Bánh Thuẫn

He doesn’t taste. He just watches the batter of bánh thuẫn run down.

Mr. Phùng sits on a small stool in front of a large bucket. He cracks the shells and pours the eggs in. His hands move in a steady rhythm, as they have for decades. The whisk spins fast. The eggs turn into a thick yellow liquid, flecked with tiny bubbles. The whisk draws sugar and flour into a deep, hollow swirl. He lifts a spoonful. The batter runs down in a slow stream. He nods and carries the bucket over to the oven.

Heavy cast-iron pots, coated in white ash. The fire underneath burns strong. The lids are covered with glowing charcoal. Búp, Mr. Phùng’s daughter, uses a long metal rod to lift a lid. She brushes a thin layer of peanut oil onto the molds, ladles in the batter, and closes the lid. When the lid opens again, the cakes have risen, their surface breaking into small segments. The smell of baked eggs and sugar rises thick in the air. Búp inhales lightly. The smell is slightly bitter. She reduces the charcoal below.

The cakes are moved onto bamboo trays and dried over charcoal until crisp. Mr. Phùng moves between the trays and the bucket of batter. Mrs. Ba, his wife, counts the cakes and places them into plastic bags, adding a paper label printed with the name “Ba Phùng”. Khôi, Búp’s son, helps his grandmother. When the bag is full and there is no space to tie it, he presses the cakes down.

The Ba Phùng bakery has been here for forty years. After he married, Mr. Phùng took over the bakery from his parents, who had inherited it from his grandparents. In the morning, he delivers cakes. In the afternoon, he works on machines to replace the work of his hands. Mrs. Ba works on improving the taste. “Some batches are good, some are not. You have to test the batter, watch the timing, over and over, until it comes out even like now.”

Mr. Phùng says that in the past, the cakes were baked in large clay pots filled with sand. On the sand sat thick, blackened brass molds. Later came the cast-iron molds with lids, heated from below and above. He laughs. “The old molds looked like shields, so people called them bánh thuẫn.” In Quảng Nam and Quảng Ngãi, the word is pronounced bánh thửng.

Every day, the couple wakes at two in the morning. When the orders are filled, they rest early. Near Tết, the whole family works until evening.

Fewer families make bánh thuẫn now. Older people still remember the smell. Younger people do not. Mrs. Ba says that in Bình Sơn, Quảng Ngãi, there used to be dozens of ovens; now there is only theirs left. Mr. Phùng listens and says nothing. He looks at the oven. He once tried baking with a machine. The cakes did not rise.

Khôi continues placing the cakes into the bag. The bag is full. He presses the cakes down. Mrs. Ba looks, then turns away.

Note: 

– Bánh thuẫn is a traditional Vietnamese sponge cake. 

– “thuẫn” means a shield, used to block a spear.

mlefood – Minh Lê NT

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