Traditional rural market

I remember, when I was five or six, every time my parents took me from town back to my hometown, I would happily follow my grandmother to the market. During the subsidy period in the North, calling it a market sounded fancy, but in reality, it was just a few rows of makeshift thatched stalls. The most eye-catching stalls were those selling groceries with their vibrant colors, while most of the other stalls sold fruits and vegetables picked from home gardens, and fish and crabs caught from the rice paddies, all stored in baskets woven from bamboo. In that small village, far from the city, sellers and buyers everywhere knew each other. Back then, I didn't care whether the market was crowded or quiet; I just wanted my grandmother to quickly take me to the rice cake stall, right next to which was the tray of sticky rice candy sold by an old woman with gleaming black teeth. My grandmother would always treat me to a hearty meal of rice cakes and buy me a few large candies, the kind made from rice flour and sugar, as big as a thumb, twisted into a rhombus shape, both crumbly and crunchy, hidden within a layer of pure white flour, incredibly appealing.

Rural market. Photo: PV

At the age of ten, my family moved back to Binh Dinh, my father's hometown. The local market hadn't changed much. There were still a few eye-catching general stores, a few scattered clothing stalls, some beef and pork vendors, a few stalls selling freshwater fish, and about ten more selling stalls selling fermented fish sauce, pickles, and vegetables... The vendors were simple and kind-hearted. The first time I went to the market with my mother, I was bewildered and shy because I felt like hundreds of eyes were staring at us due to our unfamiliar accents and clothing. But I got used to it, and within a few months, my mother was a regular customer of everyone. Occasionally, she would bring chili peppers or vegetables to sell at the market. I liked the fruit and pastry stalls best because my mother would let me have a hearty meal. My hometown was in the midland region, surrounded by mountains, and trade was difficult back then, so most food and drink were self-sufficient. My hometown people make all kinds of cakes from rice grains such as banh hoi, banh day, banh beo, banh xeo with crispy skin, banh canh, banh duc, banh nep, banh it, banh chung, or cakes made from cassava and sweet potatoes... all with a very rich and unmistakable taste of the countryside.

When I was twenty-three, I moved to Quang Ngai to settle down, and I had the opportunity to immerse myself in the atmosphere of a rural market with a different flavor. By then, the subsidy period was over, and the rural markets here had more goods and were much more bustling. The people of Quang Ngai were cheerful, lively, and humorous; although I wasn't used to their accent, I found it very exciting. I discovered a few dishes that weren't available in my hometown. First, there was the fragrant candied rice paper. Quang Ngai is a sugarcane land, and during the sugarcane season, people cook sugar and dip rice paper into the hot syrup to create a very distinctive dish. Looking at the strings of rice paper coated in a reddish-brown syrup in transparent plastic bags, it was hard to resist. Next were the golden-brown corn fritters simmering in a pan of oil. The corn fritters, wrapped in rice paper with fresh vegetables and dipped into a thick sauce of fish sauce, chili, lime, and sugar, were delightfully crispy with every bite. Then there was the young jackfruit salad sprinkled with roasted peanuts; a single bite was refreshing and satisfying. What I remember most is the steaming bowl of don (a type of shellfish), the long, slender don, slightly thicker than a toothpick, peeking out from beneath the vibrant green of fresh scallions, the aroma of chili and pepper wafting through the air, as if to entice you to linger...

On a rainy day, as winter was beginning to set in, I reminisced about the old village market and felt an overwhelming warmth in my heart. The taste of home, imbued with the warmth of the countryside in the simple dishes and the bustling figures of the hardworking village women I encountered at those humble markets long ago, has become an indispensable part of my soul, a part of my love for my homeland...

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