Cà phê sữa đá and vibes (part 2)

Ever been to cracker town?

Oh God, that sounds so greasy, I said. (And racist? Was it classist? Because I thought it was funny, had I internalized colonialism? Did I need to unlearn this and decolonize myself? Lots to unpack here.)

The actual name we called this part of My An ward though, was An Thuong.

Town Mouse, Jungle Mouse

Oh, An Thuong, the locals would say whenever I told them where I lived. Many foreigners there.

It was strange to be considered foreign in Southeast Asia, but that’s what I was, despite looking like I belonged. My name was a dead giveaway, and Xin lỗi, tôi không hiểu became my reflexive response to every Vietnamese who thought they were addressing one of their own. Sorry, I don’t understand.

These streets in the backpacker district though, were mine. I settled off An Thuong 29, in a trim building overhung with cascading greenery. Management was nice, security was always helpful, and we never had problems with utilities or mold or flooding. The windows faced an empty lot so sunlight could stream in, and while we were clear of construction noise we could not escape enthusiastic karaoke nights. Birds chirped at eye level on the branches outside my balcony, and there were slate-grey benches downstairs where I recently spent a rainy evening swapping stories with a friendly Catalan neighbour.

I mention these stereotypes with all fondness and self-deprecation, but I got a brand-new tattoo that was done by a Catalan (yes, another one) artist in his flat before he decamped to Europe (Are you SURE about this, the friends demanded. Share your location! ), and a violet yoga mat and potted plants. The only lifestyle props missing were a mandala beach mat, 50cc bike, and a foster cat or pup – but I would later end up dog sitting a corgi that lived in my ward.

I attended things like barre workouts and jewelry making classes, though I never did get to one of the sound baths and moon circles. Our women’s book club met monthly; one time for tea and scones, most times at Section 30, which is also where my friends and I staged interventions, and eventually on Zoom.

An Thuong 34 had it all — a nail salon, a coffee shop, a bakery where you could always find almond croissants and sesame bagels, a bistro where you could get some wine and bruschetta. A few summer weekends this street would transform into a Sunday market that sold hand-poured soy candles and organic lip balms, while the cafes set up extra outdoor seating so you could enjoy the live music.

There was a butcher shop where you could get tea-smoked duck with mint pesto risotto along with your frozen sausages and minced beef, and mini marts that sold bitter lemon alongside knaek and tahini. My wicked stepsister J lived with her family a two-minute walk away so I could always invite myself over for dinner and an armful of her cheesecake brownies and ube pan de sal.

Just across Vo Nguyen Giap, a little over 500 meters away from my building, were the My An and My Khe beaches. I’d take my striped beach towel and a book, and claim a coconut tree for the day. Sometimes I’d look across to the Lady Buddha, a small white figure against the green mountainside; I’d imagine the hazy road up the peninsula, and pretend that if I squinted hard I would see the mountain villas I’d lived in before.

You could run into anyone and everyone on the beach. Early mornings you had the seniors going through their stretches; as the sun steadily rose the sunbathers would arrive, and so would the volleyball teams and the friends with their dogs and Frisbees, and the surfers. When the shadows fell across the cooling sand the local families would emerge, timing their arrival perfectly at sundown.

This is not always as fun as it sounds: last Tet, with what looked like Danang’s entire expatriate community sunning itself on the shore, who should I see but the person who inspired this post (it was the new year, but the same old feelings that needed three quick cocktails in succession to numb, because we remember all too well); but it is also ripe for comic relief when you can make up random stories about everyone you pass, a game my chaotic friends and I liked to play.

One time someone pointed to a beautifully bronzed man. That one is Ecuadorian.

That is an oddly specific remark, I said suspiciously.

Saw him on Grindr.

Rất ngon

I would say this to most things. Very delicious.

There was pho, of course, a familiar staple, and cơm gà, chicken rice. Bò né, a sizzling platter beef and eggs, vied with banh mi for breakfast favourite.

You could never be too far away from trà sữa, milk tea, and cà phê sữa đá, that iced, rousingly sweet caffeine jolt. There were all the varieties of bia; Huda was mine, some friends preferred 333 – ba ba ba, others Tiger Crystal.

