Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
how it's made?” Just then the younger woman said something—translating, I figured—for
Madame Trai.
ButTraijuststaredbackatme.Ashergrimacedeepened,Ifeltmyselfshrinking.Hereyes
narrowed with suspicion, as if I really were a culinary secret agent who had come to Hoi An
to steal the family cao lau recipe.
I walked away, ignoring the girls tugging at my arm to take me to their families' tailor
shops. I felt defeated; my quest might be over.
Later that day I met up with Thao, and he took me to Thanh, a favorite place for cao lau,
about a 15-minute walk from the center of town. I told Thao about my encounter with Trai
at the market and how discouraged I was about my chances to get into the noodle-making
family's home factory.
“I can talk to them,” he said, as Ms. Thanh, the owner, put two bowls of cao lau in front of
us.
As I dug in, a horrified look spread over Thao's face.
“No!” he said, glaring at the spoon in my hand. “Never use a spoon! That's for pho.”
Cao lau is, in a way, the anti-pho. Broth is the star in pho, Vietnam's national dish; rare
brisket,tendons,andsoftnoodlesplaysupportingroles.Conversely,caolauisshortonbroth;
a dark shallow pool comes as a hidden surprise when you get to the bottom of the bowl. Ms.
Thanh'sbrothwasespeciallygood.Shedeviatesslightlyfromthetraditionalrecipe,shesaid.
“How so?” I asked.
“It's a secret,” she said, smiling wryly.
A secret. What is it, I wondered, with this town?
WhenThaopickedmeuponhisscooterthenextday,hetoldmethatmaybethegreatestfood
mystery in this town of culinary secrets was about to be unraveled for me.
“I went to see the family that makes cao lau,” he said, referring to Madame Trai's branch,
“and I told them about you.” He paused, waiting for a reaction, and then added, “They said
yes. They are going to welcome you to their house where they make the noodles.”
I put my hands on my head in disbelief. Even Thao seemed surprised.
“We have to go there early,” he said. “They make it very early so it's ready for breakfast.”
At five the next morning I was on the back of Thao's scooter, riding down a dirt road on
the outskirts of town, past a small outdoor market, a few bars with open facades, a colorful
Buddhist temple, and a wandering cow. I still had my doubts that this was going to happen.
It seemed too easy.
The front of the one-story house was almost obscured by two 10-foot-high piles of wood.
We hopped off the scooter and walked around the house to the back. There, in two adjacent,
low-ceilinged rooms lit only by fire, where spider webs hung to eye level, four family mem-
bersworkedsilently,eachatadifferentstepinthecaolaunoodle-makingprocess.Otherthan
