The Homecoming Meal

QUOI SON, Vietnam — I squint as I gaze out over the lush green landscape before me as the ferry docks in this small village near My Tho, about 50 miles south of Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon. Rice fields span the horizon, punctuated here and there by coconut palms and zigzag waterways bouncing silvery reflections across the plains.

The sun is scorching hot, and I’m weary from hours of driving on potholed roads, but I’m wildly excited. My heart is beating fast; I’m nervous. Soon, I will be seeing my grandmother for the first time in more than 20 years. It’s the moment I have been waiting for.

She’s a tall, kind woman, my ba noi. My 97-year-old grandmother shows outwardly what she is on the inside: compassionate, perky, almost naively positive. She laughs heartily and every time she does, her tiny nose wrinkles, her eyes smile and her laughter resonates in the room.

At least, that’s how I like to remember my grandmother.

The last time I had seen her, she wasn’t so jovial. It was April 1975, just days before Communist tanks rolled toward Saigon. My family and I were about to be evacuated, along with thousands of others.

Just as we were leaving, my grandmother, who was staying behind, came running out, crying as I’d never seen anyone cry before. Leaning against the front gate of our home and beating her head against a post, she bewailed our fate. Why had the war turned out this way, she cried; how long would we be separated?

We agonized over leaving but feared for our lives if we stayed, because my father was a high-ranking official in the South Vietnamese government.

After fighting our way through the chaos and pandemonium at the Saigon airport, we finally boarded a military cargo plane for the airlift to the U.S.

When the plane took off, we were speechless and torn, wondering about those who were left behind, crying and screaming on the runway. When my mind flashed back to the last images of my grandmother, I became deeply distressed, anguished, even angry.

*

Now, 22 years later, I’m returning to Vietnam for the first time to see my beloved grandmother. Even though I have dreamed of going back since the day I arrived in America years ago, I had never worked up the courage. I couldn’t face the past. Until now.

Even though Quoi Son is my ancestral village--both my parents and grandparents were born here--I was never allowed to set foot in this area during the war. By the time I was a teenager, fierce battles had broken out nearby, and one never dared to venture here, where one flag would fly during the day and another at night. During the Tet offensive in 1968, my grandmother’s home was burned down, apparently to keep soldiers from hiding under her roof.

Quoi Son is now a peaceful village where families still farm the land the way their ancestors did--by hand, with buffalo by their side. The most precious crop of the land, rice, dominates this delta, but coconut, longans, custard apples, mangoes and pineapples are becoming equally important because they bring in more cash.

At the public square near the ferry, the market bustles with fervor. Although it’s packed with dozens of old buses, motorcycle taxis and xe lams (Vespas with passenger trailers), vendors still manage to squeeze through and hawk everything from trai thanh long, or dragon fruit (which tastes like very sweet kiwi), to live chickens, fresh noodles and banana leaf-wrapped rice cakes.

My grandmother lives five miles down the main road from the market. It’s been raining on and off the last few days and the roads are muddy. Our driver, worried about damaging his 1980 Mazda van, drives slowly and cautiously. Around here, cars are prized because few people can afford them.

As we drive along the bumpy road, I keep thinking about all the miles that my grandmother must have walked to catch the ferry to visit us when we lived in Saigon. (Back then there was no public transportation from the ferry to her home.) She never came empty-handed, always showing up at our doorstep with three or four heavy baskets of live chickens, fresh mushrooms, bamboo shoots and dozens of other foods she’d spent days preparing. To my grandmother, food is the only expression of love that matters, and the more you care, the more you give.

My uncle and aunt, who are traveling with me today, point to my grandmother’s house, the one with the big pomelo tree in front. We pull over and before the van even stops, a crowd of relatives runs out to greet us. We all embrace, then laugh and cry. For a moment it’s like a dream, until I look again at their wrinkled faces and graying hair and realize that this is all quite real.

