Flavor Boulevard

Unpredictability #1: “Are you opened today?”
Before you set your GPS to Myung Dong in Houston, make sure you call and ask that question in the clearest, simplest way possible. Aaron tried different versions, most were a bit too elaborately polite with a perfect American accent, and only succeeded in confusing the poor old man. I tried it once and got the answer “Yes, open.” We hopped en route.

(If you don’t call, there’s a slim chance that your schedule will coincide with the owner couple’s schedule, which depends on the lady’s health, and she’s the only chef. That slim chance didn’t happen for me the first time I set out for Myung Dong.) The limited English conversation is nothing uncommon at Korean and Vietnamese mom-and-pop diners, but I have to mention it because it’s one of those things that make me classify Myung Dong as more “authentic” than the other Korean restaurants in Houston. The second thing is that its name doesn’t contain “Seoul” or “Korean”, they go more local: Myungdong (명동) is a part of Seoul (in Vietnam, its equivalent would be a phường). The third thing is that its name contains its specialty: kalguksu (칼국수). In fact, that’s the only part of the name still visible on the sign, the Myungdong part has faded completely, which explains why we couldn’t find it the first time (aside from the other fact that we couldn’t read Korean at the time)*.

Of course we ordered it. It was the first kalguksu I’ve ever had. It’s a handmade, knife-cut noodle in soup, and this version has only noodle, broth, and vegetables. The broth was sweet and deep, the noodles were wonderfully chewy. But kalguksu is like fireworks, the first two minutes are great, then you ask yourself “just when is it gonna end?”. Now that I’ve had kalguksu, unless I get a two-minute-size bowl, I doubt I will gather enough curiosity for a second kalguksu in my life**.

But kalguksu was still a memorable thing. In my Commis post I went off on the memorability of meals, and here I go again. Myungdong has something worth remembering: the portion (Unpredictability #2). Aaron and I each ordered a dish, him the kimchi duaeji bokkeum (김치 돼지 볶음, stir-fried pork with kimchi) and me the kalguksu, and we decided to share a pajeon (it was a really good pajeon too, thick, crispy, airy, and chewy, oh, and not oily). The usual banchans came. We were both starving like baby goats. Then the big stuff came, covering the whole table. A diligent hour later, in Aaron’s words, “it looks like we hadn’t eaten anything at all”. We looked at the old man with hopeful eyes, for boxes. Many boxes. Also in Aaron’s words, “he’s quietly laughing at us: gotcha, foreigners, didn’t know what you were getting into, did you”. He did laugh with us, a very congenial laugh of old men, as he poured the goods into the containers and loaded the containers into a cardboard box. Aaron had enough food for the next week. And Aaron is no timid diner.

Address: Myung Dong Kalguksu
6415 Bissonnet St
Houston, TX 77074
(713) 779-5530

Dinner for so many more than two: $50. See Menu pages 1 and 2.

(*) It’s a neon green one-story house with no door sign. Very noticeable. If in doubt, ask the people in the same parking lot, they’ll confirm “The Chinese restaurant? Yes, that’s it there!”
(**) This is why I didn’t get kalguksu at To Hyang, although it’s one of their recommended’s. In a few ways, such as the homemade kimchis on the table, Myung Dong is similar to To Hyang. When my Korean is better, I’ll ask them if they grow herbs in the back too.

There is this quote of Anton Ego that I heard again tonight and is still ringing in my head: “In many ways, the word of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer their works and their selves to our judgment.” That is true: the critic (or the self-proclaimed critic, aka the food blogger) goes to a restaurant, eats the food, and writes about the food with respect to his expectation of what it should be. The expectation usually comes from a long list of preset rules that he goes through with check marks and x’s: beef is tender, vegetables are crisp, bread is crusty, truffles are included, lobsters were kicking the tank minutes before they turn red. But every so often, his expectation might come from friends’ recommendations. The judgment then includes not only the subjected restaurant or dish, it also indirectly includes the friend’s credibility. Whatever the (self-proclaimed) critic puts down in writing, be it positive or negative, he risks a part of his friend’s and his own credibility in his friend’s eyes, which is not a “very little” thing.

