A Fat Purple Fig

Well, there is only one thing for it, but to get on the back of one of the bikes. Hyped up on coffee, and after witnessing two scooter falls in the rain (after which the victims were honked at furiously for blocking traffic), I decide it is time to throw caution (and my no doubt slow-to-heal body) to the wind, and book a food tour with these guys.

I blame the caffeine.

Hoa, identifiable in a red helmet and polo shirt, picks me up outside my Airbnb, explains that I am the only member of the group, and outlines the rules;

• Handbag in front
• No photography while in transit
• Get on and off via the left side of the bike
• Hold on to sides of the seat, or, if very nervous, her fine-boned shoulders

And, with a ‘I will drive so slowly and carefully’, we were off. It felt neither slow, nor careful, but I believe her.

Our first stop is to Be Lun, which is has become so popular, another branch has opened directly across the road. Here, I am introduced to the players in tonight’s tour, and the pattern that each restaurant visit will take. Hoa and Vy, who is training to become a tour guide, will direct me to a low, waiting seat, then sit across from me, asking questions and eating daintily only when I provide hearty encouragement. As this occurs, Tuan and his unnamed companion will perch somewhere nearby, taking photographs. They will photograph me endlessly, sweaty and cumbersome. I will feel like a caught-off-guard celebrity, and dread the spoils that I will no doubt receive later.

At Be Lun, we eat bánh tráng nướng, or ‘Vietnamese pizza’, with grilled rice paper used as a base. I am introduced to the standard and ‘luxury’ versions, accompanied by grilled quail egg and a sticky, rolled version, both of which are made with Laughing Cow cheese. I am also acquainted with the Vietnamese love of sauce, with four versions appearing at every location we visit. Here, it is tamarind, tamarind and fish sauce, sweet chilli, and pepper sauce. It is disconcerting to eat while being watched, but I cope.

I don’t know where we go after this. My e-sim, newly purchased, isn’t configured properly and, to be honest, I don’t really care. Noa has ordered me a ‘roadie’, so I get caught up in the rush of drinking beer with one hand and holding my seat with the other as we zip through the lit streets of Saigon, down alleys and across intersections.

Conversation with Noa is a highlight. A Saigon native and book editor by day, she was once the youngest tour guide at her company, which I recognise as a point of pride. She is fluent in four languages, and understands her city well. I appreciate our discussion about viewing the familiar with the eye of an outsider. ‘An urban planner once pointed out that scooters on the footpath are not good for the city,’ Noa explains, ‘…but it is all we have ever known.’

Our next stop is for barbeque, where Tuan steps up for duty on the small charcoal grill. He grills beef, squid, goat breast, mushroom, and okra. ‘I eat okra almost every day,’ Vy tells me, shyly, warming to the conversation. We discuss backyard grilling, breakfast food and sandwiches while I wrap the barbequed pieces in leaves, and dip them into a new array of sauces. I like spicier food than they expect, which soon becomes my point of pride.

‘There are no rules to eating in Vietnam,’ Hoa tells me, not for the last time.

We zip through Chinatown, past a busy street filled with lanterns, in honour of the Mid-Autumn Festival, also known as the Children’s Festival. Celebrations are evident, with children waving lanterns from the sides of bikes around us, perched between adult legs. On one bike, I spot a family of five; mother at the back, two children pressed between her and the driving father, and a toddler clutched between his legs. I ask if a licence is required for riding scooters and am met with an emphatic, ‘of course!’ Later, Noa tells me that many teenagers ride before the legal age of eighteen, but they will not be stopped if they are riding carefully.

At our next stop, we wrap our own rice paper rolls. Tuan joins us, and I am relieved that everyone is soon busily wrapping. We select from three kinds of pork, young mango, cucumber, pickled cabbage, Thai basil, and, you guessed it, four different sauces. I snap a photo of my lovely hosts. ‘This is a good place for competitions,’ Hoa tells me, ‘some people can eat up to thirty rolls!’ We laugh as they split, but continue to ensure more of the same with excess stuffing.

Everywhere we go, we discuss food. Vy’s favourite food is broken rice, making it the next must-try on the list, having already been named by our taxi driver. Hoa asks me the strangest food I have ever eaten, and I recall the chicken hearts, shark cartilage, and twitching prawn of Tokyo. I return the question.

‘I am from Vietnam,’ she replies, with a smile, ‘duck embryo…snake heart…rat…frog…’.

I crouch between a steaming bowl of crab noodle soup, slurping the gingery coconut broth, made yellow with annatto seed. The thick, slippery tapioca noodles wriggle through my silver chopsticks, making me feel lucky when I snag one. Hoa diligently harvests crab, which she piles beside me on an upturned shell. ‘Warm this in your soup,’ she suggests, ‘…or dip it in the sauce. There are no rules.’

At our final stop, I am presented with scoops of frozen yoghurt, and nine different toppings, including black sticky rice, coffee jelly, boba balls, aloe vera, and toasted coconut. I suspect Hoa has ordered a single scoop in a separate cup for my sake, rather than theirs, as she and Vy slide it back and forth between them. ‘If this were your dessert,’ I ask, ‘which toppings would you include?’

‘All of them,’ Vy replies immediately, ‘there are no rules for eating in Vietnam’.

I pile them all into my cup, mix, and relish every moment of this last hurrah.