No longer able to wait, I dash into the house where my grandmother has been waiting for me since dawn. There she is, sitting on her bed. She murmurs something, throws her skinny arms into the air and beams with a big smile. At 97, she’s frail and weak, but her eyes sparkle and her skin glows pink. She’s so overjoyed it’s hard to tell whether she’s smiling or crying. Perhaps both. While others watch in tearful silence, we hug each other until the moment seems awkward.

*

Co Bay, the aunt who lives with my grandmother, embraces me and tells me I look just like my father. She hurries off to the kitchen and returns with my favorite drink, coconut juice served in the shell. The last time I tasted coconut juice this sweet and fragrant was when my grandmother brought it to us in Saigon.

The kitchen looks exactly as I remember it. There are no walls, just a thatched roof supported by large beams. Inside, a low-standing wooden divan doubles as a kitchen counter and a bed for afternoon naps. Next to it is a screened-in cupboard. There are two large brick stoves and a barbecue pit, all fueled by the coconut husks gathered from the plantation. The burning husks create a lot of smoke, but the delta breeze blows it right out to the fields. Nothing has changed in 20 years.

The food hasn’t changed, either. In fact, Co Bay has been up since the crack of dawn to cook a special meal for me, similar to the ones Grandmother used to prepare before arthritis weakened her hands and legs. As the oldest daughter, Co Bay, now 60, moved in to care for my grandmother more than 30 years ago. These days, in addition to cooking and running the house, she also helps care for her eldest son’s family.

Because she can’t leave the stove, we all gather on the divan to talk and watch as Co Bay cuts and chops. At one end of the divan are a platter of areca nuts and betel leaves--which elderly women chew on like tobacco--and a ceramic teapot kept warm in a hollowed-out coconut shell. Somehow, wherever my grandmother goes, there’s always such a teapot by her side.

Before making cari ga, or chicken curry, my aunt must first make some fresh coconut milk. With a long knife similar to a machete, Co Bay cracks the coconut by hammering it along the center. When the crack appears, she pries it open and drains the clear, fragrant juice into a large bowl. The coconut, separated into halves, is ready for grating.

Sitting with one leg up, Co Bay uses her foot to secure the coconut shredder against the divan. It’s a simple tool, just a long, flat metal stick with a serrated end like a large apple corer. Applying even pressure and speed, she pushes the coconut against the shredder, turning it round and round as she grates. Soon the bowl underneath is filled with a mound of soft white flakes.

Co Bay soaks the shredded coconut in hot water for about 20 minutes, then squeezes the coconut milk out through a piece of cheesecloth. Then she repeats the process. This second pressing, though not as creamy as the first, will be used to stretch the curry sauce.

Cooking the cari ga is actually quite simple. The chicken, freshly dressed this morning, is cut into bite-size pieces and sauteed in oil with shallots, garlic and curry powder. The bones and skin are left in to make the sauce richer. After being seasoned with fish sauce, lemongrass and bay leaves, the chicken is slowly simmered in the coconut milk. Cassava, carrots and sweet potatoes are added toward the end so they don’t overcook.

Then Co Bay prepares banh xeo--or sizzling rice crepes, one of the favorite dishes of my childhood. The crepes (they look more like oversized omelets) are made with rice flour, turmeric and coconut milk and filled with shrimp, pork, onions and mushrooms.

Co Bay first sautes the shallots, pork and shrimp in a wok until they change color. Then she slowly pours in the batter, twirling the wok so the crepe will be thin and crisp. A handful of wild mushrooms, bean sprouts and cooked mung beans goes on top. The crepe is covered for about a minute, just enough to wilt the vegetables, then it’s folded like an omelet and transferred to a platter.

As I watch, I can’t help wanting to eat the crepes right as they come off the stove. The subtle aroma of turmeric and coconut milk waft enticingly through the air. But I know I must wait.

