Wild Wonders: Yellow Velvetleaf and More

Unveil the organic yellow velvetleaf and more.

The Southwest region of Vietnam is affectionately known as “the homeland of rivers and water.” Southwesterners live closely with rivers, canals, and lowlands covered in wild vegetables. These wild plants seamlessly weave into meals, defining the unique character of Southwestern cuisine.

Yellow Velvetleaf (Cù nèo)

The heart-shaped leaves stretch straight, with light green, long petioles and flowers that have three gentle, pale yellow petals. This is the familiar image of yellow velvetleaf, or cù nèo in Vietnamese, a plant that often grows in watery areas like ditches, riverbanks, and low-lying regions. When young, the leaves curl up like the sharp hook of cù nèo – a tool used by Southern farmers to pull grass after cutting it, giving the plant its name.

Yellow velvetleaf thrives in water. During flood seasons in the Mekong Delta, as the water rises, they swell and form green patches on the vast water surface. Whether it’s flood season or dry season, yellow velvetleaf is always cherished by people in the Southwest when food is scarce or when they crave its gentle, fragrant taste.

People often pick young stems and flower stalks of yellow velvetleaf to dip in fermented bean curd, caramelized fish sauce with pork fat and sugar, or braised fish. The stems and stalks are soft and spongy, while the flowers have a delicate fragrance. They’re slightly bitter at first, but leave a lightly sweet aftertaste. Combined with a rich dipping sauce, they make the rice go down beautifully.

If you enjoy sweet and sour flavors, marinate yellow velvetleaf with sugar and vinegar or lemon juice. Pair it with braised shrimp or fish and savor it with hot rice while the rain pours down like cats and dogs outside. Oh, how warm and delicious!

Pickled yellow velvetleaf has a unique flavor. Salty and slightly sour, with the bitterness softening into a light astringency. This pickle is a perfect match for crispy fried fish, served with a bowl of garlic and chili fish sauce. As the folk song goes:

“Pickled yellow velvetleaf with fried fish, 

 It’s the finest dish you can’t miss.”

The fat sizzles in the pan. The shallot and garlic dance around, giving off a delicious aroma that makes your mouth water. Yellow velvetleaf gently touches the fat and others, then dances together to the sound of the fire’s drum. Pepper, salt, and fish sauce join the festivities. The whole group jostles on the plate, eager to show off their beauty. 

Yellow velvetleaf is delightfully crispy alongside pork fat, with white garlic and red chili standing out against the lush green backdrop of the vegetable. Pick up your chopsticks and enjoy it with hot or cool rice, and you’ll be enchanted immediately, just like the folk song says:

“Stir-fried yellow velvetleaf is divine,

One bite and you’ll crave it for all time”

You’ll be even more captivated by the sweet and sour soup of yellow velvetleaf. The steaming bowl exudes the sweet aroma of pineapple, the slight pungency of rice paddy herb, the spiciness of chili, and the faint scent of yellow velvetleaf flowers. Chewy and sweet white fish balls, dotted with black pepper, add to the delight. The soup has a slightly sour taste of tamarind that permeates each spongy yellow velvetleaf stalk. Pour the soup over a bowl of round rice noodles or hot rice. If it’s not salty enough, add a little fish sauce with red chili – oh, so delicious!

Oval-leafed pondweed (Rau mác) and Wild mustard (Cải trời)

At the start of every spring, the slender green leaves of oval-leafed pondweed rise in the fields or along the banks of ponds and puddles. The leaves are triangular and pointed, resembling spearheads, which is why they’re called rau mác in Vietnamese. Its flowers bloom in clusters, boasting a light purple hue as lovely as the áo bà ba blouse worn by a Southwest girl.

During flood seasons, oval-leafed pondweed flourishes in the flooded fields. The stems are white, plump, and juicy, while the flowers are soft and sweet. Oval-leafed pondweed is delectable when dipped in braised fish sauce or added to hotpot. The sour soup with oval-leafed pondweed and eel captivates diners with the delicate sourness of fermented rice, the sweetness of vegetables, the crunchy texture of shredded banana stem, and the tender, sweet eel meat.

When oval-leafed pondweed began to sprout in the fields, wild mustard had already turned the countryside gardens green. Their stalks are small and short, with dark green leaves blanketed in a layer of white fluff. These greens thrived only in the dry season, when other wild vegetables remained hidden in the soil or grew slowly. Southwesterners viewed wild mustard as a gift from God for the poor during the vegetable-scarce dry season, and thus, it was fondly named “heavenly mustard” or cải trời in Vietnamese.

Since the 19th century, scholar Huynh Tinh Cua respectfully included wild mustard in Đại Nam Quấc Âm Tự Vị: “Cây cải trời: a type of wild mustard that does not have a spicy taste.” (Rey Curiol & Cie. Publishing House. 1895, p. 90). Folk songs also reference wild mustard in dire straits:

“The wind takes heavenly mustard back to the sky, 

Vietnamese coriander stays, enduring the bitter life.”

There are several stories circulating online explaining this folk song. One involves the concubine of King Le Chieu Thong, and another concerns the concubine of King Gia Long, named Le Thi Ram. The story about King Gia Long’s wife has been debunked, while the tale about King Le Chieu Thong’s concubine seems like a forced inference.

Folk songs always carry profound yet simple, easy-to-understand thoughts of the common Vietnamese people. Both wild mustard and Vietnamese coriander have a touch of bitterness and spiciness in their taste and grow abundantly in the dry season. 

When the rainy season arrives, wild mustard withers, inspiring the expression “the wind takes heavenly mustard back to the sky,” symbolizing someone’s departure or passing. In contrast, “Vietnamese coriander stays, enduring the bitter life” signifies the coriander’s continued growth, representing the one left behind, enduring a lonely and sorrowful existence. If you have other interpretations, please share!

Beyond boiling, the simplest and most delicious dish featuring wild mustard is a soup made with clams or river shrimps. The small white clams or pretty pink river shrimps add a savory depth to the broth. Wild mustard isn’t as bitter as green mustard nor as sweet as leaf mustard; it has a light pungent aroma, slightly bitter at first with a sweet aftertaste. Why do wild vegetables always play the trick of being “bitter at first, sweet later” to keep us longing for them?

A farmer shared on YouTube that whenever he used a lot of fertilizer and pesticides on his rice crops, no wild vegetables could grow during the land’s dormant period. With rice farming alone being insufficient for a living, some farmers in the Southwest have now turned to cultivating wild vegetables. Wild plants like yellow velvetleaf and oval-leafed pondweed, once considered food for the poor, are now delicacies for the wealthy. This shift has boosted farmers’ incomes. However, I’m concerned this might be a spontaneous, rather than a sustainable, source of income.

For Vietnamese wild vegetables to be fully appreciated, they require the planning and guidance of competent authorities. Establishing specialized growing areas will prevent duplication and price drops, while comprehensive research on their medicinal properties will provide advice on consumption and quantities, ensuring confidence for both sellers and buyers. Exporting these vegetables holds great potential, offering a sustainable income for farmers while promoting Vietnamese cuisine globally. Hopefully, the day when the Southwest’s wild vegetables rise to prominence is not far off!

mlefood – Minh Lê