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| The opening barrage of local dishes |
As a self-proclaimed foodie, it's my responsibility
to try new foods as I encounter them. Don't get me wrong, I’m no Anthony
Bourdain or Andrew Zimmern. No entrails or blood-based dishes for me; I admit that
pate and sweetbreads might be tasty,
but I've watched a few too many episodes of CSI and Criminal Minds to be
comfortable with this concept. No whole animals – octopi on a stick, balut, and
escargot, for instance – because my Midwestern upbringing hasn't left me
completely. No exceptionally smelly foods (I'm looking at you durian and
Limburger), since having a great sense of smell is a double-edged sword. I
freely admit that my rules are arbitrary, and that I probably have eaten
something by mistake or deception that I wouldn't have otherwise. Case in
point, eating blood sausage is something I wouldn't do now. Nevertheless, I was
probably seven when I had a piece after some extended family member said it was
salami. And raw oysters are a deliberate exception, because they are delicious
with a little lemon juice. Still, I adhere to my self-imposed restrictions
because eating should be an enjoyable experience, not an exercise in
discomfort.
In Da Nang, our guide, Thuan, took us to a local
place to try some traditional dishes. I'm a huge fan of bahn mi sandwiches and
pho, so I was enthusiastic about trying more of the Vietnamese cuisine. Our
guide ordered for us, and the waitress brought out what appeared to be enough
food to feed the entire city. I don't recall most of the dishes we tried, but a
few made an impression. We had rice baked in clay pots, which yields golden and
slightly chewy grains, perfect for soaking up the broth from the spicy fish and
scallion stew. Sautéed morning glories with garlic tasted pleasantly like
spinach, and complemented the ground pork dish. We used the crumbled dried fish like bacon bits on the salad, and it was much better than it probably sounds. I made an effort to try a
little bit of everything, including the mam ruoc.
My first warning should have been that the sauce sat in a tiny dish in the center of the table, like an innocent dollop of dusky
lavender gravy. Thuan said it was a strong-tasting (second warning) dipping
sauce made from fish (third warning). I selected one of the marble-sized white eggplants
proffered, dragged it through the sauce, and popped it in my mouth. I
immediately and deeply regretted my decision. The taste flooding my mouth was
like the vomitous funk of a dirty diaper made edible in some dank corner of
hell. This was no garden-variety baby bomb, either; no, this particular
specimen had been forgotten in the car at the start of a long, sweaty day at
the beach, left to fester in the merciless heat of the sun. That repulsive,
nauseating stench was in my mouth.
In a panicked reflex, I swallowed. My eyes were
watering, but I had at least gotten it down. Then I inhaled. The fetor rising
from rotting garbage in the bottom of a New York City fast food dumpster combined
with the noxious odor of a hundred cat ladies' houses might come close to the reeking miasma that assaulted my nose. Every thread of
self-control I had was employed in the prevention of my throwing up at the
table. I could feel the saliva collecting in the back of my throat, and my
stomach clenched in anticipation. I drained my Coke, then my water glass. I
felt like my struggle lasted for an hour, but only mere seconds had passed
while I was mastering my rebellious reflexes. Seemingly oblivious to my inner
battle, my husband had continued talking with our guide, and was reaching for
an eggplant. "Watch out," I croaked, "it's really strong."
He caught my meaning and barely skimmed the top of the sauce. After swallowing
his sample, he coughed a few times and followed up with several long sips of
water. "Well, that was disgusting," he deadpanned.
Later, I conducted an online investigation on mam
ruoc. The production process can summed up like this: krill-sized shrimp are
salted, dried, ground up, fermented, dried again, and sold as a paste. It's not
quite as popular as the pervasive fish sauce, nuoc mam, which is the liquid extracted
from fermented anchovies. While I can and have handled nuoc mam in small
quantities, particularly mixed into other sauces, the mam ruoc is beyond my
capacity. It is without a doubt the most offensive food I have ever willingly
eaten. Had I smelled it first, there's absolutely no chance I would have put it
in my mouth – but that wouldn't have been much of a story.
Until the next post, keep laughing, learning new
things, and eating good food.
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