Rice Crepe and Bitter Herb

Rice crepe, bitter herb and the bittersweet dance of nostalgia.

As a child, the sight of my mother preparing rice crepe was always a prelude to delight. Even when the fillings had dwindled, the magic continued with the rice crepes that stood proudly unfilled. These were not to be savored in haste; they demanded the patience of an afternoon’s wait to reach the perfect coolness. Then, they were ready for bold strokes of chili fish sauce or the milder hues of soy sauce, accompanied by the crunch of raw vegetables.

Cooled to room temperature, the crepes carried a subtle tang of fermented rice flour, their surfaces occasionally adorned with golden bits of crispy pork rinds. The exterior boasted a delicate crispness, yielding to a chewy embrace, while the interior remained tender, almost pillowy. Unencumbered by filling, each bite was a meditation on texture and taste—the saltiness of the sauces, the heat of the chili, and the inherent sweetness of the rice melding into a flavor of delicious simplicity.

Upon my return to a quaint village in the Central region, I rekindled my fondness for a childhood favorite at the local market – bánh xèo vỏ, which means “shell crepe.” This whimsical name invariably evokes images of bicycle tires in my mind, yet these crepes defy such rugged associations; they are tender and radiate a comforting warmth.

Here, the fish sauce is a unique concoction, blended with minced cooked tomatoes, offering a light and sweet caress to the crepes without overwhelming saltiness. Initially, the sauce’s unconventional flavor didn’t win my favor, but with time, it grew on me, revealing its subtle charm.

I recall my first purchase of these crepes at the market, where I inquired about the customary young green mustard. The vendor’s response was a gentle shake of the head, “No, we pair them with lettuce, mint, and bitter herbs.” It seems the pungent bite of mustard greens might overpower the delicate balance of the tomato-infused fish sauce.

Upon arriving home, curiosity led me to delve into the bag of vegetables, eager to identify the elusive bitter herb (rau đắng). Among the medley of familiar greens, one unknown variety stood out, undoubtedly the one I sought. Its stems were as slender as bean sprouts, and its leaves were diminutive, almost delicate. A thorough chew reveals a surprising bitterness, a flavor that lingers with a hint of nostalgia.

The term rau đắng resonates with a sense of home. It reminds me of a poignant line from a beloved song: “Far from home, alone and pensive, thoughts drift to bamboo groves, sweet memories surface, bitter herb soup is his craving.” This lyric, penned by Bac Son in “Still loving bitter herbs growing in the backyard,” captures the essence of longing – a yearning not just for a taste, but for the memories it evokes.

The song has lingered in my memory, not just for its emotive melody and straightforward lyrics, but for its focus on the familial bond between “mother” and “uncle.” For the longest time, one line puzzled me: “Uncertain if joy or sorrow filled her heart, my mother beckoned her brother near, plucking a gray hair from his head, though her own hair bore the silver of time.” It wasn’t until I encountered Nguyet Lang’s 1972 poem “Bitter herb” that the line’s depth truly unfolded before me – the very poem that inspired Bac Son to compose this touching melody.

The poem weaves a tale of siblings’ humble life amidst the rural scape. It begins with a quartet of lines painting the monsoon’s touch:

“When rain descends, the fields transform to lakes,

Fish, in festive spirits, leap to tunnels.

The downpour, relentless and torrential,

Brings forth the bitter herbs around our porch.”

In the countryside, the house’s cement steps meld with the earth, humble and inviting. With each rain, a verdant tapestry of sleeping beauty plants and bitter herbs springs to life beside them. From within, nestled with knees drawn close, one can gaze upon the dance of greenery in the rain’s embrace. The downpour is fierce, yet the ambiance it creates is one of comfort, a testament to the siblings’ life cradled in their parents’ love.

Rainfall heralds a feast of nature’s bounty:

“A pot of braised perch,

A bowl of bitter herb soup,

Brimming with the essence of home.

His heart aches for the days of yore.”

The siblings’ lives unfurled amidst contrasts: sunny mornings spent crossing the bamboo bridge to school, and cold, rainy evenings vying for the warmest spot at dinner. Their days, woven with threads of hardship and joy, slipped by in the loving embrace of their parents. Then, change swept through their lives like a sudden gust: the sister wed at sixteen, their parents departed this world, and the brother ventured beyond the familiar bounds of their hometown. 

In the summer’s midday, the sister sat in solitude, gazing upon the rice fields bathed in light:

“At noon, the southeast wind lulls the sunlight,

While smoke from the rice fields tenderly wets her eyes.”

Were her eyes wet from the smoke, or was it the ache of longing for her family?

Three decades had woven their stories apart. Yet, here he was, back to where love never waned. Time had etched its tales in silver upon their heads:

“Once more, she sits by the door,

‘Come closer,’ she softly implores.

With hand trembling, a gesture so tender,

She plucks a gray strand from his shoulder.”

The verses unfold like scenes from a slow-motion film, capturing the delicate interplay of emotion and time. From her trembling fingers, betraying both age and feeling, to the solitary white hair on her younger brother’s shoulder, each detail is steeped in affection. Her love, though unspoken, resonates through the simplicity of her gestures. 

The final stanza, in its unadorned truth, strikes a poignant chord:

“Enveloped in nostalgia’s gentle embrace,

His gray hair – the testament to time’s passage

The wanderer’s stride falters

As bitter herbs flourish, verdant, within his soul.”

Understanding the poem’s final lines requires not only a reading of the entire piece but also the insight gained from a lifetime of experiences. 

It’s often said that fate orchestrates our encounters. On my path, the familiar taste of bánh xèo vỏ (rice crepe) from my childhood and the distinctive flavor of rau đắng (bitter herb) from a beloved song have emerged as serendipitous finds. These chance discoveries guided me to the touching verses of Nguyet Lang’s poem. I recount this twist of fate to you, my dear readers, with the hope that it may kindle a spark for your own fortuitous explorations.

mlefood