As such, I feel like tiptoeing with my words tonight. Der Miller has recommended Ruggles since last year and I was looking forward to their coconut crusted shrimps, but they only open for dinner. With 4 hours to go until dinner time, we swung by Ruggle Greens, where der Miller attested to be basically the same as its dinner sister, only more downtown-lunchy. It has take-outs.

The parking lot was packed. If we are to judge a restaurant by its number of patrons, Ruggles Green has no fear. If we are to judge it by price per fillingness, from this Berkeley-trained student’s perspective, Ruggle Greens is quite reasonable. I was full after an appetizer and half a dessert. Der Miller was full after two thirds of an appetizer and half a dessert, which kinda made me question my appetite. 😛

The hempenadas (hemp–empanadas?) ($9) were mealy, as expected of a hemp-and-wheat coat and a crowded filling of hemp seeds, raisins, beef, cheddar, and mozzarella.

The crab cake ($14), as der Miller put, was “bready”, but softened by its accompanying roasted tomato butter sauce. I’ve always liked the mini crab cakes that you can put all at once in your mouth like a sesame ball, break through the rough crunchiness into the sweet shredded meat, and repeat. I missed that with this Ruggles Green’s solo gargantuan version.

The bread pudding ($7), unlike the crab cake, didn’t have much “bread”. Coupled with a melting chocolate lace and vanilla ice cream, it sure was as warm, gooey, and chocolatey as puddings ought to be.

How would I rank Ruggles Green? Der Miller said that I’m a difficult eater, but he is one himself. His eyes showed neither approval nor disapproval of the food that day. For me, it is pleasant to see that the Houstonians are embracing the green fashion of today’s cookery, and that the Houstonian restauranteurs are making it a casual, affordable affair instead of some hippie hipster thing, which it isn’t. Although I don’t remember seeing any bamboo hats, I like that they show you how to stop junk mail. 🙂

Next time, I’ll go to Ruggles.

Address: Ruggles Green in River Oaks
2311 West Alabama, Suite C
Houston, Texas 77098
(713) 533-0777
www.rugglesgreen.com

*Bread pudding pictures credit: Jason Miller

It is not pretty, but from the label I knew right away that it would be good. Strips of nutty taro embedded in soft-chewy tapioca just got on my list of things to make, if I ever feel like cooking. That can mean only one thing: the online recipes seem that simple.

If you google “bánh khoai môn hấp“, and presumably you read Vietnamese, the first links you find will contain something like dried shrimps (tôm khô) and pork, perhaps some mỡ hành (green onion in lard), too. That version is similar to Woo Tul Gow (or Woo Tau Ko). I haven’t tried that nor seen it in any cling-wrapped styrofoam plate at banh mi shops. If you don’t read Vietnamese, well… that’s why you have me :D: I translate. Here’s the Vietnamese recipe of the (vegan) steamed taro cake from Thư Viện Phật Học (The Library of Buddhist Studies), which most resembles what I’ve gotten from Alpha Bakery & Deli. Actually, this recipe sounds better.

Like most Vietnamese recipes online, this one lacks precise measurement (which I agree with to some extent, but that’s beyond the scope of this post). So I searched around and found a more detailed but also more complicated recipe, and here’s my wanna-be-clever combination of the two:

The minimalist’s vegan steamed taro cake (bánh khoai môn hấp)

– 1 lb taro
– 1 bag (200 g) of tapioca flour (bột năng)
– 50 g rice flour
– 150 g sugar
– 2 cans of coconut milk (oooh coconuty!)
– 2 cups of water
Mix tapioca flour, rice flour, sugar, water, and coconut milk together.
With the taro roots: wash, peel, slice into strips (as thick as you’d like, but I’d imagine the thicker they are, the longer it takes to cook the cake).
Gently mix the taro strips with the batter (don’t make mashed taro or you’ll get Kanom Pheuak).
Boil water. Steam the taro-batter mix for 45 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Fancier versions would include pandan leaves and vanilla, or alternating layers of tapioca and taro.

This is one of the few times when “cake” is not too far off from “bánh“: bánh khoai môn hấp is semi sweet, soft, meatless, and too light to make a meal by itself.

