12 Miles, a Day on the Town

Monday was our first day with nothing planned! As is our custom, we went off to a local market first thing.  So many things to see and cook—even if, alas, no kitchen! Pale white frogs, hot pink dragon fruit, stalls of dried mushrooms and fish; of spices, of nuts. Fish flapped in plastic tubs of running water. Live eels slithered in a dry tin tub. Not that Michelle would ever cook eel.

As the city opened for business, we wandered through the dense streets, dodging motorbikes (they use the sidewalk at will), stopping in at a musty, disheveled antique shop where Michelle found a tiny, beautifully colored laughing Buddha that she will always regret not buying. In unseen courtyards, roosters crowed; down one alley, we saw half a dozen in their domed wire cages. Because the Vietnamese are not allowed into the casinos built for foreign visitors, Khoi told us, they have to gamble on something else, and for too many cockfighting is the game of choice.

We strolled along the river to the the Emerald Jade Pagoda, a fusty, begrimed old Buddhist temple full of life-sized statues and figurines and people praying to them. In the large peaceful courtyard, people sat in the shade and a square pond held many hefty catfish that came to a seething boil as a woman tossed them handfuls of a snack food. A whole population of turtles--maybe fifty or sixty or more, from palm-sized on up—lived in another deep enclosure.

On we walked. Ho Chi Minh City is a big, busy, exhaust-scented city, with people going about their business in every direction. It’s not a great walking town—every street crossing is an adventure and the uneven sidewalks are often repurposed for motorbike parking.  

We stopped out of hunger in a place that advertised Bahn Mi, but we misunderstood something because the meat and egg came spread out on plates with a roll alongside. Not great. Somehow, we were still sidestepping the famously good food of Vietnam.  But even these deconstructed banh mi’s were fuel, and kept us going, down to District One, through parks where we saw several wedding parties being photographed—but we were not fooled! Here, Khoi told us, wedding photos are taken a month or so before the wedding (because, he said, they take up too much time on the wedding day itself). Dresses and suits are rented, photos are shot, and a month later, different dresses and suits are rented for the actual ceremony.

On we pushed, past the now-familiar landmarks (Notre Dame, Hotel de Ville) to a street of antique stores, where Michelle hunted in vain for another laughing Buddha.Another antiques area, deep in a market specializing in hardware, sold mostly war goods, most no doubt now replicas: uniforms, helmets, fetishistic cigarette lighters and service academy rings.

By then we’d walked around 8 miles. Khoi had given us the name of the city’s best banh mi stall—Hyunh Hoa Sandwich Shop—so we wound our way over there, with the idea that we’d buy a couple and head back to the hotel. We arrived when the sandwich makers were still setting up, stacking pounds and pounds of sliced, processed meats on a metal shelf, with vats of pate, lettuce and herbs, cucumbers, mayonnaise, and chilis below. It was 15 minutes till opening, but people started lining up behind us. The rolls arrived and were tumbled in a square oven to crisp the crust.

We were chatting with a Vietnamese ex-pat from Toronto when, suddenly, production began: a sandwich was assembled and handed to the man beside us.  Two, please! These were big bulging things, made of many parts, wrapped in white paper, bagged in green plastic, and swung over to us.  

Walking back, we hit the park behind the Reunification Palace where women were sweeping up leaves from the tall shade trees. We bought drinks from a conveniently-placed vending machine (Jim tried a yogurt-flavored water, which was sweet with a faintly yeasty sourness, not terrible), found a bench, and set upon the sandwiches.

They were a lot to take in.  The pate, the 5 or 6 different meats.  The mayo creaminess. The cold cucumber and lettuce, the fresh herbs and pickled daikon.  The shattering crust. Here was a sandwich that drew you in deep. Michelle felt as if she was learning banh mi as she went along— and that she’d probably have to eat several  to really get the hang of this particular sandwich. Then, she hit a chili.  The former  Los Angeles Times food writer Charlie Perry once said that the flavor of chile-heat is pain, and that is what Michelle now experienced to a memorable degree. She fished out the culprits—slices of fresh red chile, seeds and veins intact—but it was some minutes before her system calmed down enough to allow another bite.  (She tried, but she never did finish more than half the sandwich.)

Back at the hotel, we let out our inner first world tourists: Michelle had a Thai massage (a different form of deep pain) and Jim had a gin and tonic by the pool, where the tiny genius piano player swam laps with her father. (“One more,” he’d say.)

Although it did not seem possible, by evening we became hungry again.  Jim did some research and made a reservation. We walked the mile + there.

Our food karma, it seemed, had finally shifted and we had our second good meal of the day.

At Chi Hoa Cuisine the smoky eggplant salad had peanuts, ginger and lemon grass;  and marinated, boned chicken thigh came cocooned in a thick, crispy, sticky-rice crust. Dip that in a little soy sauce! And what a perfect little langue de chat wafer stuck out of the coconut sorbet.

 Another mile plus back to the room brought us to a total of twelve miles walked and the end of a long happy lollygagging day.