orb as if it were a moving-picture show. Moonlight fell like fairy dust on the earth, the dark trees, the paddy-sea, on the upturned faces of the rich and the poor alike. Ever so slowly, the moon drew away, higher and higher, its features blurring in the distance.
Night snuggled around the waning party, and at last, it was time for
Quan Ho,
the lovers’ serenade. Folks drifted into the garden and seated themselves before the moonlit pond. Two choirs of nervous teenagers aligned themselves, boys to one side, girls on the other. Gangly lads tugged at their tunics, elbowing rivals. Panicky coughs. Abruptly they belted out the first chorus, crackling voices going in several directions at once. Line by line, they sorted themselves and found their momentum. Older boys crowed in their newly found baritones, singing for the audience, but trying to catch the girls’ eyes. As slight as spring vines, the girls, soon to be women, listened intently to the riddle posed, then huddled together, whispering, searching for a witty reply to be sung in equal rhymes. Hand in hand, they gathered themselves and released their winsome voices. They soared, trilling and spinning on threads of meanings. Back and forth, the village youths declared their adoration, flirting with wit, with improvised poetry, with ancient verses. Tradition led them with the lyrics of love, fidelity, obedience, and obligations. Grandparents and wizened elders smiled, for they too remembered wooing and being wooed beneath the Mid-Autumn Moon.
THE NORTH
1942
7. S EA G RUBS
I remembered there was a fortnight after the Autumn Harvest Moon when the edges of the sea thickened. That brief season saw many boats moored or hauled up for repairs. Fisher-folk rose in the violet night. The sea was hatching its lemon-hued grubs,
roui,
by the billions. Centipedes with tan lines running their inch-long backs churned the sandy bay. At the first light of dawn, folks waded into the soupy tidal marsh and simply scooped up
roui
in bamboo baskets. It was a crop that perished by noon.
Harvests, plantings, and seasonal delicacies marked country life and so it often seemed as if we had waited the whole year for the
roui
vendors to arrive at our door. The women had sat on buses all morning to rush their catch to us by midday. In the baskets, the top layer of grubs had died, their fragile casings spilling custard-like cream that congealed into a gooey brown sheet. Vendors dug beneath the surface for the live grubs.
Roui
was sold by the bowlful, thick as oatmeal.
Mother always came down into the kitchen to prepare her special
roui
patties. In a great bowl big enough to feed everyone in the estate, she beat eggs together with
roui,
grated mandarin orange peels, chopped shallots, and strips of black wood mushrooms, seasoned it with salt and pepper, and added clear noodles to hold the mixture together.
The moment she ladled the batter into the hot oil pan, everyone abandoned their chores and ambled to the kitchen. The scent of fried
roui
patties was irresistible. It woke the little ones from their naps and drew all us children, young and old, from our games. We crowded around the hot pan, jostling, begging, whining like pups and threatening to overturn the hot pan until we were fed.
There was no waiting for mealtime; folks devoured
cha roui
the instant it was ready. Such was its precious urgency. The men savored
cha roui
with pickles and rice wine. Mother and the Aunties ate
cha roui
rolled inside lettuce leaves and dipped in a mild lime-chili fish sauce. I loved mine hot and crunchy right from the pan. Crispy outside, soft and moist within, these were our custard pastries, our peasant’s seafood puffs.
It was incomparable, a singular taste that encapsulated my childhood in its entirety. Somewhere between the tangy mandarin and the sweetly caramelized shallots lay the essence of our misty, dark Ha Long Sea, a flavor I have not found anywhere else in the world.
THE SOUTH
1959
8. S AIGON N
Night snuggled around the waning party, and at last, it was time for
Quan Ho,
the lovers’ serenade. Folks drifted into the garden and seated themselves before the moonlit pond. Two choirs of nervous teenagers aligned themselves, boys to one side, girls on the other. Gangly lads tugged at their tunics, elbowing rivals. Panicky coughs. Abruptly they belted out the first chorus, crackling voices going in several directions at once. Line by line, they sorted themselves and found their momentum. Older boys crowed in their newly found baritones, singing for the audience, but trying to catch the girls’ eyes. As slight as spring vines, the girls, soon to be women, listened intently to the riddle posed, then huddled together, whispering, searching for a witty reply to be sung in equal rhymes. Hand in hand, they gathered themselves and released their winsome voices. They soared, trilling and spinning on threads of meanings. Back and forth, the village youths declared their adoration, flirting with wit, with improvised poetry, with ancient verses. Tradition led them with the lyrics of love, fidelity, obedience, and obligations. Grandparents and wizened elders smiled, for they too remembered wooing and being wooed beneath the Mid-Autumn Moon.
THE NORTH
1942
7. S EA G RUBS
I remembered there was a fortnight after the Autumn Harvest Moon when the edges of the sea thickened. That brief season saw many boats moored or hauled up for repairs. Fisher-folk rose in the violet night. The sea was hatching its lemon-hued grubs,
roui,
by the billions. Centipedes with tan lines running their inch-long backs churned the sandy bay. At the first light of dawn, folks waded into the soupy tidal marsh and simply scooped up
roui
in bamboo baskets. It was a crop that perished by noon.
Harvests, plantings, and seasonal delicacies marked country life and so it often seemed as if we had waited the whole year for the
roui
vendors to arrive at our door. The women had sat on buses all morning to rush their catch to us by midday. In the baskets, the top layer of grubs had died, their fragile casings spilling custard-like cream that congealed into a gooey brown sheet. Vendors dug beneath the surface for the live grubs.
Roui
was sold by the bowlful, thick as oatmeal.
Mother always came down into the kitchen to prepare her special
roui
patties. In a great bowl big enough to feed everyone in the estate, she beat eggs together with
roui,
grated mandarin orange peels, chopped shallots, and strips of black wood mushrooms, seasoned it with salt and pepper, and added clear noodles to hold the mixture together.
The moment she ladled the batter into the hot oil pan, everyone abandoned their chores and ambled to the kitchen. The scent of fried
roui
patties was irresistible. It woke the little ones from their naps and drew all us children, young and old, from our games. We crowded around the hot pan, jostling, begging, whining like pups and threatening to overturn the hot pan until we were fed.
There was no waiting for mealtime; folks devoured
cha roui
the instant it was ready. Such was its precious urgency. The men savored
cha roui
with pickles and rice wine. Mother and the Aunties ate
cha roui
rolled inside lettuce leaves and dipped in a mild lime-chili fish sauce. I loved mine hot and crunchy right from the pan. Crispy outside, soft and moist within, these were our custard pastries, our peasant’s seafood puffs.
It was incomparable, a singular taste that encapsulated my childhood in its entirety. Somewhere between the tangy mandarin and the sweetly caramelized shallots lay the essence of our misty, dark Ha Long Sea, a flavor I have not found anywhere else in the world.
THE SOUTH
1959
8. S AIGON N
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