If you try this recipe, do let me know how it goes.
Otherwise, I found it here once for a buck fifty:
Alpha Bakery & Deli (inside Hong Kong City Mall)
11209 Bellaire Blvd # C-02
Houston, TX 77072-2548
(281) 988-5222

Previously on Sandwich Shop Goodies: mung bean milk (sữa đậu xanh)
Next on Sandwich Shop Goodies: Chinese sesame beignet (bánh tiêu)

Thiên Phú has been in my draft list for over 18 months. I wanted to write a post worthy of their dishes, but a proper post requires proper pictures, and either I was too hungry at the time or I just sucked at taking pictures at the time (I still suck now, but less than before) that every single picture was blurry like a blizzard. I was more concerned about food than food blogging so I didn’t snap many shots and didn’t check the clarity of the shots I took before digging in. I also didn’t know any photo editing. Basically, I was plain dumb.

At many points I thought about abandoning the post altogether, but we had a good meal that time and I even fed the birds in the parking lot while waiting for my friends to come join us. The birds were full, we were full. The restaurant was, as usual, empty except for us (because their menu is catered to large groups and wedding parties), so we got extra attention from the staff. Such memories kept me from deleting the draft that had nothing but terrible pictures. Then my parents came to the rescue when they revisited Thien Phu in the spring and took some luminous shots, like the beef and shrimp salad above and the seafood stir fry on rice below.

The salad, like most Vietnamese salads soaked in that half sweet, half tangy mixed fish sauce, was yummy. The seafood stir fry was nothing beyond expectation, they said, but at the very least, Thiên Phú brown sauce was not fattily thick like that goo in Phở Hà’s pan-fried phở. Dad’s vermicelli with stir fried beef was a good sweep, as evident from its picture.

If you’ve read my blog for long enough, you probably would notice that my dad almost never orders anything but beef, while Little Mom goes for shrimp or fish nine times out of ten. Naturally, Thien Phu ranks high in my parents’ list because their specialties are the 7 courses of beef and the whole grilled fish.

We’ve never tried all seven beef courses at once. We just choose a few that sound most savory, and for this party of 5, something shareable. Like beef that can be wrapped in rice paper and dipped in sauces. The chunky, fatty steamed beef balls (bò chả đùm) was broken into coarser bits to be scooped with a rice crackers or wrapped with lettuce. Razor-thin leaves of still red beef were dunked into heated vinegar for a simple, tender, and tangy completeness of bò nhúng dấm. Halved shrimps joined the beef in a similar fashion to make tôm nhúng dấm. Dad even dipped it in mắm nêm (ground anchovy sauce) to tighten the taste.

Then there’s the good old style of flopping beef slices on a hot black grill pan and hearing it sizzle while loading the wet rice paper with bean sprout, herbs, pickled radish and daikon. I also put a slice of unripe banana in my bò nướng vỉ roll because its cookie-like texture and clinging aftertaste are fun, although they don’t add much to the roll as a whole.

Leaving the blurry images of December 2009, we’re back to the present: grilled beef ball on rice. The marinade was sealed inside its smooth, gritty texture, each ball was so juicy it would shame a plump mango.

The seafood dishes are not subpar either. Loaded with shrimp, squid, and broccoli, mì hải sản (seafood noodle) had the sweetness of hủ tíu Nam Vang (Phnom Penh ka tieu) and the strength (and curly noodles) of ramen. The more broth we drank, the more delicious it got.

But there is one thing that everyone gets when they go to Thiên Phú: the crunchy-skin grilled fish (cá nướng da giòn). The whole catfish is enough for two by itself, grilled hiddenly in the kitchen until its skin breaks a crackling sound and glisters like topaz, then it’s brought out to you topped with crusted peanuts, cilantro and lime wedges. Its flesh stays white, juicy and soft. Roll up a side piece, you can savor its pristine, naturally sweet taste or dip it in nước mắm. The second grilled fish I had here this May was better than the one I had in December 2009, and so were their beef dishes. It’s good to see a good place gets better.

Just watch out for bones.

