Saigon, a summer afternoon. Suddenly, I crave a bowl of snakehead fish noodle soup from my hometown. In the old days, a woman would sit by the roadside with a pair of carrying poles, one end a steaming pot of broth, the other a tray of fish heads, offal, along with various spices, young vegetables, and a pile of pristine white noodles. It was an afternoon stall; anyone passing by wanting a quick snack (a light meal to stave off hunger) would stop and order a small bowl (a bowl that was wide at the top and narrower at the bottom). This type of "bowl" also embodied a unique culinary philosophy of the country folk back then: before eating, it looked like a lot to satisfy the eye, but as you ate, it gradually became less and less, leaving you wanting more.
In the countryside of Quang Tri , this dish is called "bedsheet porridge," consisting of long, cassava-based noodles, sometimes mixed with a little rice flour, spread out like bedsheets, nestled together in a bowl. The snakehead fish, caught by the children in the fields, are brought to the woman, still wriggling. She puts them in a large earthenware pot, gradually scooping them out to make "bedsheet porridge" to sell to passersby…
A bowl of banh canh (Vietnamese noodle soup) evokes nostalgic memories of hometown cuisine.
So I took my motorbike to the market. The seller said the snakehead fish from Long An had just arrived. I bought two medium-sized ones (each weighing about 300 grams) to take home. I stopped by the vegetable stall to buy some bitter greens (instead of young mustard greens, which are hard to find in Ho Chi Minh City), chili powder, green chili peppers, and some scallions and cilantro. I had the flour I bought at the supermarket the day before (no tapioca starch, so I used cornstarch instead). I also bought shallots, a type of bulb related to onions and garlic but smaller, usually grown in Central Vietnam; my younger sister sent me a few cans the other day and they're still at home.
Bring the snakehead fish home, scale and clean it. Cut it into thin slices, rinse, and drain. Put it in a pan with a little oil, stirring occasionally. Peel and crush the shallots, then add them to the pan and sauté quickly with the fish. The shallots will release a fragrant aroma, masking the fishy smell. Add a little salt, chili, and a spoonful of fish sauce, and cook for about 1 minute to allow the flavors to infuse. Then turn off the heat and set aside.
Spread the dough on a tray, mound it into a tiny "hill," then make a small hole in the middle, like... a volcano's crater. Pour boiling water over it and knead while shaping. After about 5-7 minutes of kneading, the dough will become sticky and pliable. Pinch off small pieces, flatten them thinly, and then slice them into smooth, white strands. Remember to save some of the flour to sift so the strands don't stick together.
The broth in the adjacent pot was about to boil. It had already been seasoned to taste. The previously seasoned portion in the fish pan had to be reserved, otherwise it would be too salty. Once it was boiling vigorously, pour in the flour, stirring well with chopsticks until the flour separates. Alternatively, use a ladle to cook the flour, then scoop it evenly into the bowls. The prepared fish in the pan could be divided up according to personal preference – who would eat the head, who would eat the tail, who would eat the giblets, who would eat the meat. Place the fish in each bowl, with the flour at the bottom, the fish on top, and a few glistening drops of oil mixed with chili powder. Arrange the bitter greens on a plate, and don't forget a pinch of scallions and cilantro in each bowl of noodle soup. Green or red chilies are chopped in a small bowl of pre-prepared fish sauce.
So, I added the bitter herbs to the hot bowl, mixed it, and ate. Outside, the summer sun had softened. The afternoon shadows lengthened, and it felt like I was sitting under the bamboo grove again, listening to the gentle breeze caressing the drops of sweat that had just fallen into my bowl of noodle soup…
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