In the back room, my cousin Mung is preparing the rice paper-wrapped salad rolls goi cuon, an all-time favorite in our home. To soften the rice paper, she dips it in the coconut juice that Co Bay saved earlier. My grandmother has always insisted on using coconut juice to soak the rice paper because it enhances the flavor. It’s actually more plentiful than fresh water in many remote areas, where the only fresh water is what was collected from the last rain.

Mung’s goi cuons are beautiful, with balanced ingredients. She layers the rice paper with shrimp, pork, lettuce, mint, bean sprouts and rice noodles and rolls it into tight cylinders. Every once in a while, she gives the hammock nearby a little push, lulling her baby into an even deeper sleep while she finishes rolling.

Back in the main room, lunch is about to begin. The barbecued freshwater prawns, their shells still glowing hot, give off a smoky shrimp aroma, and the table is a feast for the eyes as well as the nose. Against the bright yellow of the chicken curry and the crepes is the cool green table salad of lettuce leaves and half a dozen herbs, such as rau ram, mint and anise basil. The salad rolls look refreshing; the rice soup with duck looks hearty and satisfying. And the noodles with shredded pork and mint offer great contrasting flavors.

*

It’s hard to decide what to eat first, so I reach for my favorite, the crepes. Pulling off a piece and wrapping it with lettuce and herbs, I dip it in nuoc cham, the sweet-and-sour dipping sauce that graces every Vietnamese table. Immediately, wonderful sensations burst in my mouth--soft, cool, sweet, sour and spicy. I’m flushed with happiness, living my childhood all over again.

Now arms and hands fly back and forth, passing plates from one side to another. I savor each and every bite slowly, contemplatively, as if to stretch this unbelievable moment. As I savor the delicacies, I notice that my grandmother--a devout Buddhist who has become a strict vegetarian in her later years--isn’t eating. But somehow, I can tell from the look in her eyes that she, too, is thinking this is one of the best meals of her life.

After lunch, I hand my grandmother a small tape recorder so she can talk to my father, her eldest son. Hands slightly trembling, she grabs it and speaks slowly into it as if her words might not all be recorded. She begins with her usual good wishes, but just when she directs her comments to my father, her voice begins to crack.

Tears stream down her face. She can no longer utter another word. It seems odd that someone of her years, perseverance and wisdom can still cry, almost like a child lost and confused. She hands back the recorder, and I nervously brush it aside. I feel anguished, almost guilty, for upsetting my grandmother.

My eyes drift across the room to the family altar where a picture of my grandfather stands in the middle. He died a long time ago, when my father was only 12. But my grandmother keeps his spirit alive by remembering him almost daily with prayers, incense sticks and offerings of food and wine.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother struggled to raise eight kids while single-handedly running the family plantation. Her day began when the roosters crowed and ended when everyone else was fast asleep. When she was home she cooked and cleaned; otherwise she was out in the fields, harvesting coconuts or delivering them to market.

Even though she didn’t like to part with her hard-earned money, she never thought twice about sending my father to the best schools or tucking a little money into our pockets. At night, we often huddled around her to listen to spooky stories about the plantation. Sometimes the stories were so scary we couldn’t sleep for hours.

My grandmother doesn’t remember much from those days, especially today, when there’s so much excitement.

After lunch, I ask my grandmother if she wants to spend a few days with me in Saigon. At first she refuses, saying she’s too old to travel. Moreover, in traditional thinking, a home is sacred, providing shelter to the deceased as well as to the living. To leave one’s home for an extended period is like abandoning one’s ancestors. And to die away from home is one of the greatest misfortunes.

But a few minutes later, I notice my grandmother heading toward her room, walking slowly and holding on to the furniture for support. Apparently she’s decided to go. It shocks and surprises everyone.

By now Mung is at her side, weaving my grandmother’s thinning silver hair into a bun while her grandsons help her slip into some shoes. Other grandchildren wipe her face, arms and hands. My aunt packs an overnight bag: an extra set of clothes, water and a small container of Tiger Balm ointment. Other relatives congregate to watch as we all help my grandmother get ready.

