EatingAsia

Taiwan, Asian Coffee Mecca - Who Knew?

Not us, until research for a story on coffee in Asia led us to the island last June.

As we relate in an article in today's (Friday's) Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal', Taiwanese are serious about their java, and that makes the island one of the easiest places in Asia to find a superior cup. I'm not sure where else in the world, other than Japan, you're more likely to find nothing-special neighborhood cafes serving siphon coffee brewed by the cup with fresh beans ground a la minute.

(The piece also includes my sidebars on coffee culture in Malaysia and Vietnam, and a writer in Japan contributed a piece on that country's java scene.)

And some photo out takes here.

***

The photo above wasn't taken on Taiwan, but in one of our favorite Malaysian kopitiam (coffee shops): Sin Yin Loong in Ipoh, an old tin mining town a couple of hours north of Kuala Lumpur. 

The beverage of choice at Sin Yin Loong is a local specialty - 'white' coffee.

While regular Malaysian-style kopi is made with beans roasted with butter (or margarine) and sugar (the latter 'burns' on the beans, making Malaysian kopi extra dark and not a little bit bitter), beans for white coffee are roasted with butter/margarine only. The result is a lighter but very rich, smooth, and almost caramel-y brew that really stands up to ice; it's always served sporting a thick head of whisk-induced froth.

When we were in Ipoh last March - for only a little over 24 hours - we spent a disproportionate amount of time drinking in white coffee, and Sin Yoon Loong's homely ambience. Whenever we stopped in for hot or iced (and a piece of the shop's justifiably famous cream-filled sponge roll) -- whether it noon, 2pm, 5pm, 7:30am, or mid-morning (the stuff really is that addictive) --  the place was consistently packed. 

In recent years white coffee has become a bit of a gimmick in Malaysia; it's served at regular and chain kopitiam (such as Old Town White Coffee, established by Sin Yoon Loong's across-the-street-competitor), and you can even buy it in instant powdered form. Just add water. 

But it was at Sin Yin Loong that we had our first taste of the real deal, no other version comes close. The locals seem to agree.

Sin Yoon Loong, 15A Jalan Bandar Timah, Ipoh Malaysia. 60-52/241-4601. 7am till evening.

 

Cholon

 

Today we take a break from Sulawesi, and head to Saigon. On our last visit I researched a walking-riding tour of the city for Wall Street Journal Asia; it appears in today's 'Weekend Journal' and online, here.

The walk starts in Cholon, Saigon's Chinatown. It's a part of Saigon that took a while to grow on us. We visited Cholon maybe two or three times in all of the more than two and a half years we lived there, never finding much to pull us back. But distance and perspective have their advantages, apparently, because now everytime we return to Saigon spending one or several long mornings in Cholon is a priority.

There's a good amount of food and travel press devoted to Yaowarat, Bangkok's Chinatown, but relatively little written on Cholon. I suspect that's because the former, with its bountiful Chinese-character signage, is much more identifiable as a Chinese neighborhood than the latter. Cholon is in fact a huge area sprawling over Saigon's Districts 5 and 6. It's been in existence for hundreds of years but really began to grown in population when the French incorporated Vietnam into Indo-China in the late 1800s.

Cholon's most obvious markers are Cho Binh Tay (Binh Tay Market) and its many Buddhist temples. You need to spend some time poking around a bit to find other indicators of its Chinese (Hoa, in Vietnamese, probably from the Mandarin word 'hua') identity. And this requires doing alot of walking in what is admittedly not Southeast Asia's best walking city. But it's a worthwhile effort. Everytime we return to Cholon we're more enamored of the place.

'Weekend Journal' runs just a few photos with its Walking Tours (to see Dave's photos, click the dots on the map) and space contraints precluded me from including all of my favorite bits of Cholon in the article. So here's a highly haphazard selection of what are, for us, some of the neighborhood's highlights. Consider it a supplement to the Walking Tour.

Any visit to Cholon should start at Cho Binh Tay. We try to arrive by 7:00am, 7:30 at the latest. At this hour the covered part of the market is just waking up, but the informal market out back, on Phan Van Koe Street, is very much alive.

We absolutely love this part of the market. It's 'wild and wooly' (our friend Andrea Nguyen's apt description for Saigon itself, but especially applicable, we think, to this buzzing lane), all of Saigon's chaos, frantic energy, and entrepreneurial zeal squeezed into one tight little space.

