South: Cake Soup of Pork Trotter – Coconut Cream

Savor the Southern cake soup, a succulent and toothsome medley.

Pork Trotter – Blue Crab Cake Soup

Venture down to the South, and you’ll find bánh canh (literally ‘cake soup’) undergoing a culinary metamorphosis: its usual companions of shrimp, crab, and fish give way to hearty cuts of meat, while its slender noodles puff up into chubby, round strands.

The crown jewel of this noodle transformation is the Trang Bang pork trotter soup. Cast your mind back to the early 20th century in Trang Bang, where a vision in áo dài would weave through the streets with her bamboo baskets. On her basket, nestled within a rustic clay pot, a broth simmered to perfection, its warmth cradled by the gentle breath of smoldering charcoal. With a coconut shell ladle, she served the soul-warming soup. The sea’s bounty was scarce, so she turned to the land, simmering pork bones, trotters, and meat to craft a rich broth. She is Mrs. Pham Thi Trang, hailing from Gia Huynh hamlet in Trang Bang.

The allure of pork trotter soup soon wafted its way to Saigon, beckoning food enthusiasts to make the pilgrimage to Trang Bang. As the dish’s fame simmered through the city, it stirred a culinary controversy. To the traditional palate of the time, bánh canh adorned with pork trotters was an avant-garde twist that not all were ready to savor.

Among the skeptics was the esteemed writer Binh Nguyen Loc, who lamented the erosion of Saigon’s gastronomic discernment: “The epicurean spirit of Saigon has been dulled,” he mused. “A dish as unconventional as pork trotter soup is served, and the silence of acceptance is deafening. No cries of dissent, no clamor for the familiar comfort of perch or, at the very least, snakehead fish.” His words, etched in the pages of ‘The wandering steps on the sidewalk’ (Thinh Ky Publishing House, 1966), echo the culinary crossroads of an era.

Indeed, the humble pork trotter soup boasts a charm that’s uniquely its own. Imagine a broth as clear as morning dew, brimming with the robust essence of meat, and kissed by the subtle sweetness of white radish and carrots—occasionally, even the earthy whisper of straw mushrooms. The noodles, plump and proud, carry the unmistakable taste of rice, tinged with a playful hint of sourness.

As you take a spoonful, the verdant aroma of chopped cilantro and the rich scent of golden fried onions dance around you. The pork trotters and hocks, a harmonious blend of lean and fat, await their dip into a piquant pool of fish sauce, alive with the zing of pepper and a cheeky squeeze of lemon. It’s a dish that’s both unpretentious and authentic, winning over even the most discerning of palates with its straightforward charm.

In Trang Bang, the art of noodle-making is a spectacle of simplicity and tradition. The sticky rice dough, unspun and uncut, is pressed through a sieve with holes, allowing the plump noodles to tumble directly into a bubbling cauldron of water. Once cooked, these noodles are bathed in cold water a few times, then folded with reverence into neat bundles.

This culinary ballet is performed so that the noodles never lose their integrity by stewing in the broth, nor is the broth ever clouded with flour. Such was the critique of Binh Nguyen Loc, who famously quipped, “the noodles go with noodles, broth goes with broth,” a sentiment from page 12 of his cited work. In his esteemed view, bánh canh should be a thick, porridge-like embrace where noodle and broth are inseparable. To him, this was the essence of tradition.

Ultimately, it is the palate that presides as the most impartial adjudicator, and the pork trotter soup has triumphantly cleared this stringent scrutiny. The renowned Trang Bang cake soup establishments of today—Nam Dung, Sau Lien, Ut Hue, Hoang Minh—stand as proud progeny of Mrs. Pham Thi Trang’s culinary courage. She was a pioneer who boldly defied convention, crafting a dish that was as unconventional as it was delectable.

The southern sea is a treasure trove of blue crabs. While meat from freshwater crabs is tender and rich, the blue crab offers a firmer texture and a briny hint of the sea. In the North, the beloved bánh đa cua (crab rice paper soup) is a study in subtlety, but its Southern counterpart, bánh canh ghẹ (blue crab cake soup), is a bold declaration of flavor. The broth of the latter is a symphony of umami, drawing its notes from charred shrimp heads, sun-dried squid, and the robust foundation of pork bones.

While bánh đa cua is a minimalist affair, featuring only crab’s delicate flesh, bánh canh ghẹ is an opulent feast, embracing whole crab legs and claws. The flat bánh đa noodles offer a satisfying chew, born from sheets of rice paper, whereas the round bánh canh noodles are tender morsels of comfort. And now, Hanoi’s streets are dotted with vendors of bánh canh ghẹ, a testament to the South’s culinary innovation enchanting the palates of the North.

Have you ever savored the delights of bánh canh rạm (varunidae cake soup)? This crustacean, no larger than a trio of adult fingers, boasts a delicate shell and thrives in the brackish waters, gifting its flesh with a sweetness rivaling that of crabs, yet with a lesser saline punch. 

When nestled in bánh canh, the varunidae forgoes its roasted crispiness, instead soaking up the rich tapestry of flavors from the broth, and exuding a gentle floury aroma. Each bite offers a textural sonnet—crisp yet yielding, where shell and meat harmonize, whispering of earthy notes and the merest hint of oceanic brine. This culinary rarity, bánh canh ghẹ, is a hidden treasure not easily stumbled upon. Only those who seek the wisdom of local connoisseurs along the coast may be fortunate enough to encounter this elusive delight.

