Hoi An Mold Cakes

The wooden mold will only let go of its cakes when it is turned face down.

Below it is a pot of charcoal, glowing an even red, no spot brighter than another. A thin band of tin is wrapped around the pot. Above it, a little way from the fire, rests a flat sheet of tin.

The grandmother sets the mold on the tin sheet, its face turned down. She taps the back of the mold with a small wooden stick. Knock. A small cake drops out of the mold onto the tin. She taps once more, and out comes another cake.

Yet the face that must be turned down is the most beautiful part of the mold. Some molds are square, some round. Their wooden faces are carved with all kinds of patterns. Flowers bloom across them, and leaves spread open. There are written characters too, for good fortune, prosperity and long life.

That mold makes bánh in, molded cakes of sticky-rice flour. It is a plain country cake from long, long ago.

People who keep the old stories of Hoi An say that Emperor Minh Mạng once came to visit Ngũ Hành Sơn, where a princess had gone to lead a religious life. Those are the Marble Mountains, near Da Nang. The emperor belonged to the Nguyễn dynasty, Vietnam's last royal dynasty, which reigned from 1802 to 1945. During that visit, the story goes, he sent an order to the town of Hoi An, telling it to present bánh in as offerings. And every bánh in had to pass through the hollow of a mold.

The order called for as many as 500 packets of bánh in, each one a sealed parcel of cakes. The storytellers add that the order itself is still kept in Hoi An today.

Hoi An has long been called a land of a hundred foods, each one a delight. In the country villages of Hoi An long ago, Tết, the Lunar New Year, brought pork soaked in fish sauce, boiled pork and pickled vegetables. There was bánh chưng, and there was bánh tổ. There were popped rice cakes, dried foods and candied fruits. Among so many dishes, Tết was still not complete without the sticky-rice bánh in, the cake born in the hollow of a wooden mold.

From around the 24th day of the last lunar month, every household set to work making cakes and candied fruits. Grandmothers, mothers and older sisters were busy all through those days. The Tết food was divided into portions. One was offered to the ancestors, one was for welcoming visitors, and one was for the family.

In the old days, each household got ready for Tết with whatever it had. The villagers grew most of it themselves: beans and sticky rice, rice and coconuts, and ginger too. They were stored carefully and saved for Tết. Farm animals were raised for Tết too, to be sold or shared with the neighbors. People of old used to remind each other of a saying. It goes like this: even in hunger, there are the three days of Tết. Even when all runs out, there are the three days of harvest.

The sticky rice must pass through fire, through a stone mortar and through the night dew before it reaches the hollow of the mold.

The rice may be bought, or grown by a farming family in its own field and stored until Tết. Either way, the grandmother washes it clean and leaves it to drain. Then she drizzles in a little peanut oil and mixes it well by hand, so the grains will not burn when they are toasted. A pan goes onto the wood fire. She pours in the rice and stirs, on and on, without rest.

The grains slowly heat up. Then, all at once, one grain pops. Another follows, then many more, crackling all over the pan. Every grain puffs up and slowly turns a pale yellow.

When the rice is toasted, the mother tips it into a stone mortar. The pestle pounds in a steady rhythm until the rice becomes a very fine flour. She pours it onto a fine mesh sieve and shakes it gently so the flour falls through. Larger bits that will not turn fine stay on the sieve, and she throws them away.

Late at night, the older sisters carry the flour outdoors and leave it under the night dew for hours on end.

The grandmother takes out a piece of đường bát, the bowl sugar that bánh in makers usually use. Her knife scrapes thin layers off the sugar with a soft rasp. She scrapes and scrapes until the sugar becomes a fine powder.

One part flour, one part sugar. The mother mixes the two together and spreads them evenly over a tray. Then she lays a glass bottle on its side and rolls it back and forth across the tray. Wherever the bottle rolls, the sugared flour is left smooth and even.

The grandmother brings out the wooden mold. She dusts its hollow with plain sticky-rice flour, without sugar, so the cakes will come out easily. She scoops the sugared flour into the mold and presses it down by hand, packing it very tight. Then she runs a knife across the open side, so the bottom of each cake is perfectly flat.

By now the flour is pressed close against every flower, every leaf and every stroke of the characters on the face of the mold.

She carries the mold to the glowing charcoal, sets it on the tin sheet and turns its face down. The wooden stick taps again, knock, knock. One by one, the cakes leave the mold. Each one carries the flowers, the leaves and the characters of the mold on its face.

Each batch rests on the tin sheet for a while to dry. She turns the cakes over, then back again, so they turn golden evenly. A good cake is golden and crisp, fragrant with sticky rice, with a faint sweetness of sugar.

Once the cakes are dry, she lets them cool completely. Then they go into bags to stay crisp for a long time.

Then Tết arrives. Once again, the bánh in are set out on the ancestors' altar, as they have been for so many years.

On the last night of the year, the whole family stays up to wait for the new year to begin. The grown-ups nibble the lightly sweet bánh in with a piece of candied ginger that has a little bite. The young children hold cakes that have already cooled, and take small, crunchy bites.

Around that moment, every home in Hoi An lays out an offering tray to greet the new year. The tray is very simple, just fruit with cakes and candied fruits. There is no wine, and no meat or fish.

In the chilly first days of spring, the grown-ups sit close together and pour each other cups of hot tea. Between sips, they bite into bánh in with a soft crunch, sweet and rich and fragrant with sticky rice.

A few days before, the wooden mold bowed its face to the tin sheet and gave up its cakes one by one. Now, before the ancestors' altar at Tết, the grandparents, the parents and the children bow their heads too.