There's lots of pushing and shoving, shoppers jostling with sellers, hawkers barking at passers-by, and endless bargaining. The smells of fresh seafood, leafy vegetables, and fresh herbs mingle with the scent of freshly baked baguettes and prawn fritters sizzling in oil.

Every time we step onto this street I pick a spot and just stand there, not moving, for a very long time, drinking in everything around me in gulps.

There are no regular stalls here. Sellers just plop themselves down on both sides of the street, whip out their wares, and get to selling. Some vendors move often, picking up their tiny plastic stools and rattan baskets or metal trays or plastic pans of veggies or prawns and whatnot and ambling up the street a few paces, where they plop it all down again and get back to business.

The sea does part for motorcycles, and monks.

There's some good food to be had on this back lane, including vegetarian banh mi (admittedly, meat lovers will find it not quite as satisfying as a pork-stuffed baguette), prawn toasts, and turmeric-scented, tofu-studded vegetarian 'broken rice' served with chili-spiked fish sauce. 

By eight, the energy here starts to flag as vendors depart with their empty baskets, and shoppers head back home to their kitchens with full ones. Suddenly, after all that racket and chaos, the lane is quiet.

Now is a good time to duck back inside the market and seek refreshment in its 'food court'. We always start with a few coffees and fruit shakes (strawberry is a favorite),

before moving on to something more substantial. You're spoiled for choice here -- there are rice-and-dish vendors, chao (porridge) makers, and bun and pho stalls, and everything looks and smells good. But time and time again we opt for a plate of noodles prepared by an always shirtless, never smiling wok jockey who likes to play with fire next to his can't-miss corner stall.

His chow mein-like deep-fried noodles topped with choy sum, prawns, pork, a bit of liver, and deep-fried bean curd skin in a thickish black pepper-spiced gravy is wonderful, boasting that scent of char that only the kiss of a red-hot wok can deliver.

On one side of the food court are a row of stalls selling whole fish and boned and skinned fish for fish paste and fish balls.

Here a vendor employs a great method for detaching fish meat destined to be pounded into a paste from its skin: fillet, then grasp the fillet at the tail end while you use a spoon to scrape the meat free. I've yet to try this at home but it makes a heck of a lot more sense than removing skin from fillets with a knife. Less waste too.

From Binh Tay we walk in the general direction of Nguyen Trai Street, an east-west thoroughfare dotted with temples. We rarely go in a straight line, instead diverting from main streets down an alley or short lane or two for a quieter glimpse of daily life.

 
We're always on the lookout for material traces of Cholon history. Many of the district's old Chinese shop houses are hidden behind signage, but they are there. Just look up.
 

In front of a fruit market on Nguyen Trai we meet Lam Ai Phuong, a Cholon native who's lived there all her life. We try conversing in English, then switch to Mandarin (I'm always surprised by how many Cholon-ites speak Mandarin), and she tells me that the first floor of the building pictured above used to be a Hainanese coffee shop. It closed after Liberation.

Phuong's husband, who was 'involved with the US military', fled Vietnam by boat after Saigon fell. She hasn't seen him since. He now now lives in the US. Didn't she wish to join him? I wonder.

'By the time it was possible I was too old. This is my home. I prefer to stay here.'

Across from the fruit market, on Phung Hung Street, is what the owner claims is Cholon's oldest roast meats shop, dating back to the late sixties. We just love the weathered look of the place, and the bas relief duck on its golden interior sign (just visible behind the lantern).

This may be the only roast meats shop where the butcher/slicer works at his chopping block while standing on top of a meter-high stool.

His positioning is strategic: he has a clear view of the street. When a customer pulls up to the curb on their motorcycle they needn't dismount; they can just shout their order up to him. He chops and slices and hands the order to his assistant, who delivers and takes payment.

A baguette seller is conveniently stationed right outside the shop. Buy a baguette from her and shout your order to him. She ferries the baguette to the shop, he splits and fills it with your choice of meat. A perfect symbiotic relationship.

On your way up Nguyen Trai you'll pass several temples,

where you can make a donation and have incense coils or a rectangle of magenta paper hung with a wish or a prayer.

We usually end our visits to Cholon with a slow stroll up and down Trieu Quang Phuc Street. This is short street is a Chinese opera and lion dance supplier zone -- there are custom scissor makers,

mask and prop makers,

and cape and costume makers like this woman, whose grandfather established the family business eons ago.

Trieu Quang Phuc Street also houses many Chinese herb shops.