Address: Thiên Phú Restaurant
11360 Bellaire Blvd Ste 100
Houston, TX 77072
(281) 568-1448
(in the same parking lot as Giò Chả Đức Hương)

Lunch for 5: $76.03

Three times. Aaron and I drove up and down Westheimer three times to look for this little bitty sign of a black-and-white pig and a one-syllable name: Feast. The restaurant with over 150 glittering reviews on Yelp and several listings of Best New Restaurants appears humbly a residential-looking house, which faces a brick box called the Crabell Building and is a stone’s throw away from Hollywood Food & Cigars if you’re coming from the east. Hollywood Food & Cigars, you say? Well that was part of Varun’s instruction for us, the last two man standing as the GPS is taking over the world. (Or one man and Mai, but that’s not the point).

Varun had been here before on one of his food expeditions, and heaven knows why he did not veto my call when I suggested Feast for our rendezvous. I know why I suggested it: it has a daily changing menu that happened to have interesting wild games on the day I looked it up online. The day we came has more of a porky theme, presented in somewhat interesting combinations (click to see Feast Menu on Jun 3).

Aaron and Varun each decided on two appetizers for flexibility. If the listed price could initially throw off some shy college students, the good thing about Feast is that this is Texas we’re talking about: each appetizer is hefty enough to be a full course and the entree makes two meals. The content for us is heavy too, partly because we stayed macho and away from the salads, partly because the Scallop St. Jacques and the Potato and Leek Vichyssoise were loaded with enough cream and cheese they should just call them cheese bowls.

Normally, scallop has a chew to it, but the scallops tonight melted in my mouth almost indistinguishably from the cream sauce coating them. That wouldn’t be a bad thing if you are into drinking your food, but once you take away the texture from the scallop, it’s nothing but a blob as flavorful as it is colorful.

On the bright side, Feast makes stuff soft. My pork cheeks with red pepper and Rioja also melted in my mouth, its accompanying omelet-like rice tortitas (“pancakes”) were decent, although the seasoning reminded me too much of the veal mixiote I had in Puerto Vallarta. That veal was too salty, this pork was too bland, but both of them reflect a lacking attention to taste.

The Spiced Pork and Dried Fruit Chili was also both too seasoned and unimpressively plain at the same time, although with rare highlights of raisins. Aaron’s choice of Pork Rillettes served on toasts was arguably the most harmonic piece of the night, and the only dish that was finished.

Because Little Mom wouldn’t like me criticizing anything too much, I would rank Feast in the same category with Harry Potter and Las Vegas: stuff I don’t regret trying just so that I can tell anyone who would recommend them to me that I’ve tried them. (The night we went there, Feast was also crowded and noisy like Las Vegas.) Will I try Feast again? When I have dentures, maybe. Or when my heart can’t take any more salt.

Or when I want to be cool like Varun: order two appetizers, try one spoon from each, and eat bread with butter for the rest of the hour.

Although we felt bad about asking the waitress to describe a couple of dessert items and not ordering any, we felt great about filling up on frozen yogurt and hot fudge minutes later at Aaron’s favorite: Swirll (right next to, and I think cuter than, The Chocolate Bar).

Address: Feast
219 Westheimer
Houston, TX 77006
(713) 529-7788

What hits the spot in the morning better than a hot packed handful of sweet sticky rice with muối mè (sesame-sugar-salt mix)? A hot packed handful of sweet sticky rice with soft steamed whole peanuts and muối mè. Xôi đậu – my forbidden childhood love.

$1.50 for a full tummy.

Mom did not want me to eat too much xôi đậu in the past because peanuts are known for producing gas excess.

Address: Alpha Bakery & Deli
11205 Bellaire Boulevard
Houston, TX 77072
(281) 988-5222

The morning we left for the drive to San Antonio, Ms Baker told me, “I worry about your mom… she can’t eat Mexican food so what’s she gonna eat there?”. I told her I actually spent the night before browsing through loads of places, and indeed many of them are Mexican, just to find a quaint little restaurant on South Alamo. La Frite is like an oasis for the elders and the lovebirds seeking a quiet breeze in this old, vibrant Spanish settlement and this continental summer heat. We’re neither elders nor lovebirds, but we’re used to standing out. 😛

La Frite‘s specialty (and Belgium’s popular version of fish and chips) is Moules Frites (mussels and fries), but we’re not into bivalves so we got the frites. Good crispy sticks, can be dipped in ketchup or some green sauce that tasted like avocado with lemon juice, the frites here remind me of Fuddruckers‘ fries.