By now the neighbors have heard about her excursion and have come to see her off. She’s a respected elder in the village. Once, when she suffered a coma after a fall, the entire village went to her bedside and prayed for her recovery.

During our ride back to Saigon, I can’t help thinking about how glad I am to have made this trip home to see how my grandmother miraculously has overcome and survived all the obstacles. Physically, she is a lot older and weaker, but spiritually, I think, she’s never been stronger.

I ask if there’s any one thing she wishes for. She smiles quietly and says that for her 100th birthday, she’d like to have a reunion with all her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Most of all, she says, she’d like to see my father.

My eyes well up with tears. Even though it’s been more than 20 years, my father is still so traumatized by the war that he has not gone back. Perhaps the normalization of U.S.-Vietnamese relations will help heal his wounds and change his mind.

If I can make her wish come true and somehow carry on the spirit that she has embodied all her life, I’ll be happy because I will have done something truly special for this kind, tall woman, my ba noi.

pullquote 1:

The kitchen looks exactly as I remember it. There are no walls, just a thatched roof supported by large beams. . . . The burning husks create a lot of smoke, but the delta breeze blows it right out to the fields. Nothing has changed in 20 years.

pullquote 3:

I can’t help wanting to eat the crepes right as they come off the stove. The subtle aroma of turmeric and coconut milk waft enticingly through the air. But I know I must wait.

pullquote 3:

wonderful sensations burst in my mouth--soft, cool, sweet, sour and spicy. I’m flushed with happiness, living my childhood all over again.

STEAK AND VIETNAMESE TABLE SALAD

In Vietnam, table salads are served with many dishes. The foods are wrapped in the salad lettuce and rice paper and eaten by hand. For more color, add thin strips of carrots and daikon, thinly sliced star fruit and different kinds of Vietnamese herbs such as rau ram, available at Asian grocery stores and farmers markets. Here, we’ve added marinated strip steak to roll in the salad. The table salad, however, is used alone with many Vietnamese dishes, including the accompanying Sizzling Rice Flour Crepes recipe. The rice paper can be used instead of lettuce leaves, in addition to the lettuce or omitted.

STEAK

1 (6- to 8-ounce) strip steak

2 tablespoons oil

3 tablespoons soy sauce

1 tablespoon minced lemon grass

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

SALAD

2 heads red leaf lettuce, leaves separated

1/2 cucumber, sliced very thin on diagonal

2 cups bean sprouts

6 mint sprigs

6 Thai basil sprigs

10 cilantro sprigs

24 (6-inch round) rice paper sheets (optional)

1 cup Nuoc Cham Dipping Sauce (see separate recipe, H6)

STEAK

Slice steak into strips 1 1/2 inches thick and 4 inches long.

Combine oil, soy sauce, lemon grass, sugar, garlic and pepper. Pour over steak and marinate 1 to 2 hours.

Drain and pan-fry quickly until browned, about 1 minute on each side.

SALAD

Arrange lettuce leaves, cucumber slices, bean sprouts, mint, basil and cilantro on serving platter.

Moisten rice paper sheets in warm water to make more pliable and place stack on serving plate.

To eat, tear off large piece of lettuce, top with rice paper and fill with cucumber, sprouts, herbs and steak. Wrap into small roll and dip in Nuoc Cham.

4 servings. Each serving without sauce:

175 calories; 785 mg sodium; 26 mg cholesterol; 11 grams fat; 8 grams carbohydrates; 13 grams protein; 1.03 grams fiber.

RICE PAPER-WRAPPED SALAD ROLLS

Salad rolls, traditionally filled with juicy shrimp and pork, can be stuffed with just about anything, including grilled chicken, salmon or leftover Thanksgiving turkey. Rice paper sheets tear easily, so keep extra on hand just in case.