You can't miss them: just look for the leaves, rinds, rhizomes, horseshoe crabs, and questionable reptilian body parts (I'm not advocating, just describing) being dried out front.

A good reason to start early in Cholon: by noon it's mostly unshaded streets are beastly hot.

Now is th time to  hail a pedicab (or a taxi), head back to your lodging, and nap through the sweatier part of the day.

 

And the Revolution Will Have Fins

Seafood vendor, Saigon, December 2008. Photo © David Hagerman

We've been collecting Chinese propaganda posters since we lived in Chengdu in 1984-85, so I suppose it's no wonder I feel a special affinity for this photo.

Cao Lau Love

Just a quick, unillustrated post - because internet speed here in KL is so sluggish it would take 5 hours to upload a photo (note to Malaysia's powers that be: when it comes to internet services, government monopoly is so not working) - to link to our article on the Hoi An specialty cao lau in yesterday's Wall Street Journal Asia.

We'd love to tell you more about one of the spots included in the 'Sources' list at the bottom of the article, but there's that little issue of connectivity ... next week, perhaps.

Street Food - Off and On the Street

We generally avoid malls and mall food like the plague. So it was a little disconcerting last year to find ourselves spending a lot of time in the region's shopping center food courts for a feature article in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal' (the annual Food Issue) on street foods cooked and served 'off the street' (a few out takes here).

I have to admit I accepted the assignment with some ambivalence. For me eating on the street is an integral part of travelling (where street food is available, anyway). It's such an easy and delightful way to connect with locals and immerse yourself in local culinary (and other) culture.

But I also realize that there are lots of travelers who, for whatever reason, just can't go there. And I do not turn my nose up at you. Street food is not just about the food, it's about the experience, and while the experience can't be recreated in a shopping mall food court or restaurant (though Saigon's Quan An Ngon comes pretty close), in the course of our research for this piece we found that - sometimes - the food can.

So I say, to those who just can't bring themselves to eat on the street or in a market: I'm glad that there are places like this, where you can find at least an approximation of the street's flavors. (I also say, put yourself in my hands for a day and I'll have you converted. But that's neither here nor there.)

For this article we visited malls and standalone restaurants in Bangkok, Jakarta, Saigon, and KL (we had help in Singapore) . And we found something interesting, a little tidbit that hasn't entered the debate about the desire of some regional municipal governments to sweep foods off the street: places like Jakarta's Kafe Betawi (a chain) or Tanah Abang food court may actually become repositories for some tastes of the street, as certain street foods disappear from their natural habitat.

The owner of Kafe Betawi, who is really very passionate about street foods, told me that she tries to conjure, in her restaurants, approximations of  street foods she remembers from her childhood that are now nearly extinct on the street. And on the 8th floor of Tanah Abang, a massive textile market, we found a street specialty - kerak telur, a sort of rice and egg 'omelet' with coconut and palm sugar - that we'd been searching for in vain. It was even cooked old-style, over charcoal.

***

That said, for us the street is still where it's at. I mean, just have a look at that opening photo: com tam (broken rice) topped with grilled pork, sweet-tart cucumber-carrot-daikon pickle, a fried egg, and scallion greens (fish sauce-chili dipping sauce on the side) taken with a glass of inky iced coffee at a tiny, low-to-the-ground beaten metal table, at 7am on a Saturday in an alley in Saigon's District 1. 

It's a dish we often overlook, common as it is to nearly every Saigon city block in the a.m., but it's so delicious. The broken rice is fluffy, light, almost couscous-like, the pork slightly sweet and smoky, the pickles a sharp counterpoint to the richness of the meat. The egg's yolk, broken to spill over the rice, pulls it all together. And the dipping sauce, with it's lightly sugared, fish-flavored chili punch, is the flavor of Vietnam itself. What a way to wake up. (That, and the coffee.)

But this meal isn't just about the deliciousness of what's on the plate in front of us. It's about being out and about when Saigon is at it's best, when the buildings still cast long shadows and the air is a bit cool and as close as it ever gets to clean; when the motorcycles, relatively thin on the street, speak a soothing purr instead of a deafening roar; and when locals, fresh from a night's sleep and not yet worn down from all the crap that a day in Saigon can throw at them, are at their friendliest.

(Smiles and nods also come from the sight of a couple of tall foreigners perched on kiddy stools hunkered down over a plate of com tam. Don't ever underestimate the power of partaking.)

