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Location: Hanoi, Vietnam, Southeast Asia
I walked with intent, scanning each of the sidewalk vendors
for the characteristic yellow of the Vietnamese pancakes (Banh
Xeo) of whose taste I had recently grown so fond in Southeast
Asia. My brisk pace carried me beyond the labyrinth of guesthouses
and internet cafes and into the local markets of Hanoi.
The streets narrowed and swelled, the traffic pulsed into
chaotic intersections, and I deftly paused and shuffled across
the road in a living version of Frogger. My appetite told
me that I was close to finding the famed pancake as I rounded
a corner and the traffic disappeared. I was suddenly immersed
in a sea of headless bodies, topped only with the unmistakably
Vietnamese, conical hats. I had somehow avoided the capillaries
of the local market and was transported directly to the artery,
teeming with life…and death. The background noise had
shifted from squealing moto horns to shouts of spoken Vietnamese
amidst a metronomic cacophony of cleavers, pounding the cartilage
and bone of any animal that had once experienced a heartbeat
- a table of pig snouts on the left, a haphazardly discarded
rib cage on the right, bowls of chicken feet.
A vendor looked up from beneath her hat to see a lanky white
foreigner obviously lost on a street unaccustomed to foreign
tourists. She flashed a toothless smile, extended a handful
of carnage in my direction and returned to the operating table.
Beneath her feet a black, viscous liquid pulsed through the
gutters like the cup of Vietnamese ca phé pulsing through
my own veins.
As I circulated deeper into the heart of the maze, a light
rain began to fall and the distant cries of a soccer game
could be heard between the thwacks of meat cleavers. The distinct
odor singed my nose hairs as I maneuvered among baskets of
goods balanced precariously from the ends of wooden struts.
The struts bowed as they cut across the shoulders of women
who seemed not to notice - bananas, mangoes, noodles, ducks,
eels -"Hello sir, you buy! Special price! Sir! You buy
for girlfriend [giggle giggle]." I couldn't help but
think how a Western girl would respond to the gesture of a
half-dried eel or a bound duck.
Another corner and I stumbled over a mesh bag full of toads,
seemingly aware of their fates as the emanated heat from a
nearby cauldron convinced them to struggle at all costs. They
croaked negotiations to the escaped crabs scurrying sideways
down the pavement but the crabs seemed indifferent to such
efforts, knowing that they themselves were not yet out of
hot water. They had been liberated from aluminum tubs containing
thousands of their cousins but would still have to chance
survival in the bile-filled gutter. Reminding them of their
fate, a tray of fish heads stared disconnectedly into space
while buckets of prawns twitched with finality amidst bales
of dried noodles.
One more corner and these deathly images were erased by an
explosion of colorful fruits and vegetables - the aroma of
herbs uncurled the remains of putrid essence from my nose
and the rain ceased as though uninvited to this block.
My stomach reminded me once again that coffee drank with a
fork and the sight of a lifetime of protein did not in fact
fill the void exacerbated by my "take with food"
malaria medicine. I rounded a final corner and the market
disappeared as quickly as it had come to life. I abandoned
my search for the elusive pancake and settled for fried noodles
and beef, which were most certainly fresh!
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Travel Writers: In Search of the Vietnamese Pancake by
Jordan Watson
