The learning is cheap (but the malaria pills cost a bit)

When people claim to be self-taught on a certain subject, most often they actually mean one of two things: 1) ‘Yeah, I went to school for it but it doesn’t count ‘cause they didn’t really teach me anything; or 2) ‘I have huge gaps in my knowledge base.’ Zaf is guilty of both answers, and with her current hand-to-mouth-ism she isn’t getting to the culinary institute of NY any time soon. There was only one thing to do- learn it on the cheap in Vietnam.

This is a roundabout way of saying that a few weeks ago found me cruising around the provincial village of Hoi An, about five hours south from the DMZ. I was looking for one of the fabled cooking schools, but finding one was tougher than getting a Ha Noi bookseller to give correct change. Why? Because every single store was pushing cheap silk knockoffs of last years J Crew catalog, made while you wait. So when I say ‘finding one was tough’, what I actually mean was ‘I deeply regret that I was forced to stop and buy a silk shirt every five feet.’

So it was through blind luck that I finally found a small sign in Hai Scout Cafe where I stopped for a bowl of the local noodle dish, Cao lau. The Red Bridge Cooking School: a full half day’s lesson in traditional Central Vietnamese food was 14 dollars US and it was still the most I’d spent on anything, including hotels, since I’d arrived in the country.

The next morning started with the required walk-through of the local market. We established the medicinal uses of turmeric (stick it on zits), how to choose a good squid (flesh should be white and stiff) and what’s up with all that unripe papaya they eat (you have to use a special peeler-thing). All the while getting pushed, cursed at, and stepped on by tiny ladies with yolks of soup and peanuts slung over their shoulders and baskets of lettuces and fish and kids stacked high on their heads.

Then we all scooted onto a boat and put-putted towards the school, up the muddy stream that flows through the village. A whole bunch of fisherman in wooden canoes and conical hats were throwing their nets into the water, and further up there were huge nets the size of tennis courts lining both banks on bamboo poles. Apparently at night they shine a light in the center and then scoop out all the stuff that it attracts. Like tourists.

The school turned out to be a restaurant with an extra big gazebo out in front overhanging the river. For Vietnam, land of the impromptu and jerry-rigged, it was surprisingly well done. We each had our own stove, all utensils were provided, and there was no lack of demonstrators, dish washers, people to make sure we didn’t light ourselves on fire, and a translator to explain it all.

The menu was a warm squid salad, roasted fish, eggplant stew in clay pots, yellow vegetable pancakes, and finally, homemade rice wrappers to use for spring rolls. These last things were so damn hard that not a single one of us got the bamboo flippy-motion the first time around; mess ups and waste water were thrown directly into river.

Anyway, I only found out later that the Red Bridge School is the most famous cooking school for English-speakers in Vietnam, with a recent cover article in the NY Times. Who knew. I’d just stopped for a bowl of noodles.