Hoàng Diêu but they may as well have named it Bánh Xèo Alley. This was a common thing in Vietnam. Most restaurants that cater to tourists have a wide menu, but local eateries tend to specialize in just one or two things.

Bánh Xèo had been described to me as ‘crispy pancake’. When I entered, there was the usual exchange of awkward but inviting smiles and I was politely led to a table. An eatery, such as this, needs to be distinguished from a restaurant. An eatery is food-focused and much of the charm and ambience of a restaurant is completely stripped away. Unnatural blue lights create a haze that is brighter than it needs to be, the tables are cheap and tilty, and the chairs are simple plastic stools. An eatery is not a place to while away the hours. Simply eat your food and go about your day. It’s efficient. Because the expectation is to have people return, but not stay, it means that the speed of delivery and the quality of the food they serve has to be tops.

Even before I could finish sitting down a plate of greens, some shredded daikon and carrot, and some indistinguishable white sheets, were placed in front of me. A man came around offering small sticks with minced meat at the end that looked tasty and asked me how many I wanted. There were the usual pepper pastes and fish sauces that you’d find on any Vietnamese table and in a few moments, without so much as taking my order or asking me what I wanted, four crispy pancakes lightly filled with small shrimps and sprouts were placed in front of me along with a tangy peanut, satay-like, sauce.

I had chopsticks at the ready so this seemed simple enough. I picked up some greens and chomped down. Then I took a small taste of the daikon and carrot. I courageously dipped the meat in the satay sauce and took a bite. Tackling the pancake was a different matter. I have become adept over the years using chopsticks but it’s not as if I ever possessed any natural proclivity when it came to manipulating them, and the size and awkward shape and texture of the pancakes meant that getting them up to my face was a challenge. To get the angle right, it meant lifting the pancake straight up and maneuvering my head underneath and inhaling the whole pancake in one great bite. Not all of it got in.

Instinctively, when you do something so clumsy, you look around to see who noticed. I caught the eye of a man about my age sitting with two women who I would have guessed to be his wife and her friend, or sister,  and who were talking away with one another and not really paying that much attention to him. I didn’t speak any Vietnamese and I don’t imagine that he spoke any English, but from the look in his eye, it was clear that we understood each other. Watch me, his eyes said.

He reached for one of the white sheets and then turned his gaze to the two women and nodded as a gesture to indicate that his attention was with them and not with some stranger at the other end of the eatery. Allowing the sheet to rest lightly on his open palm he placed a small amount of the greens and the daikon and carrot inside. He then placed one of the pancakes on top and spread a small amount of chili paste on top. Placing his other hand on one side, and with a deft flick of his wrist, he then rolled the sheet of rice paper trapping all of the ingredients inside. From there, the finished roll was easy to handle and having completed his mission he took a sideways glance away from the two ladies to make sure that I had noticed, he dipped the roll into the sauce and took a bite.

One lesson from across the open hall is all that it really takes. I mimicked his movements as best as I could and was overjoyed with the results of my first attempt. My roll was so compact and easy to manipulate and, by the time I was ready to dip it, I turned to look at my teacher and offered a polite grin of satisfaction at the results. I was somewhat surprised at how flawlessly I had achieved such perfect results on my first attempt, but the look on my teacher’s face when he caught my eye was full of confidence and self-assuredness as if to say, If I didn’t think you were up to it, I would not have offered to teach you in the first place.

By the end of my meal, I was experimenting with how to fill each roll, testing out different combinations of different fillings, doubling up or omitting some ingredients, as well as flirting with dolloping different sauces and pastes. I left the eatery and returned to my hotel with a full belly and brimming with confidence.