 

It's about the aromas that waft about in that alley, the good ones: the comforting, enveloping smell of steamed rice, the hint of sourness rising from the vendor's jar of pickles, and the meaty smoke snaking up from the grill that taunts your growling belly while you're waiting for your plate of com tam and then, after it's delivered, stokes your hunger even as you're eating.

 

It's about the tinkle of bicycle bells and the honk of motorcycle horns (at the end of the alley sits an apartment building, and at 7am residents walk or ride by your table on their way to work, school, the market, breakfast, coffee), and the nods and high-fives sent your way by other eaters, many of whom probably breakfast here every single day. It's about the vendor's smile as she sets down your plate, the coffee lady's laugh at your pronunciation of 'cafe sua da', the privilege of watching your meal prepared right in front of you, and the pleasure of tucking into something so luscious yet so ridiculously cheap.

In short, this fantastic plate of com tam is about everything - the whole experience rolled into one tasty package. 

And that's why, given the choice, the street is where we eat.

Com tam, alley behind the opera house, Saigon. Starts early, closes when she runs out.

Saigon Sup Cua

Christmas came and went without much notice around here. We're preoccupied with a number of other things at the moment, and honestly we've never cottoned to Christmas in Asia, with its somewhat soulless consumerist frenzy that rivals anything in the US (Philippines excepted - there, in spite of the heat, Christmas does feel like Christmas). Besides, we're half still in Vietnam, mentally at least.

Today we're thinking of Saigon (though we're not done with Hoi An yet) and a simple but utterly delicious concoction dished up by a vendor at Tanh Din Market (just off Hai Ba Trung Street). We noticed this woman when we were there last August. Seated next to an enormous metal pot, she was surrounded every morning by a clutch of customers perched on tiny stools spooning up a pale soup from small bowls held close to their mouths. We assumed it was chao (rice porridge) - an excellent chao we figured, if her steady business was any indication - and vowed to investigate further when we had a chance.

Said opportunity presented itself a few weeks ago, and we found that her specialty is not chao but sup cua, or crab soup. Sup cua is fairly viscous, along the lines of a banh canh, but if you can get past the texture you're in for a treat. What we assumed were egg threads crowding the broth turned out to be shreds (and a few chunks) of super-sweet crab meat and the thinnest slivers of dried Chinese mushrooms. This vendor's broth is so redolent of crustacean that it must be made from boiled with crab shells.

She tops each bowl with a sprinkle of fresh coriander and a blob of chili sauce; diners are left to add soy, if they wish, white pepper, and yet more cilantro and chili. It's a small bowl but the soup is filling. Assertively crabby but generally mildly flavored, it makes for a comforting breakfast.

Our neighbor and her mother, residents of the 'hood, told us they eat breakfast here everyday. We sure wish we could.

Sup cua, Than Din Market (front 'food court' - this vendor sits across from the wooden hu tieu cart), early morning to mid-afternoon.

Pho, the Hoi An Way

                                               A pho delivery

They do pho a little differently in Hoi An.

We eyed this popular stall on our first morning at the market, then returned the next day to find the vendor absent, his space empty. It was the first or the fifteenth of the lunar month and most of the market's prepared food sellers - save our favorite cao lau purveyor - had gone veggie or stayed home. When he didn't appear the next morning, or the next, we feared we'd missed our chance. But on our last morning there he was, back in business, sending out tray after tray packed with steaming bowls of pho.

He does a simple beef pho, with what we can only assume is a central coastal twist: after noodles, meat, and broth are in the bowl he adds a hefty spoonful of viscous fermented bean sauce (the pot in the center, below).

And with his noodles he serves a plate containing a jumble of fresh herbs, wide slices of pickled green papaya, and a mound of roasted dried chili flakes.

Diners douse the contents of the saucer with soy sauce (some also add fish sauce directly to their noodles), mix the lot up, and eat it with their pho. (Just dumping the green papaya et al directly on top of one's pho is simply not done.)

What we like here are the the herbs, which are varied (Thai basil, rice paddy herb, teensy-weensy watercress, mint leaves and a parsley-like green) and plentiful, the richness-sans-sweetness that the bean sauce adds to the soup (super-sweet hoisin is more common in Saigon and around), the full-on heat of the dried chili flakes (reminiscent of Thai guayteow nam, for us), and the sour punch of the green papaya which, eaten together with the chewy noodles, makes for a crunchy/soft, steaming-hot/cool texture-temperature contrast tour de force.

We're generally not pho-natics, but this is a great version.

