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Publications
Ouvrages
Ouvrages
Hanoi. City of the Rising Dragon.
Maryland, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.,
2002, 187 p.
with G. Boudarel (1926-2003), foreword by William J. Duiker,
translated by Claire Duiker
Hanoi. City of the Rising Dragon.
Maryland, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.,
2002, 187 p.
with G. Boudarel (1926-2003), foreword by William J. Duiker,
translated by Claire Duiker
§ A City which Remembers
Villages and Labyrinths
Throughout
its history, the city has been assaulted and infiltrated by the
countryside. In 1946, one year after independence, legislative
elections included the participation of 118 villages within the Hanoi
region. Certain areas of Hanoi even today retain the name of
“village” (
lang). After innumerable administrative
changes and re-partitioning since 1954, central Hanoi is currently
divided into five areas, which are themselves subdivided into
phuong.
The outskirts are divided into five districts which are split into
communes of one or two villages.
The
houses of Hanoi, most of which look modest from the outside judging
by the size of their façades, nonetheless hold many surprises
for those who enter for the first time. Many of them are up to 50
meters [160 feet] long. This is why they are called
nha ong
(tube houses). This way of occupying space is actually Chinese in
origin, and was adopted by the Vietnamese only after long domination
by the Middle Kingdom. Traditionally, the Vietnamese prefer rather
wider constructions which are less deep, like the houses found in the
countryside.
In
the summer, storms and torrential rains inundate the streets and
refresh the city when it is overwhelmed by the heat. In the winter,
on the other hand, the leaden sky and melancholic mist plunge the
city into a kind of depression. The paintings of Bui Xuan Phai
are dominated by gray, and illustrate the type of architecture that
one finds in old Hanoi: small houses pressed together with roofs of
unequal height which form a jagged skyline. Years ago, the roofs were
of thatch and the walls of clay. Only rich people had the means to
build permanent structures, with wooden frames, tiled roofs, and
paved floors. When the French arrived in the 19
th century,
a good part of the houses in these working-class neighborhood were
just thatched huts.
These
many neighborhoods are linked together by innumerable little
alleyways (
ngo) which accentuate the depth of the houses and
their chaotic placement. Kham Thien Street, known for its
Maisons
des Chanteuses in the 30s and bombed in December 1972 by an
American B-52, has no less than twenty-six of these little alleys. It
was a veritable labyrinth, which became a real advantage in colonial
times with the creation of opium dens and brothels: this construction
allowed the inhabitants to escape from the control of the
authorities.
The
picturesque charm of these old houses has helped to shape the city’s
identity. If Hanoi bristled with gigantic high-rises it would lose
its soul. There is great concern today about protecting the old city,
which is now confronted by new economic pressures. Many Hanoi
residents, for example, complain about the number of new building
complexes erected in recent years around West Lake. Some progress has
been made, like when authorities gave in to public protest and set a
height restriction on a new hotel near Returned Sword lake from
twelve stories to five. In fact, old Hanoi has just been classed as a
historical monument by the city, thanks to the efforts of some
concerned citizens and the support of a Swedish organization.
As
a result of this new sensitivity to Hanoi’s historical
importance, the extension of the capital will take place out towards
the west. According to a recent urban plan, the Hanoi of the 21
st
century (business center, industrial zone, university, lodging for
some 200,000 people) will be built in the region of Xuan Mai, some
fifty kilometers [30 miles] from Hanoi. There is greater problem,
however, that faces the city now, one that goes beyond the
picturesque: Hanoi already has more than two million people and
continues to grow, straining the city’s limits.
The City and its Cuisine
One
cannot speak about Hanoi without mentioning one of its most
appreciated pleasures: extraordinary cuisine. In fact, it first
entered into Vietnamese literature because of its reputation as a
city of gourmets. Thach Lam dedicated many pages to it in his
The
Thirty-six Neighborhoods of Hanoi. And more recently, Vu Bang
wrote a long tale called
Mieng ngon Ha Noi [Gastronomy in
Hanoi], when seized by nostalgia for his native North while he lived
in the South in the 1960s. More recently still, Duong Thu Huong has
also paid homage to this aspect of the city in her novel
Paradise
of the Blind.
