Thit Kho Tau

A pot of braised pork made for the New Year holds a puzzling word in its name. The word is tàu, and there is more than one telling of what it means.

In the pot is pork belly, braised with duck eggs in coconut water. People call it thịt kho hột vịt, pork braised with duck eggs. They also call it thịt kho tàu. The first name says exactly what is in the pot. The second hides one word, tàu. Many homes in the South make this dish for Tết, the Lunar New Year festival in Vietnam. As many southerners put it, a Tết without it hardly feels like Tết.

In one home in the Mekong Delta, a few days before Tết, a mother brings back her family's share of pork belly, lean and fat in layers. In the old days, as Tết drew near, some household in the hamlet would butcher a pig and share the meat around. Many families in the Mekong Delta still share fresh meat with their kin, so everyone can celebrate Tết. The duck eggs, in the old days, came from flocks people raised out in the fields.

She cuts the meat into big, broad squares and ties a string around each one, so it keeps its shape. Then she pounds onion, garlic and chili and squeezes out the juice. She marinates the meat in that juice, with a little fish sauce, a little sugar and a little lime juice. Some families then lay the meat out under a strong sun for one or two days. The sun firms the skin, and the fat slowly turns translucent. Dried this way, some say, the meat comes out clearer and does not break apart.

The meat rests and soaks up the seasoning. As for the word tàu in the name, some believe it refers to Chinese people. They say this is a dish Chinese people love.

On braising day, the mother lays the meat in the pot. She pours in fresh coconut water, sweet and cool, which she has already boiled. Then she adds good fish sauce for a deep, salty taste. She keeps the fire very low. Little by little, the coconut water and fish sauce seep into the grain of the meat, so even the big pieces cook right through. Some say it tastes better braised over a wood fire.

The surface of the pot ripples gently. White foam rises, and she skims it off, layer after layer, so the liquid stays clear. As the liquid cooks down, she tops it up with coconut water. In some homes, the New Year pot also holds buffalo meat, beef or snakehead fish.

The pot simmers on. About the word tàu, others tell it another way. They say it calls to mind fishermen, who carried this dish on long trips at sea.

She makes no caramel coloring. Practiced home cooks in the Mekong Delta hardly ever use it and leave the color to the coconut water. Over a long braise on a low flame, the coconut water slowly dyes the meat golden.

The duck eggs are boiled. She drops them into cold water to cool, then peels them one by one, white and round. The eggs wait. Only when the meat is tender does she slip them in. Then she covers the pot with a few banana or jackfruit leaves, which keep the meat and eggs from darkening. In later years, quail eggs joined the pot in some homes too.

Near the end, she tests a piece with a bamboo skewer. The fibers have gone soft and loose. Yet the piece is still whole, a light golden brown.

The South had a writer named Bình Nguyên Lộc, who loved the speech of his home region. As people tell it, he held that in the speech of the Mekong Delta, tàu meant a taste both salty and sweet, faintly brackish. The account also mentions rivers of brackish water whose names carry the word tàu. Two are the Cái Tàu Thượng River and the Cái Tàu Hạ River. A third is the Lòng Tàu River in Cần Giờ. By that account, the salty and the sweet in the dish blend into a faint brackish taste, and so it is called thịt kho tàu.

On the 30th, the last day before Tết, the pork is done. The mother ladles a few square pieces and a few round eggs onto a plate and sets it on the altar for the ancestors. For Tết, many homes in the South also cook bitter melon soup. Bitter melon is called khổ qua, and people say the name carries a wish. In the name, people hear khổ, hardship, and qua, to pass, so the wish is that hardship will pass. Some call these two dishes the soul of the southern New Year meal. Yet one person from Quảng Trị says that back home, neither dish is eaten at Tết.

On the plate, a square piece of meat sits beside a round egg. A researcher in Saigon holds that this pairing, square beside round, suggests the balance of yin and yang. The round egg is also a sign of plenty and new life.

On the night of the 30th, the pot is off the fire, its lid shut tight, waiting for the new year. About the word tàu, some retell the same writer's idea differently. In their telling, it is the tàu found in tàu lá, a word for a big leaf. In southern speech, this account goes, the word suggests something large and still whole. So kho tàu would perhaps mean braising a big piece whole.

In the old days, the markets closed for the first days of the year, and after Tết they were slow to reopen. The big pot was meant to last through those days. Before refrigerators, every home braised one large pot. For each offering, a portion was ladled out, and the rest was kept. People say the meat saved for later tastes better each time it is braised again.

It is a late meal on one of the first days of the year. The mother warms the pot on the stove once more. The liquid has thickened now around each soft, tender piece. After so many reheatings, the eggs wear an outer coat, a little chewy and glossy. She lifts one out and sets it beside a plate of pickled bean sprouts, sour and crisp. The pot of thịt kho tàu has gone down a long way, and the market has still not reopened.