Back then, my hometown was poor, the roads were red dirt, muddy and slippery, and most of our travel was by boat. But whenever we heard the loud music from the boat selling rice cakes on the other side of the river, we kids would get excited, abandoning our games of hopscotch and marbles, scattering in all directions—some running to beg for money, others going home to get rice to prepare. Rice cakes were a favorite treat, a "specialty" of poor schoolchildren. Well-off families would stock up on rice, while average families had a large earthenware jar filled with fragrant white rice. Just one can of rice was enough to buy a batch of rice cakes, costing only a few thousand dong—but for us at that time, it was a source of great excitement.
I still remember the time Tèo brought rice to make cakes, but they didn't rise at all. His face fell so much, it was heartbreaking. The baker, who was already experienced, used his spare rice to save the batch. But because Tèo's rice didn't rise, he had to pay extra – the cost of rice, labor, and spices was a little higher than ours. Yet, the little boy still went home with his warm bag of cakes, his face full of satisfaction.
The rice puffing machine looks simple, but its operation is far from straightforward. It's an oil-powered machine with a large grinding mill on top. The worker mixes rice with a little mung bean, grated coconut, sugar, and salt—all according to a special recipe—then puts it into the machine. The rice is roasted by a hot rotating shaft inside, then pressed into a long, hollow tube. As soon as the rice puff comes out of the machine, the worker skillfully cuts it into segments with scissors—crispy, fragrant, and steaming in the afternoon sun.
Perhaps because of its round, hollow shape like a bamboo tube, the name "tube cake" (bánh ống) came from that. A simple, rustic name, just like the people and the land of my Southern homeland. Back then, the kids loved eating the cake fresh out of the oven – crispy and fragrant. Once, our whole neighborhood held a speed-eating contest; whoever finished first got two more cakes. I remember winning that day, grinning from ear to ear, while the loser had to swallow their tears and give up their cake. If left for too long, the cake becomes chewy and soft – easy to choke on if you're not careful. But whether soft or crispy, the gentle sweetness mixed with the aroma of sticky rice, coconut, and pandan leaves… still made everyone exclaim in delight. Many years have passed, and my friends are now scattered – some are doctors, some are engineers, some are teachers… But every time we get together, mentioning tube cakes brings tears to everyone's eyes. Because that cake is not just a memory, but a part of childhood - a part of the soul of the countryside, filled with nostalgia for those innocent and carefree days of the past.
In the midst of the bustling city, I sometimes unexpectedly hear a familiar cry echoing down a street: "Rice cake... who wants rice cake...?", and my heart stirs. Images of the old river, the small boat, the steam rising from the cakes, and the laughter of children from days gone by all flood back like a dream. That simple cake will forever remain an unforgettable part of my memories.
Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/banh-ong-mon-qua-tuoi-tho-ben-dong-ky-uc-post815143.html
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