The
cuisine in Hanoi is not only famous for its diversity, but also for
the subtlety and richness of its flavors. There are specific drinks
and dishes which correspond to almost any moment of the day and
night, to every season, to each sex, and practically to every age.
The city also benefits from having a wide variety of shops: the
shopkeeper from Hanoi knows how to focus on his own specialty while
working in tacit solidarity with neighboring shopkeepers, even though
they may be his competitors. For example, a stall which specializes
in the famous Tonkin-style soup called
pho usually
doesn’t serve any drinks. If a client is thirsty, the owner of
the stall simply orders something from a neighboring stall which does
serve drinks. If the client desires to drink tea or smoke a water
pipe, an old woman sitting close by will serve him. Undoubtedly, the
charm of these open-air restaurants is not enough to stave off the
invasion of foreign ways, especially now during these times of
economic openness. In Vietnam, as in all of Southeast Asia, whiskey
is now served as a mark of social distinction. This westernization,
however, is only a slight alteration of a Vietnamese tradition. In
Southeast Asia, guests at a banquet used to drink rice wine, but now
with the introduction of European goods wealthier individuals
substitute whiskey as a sign of modern
savoir-vivre.
Another
popular drink is made from the juice of sugar cane. In the summer it
is squeezed and lightly scented with the juice and zest of a lemon,
making a great thirst-quencher. In the winter it is steamed or
roasted over a fire, sending out a tantalizing aroma that tempts many
a customer. On the way to school and throughout the day, children
chew on long pieces of sugar cane which have been peeled and cut into
round slices.
The
most popular alcoholic drink in Hanoi is beer. Introduced by the West
in the 19
th century, the famous “33” from the
French brewery of colonial times is back again, under the new brand
name “333.” The Vietnamese call it “three-three”
and drink it with ice-cubes. Groups of men love to get together
around glasses of “three-three” in the stalls offering
dishes prepared with goat meat—whose Vietnamese name (
de)
in slang means “lecherous.” A certain ritual presides at
these get-togethers. You generally start with a small glass of rice
wine mixed with goat’s blood, a mixture which supposedly aids
virility. To celebrate an exceptional occasion, they prefer snake;
you drink the blood diluted in alcohol, a potion which is reputed to
relieve back-aches. After that, they enjoy an order of the “seven
dishes”—all snake—and, in good spirits, they invite
the guests of honor to drink a fermented mixture of snake and
traditional herbs “one hundred percent” (to the last
drop).
One
of Hanoi’s most famous local specialties is
cha ca:
pieces of fish grilled on a wood fire, served over a plate-warmer and
accompanied with noodles, herbs (chives, dill, coriander), and shrimp
sauce (
mam tom). It was so popular that in 1954 a street was
named after the restaurant La Vong, which up until very recently was
the only place which would serve it .
Doan Xuan Phuc, founder of the restaurant, came from peasant stock
from the Bac Ninh region. He was a friend of De Tham, a Resistance
fighter who led a difficult life in the French forces and was
considered a pirate. When the latter was tracked down, Phuc had to
retreat to Hanoi. He then opened the restaurant which became a
meeting place for secret contacts among partisans. After the capture
of De Tham and his execution in 1913, Phuc settled permanently in
Hanoi as a restaurateur. His descendents have continued the family
business and are thriving.
With
the new open economy, the little alley called
Cam chi regained
its reputation as the site of a million flavors. From early morning
until late at night the merchants work in shifts to provide their
various specialties to a busy clientele. You find everything there:
from cheap rice cakes to the most gourmet meals, like chicken,
pigeon, or duck sautéed with traditional herbs, as well as a
wide variety of noodle soups. The alleys are also a common place for
getting together with friends. This is where the young motorcyclists
who race through town during the day, provoking both terror and
fascination, meet each other to elude the police who have been sent
out after them.
