Let's go eat duck roasted in mud!

A few years ago, just after reaching retirement age, with plenty of free time and little work, my group of childhood friends, who had been classmates in elementary school and shared the same buffalo herding days, held a year-end reunion. Luckily, we spent more time on the backs of buffaloes than at our desks (and back then, nobody knew anything about extra classes or tutoring!), and over the past few decades, we've all been relatively successful. Some are provincial leaders, others are scientists , and some are famous entrepreneurs in Saigon and Can Tho… Only I remain in the fields, but thanks to replacing the buffalo with a tractor and switching from a single rice crop to a rice and shrimp crop, I'm not completely exhausted.

As the only one remaining from my hometown, and living near my old school, my friends trusted me enough to "commission" me to host the reunion. My wife and I spent an entire day planning the menu, making sure it would please everyone, especially those who had been away from home for a long time. Suddenly, I received a message on Zalo from a friend who is now a leading professor of economics in Ho Chi Minh City: "Hey, let's have duck roasted in mud, okay?"

I was bewildered. To avoid ruining the menu my wife and I had painstakingly prepared, I called the rest of the group, hoping they would object to this dish that I thought had been buried in the past for decades. Unexpectedly, they all nodded in agreement and decided to eat duck roasted in mud…

On the day of our reunion, my wife and I took everyone back to the ancient banyan tree at the edge of the land, a place filled with countless memories of our time as buffalo herders. Unlike the muddy, winding roads of the past, the roads were now smooth and beautiful, though not yet wide, they were paved with asphalt, and lined with various ornamental flowers, meeting the standards of a new rural road. Most of us had left behind our expensive city suits, opting instead for shorts and t-shirts; some even reminisced about finding their faded traditional Vietnamese blouses. Under the shade of the centuries-old banyan tree, a place left by the pioneers who settled the land for the farmers, the buffalo herders, and even travelers seeking shelter from the rain and sun in the desolate fields, we all rolled up our sleeves to work, eat, and have fun together.

First, as the host, I brought out two pairs of striped ducks, grabbed them by the legs, and slammed their heads against a tree trunk to kill them quickly. For this mud-grilled duck dish, no one cuts the throat; leaving the duck whole allows the blood to seep back into the meat, preserving its natural sweetness (back then, when tending buffalo in the fields, there were no knives, forks, or bowls to cut the throat). The best ducks for this dish are free-range striped ducks (called striped ducks) or white ducks (called egret ducks), the largest weighing only about 1.2 kg. These ducks, though small, have very tender, sweet, and fragrant meat, and each one is enough for two or three people. Nowadays, after many years of breed restructuring, imported super-egg and super-meat ducks have taken over all the farmers' farms. Each duck weighs three or four kilograms, is very fatty, making them difficult to cook thoroughly in mud, and the meat becomes bland and unappetizing. To get those two pairs of striped ducks, my wife spent several days at the market placing orders with vendors, who painstakingly selected those that had been mixed in with the larger flock of meat-producing ducks.

After the ducks were dead, I lowered them into a puddle of water, squeezing and rubbing them to soak up all their feathers. At the same time, my friend rolled up his pants and waded into the ditch to scoop up a pile of muddy sludge. The two of us then applied the mud evenly to the ducks' feathers, and then covered them with a large mass of mud, about three adult handspans in diameter, meaning the mud surrounding the ducks was about one and a half to two centimeters thick. Applying and covering the mud required a certain skill; the wet duck combined with the right consistency of the mud helped the mud adhere firmly to the feathers and body. Mud that was too wet or too dry would be difficult to apply and would make it hard to cook thoroughly. In that mud mass, the duck's body had to be in the center so that one side wouldn't be cooked while the other was raw. Almost simultaneously, someone gathered firewood and started a fire. By the time the two pairs of ducks had become four black lumps of mud, the fire had died down, leaving glowing red embers. We placed two blocks of black mud on a grate across the charcoal stove, then took turns turning them so that the mud dried evenly on all sides. Nowadays, charcoal grilling is very convenient; in the old days, in the fields, we used to gather straw and dry grass to burn. Straw and grass burned quickly, and the charcoal wasn't very strong, so we had to burn it many times to create a smoldering heat that penetrated the outer layer of mud and permeated the duck inside…