1/2 pound pork shoulder

Water

Salt

1/8 pound rice vermicelli

12 shrimp with shells on

8 (12-inch round) rice paper sheets

1 small head red leaf lettuce, leaves separated

1 cup bean sprouts

1/2 cup mint leaves plus extra for garnish

1 cup Hoisin Peanut Sauce or Nuoc Cham (see separate recipe)

1/4 cup chopped peanuts

2 tablespoons ground chile paste

Cilantro sprigs (optional)

Cook pork in boiling salted water until just tender, 45 to 55 minutes. Set aside to cool, then slice very thin.

Cook rice vermicelli in boiling water 1 to 5 minutes. Rinse and drain. Set aside.

Cook shrimp in salted boiling water until just cooked through, about 1 minute. Refresh in cold water. Shell, devein and cut in half lengthwise. Set aside.

Just before making rolls, set up salad roll “station.” Fill large mixing bowl with hot water. Have more hot water handy to add to bowl if temperature drops below 110 degrees. Choose open area on counter and arrange in order rice paper, hot water, damp cheesecloth and platter holding pork, shrimp, vermicelli, lettuce, sprouts and mint.

Working with 2 rice paper sheets at a time, dip 1 sheet, edge first, in hot water and turn until completely wet, about 10 seconds. Lay sheet on cheesecloth and stretch slightly to remove wrinkles. Wet second rice paper sheet and place it alongside first. (This enables you to work with first rice paper sheet while second is being set.)

Line bottom third of wet rice sheet with 3 shrimp halves, cut side up, and top with 2 slices pork. Make sure ingredients are neatly placed in straight row. Roll piece of lettuce into thin cylinder and place on top, making sure it covers length of rice paper. (Note: You may need to use only 1/2 a leaf if it’s too big.)

Top with 1 tablespoon vermicelli, 1 tablespoon bean sprouts and 4 to 5 mint leaves. Make sure ingredients are not clumped together in center but evenly distributed.

Using fingers, press down on ingredients while using thumbs to fold the bottom edge over filling. (Note: Pressing is important because it tightens roll.) With fingers still pressing down, fold 2 sides over and roll into cylinder about 1 1/2 inches wide and 5 to 6 inches long. Finish making all remaining rolls. (Note: You can make them in advance up to this point and cover with a damp towel.)

To serve, cut rolls into 4 equal pieces and place the rolls upright on appetizer plate. Serve with Hoisin Peanut Sauce and garnish with sprinkling of chopped peanuts and ground chile paste. Garnish plate with mint or cilantro sprigs if desired.

8 servings. Each serving without sauce and garnish:

125 calories; 152 mg sodium; 62 mg cholesterol; 5 grams fat; 8 grams carbohydrates; 11 grams protein; 0.26 gram fiber.

SIZZLING RICE FLOUR CREPES (Banh Xeo)

Banh xeo resembles an oversized omelet and is traditionally made with shrimp and pork, but any meat (or vegetable) combination would be delicious. For authentic flavor, use mustard greens instead of lettuce leaves to wrap the crepes. For ease of assembly and to help create even portions, arrange the filling ingredients in neat rows on a platter or tray before cooking. To enjoy this dish the traditional way, tear the crepe into bite-size pieces and wrap in lettuce and herbs. (Check the Vietnamese Table Salad recipe for ingredients.) Dip in Vietnamese Dipping Sauce and eat.

BATTER

2 cups rice flour

1/4 cup cornstarch

1 1/2 cups coconut milk or milk

1 3/4 cups water

4 green onions, thinly sliced

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

2 teaspoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon curry powder

2 1/2 teaspoons turmeric

FILLING

6 tablespoons oil

1 onion, thinly sliced

1/2 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast

20 shrimp, peeled, deveined and halved lengthwise

5 1/3 cups bean sprouts

4 cups white mushrooms, thinly sliced

Vietnamese Table Salad (see separate recipe)

Nuoc Cham Dipping Sauce (see separate recipe)

BATTER

Whisk together flour, cornstarch, coconut milk, water, green onions, salt, sugar, curry and turmeric. Set aside.