Pho vendor, Hoi An Market, in a corner of the covered seafood section, right near the water

 

Just the Thing for a Cold: 'Oregano', Tea, and Turmeric

I brought a whopper of a cold home from Vietnam. This seems to be par for the course when we're traveling and cramming a lot of work into a relatively short space of time. It might also have had something to do with the fact that we arrived in Hoi An unprepared for cool weather and lots of rain. Lacking a rain coat - or any warm clothing, for that matter - I spent the better part of 5 days in a locally-purchased rain poncho that resembled a garbage bag with sleeves. (Dave assured me that if I wore the same in San Francisco it would quickly become must-have wet weather garb for the city's fashion divas. Ahem. Nice try, Dave.)

When my cold started to rear its ugly head I wished for something I was drinking quite a lot of exactly a year ago, while battling an even nastier cold while on assignment in Pampanga, Philippines. When a string of early mornings (as in 3am, for dawn mass) and non-stop days lay me low the kitchen angels at our host's home boiled up batch after batch of tea made with an herb growing wild outside the house. They called it 'oregano' (pictured below, and above - same name, two different leaves - two varieties, perhaps?). It eased my sore throat, cough, and general feeling of unwellness.

This 'oregano' is actually Indian borage (Plectranthus barbatus), a fuzzy, fleshy-leafed herb thought to be native to India that's also found in Australia, where it's known as five-in-one (thanks to once-prolific EatingAsia commenter RST for this link and others related to the herb). In India the tuberous roots are also used as a spice or prepared as a pickle. 

And Indian borage is found in Vietnam, where it's known as hung chanh, tan la day, and thom long. We first noticed it at a Hue/Hoi An market in Saigon; the vendor told us that it's not for eating, but for boiling into tea when you have a sore throat or cough. According to the link above it also grows wild in Malaysia, where it's known as daun bangun-bangun. We've not seen it in the market here, yet.

The herb smells a bit like Italian or Greek oregano but, to my nose, even more like sage or thyme. In Pampanga I asked if the herb was used for cooking; the response was 'no'. Yet something called 'oregano' is perhaps part of a dried herb mix called sangkot-sangkot that's added to a Philippine stewed meat dish called apritada.

According to that link above Indian borage is added to fish or goat meat curries in Malaysia and on Java (thus one of its Indonesian names - daun kambing or 'goat leaf') and, according to my Vietnamese herb book, there '...young leaves are cut into small pieces to enhance fish or meat as a seasoning before cooking'. (A similarly fuzzy, fleshy, and odiferous leaf, the name of which escapes me at the moment, is cooked with dog in Vietnam to mitigate that meat's distinctive odor.)

Intriguingly, the herb is also used in cooking in Cuba and the Caribbean, where it goes by the name of 'Cuban oregano' or 'French oregano'. In this 2005 Miami Herald article chef and cookbook author Maricel Presilla writes that the plant made its way to Latin America during colonial times. Which begs the question - from where and via whom? From the Philippines with the Spanish? Or from southern India or Malaysia/Indonesia with the Portuguese? Or...? And how did the herb find its way to Vietnam?

Filipinos, Australians, Indians, Malaysians, Vietnamese - anyone familiar with this herb - do you cook with it? And if so, how do you use it?

But back to Hoi An. I searched for Indian borage tea in vain but I did find, bubbling away over a wood fire in a corner near the seafood section, a vat of che tuoi, or 'fresh tea'. The leaves used for this tea are indeed unfermented and, from the looks of it, pretty old.

Branches, berries, leaves - everything goes into the pot and the vendor, who's been pouring cups of che tuoi in the market for over thirty years, gives it all a good boil for a couple hours. This isn't meant as specifically a cold remedy but its slightly bitter, grassy flavor and warmth was most welcome on our misty Hoi An mornings.

My cold, by the way, is pretty much vanquished, and in just over ten days. That's a record for me; these things usually seem to hang on for weeks. I don't know whether to attribute my quick recovery to che tuoi, thoughts of oregano tea, the handfuls of vitamin C tablets I began swallowing at regular intervals as soon as my symptoms appeared .... or candied turmeric.

Candied turmeric is sold alongside candied ginger all over Hoi An's market. Before I even got sick a vendor told me it's good for a cough and sore throat. I bolted at least a half a bag at the first sign of a sore throat and then continued to snack on the astringent treat for a few more days.

What's your (non-Western pharmaceutical) cure for the common cold?