While waiting for the duck to cook, which usually takes an hour and a half to two hours, the group gathered, chatting and catching up about each other's families, work, and businesses. Then, countless memories of their buffalo herding days flooded back. It's also worth mentioning that in the Southern provinces back then, after the morning plowing, around midday, the adults would release the buffalo and hand them over to the children to herd them to graze until evening, when they would bring them back to the barn. Each child kept their own buffalo; there were few cases of hired buffalo herding. And owning buffalo and land meant they weren't exactly poor. Each child would have five or three buffaloes, and when they reached the pasture, the smaller herds would merge into larger herds of fifty or seventy, requiring only one or two children to look after them. The rest – usually the older ones – would gather together, inventing stories and games, preparing dishes and eating together. Near herds of buffalo, there are always flocks of ducks roaming the fields. Buffaloes wading in the fields and under the dams create a lot of noise, startling shrimp and fish out of their hiding places, and the ducks peck and gobble until their crops are full. Sometimes, in good fortune, there's also misfortune; a few ducks, tempted by the food, might peck at a puddle where a crab is hiding from the sun, leaving behind a part of its beak or a leg after being bitten by the crab. With hundreds, even thousands of ducks, these injured ducks are often left behind, and the duck owners rarely worry about them, considering them a natural "loss." These are a regular source of ingredients for the mud-grilled duck dish enjoyed by the children who herd buffalo and wander the fields all day.

Sometimes, though it was rare, if a duck went a long time without breaking a leg or claw, the buffalo herders – even more mischievous than "the naughtiest of all" – would look at the flock of ducks and decide what to do. A trap made of fishing line was attached to a clump of reeds near the drain leading into the pond, the other end of the line tied tightly to a large earthenware jar of fish sauce floating on the water's surface. Accustomed to swimming and pecking for food, the ducks at the front, usually the biggest and strongest, would get their necks caught in the trap. The more the ducks tried to escape, the tighter the line became around their necks, and the water surface was disturbed violently, causing water to flood in, sinking the jar and dragging the duck down with it. Always keeping a watchful eye, they would giggle, trying to act nonchalant so the duck owner wouldn't notice, then wink at each other and secretly prepare mud along with straw and dry grass…

Under the heat of the fire, the black mud gradually turned white, and cracks began to appear in places, indicating that the duck was cooked through. After letting it cool slightly, we slipped our fingers into the cracks, separating the mud. All the duck's feathers, even the tiny ones, clung to the mud and peeled away, leaving behind a pristine white duck body, emitting a fragrant, smoky aroma. We, old men in our sixties, sat on the ground, tearing the duck into small pieces, dipping them in a little salt, chili, and lime juice, adding some herbs and wild vegetables, biting into a piece of ginger, and then stuffing them all into our mouths, just like the ten or twelve-year-old boys of over fifty years ago. The meat of striped ducks and egrets is naturally sweet and flavorful, making them delicious in any dish, but the uniquely sweet, original taste of this mud-grilled duck, without any seasoning or elaborate preparation, is something you'll probably remember for a lifetime after just one bite.

After finishing this duck, you can reach for the next one covered in mud, because the layer of mud retains the heat and delicious flavor of the free-range duck for a few hours, which is normal.

After finishing the meat, the hostess carefully removed the offal, taking only the heart, liver, gizzard, and eggs (if it was a laying duck), leaving the rest for the ducklings waiting outside.

In just a moment, both pairs of mud-roasted ducks and the bottle of Xuan Thanh wine brought from home were completely gone, but everyone still seemed to be craving more. The sun had set, and a gentle northerly breeze from the Co Chien River blew in, drawing everyone closer together around the charcoal stove, which still retained some of its warmth.

I heard that many tourist areas now have clay-baked duck on their menus (which sounds more like mud-baked duck). However, the duck is cleaned, seasoned, wrapped in foil, then covered in clay and baked. This dish seems more refined and civilized, but it certainly can't be as delicious or fun as the mud-baked duck we buffalo herders used to eat decades ago.

We made a promise to meet again, every few years, around the time the year ended and Tet (Lunar New Year) approached, to gather around the old banyan tree in the middle of the field to reminisce about our mischievous days with our mud-roasted duck.

TRAN DUNG

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