Remember the season of sea snails?

There are certain dishes that evoke memories, not just about satisfying hunger. Memories of a lifetime, a family, a bygone sunny season. For those born and raised in the central coastal region of Vietnam, sea snails, also known as small snails, are one such memory. Small and rustic, yet they hold onto the childhood memories of children who grew up in the 80s and 90s—a time of scarcity but filled with warmth and human connection.

Now, shellfish are still there, still available seasonally, and still bought and sold. But the bustling atmosphere of the old days seems to have faded somewhat. Today's children grow up surrounded by plenty of sweets, fast food, and so on, so few have the patience to sit for hours beside a basket of tiny shellfish, meticulously shelling each one. That meticulous pleasure has therefore gradually become a luxury.

Image for illustration purposes only (Internet).

In the past, from around March onwards, when the sun began to shine brightly on the sandy slopes, the season for sea snails would arrive. Lasting until July or August, the snail season was like a unique rhythm of the coastal region. Snails were sold everywhere, from street vendors on the sidewalks to large and small rural markets. There were many sellers, and just as many buyers. On early morning market days, mothers and grandmothers going to the market, besides vegetables and fish, would always have a small bag of sea snails in their baskets, tiny but overflowing with joy.

Snail dishes aren't meant to be eaten quickly. They're a dish for gathering. A pot of snails placed in the courtyard or on the porch is enough to bring the whole neighborhood together. Women, girls, and children huddle around, some holding grapefruit thorns, others dipping in chili fish sauce, shelling the snails while chatting. Stories about the harvest, about children, about things far away in the village... spread lively with laughter. The deliciousness of snail dishes probably doesn't lie in the taste, but in those moments of togetherness. Making a delicious pot of snails requires a lot of effort. The snails, once harvested, must be soaked in rice water to release all the sand. People wait patiently, like waiting for a season of ripe fruit. Then comes the scrubbing process, ensuring the shells gleam with a pale pink hue, clean and fresh. These tiny snails, seemingly insignificant, are cherished like a gift from the sea.

Snails can be boiled or stir-fried, but they're best when steamed over a fire. A little crushed lemongrass, a few fresh chilies, some salt, pepper, and a touch of fish sauce – all blended together in a thin wisp of smoke, creating an aroma that's both spicy and savory. The snails cook very quickly; just stirring them evenly is enough to create a hot, fragrant pot of snails, enough to entice anyone passing by. But eating snails is an art form. People in Central Vietnam don't use toothpicks or metal skewers, but rather grapefruit thorns – slender yet firm enough to pry each snail out of its shell. This requires skill and patience. A single snail is nothing special, but when gathered together on a small string on the tip of a grapefruit thorn and brought to the mouth, you truly experience the sweet, fatty, and spicy flavors that gradually spread. That pleasure is hard to forget after just one bite. Some people might be hesitant the first time they see snails, because they're so small and delicate. But just one time sitting down on a mat, getting into the conversation, trying a piece of pomelo thorn, and slowly savoring it, you'll inevitably be drawn in without realizing it. The addiction to snails is actually an addiction to the cozy atmosphere, an addiction to endless stories, and an addiction to the feeling of belonging to a distant memory.

Now, as life has changed, people eat faster, live more hastily, and elaborate dishes like snails are gradually fading into the background, giving way to modern conveniences. But whenever we happen to come across a snail vendor's stall by the roadside, or smell the aroma of lemongrass and chili wafting in the wind, our hearts sink, as if a door of memories has just opened, taking us back to those scorching summer afternoons, to the infectious laughter of our friends, to the image of our mother meticulously tending to her basket of snails. Snails, therefore, are not just a dish. They are a part of childhood, a slice of simple yet heartfelt life in Central Vietnam. And whenever we remember, we not only recall the spicy, salty taste of the snails, but also a time gone by, where the simplest things became the most enduring memories.

NGUYEN VAN NHAT THANH

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/202604/nho-mua-oc-ruoc-8cc78a6/