Hoi An Market Favorites: Cao Lau

We went to Hoi An in search of great cao lau. We ate the dish all over town, but the version served at this stall (above) in the market is hands down the best (a version served at a shop not far away runs a close second; unfortunately for anyone squeamish about eating in the market or at a local-style eatery, every version we sampled in a proper restaurant or cafe disappointed).

A proper cao lau - a noodle dish that allegedly originates in Japan - is a porky tour de force, featuring slices of stewed shoulder or leg, a rich dark broth imbued with porcine goodness, and crunchy squares of lard-ified dough (the crispies that top inferior versions are fried in regular cooking oil).

Though pork figures prominently in the dish, its noodles - made with wheat flour; hearty and pleasingly rough-textured; and cut thick, wide, and square - are just as important. (The crunchy 'croutons' are made from the same dough.)

Last but not least the dish incorporates bean sprouts (blanched with the noodles, which have already been steamed before they're sold) and a characteristically Vietnamese mix of fresh greens and herbs, the components of which vary vendor to vendor. Curly leaf lettuce is a mainstay; Thai basil, rice paddy herb, sprouts of one sort or another, wild pepper leaf, mint, and fish mint might also make an appearance.

So what makes this vendor's version Number One? First, her pork is tender and shot through with the flavor of soy and whatever else she stews it in; many others top their cao lau with roasted or boiled pork that has little flavor on its own. Second, her 'broth' is rich and intense enough to call a 'gravy' (have a gander at the dark goo in that pot above). Cao lau is served just enough broth to cover the bottom of the bowl, so it really needs to taste of something besides Maggi sauce or msg-generated umami to make the dish shine.

Third, she adds a nice variety of greens. Elsewhere we were served versions that included only lettuce and a token leaf of Thai basil or two - pretty shoddy, in our book. Also, this lady's cao lau boasts appropriately al dente noodles and crisp-tender sprouts. Finally, she offers alongside an exquisite chili sauce. Ruby red, a little sticky and slightly sweet but quite spicy as well, it might more appropriately be called a chili 'jam', it's a concoction I'd love to spread on garlic toast or dribble onto scrambled eggs.

Definately a cao lau to remember. By the end of our last morning grazing the market we had absolutely no room for a final bowl. Poor planning on our part, and we're still regretting it.

Cao lau, 7am-late afternoon, Hoi An market 'food court' (Look for the blue and white sign; this stall also consistently has the most customers of all the stalls offering cao lau.)

Hoi An Market Favorites: Banh Khoai

Last week in Hoi An we had time to do something we haven't in ages: hang out in a market.

Hanging in the market is a particularly useful exercise in heavily-touristed Hoi An, where finding good Vietnamese food is a challenge. In the market it's a different story. There's so much fantastic stuff there that by the end of our fourth day our list of favorites had grown too long to manage in one morning. It's a damned sorry situation in which to find yourself - last day at the market, forced by lack of belly space to  pick and choose.

This banh khoai vendor works at a low makeshift stall to one side of the market's 'food court', a line of concrete tiled stalls housing vendors selling everything from pho to fruit shakes. As we walked the food court line on our first morning several banh khoai vendors called out and waved their crepe pans at us - a flashing red light, in my book. We turned a corner and there this was this woman, quietly serving customers, completely oblivious to our existence.

We sat.

Banh khoai is the predecessor to banh xeo, a huge rice flour pancake filled with pork, shrimp, and bean sprouts that's more common in Saigon and south. As it cools banh xeo gets unappealingly soft and heavy with oil; for me it's always been a three-bite wonder.

Not so the smaller, more manageable banh khoai. The filling in this vendor's version is minimal - a single small slice of fatty belly pork and a half a small shrimp layed in the pan after the batter's been poured, a flourish of bean sprouts added just before she slides the pancake out of its pan. To eat, they're opened onto a square of stiff rice paper, layered with a few slices of tart star fruit and young banana and a handful of greens and herbs (sprouts, basil, paddy herb, mint, and lettuce, at this stall), and rolled tight. The dipping sauce alongside is made from soy beans and glutinous rice; chili's optional.

In one, two, three ... maybe four bites you're finished. The pancake's stayed warm and its edges crackly to the end, lightly cooked bean sprouts as crispy as the fresh greens you just added. This is a heavily oiled treat, but not overly so - the extra grease works here, soaking into the stiff rice paper and mixing with the dipping sauce.

Our usual limit was two each, but only because in this market we had other fish to fry - cao lau, central-style pho, ngo bap, banh beo ....