Banh Khoai of Hue

It begins with a sound. A short, crisp sizzle jumps up as a spoonful of rice batter touches a hot cast iron mold. Then the smell of turmeric rises, warm and yellow, mixed with hot oil and a little kitchen smoke. Before the eyes have taken in anything, the stomach already knows where it is: in Hue, beside a bánh khoái stove. Bánh khoái is a small, crisp pancake.

Turn around and you will see an old arched gate of the citadel. The people of Hue call it the Thượng Tứ Gate, and its formal name is Đông Nam Môn. The arch dates from the reign of Emperor Gia Long. He was the founder of the Nguyễn dynasty. The watchtower above it is the work of the reign of Emperor Minh Mạng. The Hue Citadel has 13 gates, yet this one carries the name of a place that looked after horses. Long ago, the Thượng Tứ Court stood near here and cared for the horses that drew the emperor's carriages. The carriages have long since slipped into the past, but the name stayed. Right beside that name stands a row of bánh khoái shops. People in Hue recommend the Lạc Thiện shop on Đinh Tiên Hoàng Street as a long-standing one, and the shops next to it were opened by the owner's children.

Now watch the cook. Someone once described a small shop with four or five stoves set right by the entrance, smoke hanging thick in the air, and customers still streaming in. The cast iron mold is tiny, about 15 centimeters across, only half the size of an ordinary bánh xèo, a larger, thinner pancake. The mold must be very hot before the cook coats it with oil and ladles in batter. The batter is finely ground rice flour, whisked with water until it is not too thick, with a little salt, a few chicken eggs, and turmeric for a golden color. When batter meets iron, the sizzle rises. Then the filling goes in: shrimp, pork, in some shops pork sausage or a few slices of roast pork, and always, without fail, a few strands of bean sprouts. The lid comes down for a moment. Then the cake is folded in half and turned until it is golden and crisp all over, and only then goes onto the plate.

Bánh khoái is easy to mistake for bánh xèo, but it is smaller, thicker and crisper. Poured into a small mold, it can hardly come out paper thin like the bánh xèo of the south. People in Hue say the difference lies in each shop's own batter, in the heat of the frying, and above all in the dipping sauce.

Bánh xèo is usually dipped in mixed fish sauce. Bánh khoái is dipped in nước lèo. This is not the broth from a bowl of bún or phở noodles. In Hue, nước lèo is a thick, fragrant dipping sauce, made from minced pork liver, minced lean pork, finely pounded peanuts, roasted sesame and soy sauce. Many people say it is the nước lèo that makes a shop's name. Every family keeps its own recipe, so closely guarded that rumor says even children and grandchildren struggle to match the flavor unless an elder guides their hand.

Before the cakes arrive, a plate of greens and a small bowl of nước lèo are already on the table. There are baby greens, fragrant herbs, thin slices of sour starfruit, astringent banana, and a few slices of vả fruit, which is astringent and nutty and leaves the tip of the tongue puckered. Once a family sits down, it is easy to see why all of it is there. The cake is rich and crisp, the sauce deep and nutty, and the greens are astringent and sour, so that each bite makes the diner want another. Beside them there is usually a plate of chili and garlic that burns the tongue, and the people of Hue laugh and say that is what makes it good.

As for the name, the people of Hue tell it this way. In the old days the cakes were poured over wood fires, in weather where the rain dragged on all year. The wood was wet, the smoke was thick, and it stung the eyes. The cake was first called bánh khói, which means smoke cake, and then the Hue accent bent khói into khoái. Others say khoái simply comes from khoái khẩu, a liking for the taste, as if the cake was loved on sight. Still others doubt that the Hue accent turns khói into khoái. The argument has run for many years without a winner. Perhaps a name as vague as drifting smoke suits this cake.

A short way from the Thượng Tứ Gate, there is another branch of bánh khoái. Chuồn village lies beside Chuồn Lagoon, part of the Tam Giang lagoon system, about ten kilometers from the center of Hue. There people make bánh khoái with cá kình. The cá kình is a small, flat fish, kept whole. Its season runs from the fourth to the seventh month of the lunar calendar. An old cast iron pan sits on a stove of glowing charcoal, the batter is poured in, and then one to three fish are laid on top of the cake. As they touch the batter, there is another sizzle. At the market, customers often buy the fish themselves and ask someone there to make the cake for them. The cake is eaten hot and by hand, so the bones are easy to pick out, with fresh greens and fish sauce. The fish is kept whole, innards and all, and villagers say the innards make for easy sleep.

Connoisseurs say bánh khoái is best on cool days, in the drizzle of early spring, at a tiny roadside stall, with a steaming piece in hand. The shops are not only at Thượng Tứ. They are scattered across the city of Hue, from Đông Ba to Kim Long. There are more in Gia Hội and Vĩ Dạ. On some street corner right now, someone is surely waiting for the mold to heat.

The spoonful of batter touches the iron. Sizzle. Behind the diner, the arch of the old citadel still stands, and it has been listening to that sound for a very long time.