If you’re in a hurry, this place is not for you. It’s great for the lovebirds, who enjoy marveling at the wine between exchanging strategic smiles, for the elders, who loftily slip their jokes and wisdom into hourglass-shaped beer pitchers without caring what time of the day it is, and for the people observers, who quietly comment on them all. As if to keep us longer in the ambiance, there’s a prix fixe three-course dinner menu for $38 with plenty of time between each course.

That night, a popular choice for appetizer in the prix fixe was the Asian baby back ribs. The accompanying frisee with mandarin orange lightened the meat that was fall-off-the-bone tender of course, but its main score is the sweet sauce backed by the burnt nuttiness of black sesame. Perfect little ribs.

My entree choice was a plump stuffed quail confit. The quail leg made great finger work but the stuffing was a bit dull in flavor and a bit too fatty.

Little Mom had better luck with her small plate: a crepe filled with crabmeat and gruyere cheese. Soft and creamy.

Bi had the best luck, though. The crispy skin of his pan sauteed magret de canard (duck breast) sang so beautifully with the sweet raspberry gastrique sauce, I kept stealing pieces from his plate. A side cultural difference:  in Vietnam there’s no such thing as a non-well-done duck, but the West apparently does their ducks medium rare, like beef, to keep ’em moist and tender?

The classic end: a chocolate mousse.

Parking on the side neighborhood street was a tad funny because it says “NO Parking this side in this block during events”. It’d be quite something if after 2 hours dining nonchalantly we discovered that our car was towed.

Dinner for three: $86.23

Address: La Frite Belgian Bistro
728 S Alamo St
San Antonio, TX 78205
(210) 224-7555

This has nothing to do with this post, but I want to say it anyway: I’ve been home for two weeks and Little Mom’s been making sure that everyday I eat breakfast, lunch, dinner, fruits, mid day snacks, late night snacks, and more snacks. “Stock up for the rest of the year cuz you don’t eat at school. I know you,” she says. 😀 I get sleepy if I’m constantly full –> now I’m sleepy all day –> now I can’t blog. On the note of abundance, this post is about 4 kiosks in the food court of the Memorial Super H Mart, where my parents will most likely frequent for a quick tasty lunch after buying the kimchis and the myulchi bokkeum.

The food court makes a wavy strip at the right end of the store, starting with Tous les Jours at the door and ending with a kiosk selling kimbab (김밥) near the kimchi section far back, the tables sealed from the view of passing shoppers by a strategic row of potato sacks and artificial sunflowers. I didn’t stand long enough in front of each kiosk to read everything cuz I feel bad facing the cashier (and possibly the owner) for too long without ordering, but it appears that almost every menu more or less has the same common Korean dishes (like bibimbap (비빔밥) and galbi tang (갈비탕)). Being in a food court made us feel soup-inclined, kinda like how we opt for phở when we want a quick fill, I guess.

The non-spicy seafood noodle soup (#24, $8.11) from Sobahn Express (also signed as Bibijo(?!)) was ordered next to last but ready first. ‘Tis my first time seeing a stone bowl embedded in a wooden box. The box must have helped containing the heat longer cuz it was at least 20 minutes into eating and Little Mom was still blowing at every bite. It’s a good choice for her cuz she always likes it hot and the seasoning was just right to her taste.

My soondae guk (순대국) ($8.66) from Jumma was ordered last and ready second. It came topped with a hefty scoop of some brown powder that looks like ground pepper and tastes like tea. It has a bland bone stock that tastes like sul lung tang (설렁탕), to which I added a few teaspoons of salt and kimchi juice. There’s no dangmyeon (당면) in the soup like sul lung tang though; I just dumped the rice into the soup. With the pig intestine and liver (yum :-D) in thin slices and the soondae (순대) in chunks, it became sorta like a bowl of Vietnamese cháo lòng (innard porridge), a street nosh for the late night drunks and the market ahjummas.