There was cao lầu, a Hoi An noodle specialty, and mì quảng, another noodle dish favoured in the central region. There was bún chả and bún thịt nướng (bless the hearts of the friends who introduced these!), the pile of fresh greens and cool herbs and rice vermicelli a counterpoint to the smoky grilled pork and piquant dash of fish sauce. There was deep-fried chả giò and fresh gỏi cuốn or summer rolls, and another of my favourites: the crispy bánh xèo, a rice pancake stuffed with pork, prawns and bean sprouts, and served with lettuce, basil and mint.

There were hàu nướng, oysters with peanuts and chives; mực nướng, grilled squid served with herbs and cucumber; and nghêu nướng if you preferred clams. Every seafood dinner would also feature trứng cút, quail eggs with salt, pepper and lime, accompanied by beer and Coca, enjoyed amiably on low plastic tables and chairs out on the sidewalk, shells casually discarded underfoot.

But Danang is not a city of insular tastes, and the souvlaki on the beach was just the beginning. My list expanded to include Torino for Piedmontese agnolotti and Merkat for tapas. Six on Six for breakfast in general; Happy Heart for pancakes in particular and a very special mention to the eggs Benedict at Esco Beach, with a side of beachside views. Jeremy’s Kitchen for crowd-pleasing doughnuts, Burger Bros and Pizza 4Ps for the obvious. Mumtaz for palak paneer and butter chicken masala; Irini for moussaka; Mezba for baba ghanoush. iVegan for when you wanted to be virtuous, Savall for catànies and sorbets and stracciatella ice cream. And The Nomad Kitchen for when you specifically felt like having a Sunday roast and apple pie. (I will never forget that apple pie.)

Tê Bar if you were feeling sociable (the bright-green Hanoi Autumn was a favourite), Cohibar if you wanted to chill, and The Craftsman for a solid whiskey sour. The End of the Beach used to have a rooftop bar, back when the award-winning Japanese bartender was around. He was a charmer, that one; always smilingly asking you how you felt that day. Did you feel like some fruit, perhaps, or were you in the mood for flowers? How did a smoky negroni sound? And then he would bring you something like rose-infused rum and lychee and it would be exactly what you wanted.

We had a place for bubbly Sunday brunch — one time the highlight was an entire pig roasting on a spit, another time I had one cocktail too many and fell asleep facedown on the sand. We had a favourite for when we wanted things like duck parmentier and tarte tatin (yes, we like our apple pastries here): Le Comptoir.

And I think we all must have celebrated our birthday at Olivia’s Prime Steakhouse at some point, it was that kind of happy place and they would always give you chocolate shots as they brought out your candle-lit cake. We’d sit on the second floor that looked out over the Han river, right by the Dragon Bridge and what I used to think was a twin of the merlion in Singapore but is, I have been reliably informed by the internet, actually a carp-dragon.

A Craic-ing Good Time

Speaking of birthdays, on my first one here I was gifted what will always be one of my favourite presents, sentimental as that sounds. It was an obsessively planned day that begun with a sunny outdoor brunch in An Thuong and moved to midday cocktails by a rooftop pool that overlooked the beach, followed by snacks at the cinema and plenty of shrieking (mine only) at the amusement park — I still maintain the best views of this city are from the front seat of that rollercoaster — and then a gentle (dare we say romantic, even) whirl on the giant Ferris wheel, and tacos to end the evening.

I also got myself adopted for the holidays. My second Christmas I managed to squeeze in mass at the pink cathedral — filled to the rafters with festive churchgoers, some of them my compatriots — between a last-minute grocery run to two ! supermarkets, and making a creamy strawberry Moscato torte recipe from the New York Times.

I felt a little apprehensive stepping into these strangers’ townhouse with an armful of bubbly and dessert, but they welcomed us into a well-provisioned party, Dirty Santa included. The merriment lasted into the first few hours of Boxing Day and ended in a raucous sortie over the old American bridge. (I never did get back that ceramic dish I’d put the torte in, but they’re welcome to it.)

In those warm and fuzzy hours, I felt like I was almost part of a found family, no matter how superficially so.

Further Afield

I ventured beyond the city, too — not as often as I would have liked in these pandemic times, but still managed visits to Luang Prabang, Phnom Penh and Yangon before the world shut down.

There were also weekends in Hanoi and HCMC, nature day trips, and the odd train ride south. And so we end this three-part farewell to Vietnam with a look back at all the unexpected adventures along the way.

(Didn’t know I would have so many words and feelings for this place, but here we are.)