Dried Fish in the Rain

Rain falls, dried fish scent stirs old meals…

September rolls in, and I watch the rain pour down in sheets, my mind drifting to… dried fish.
When storms churn the sea and fresh catch grows scarce, that’s when dried fish takes the spotlight in the kitchen. Flat, stiff, salt-streaked creatures – brown, black, sometimes silver – don’t look like much. They smell strong, too, the kind of smell that clings to your shirt. But once you cook them, oh boy, the taste! Especially when your stomach’s growling on a gray, rainy evening. 

Whether sun-dried once or twice, salted or lightly cured, from rivers or the sea, each kind has its own character. They may be trickier than fresh to handle, but trust me: you can whip up nine dishes from them without breaking a sweat: grilled, fried, tossed in a salad, simmered, braised, stewed, souped, cooked in tomato sauce, or even shredded into fluffy floss.

Grilled or Fried 

Grilling is the truest way. It must be over charcoal – slow, patient, until the smoke creeps through the house. Sea fish carry the ocean’s briny tang; river fish hold the scent of wet earth. Some dried fish turn tough on the grill, so you wrap them in newspaper, give them a few hammer taps, and they yield, ready to be torn into snowy threads as soft as silk. Dip them into chili-lime fish sauce with a pinch of sugar. They are just as perfect alone as they are over steaming rice, while the rain drums its steady song on the roof.

Two friends of mine from Phan Thiết swear by grilling. One swears by dipping his catch in fermented bean curd, chased with a bite of green chili and a corner of crispy rice scraped from the pot. The other won’t eat anything but cá dảnh – a scrawny, flat little thing with more bones than flesh, yet rich with sweetness and fat. He throws it on the fire, peels away skin and skeleton, then dips the tender shreds into soy sauce spiked with tamarind and chili. Sweet, sour, spicy, salty – it’s the kind of mix that makes you polish off a whole pot of rice without noticing.

In his book Southern Delicacies, writer Vũ Bằng recalls how grilled fish was the drinker’s faithful companion in southern Vietnam of the 1940s and ’50s. He sketches a vivid tableau:

“Before the war, you might glimpse a few women under dim lamps, selling their fare. Their entire stall was no more than a bamboo mat with a scattering of squid, stingray, needlefish, catfish, or a few slabs of salty fish. Beside them sat a stone and a tiny clay stove, or perhaps a biscuit tin reborn as a grill with a wire mesh.

A passerby, craving a bite, would call for a shot of rice wine or medicinal liquor and a piece of fish. The vendor chose one, grilled it until it puffed on the mesh, then laid it on the stone and beat it soft with a hammer. The man chewed the fish like gum, washed it down with a gulp of liquor, tossed a coin, and was gone.” (Kim Đồng Publishing, 2017, p. 45) Nothing elaborate, nothing contrived – just the easy grace of the South! 

Phan Thiết is known for its cá úp giấy, or paper fish—thick-fleshed and deeply savory, made for drying. Snakehead and pangasius follow close behind; not as sweet or tender as when fresh, yet once dried their firm bodies reveal a bold, lingering flavor. Meaty, chewy, fragrant – these are the kind of fish that turn into unforgettable drinking snacks. 

In Sài Gòn, nothing once topped dried cá dứa (wild pangasius) from Cần Giờ. The wild ones fed on mangrove fruit, their flesh naturally sweet and fragrant. Farmed versions today? A pale imitation. Worse, the market is awash with counterfeits – catfish or pangasius dressed up as the real thing. Tired of the charade, I once turned to dried cá chốt (mystus) from Bạc Liêu instead. Tiny and bony, yes, but fried to a crackle they become golden nuggets. A dunk in chili–garlic sauce, a chase of cool cucumber: no fakes there, only honest delight.

Dried Fish in Salad

Just as beef jerky loves green papaya and dried shrimp goes with pickled Chinese onion, dried fish pairs best with green mango. Thin shreds of mango, garlic, chili, mint, and fish grilled until fragrant, the mix alone makes your mouth water. In Phan Thiết, folks even add young marigold leaves for a sharp, herbal kick. Sometimes mango gives way to cashew fruit, tossed with cucumber and fragrant herbs.

Almost any dried fish can go into a salad, though favorites include leaffish, snakehead, yellowstripe scad, or anchovy. Among them, dried snakehead or leaffish tossed with juicy crab claw herb is a rustic treasure. The herb’s succulence softens the fish’s dryness; it may not have mango’s crisp sourness, but lime adds a fresh tang while the leaves give a satisfying crunch. Best of all, the herb is organic – a simple, honest gift from the garden.