Close-up of the soondae: blood sausage stuffed with dangmyeon. It’s grainy and pretty bland.

Bi had to wait for his food for so long I thought they forgot him. But the wait was totally worth it, his samsoon jajangmyeon (삼순 자장면) ($12.99) from Daddy & Daughter was the best of the three. The black soybean sauce (jajang (자장)) is sweet and thick but not fatty. Now I know why they make it look so good in dramas: it really is good. Better than chowmein and pad thai. (Once upon a time I idiotically ordered my very first jajangmyeon at a Chinese restaurant whose name I won’t say, it was so boring I had to stop after 3 bites. It goes to say that if you can’t make an ethnic dish as good as or better than the people of that ethnicity, then don’t tarnish its name by making it. Considering that jajangmyeon originates from China, it goes to say that if you can’t make your own ethnic dish as good as or better than the people of another ethnicity, then you might as well stop making it.)

I like places like Toreore: upfront and simple about what they dish out. There are 8-10 choices of fried chicken and you need to decide if you want 7 ($8.65) or 14 pieces, but we always stick to the non-spicy kind and that leaves us one option: garlic soy sauce chicken. It ain’t no OB Chicken Town but sure is better than KFC. Mom liked the sweetness, Bi liked the juiciness, I liked that they liked it.

These Korean fried chickens have cute pictures, too. 😀

The place is crowded with the continuous flow of families and carts pre- and post-shopping but the people are quiet. The tables are not squeaky clean but a quick tissue wiping would do. Foods are served on blue plastic trays and the kimchi isn’t top notch, but you’re not paying 18 bucks a meal. The Super H Mart food court is the best among the food courts I’ve been to in terms of both taste and atmosphere. As Little Mom says, we feel at home because the shoppers here share a similar culture, yet we can also talk comfortably because the neighboring tables don’t share our language.

Address: Super H Mart food court
1302 Blalock Road
Houston, TX 77055

A Japanese chef, a former Korean restaurant interior, a Vietnamese manager, and a buffet menu combining all three plus Chinese. Sounds unauthentic and one-star fusion? I thought so too, I didn’t plan on blogging about Saigon’s Buffet until I was a third way through my plate. Then I scrambled for the cam to snap a few from my mom’s. Good thing it’s a buffet, can always go back for seconds.

From the far right end we gandered first through the kimchis and namuls, grouped with a bright yellow ripe mango salad mixed with gochujang and something soakingly flavorful similar to either pickled sweet onion or green papaya salad. To its left are sushi rolls and plump chunks of red tuna and orange salmon, and a few stubby octopus tentacles that I really wanted to get but didn’t know where to fit on my heaping pile.

From the far back of L-shape buffet counter are fried rice, chow mein, and lightly mixed rice vermicelli (similar to bún xêu) that goes exceedingly well with the sesame-oil-sweet-smelling, cucumber-free wakame salad. Trays full of shrimps, baked salmon-wrapped pork, and grilled shrimp paste on a lemongrass stalk shine next to the more Vietnamese familiars: bánh xèo, bánh bèo, stuffed tofu in tomato sauce…

Little Mom fell for the all-around-crunchy and coconut-sweet sizzling crepes right away (“better than Kim Son‘s,” said she), while I grew on the chewy leaflets of semi-translucent steamed flour encasing carrots, mushroom, and pork, which looks halfway like a bánh bột lọc and tastes halfway like a bánh giò.

The dessert section lies between the octopus tentacles and the cashier, which is at the corner of the L. Simple, but sufficient for a cool washing-down, are the coconut milk jelly and the fruits, classic silky and Bi’s favorite is the flan, while the wafers dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with sesame seeds hit home in a nutty cheerful crunch. “Take a lot the first time,” obviously it’s not because they “charge for seconds” like the manager jokes, but because you don’t need to sample things here to be safe; everything’s better than expected. Everything’s yummy.

As we waited for the machine to print our receipt, the manager told Little Mom that the chef just brought out bún bò xào (stir-fried beef rice vermicelli), Little Mom said oh Bi likes that, had it come out earlier he woulda stuffed himself with it. And who woulda thought, the manager offered us a free to-go box with bún bò xào! It could just be the opening month (when they charge only $12.99 instead of $15.99 per person) and the beaming summer spirit, but Saigon Buffet surely had us this time. Come back we will.

