Stay hungry. Stay foolish: The making of a foodie

Photo: Cháo quẩy (Congee w/ Youtiao)

When I was 5, according to my mom, I only spoke babbled French in feeble attempts to tag along her side to the delegates’ dinners at the French Embassy in Hanoi, where the “pretty food” was always on display. Those swanky hors d'œuvres, staring back into the eyes of a bewildered young child with an irrepressible allure, were in stark contrast with Mrs Tám's run-on-the-mill pavement congee served in chipped-edged ceramics. But of course, bite-sized quail egg blinis may get insipid as time lends me some whim but good congee never gets old. I harbor ceaseless cravings for that humble concoction of rich broth and crunchy dough in cháo sườn whenever I’m away from home, whether it be Sydney, London or half way around the world in college.

Unfortunately cooking opportunities don’t come often for me while in college. I caved in to flavorless dorm food while sporadic episodes of Iron Chef were my only bond with the culinary culture. The only thing I miss more than eating good food is cooking itself. I once dragged my best friend around the entire dorm for hours scavenging for kitchen utensils and containers to create something out of inherent dining hall ingredients – a dish which I coined a fanciful name “balsamic-seared mushroom in buerre blanc”. All stemmed from the fear that the salad bar mushrooms would mourn over their wasteful lives for being flavorly squandered when eaten raw. (Really, the mushroom’s texture and aroma are substantially elevated when cooked.)

I was not born a passionate cook, I was lured and shoved into being one. During my highschool years in Sydney, I worked at a trattoria after school to scrape up a few bucks for my art supplies. I never knew what goes on top of a pizza was not just ‘cheese’ but mozzarella, and there are more types of ‘formaggio’ than I could ever imagine. Manual labor has never been more stimulating, from spin tossing the pizza dough to kneading fettucini, I was the captain of my cuisine boat sailing away from the once monotonous life.

Back in Hanoi. One fine day in the midst of SATs prep and math psets, I emailed Bobby Chinn and casually requested a position in his kitchen, purely because I loved food. Next thing I knew, I was in a jet black apron swiping plates for one of the first haute-cuisine restauranteurs in Vietnam. It was like first time biking on culinary training wheels – truffles, balsamic oil, saffron – exotic delicacies that was for the first time within my reach, and in abundance too. The experience for me was no less surreal than a coffee internship for NASA. Bobby Chinn, like most celebrity chefs, was charismatic at the bar and temperamental in the kitchen. I finally learned the ins and outs of all of the items on his menu, after having witnessed the 1 millionth egg being tossed up the ceiling due to his tantrums.

College means Domino’s, americanized sushi rolls and a slowly devolving palate. When the closest thing to ‘cooking’ is microwaving mac n cheese then dwelling on beautiful food memories is the only thing that keeps the foodie in me alive.