Rituals of the Table
Like
many other Asian cities, Hanoi is a morning city. Long before the
loud-speakers begin to broadcast official announcements, you can hear
the cries of the itinerant merchants ringing out in the alleyways to
wake the taste-buds. Each merchant has his own neighborhood and
clientele. They propose a whole range of “sticky rice:”
plain, with soy sauce, with sesame, with peanuts, with grilled
shallots, etc. Between errands, many Hanoi residents seek out these
ambulant merchants for a bowl of noodles with crab (
bun rieu cua)
or with snails (
bun oc); these are two dishes typically eaten
by women but which are equally appreciated by men. In his book
The
Thirty-six Neighborhoods of Hanoi, Thach Lam writes:
If you pass by the Maisons des Chanteuses or
brothels during the afternoon lull or late in the evening, you can
see women eating this dish [bun oc] with great care and
attention. The acidic broth makes their tired and heavily made-up
faces contort, and the hot peppers make their withered lips murmur
and whisper. The peppers sometimes even make tears roll down their
faces, tears that are more sincere than tears of love. The woman who
sells this dish has a tool, with a hammer at one end and a point at
the other. With one quick flick of this useful tool, the whole snail
falls into a bowl of bouillon. And yet even the quickest pace cannot
keep up with demand. As she watches her customers eat, she also wants
to have a bowl, she told me.
The morning is also the best time to savor
banh cuon, a kind of
ravioli served with grilled shallots and thin slices of pork paté
(
gio); you dunk the whole thing in fish sauce (
nuoc mam).
The afternoon is generally reserved for indulging in good food.
Between two meals many people snack on duck eggs, eaten with salt,
pepper, and sprigs of aromatic knotgrass. They also go in search of
che,
a candy made from soy or black bean, lotus grains, or
sticky rice. This typically Vietnamese dessert is served in small
bowls and perfumed with banana flavoring.
Autumn
is the nicest season in Hanoi, and the best loved. It too has its
special dishes. Early in the season, they harvest a kind of sticky
rice to make
com, identifiable by its green color, the color
of the leaves of the banana tree. This delicacy can be prepared in a
number of ways: some prefer it fried and lightly sweetened, others
eat it plain. Rich or poor, cultivated or not, no self-respecting
person from Hanoi can say no to this delight, which has almost become
a symbol of cultural identity.
Contrary
to Chinese cuisine, which is very rich and complicated, Vietnamese
cuisine—at least that of the common people—is prepared
with completely ordinary ingredients. People from Hanoi use their
ingenuity in the art of making the most out of the ingredients at
hand. For example, another typical dish from Hanoi is called
bun
cha. It is prepared with simple ingredients, small pieces of
grilled pork and served with noodles, lettuce, herbs, and the
ubiquitous fish sauce, but has an incomparable flavor. As in all
Vietnamese dishes, meat is an indispensable element, but it doesn’t
play the same role or occupy the same space as it does in Western
dishes. Its primary function is to give flavor, while the base
remains the rice: it is no surprise that in Hanoi (as in the rest of
Asia) they say "to eat" as "to eat rice" (
an
com).
Bun cha, for example, is made of vermicelli—but
the noodles are made from sticky rice. Passing by the Street of
Chickens (Hang Ga), clients can savor the aroma of this succulent
dish coming from a small shop run by an elderly couple. Out on the
sidewalk, the husband keeps an eye on the grill and from time to time
plugs in his little fan to stoke the fire; while inside the stall his
wife serves the clients, who call her
chi (big sister) or
co
(little paternal aunt). This division of labor is quite rare in
Hanoi, where traditionally women work hard throughout the day while
men pass their time in the drink stalls. This couple has even
declined the offer of a businessman who wanted to transform their
little stall into a mini-hotel, and are content to live off of their
small business.
Pho
by Nguyen Tuan
Pho
is also a very popular dish . . . Many of our fellow citizens have
been eating
pho since they were children, at that tender young
age when one hasn’t yet tasted life’s disappointments or
known need; unlike adults, who are well acquainted with problems that
taste of onion and spice, of bitter lemons, or of hot peppers. Even
poor children can make do with meatless
pho.
