After spending six hours lesson-planning in the Indochine café, I was craving the outside world. My stomach called out for some type of substance, while my mind was set on a type of food I could order from my chi or co – something that would bring me back to Hue civilization after a day of Western comfort.
Dark clouds sponge-painted across grey and pink skies threatened to beat me home. I jumped on my bike and sped down An Duong Vuong, determined to make it Ho Dac Di, the college-student food mecca, before the clouds would pour and force me to acquiescence to my typical routine of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Dragonflies flew low, their wings whispering into my ears, as xe may horns blasted through bicycles, motorbikes, street vendors, and pedestrians.
Just as voluminous clouds blanketed the sky, my bike rode up and stopped next to the unlit sign that read “Banh Canh Ca Loc.” The alleyway restaurant was safely covered by blue tarp in case the rain decided to interrupt the patrons’ meal. At this hour, couples and students on break before their next class sat at small plastic red tables and stools. One table was open, so I made my way down the ramp, requested “mot to banh canh,” and sat my laptop bag and myself on separate stools.
Before me sat a plate of 10 quail eggs, a plate of clumped salt and pepper, fresh ground red chili, and cut peppers swimming in nuoc mam. My stomach wanted to get a headstart on the quail eggs, but my tongue knew that would ruin the overall experience.
The banh canh ca loc came in a medium-sized white bowl, steaming into my nostrils and under my palms as I warmed up my hands before grabbing the spoon. After wiping it clean, I set it down to peel the eggs and marinate them in the soup. As my hands worked around the shell, my eyes stared at the yellow-orange broth and mix between clear and white noodles, as the noodles are handmade and prepared on the spot. I smoothed my fingers around the white of the eggs to catch any remnants of the shell, then dropped them in the broth. I added a half-spoon of red chili, recalling that the last time I had a full spoon, I was too busy sniffling to fully enjoy my meal.
I spooned around the noodles, counting the ca loc to keep in mind how many bites of noodles I would take in ratio to the amount of fish present in the bowl. Then I divided the eggs in half and watched the broth swarm around the yolk to distribute it around the bowl. It was ready. With one shallow scoop of three noodles and a piece of ca loc, I took my first bite. All of a sudden, the six-hours of isolation from the civilization, the strenuous bike ride home, the work behind peeling the eggs was worth it. My stomach churned – whether it was upset with how much chili was present, or fighting to evenly distribute the first bite, I’m unsure of, but I continued to consume it to ease the tension either way.
After all the noodles, fish, and eggs were gone, I couldn’t tell if I was sniffling because it was so spicy, or because I was sad that the experience had ended. Before I handed over 12,000 (10,000 for the bowl, 1,000 for each egg), I lifted the bowl to my lips until the only thing left was black pepper resting at the bottom of the bowl. Resisting temptation to buy another, I left the alleyway with a quick nod and smile to the cook, who squatted over a red plastic stool with a giant pot of banh canh to her right – big enough to bathe in – and rolled-dough in front of her. With a renewed appreciation for my chi's labor, I jumped back on my bike and whizzed through the cold, warmed by a full stomach and a heavier heart.
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