Coconut Cream Cake Soups

Is coconut cream a star in savory dishes too? Absolutely! Just pop the question to the folks in Ben Tre, the heartland of coconuts. They’ll beam with pride and urge you, “Why not savor a bowl of bánh canh thịt vịt bột xắt (duck cake soup)?”

Imagine a broth glistening with golden duck fat, dancing with swirls of creamy coconut. Dive into succulent duck, bathed in a sauce that’s a symphony of salty, sweet, and zesty ginger notes. The noodles, supple and springy, eagerly embrace the coconut cream, transforming into silky strands of delight. Amidst this culinary ballet, the straw mushrooms pirouette – dainty, delicate, and just a tad sweet.

And then, the grand entrance: a robust, red-brown blood sticky rice cake, bursting with flavor, lands with a delicious thud. Huyết nếp vịt (sticky rice duck blood cake) has been mingling with bánh canh vịt since the dawn of the 20th century in the South.

Glutinous rice is marinated with fish sauce, pepper, and shallots until it sings with flavor. The blood tenderly wraps the sticky rice, forming a luscious morsel that bobs in the rich broth until perfectly cooked. Each slender slice of blood cake, resembling a festive peanut candy bar, eagerly joins the ensemble of noodles, duck meat, and coconut milk – a harmonious medley that’s sure to warm the soul.

In Ben Tre, the art of noodle-making dances to a different rhythm. There’s no chopping board in sight; instead, dough is gracefully rolled on glass bottles and cascades directly into a simmering pot of broth. This technique, a cherished culinary heirloom from Quang Binh and Quang Tri, where dough once met bamboo tubes, now meets glass with flair. The noodles emerge large and supple, forming a perfect duo with the rich, velvety coconut cream.

Bac Lieu’s culinary scene tells a tale of shrimp and coconut cream cake soup. Here, the shrimp, nurtured by brackish waters, boast a size and firmness that’s second to none, enveloped in a cloud of golden fried onions and garlic. The coconut cream, unapologetically fatty and sweet, crowns the dish. Beneath a verdant canopy of cilantro and onions, the noodles rest, humble yet inviting. Simple? Indeed. Scrumptious? Beyond doubt!

A Brief History of Bánh Canh

Embarking on a quest through the annals of Vietnamese culinary history, one might waver between calling it ‘ambition’ or ‘hope’. Perhaps it’s a blend of both, for it demands not just diligence but also a dash of serendipity. And in the case of bánh canh, fortune smiled upon me.

The tale of cháo se (spinning porridge) and Prince Ly Nha Lang in Ha Mo village is a testament to the ancient roots of bánh canh. As far back as the 6th century, this dish graced tables with rice noodles simmered in a hearty bone broth, mingled with finely minced meat. 

Fast forward to the 16th century, and bánh canh resurfaces in the venerable pages of Chỉ Nam Ngọc Âm giải nghĩa, the oldest preserved Sino-Vietnamese lexicon. Here, bánh canh is adorned with the likes of shrimp and water bugs, painting a picture of a dish that’s both rustic and regal:

“Canh Binh is white bánh canh,

With prawn, water bugs, meat, scallions and pepper”

(Khoa hoc – Xa hoi Publishing House 1985, Tran Xuan Ngoc Lan annotated, p. 116)

The year was 1760, and the culinary chronicles of Nữ Công Thắng Lãm unfurled. Penned by the illustrious physician Hai Thuong Lan Ong, it was a treasure trove of folk dishes that nourished both body and soul. Among them, the “rice porridge soup” stood out, a delightful fusion where rice porridge soup embraced rice paper soup, enriched with the bounty of the sea – fish, shrimp, and crab. (Phu Nu Publishing House 1971, pp. 65-66)

Intriguingly, he detailed a dough-making technique that mirrored the craft of Nam Pho village, Hue. A dance of hands “spinning the mouse’s tail,” a phrase as whimsical as the method itself, reminiscent of noodles crafted with precision and care. This culinary craft, perhaps once the pride of Hoan Chau region (Nghe An, Ha Tinh), where Hai Thuong Lan Ong lived, had journeyed to Nam Pho village through the immigrants from Dan Pho village of Ha Tinh.

Tracing the journey of Vietnamese settlers from Thanh – Nghe to Hue, the humble cháo bánh canh evolved, simplifying its name to bánh canh—a moniker that resonates from the historic city of Hue down to the vibrant South. Yet, despite its shortened name, bánh canh clings to its ancestral essence of “porridge” and “soup.” The rice flour dough, whether spinned or shredded, continues its destiny in a simmering cauldron of broth, barring the occasional modern twist of machine precision or pre-boiled convenience.

And here’s a curious morsel to ponder: true bánh canh shies away from the company of fresh vegetables, unlike its noodle kin across Vietnam. It’s a dish that stands proud in its simplicity, a testament to its rich, unadorned heritage. 

Bánh canh stands out in the rich tapestry of Vietnamese cuisine, a dish that whispers tales of comfort and tradition. It cradles the soul with its porridge-like tenderness, refreshes the spirit like a soothing soup, and embraces the heart with the warmth of a freshly baked cake. Among its culinary brethren—phở, bún bò, and the like—bánh canh is a venerable elder, steeped in history and simplicity. It’s time for bánh canh to reclaim its esteemed place at the Vietnamese table, not just as a meal but as a cherished connection to a past that continues to flavor the present. 

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