In Sài Gòn of the 1960s and 70s, people often wrapped dried fish in rice paper. “Cucumber, cashews, Vietnamese coriander, boiled pork belly and green mango, all spread across a softened sheet. In the center, a few strips of dried fish, neither too thin nor too thick. Roll it tight, plunge it into chili vinegar, and taste the clash of sour, salty, spicy, and sweet all at once.” Other times, “they paired dried fish with fish mint, slices of boiled egg, a drizzle of peanut and soy sauce, with a whisper of garlic.” (Vũ Bằng, Southern Delicacies, p. 51) Pure Southern ease, timeless and unhurried.

Braised or Stewed

Dried fish takes beautifully to sweet-and-sour or spicy braises. The scent of garlic, chili, and fish rising from a clay pot pulls me back to childhood evenings: rain tapping outside, warm light spilling inside, my mother bent over the stove. We ate braised dried fish with pickled vegetables on the side and a pot of wild-green soup. Back then I thought it was nothing special. Now I know it was paradise, and I wonder if the next generation will ever know such simple joy.

Braised dried fish often finds its match in pineapple or starfruit, the tart fruit softening the salty flesh. At times a few slices of pork belly join the pot, lending depth and richness. Yet more often than not, it is the fruit that steals the show, having soaked up every drop of flavor. Tender and tangy, it’s the kind of bite you can never stop reaching for.

Claypot Stews and Sour Soups

One dish almost lost to time is dried fish stewed with glass noodles, wood-ear mushrooms, tomato, lily buds, and a touch of ginger. Left to simmer gently in a clay pot, it becomes something modest yet unforgettable, the sort of flavor that lingers long after the bowl is empty. Once a meal of the poor, it now stirs a deep nostalgia, even in days when poverty has faded. 

Dried fish in sour soup is a true delight, especially the big-headed, bony, skin-heavy ones that lend a deep umami to the broth. In Phan Thiết, people favor dried black labeo simmered with tomatoes and tamarind, always paired with a dip of chili fish sauce. The broth is clear and savory, the fish chewy, perfect with either rice or rice noodles. Further south, dried stingray joins banana blossom, tamarind, herbs, and chili in a sour and spicy soup – crunchy, fragrant, free of any fishy trace, the kind of dish that keeps you reaching for more. 

Simmered in Tomato Sauce or Making Fish Floss

Two dishes that rose to fame in the early 2000s were dried fish in tomato sauce and fish floss. The tomato-sauced version is softer than caramelized dried fish, with a thick crimson sauce fragrant with garlic and onion—spoon it over rice and you’ll forget to stop eating.

Fish floss calls for fleshy, low-bone varieties like snakehead. After washing and soaking, the fish is grilled, fried, or briefly boiled. Then it’s pounded in a mortar or blitzed in a grinder until the strands turn fluffy, before being dry-roasted in a hot pan with pepper, sugar, and a splash of fish sauce to taste. Light, savory, and wholesome, dried fish floss is beloved by both children and the elderly.

After fooling around with dried fish long enough, I began to wonder: why does khô cá roll off my tongue more easily than cá khô, even though they mean the same thing? I asked around, did a bit of digging. Turns out Northerners stick to cá khô (fish-dried), while Central and Southern folks flip it to khô cá (dried-fish) – just like khô mực (dried squid), khô nai (dried deer), or khô bò (dried beef). The lone rebel? Tôm khô (shrimp dried), which refuses to budge. Language, like fish, has its own quirks.

I was reminded of an old folk song: “Raise the sail, set off with khoái (delight). Lay down the oar, roast dried khoai.” Why dried khoai (bummalo)? Perhaps just because it rhymes with khoái. Or perhaps because bummalo spoils quickly, so fishermen salted and dried them right on deck, then roasted the fish over coals, eating as the sea unfurled endlessly around them. A rhyme, a reason, or maybe just hunger dressed in poetry.

By now, the September shower has probably eased, and the street outside glistens. Let me end with a silly little rhyme, a farewell to “dried fish in the rain”:

Fish comes ashore, the sun beats low,

We salt and dry it for the storms that blow.

Grill, fry, toss, or stew with care,

Soup, braise, floss, tomatoes there.

Outside the wind, the rain still pours,

Inside, warm rice, dried fish galore.

mlefood – Minh Lê

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