You can eat
pho at any time of the day: early in the morning, at
noon, in the evening, or late at night. . . No one would dare to
refuse the invitation of an acquaintance to go have a bowl of
pho.
It permits those of modest means to be able to express their
sincerity towards their friends. It is also great because it has a
different meaning in every season. In the summer, a bowl of
pho
makes you sweat, and when you feel a gentle breeze brush your face
and back you feel like the sky is airing you out. In winter, a nice
hot bowl of
pho brings color to pale and cold lips, and warms
up poor people like an overcoat. . .
Pho
has rules all its own, like in the names of the stalls. The name of a
pho
vendor’s stall usually only has one syllable—its
“popular” name—or is sometimes named after the
vendor’s son: for example
Pho Phuc
[the
pho of Happiness],
Pho Loc [pho of Generosity],
Pho
Tho [
Pho of Longevity]. . . Sometimes
they are named after the vendor’s physical deformity:
Pho Gu
[
Pho of the Hunchback],
Pho Lap [
Pho of the Stammerer],
Pho Sut [
Pho
of the Hare-Lip] . . . Sometimes people give the vendors nicknames
based on where they usually set up: Mister Pho from the Hospital,
Mister
Pho of the Gate, the
Young
Pho Under the Bridge. . .
Sometimes the name is taken from a distinctive way that the vendor
dresses. One vendor became known for the hat that he wore during the
French colonial period, called a
calot, and has since enjoyed
an unparalleled reputation in the whole capital as
Pho Calot.
One
of the best things about
pho is that you can transgress the
rules while still remaining true to this special dish. I think that
this principle rests on the fact that it must be prepared with beef.
Maybe
pho would be better with the meat of other animals
(four-legged, winged, etc.), but if it is
pho, it must be
prepared with beef. Is it then a transgression of the rules when it
is prepared with duck, with Chinese-style pork, or with rat? . . .
The working classes are attached to classic
pho. Today, some
people experiment by seasoning it with soy sauce and Chinese
ingredients; this is the privilege of the rich. . . In reality, the
true flavor of
pho for a connaisseur is that of cooked beef,
which is more aromatic than boiled beef and has an odor that carries
the spirit of
pho. Moreover, artists find that cooked beef
presents itself better aesthetically than boiled beef. In general,
vendors without respect for their craft first cut the cooked beef
into small formless pieces, and when the clients arrive they just
toss them into the bowls; this isn’t important for those who
are just trying to fill their stomachs as quickly as they can. But
when a finicky customer arrives (a vendor can always tell when a
client is demanding, even if he has never seen him before), the
vendor places his knife on a nice piece of cooked beef and slices it
into thin, wide pieces, with the pleasure of someone who takes pride
in his work.
One
intellectual who was worried about the future once wondered “if
one day, when the nation’s economy reaches the ultimate stage
of socialism, our national
pho will be in danger of
disappearing, and if we will eat canned
pho that you have to
heat up in boiling water before opening it, which would make the
noodles swell up.” He was harshly answered by one of the
clients in a stall: “Go to hell! Quit speculating about the day
when the sky will fall on our heads. . . As long as there are
Vietnamese, there will be
pho. In the future
pho will
be as hot as it is today, and maybe even more delicious. Our bowl of
pho
will never be put into a can, American style; as a true
native of Hanoi, I can assure you that this bastardization will never
happen.”
Whenever I start talking about
pho, I always end up thinking of a good
friend with whom I used to eat
pho and talk for hours about
everything and nothing. Like many people, she left for the South out
of pride. Now each time I discover a clean little stall that makes
good
pho I can’t help thinking of her, since she loved
really hot peppers. Out of superstition, she even attributed her
ability to make a living to the areas where they have hot peppers
which make your lips swell up. Every time I eat a spicy
pho
that burns my lips, my affection for this friend who left for the
South also grows stronger. . . I know that there is
pho in
the South, and even a southern style
pho, but the
pho
that you find on the sidewalk as an émigré is never as
good as the one you find in Hanoi—prepared in the traditional
way, eaten around a fire in the middle of downtown, in this “city
of a thousand-year-old culture.”
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