FILLING

Heat 2 teaspoons oil in 10- or 12-inch nonstick skillet or omelet pan over high heat. Add 2 tablespoons sliced onion, 2 tablespoons chicken pieces and 5 shrimp halves, tossing and cooking until shrimp turns opaque, about 20 seconds.

Whisk batter well, then ladle 1/2 cup into pan with shrimp and chicken, tilting so batter completely covers surface. Crepe should be quite thin. Reduce heat to low. Neatly pile about 2/3 cup bean sprouts and 1/2 cup mushrooms on 1 side of crepe, closer to center than edge. Cover with lid and cook about 3 minutes, checking once or twice to make sure bottom doesn’t burn. Remove lid and continue to cook crepe until batter dries out, about 2 minutes.

Lift side of crepe without bean sprouts and gently fold over. Using spatula, gently slide onto large plate. Wipe pan clean and cook remaining crepes.

Serve with Table Salad and Nuoc Cham.

8 crepes. Each crepe, without Table Salad or Nuoc Cham:

406 calories; 492 mg sodium; 39 mg cholesterol; 21 grams fat; 43 grams carbohydrates; 14 grams protein; 1.61 grams fiber.

HOISIN-PEANUT DIPPING SAUCE

I have tested and eaten many versions of this sauce, but I still think this one I developed for our Lemon Grass restaurant is the easiest and most delicious. It’s also great with grilled meats. For a more complex flavor, add sauteed garlic and ginger before reducing the sauce.

1 cup hoisin sauce or ground bean sauce

2/3 cup water plus more if needed

1/4 cup rice vinegar

1/4 cup coconut milk, optional

1/3 cup pureed or finely minced onion

1 tablespoon ground chile paste or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped peanuts

Combine hoisin sauce, 2/3 cup water, vinegar, coconut milk and onion in small saucepan. Bring to boil. Reduce heat to very low and simmer until sauce is slightly thickened, 10 to 12 minutes. Add little more water if it gets too thick. Transfer to bowl.

When ready to serve, pour sauce into small ramekins and garnish each with chile paste and roasted peanuts. Sauce will keep 1 week in refrigerator.

Makes about 2 cups. Each tablespoon:

16 calories; 792 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 0 fat; 3 grams carbohydrates; 0 protein; 0.22 gram fiber.

NUOC CHAM (Vietnamese Dipping Sauce)

This sweet-and-sour dipping sauce is a staple condiment of the Vietnamese kitchen. Serve it with salad rolls and spring rolls or just drizzle on any noodle and rice dish.

1 small clove garlic

1/2 teaspoon ground chile paste

1 to 2 fresh Thai bird chiles or to taste

1/4 cup fish sauce

3/4 cup hot water

2 tablespoons lime juice with pulp

1/4 cup sugar

2 tablespoons very finely shredded carrots

Pound garlic, chile paste and bird chiles into paste in mortar with pestle. (Note: Garlic and chiles may be finely minced by hand.)

Combine chile mixture with fish sauce, water, lime juice and sugar. Stir well. Spoon into ramekins and garnish with shredded carrots.

Makes 1 cup. Each tablespoon:

19 calories; 180 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 0 fat; 4 grams carbohydrates; 1 gram protein; 0.04 gram fiber.

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Kitchen Tip

Called nam pla in Thai, nuoc mam in Vietnamese, petis in Filipino and tuk trey in Cambodian, fish sauce is simply the salt brine in which fish have been pickled. It has a loud fishy aroma, and in small quantities it gives an indispensable authentic flavor to many Southeast Asian dishes. You can find fish sauce at Asian grocery stores and sometimes in the Asian foods sections of supermarkets.

* Kotobuki condiment dishes and tea pot from Bristol Kitchens, South Pasadena.