Address: Saigon Buffet (previously Korean Garden Grille)
11360 Bellaire Blvd
Houston, TX 77072
(281) 879-0228

– QUYNHCHI, aka Little Mom – Translator: Mai

Most Vietnamese like chả, and I like chả even more than most people, because it tastes good, it’s good for you, and it’s good with everything. Chả appears subtly but unmistakably in noodle soups like bún bò, bún mộc, bún thang… Chả fares well with the lustrous steamed rolls of bánh cuốn, with bland white rice, topping sweet sticky rice, inside a crusty loaf of bánh mì… You can also eat chả by itself as a cold cut, then it tastes even better.

Why is chả good for you? Because of what comes into it and how people make it. Vegan chả aside, all chả are pure meat. Take chả lụa (silk sausage) for instance, the pork must be lean, the fresher it is from the slaughter house the higher quality the sausage has. Traditional chả makers don’t wash the pork with water but use instead a clean cloth to wipe off its excess moisture before the pasting process. These days the meat is most likely ground by machines(*), but a good log of chả used to be made from pounding and kneading the meat as one would do with sticky rice to make mochi. The pounding has its specific rhythm to success, which is a smooth, sticky, elastic mass of perfect consistency to be rolled up tight in banana leaves and boiled for hours. So if we come upon a warm log fresh out of the process, we’re guaranteed its cleanliness and pure content.

But chả lụa isn’t the only type of Vietnamese meat sausage around. Not all are made from pork, not all are served in its boiled final form, and not all contain just meat. Recently I got enticed by four types of chả from Đức Hương in Houston.

1. Chả heo chiên (fried pork chả):
Same content as chả lụa, with a textural twist. Fried chả is also in log shape, but the log is smaller than its boiled counterpart, and it has less pepper. The meat is slightly more chewy and the rim covered in the aroma of frying oil. Some of the chả lụa‘s loyal fans would detest chả chiên‘s inconsistency, but I think those bite-sized round slices that fit perfectly well in a crusty loaf of bánh mì or layer on top a scoop of hot sweet sticky rice would make quite a fair start for any busy day.

2. Chả bò chiên (fried beef chả):
Perhaps it’s because of the always-available, always-fresh-and-cheap Texas beef that a slice of beef sausage also shines a healthy golden brown hue. Although the texture errs on the hard side and the taste is a tad too spicy, the heartfelt aroma of beef entangling with a subtle fresh garlic zing makes chả bò chiên the best rice companion for the wintry months.

3. Chả cốm (rice flake chả):
Chả cốm is also made from pork, but like its name indicates, it contains a few handfuls of young rice flakes (cốm). The light green flakes scatter inside and on the surface of the pale beige meat log, their natural viscidity (from the heating of sticky rice) increases the meat’s chewiness and causes the appearance of gossamer strings woven into the meat when the log is sliced. Chả cốm is not as blatantly flavorful as chả bò, nonetheless a complete entity to be served by itself as a friendly witty representation of the rural Vietnam.

4. Chả gà chiên (fried chicken chả)
This turns out to be a pleasant surprise to me. The meat is neither too hard nor too soft but a bit crunchy, not fatty but savory, not strongly spiced but lingering at the tip of the tongue for quite some time. At first I actually wavered over buying the chicken sausage, but now I believe that this is the “phoenix sausage” in “peacock and phoenix sausages” (“nem công chả phượng”) that used to be offered to the monarchs and nobels of the old days. Wouldn’t you agree? 🙂

I can’t remember exactly how much each type costs, but the whole deal of four set me back by $20. That’s not expensive at all, considering the talent and the hard work poured into keeping alive a taste of that faraway home.

Address: Đức Hương Giò Chả in Bellaire, Houston
11369 Bellaire Blvd, Ste 950
Houston, TX 77072
(near the Vietnam War Memorial)
(281) 988-6155

(*): Note from Mai: double-ground meat is easier to obtain than kneaded meat, but would give the sausage a porous texture instead of a silky smooth one.