Smoke, Sinew, and a Bag of Chips

The silent dance of handmade traditional Cao lầu noodles.

Kia ora,

This is the first instalment of Chasing Noodles Along the Silk Route. While not officially part of the route, the first few instalments detail the noodles we encountered travelling overland from Da Nang to Xi’an.

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To be honest, I’d been pretty underwhelmed with the Cao Lầu I’d tried on my previous trip to Hội An. Granted, a lot of the flavour of this smoky pork based dish probably comes from the meat - a hard ask to replicate in a vegetarian meal - so I was inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt, you know, not write it off completely just yet. But deep down I had a feeling those deep earthy flavours and the heaviness of the dish just didn’t highlight that light herby freshness I’d come to love in Vietnamese food.

Still, when I read The Five Generation Noodles, a post by Rowena Harding about visiting one of the last families to make Cao Lầu noodles by hand in Hội An, I was in.

A 3:45 am start saw Sam and me straddling the backs of two scooters and whizzing along the silent dark roads of predawn northern Hội An. Our destination: a nondescript building sitting on the bend in a road that skirted the edge of the straw-tipped rice fields. There, tucked behind a huge pile of wood, a warm glow of light emanated from deep within the building. This was the only indication of life as the noodle makers silently continued their daily rituals.

Inside the three-room workshop, where the walls had been darkened by decades of soot, four people worked in unison. No words spoken as they passed each other, just an intricate ballet choreographed by time and muscle memory into a fine tuned noodle producing dance. The silence we were told, by Ha (our guide), was not indifference, but rather a layover from the American Wars (as they’re known here), where silence equalled survival. After all, the patriarch has been doing this dance every morning since he was eight years old.

This is the last family still making Cao Lầu noodles by hand. There are two workshops, this one run by a 72-year-old, and his older brother’s across the road. With no one to pass the skills on to, it is only a matter of time before the last handmade Cao Lầu noodle is consumed. Even with eight kids and even more grandkids, no one is stepping up to take on the backbreaking job of noodle making. The way Ha explained it, the appeal of one am starts and smoky conditions for 70,000VND (Vietnamese đồng) a kilo just isn’t there. The fact these noodles are only good for a day (traditional noodles lack modern preservatives) means most hotels and restaurants no longer buy them, opting for the machine-made noodles that last longer.

Our small group had arrived a few hours into production, so we were given a quick rundown on what we missed. First, the dough is mixed, but to make it, you have to source the ingredients, and it reads like an epic tale - soaking and then grinding rice into flour, the water - slightly alkaline, specifically from Giếng Bá Lễ (Bá Lễ Well), a 1,000-year-old well situated down a small lane behind a house in the middle of town. Then there is the lye ash from cây dương or she-oak tree, which is only found on the Cham Islands about 20 km offshore. When combined, the ash and water create a lye solution, and just the right conditions for the noodles chewy texture and golden sheen. Once the dough is mixed and portioned out, it’s steamed for 90 minutes (if I remember correctly) before being transferred to a pile under a damp cloth where it waits patiently to be kneaded. And that’s where we came in.

A dark wooden board and a piece of aged dowel were placed in front of us, along with a handful of ivory dough. The combination of steam rising into the already smoky air added an extra heaviness to the room. The dough was warm and soft against my palms to begin with, then it built. Pushing it out, folding it over and stretching it out again, over and over, again and again, until the cracks are gone, and the texture is soft against our palms, or our hands hurt too much to continue. Ovals of focaccia dimensions were formed, and sectioned off into sixths with the dowel. Next, each section was pressed. About 12 years ago, they got a machine, but before that, even pressing was by hand. It’s hard work, very hard work. The dough sears your hands and burns the tips of your fingers with each fold, and just as your hands become accustomed to the heat, your shoulders start to burn. I tapped out after two batches. Sam lasted four. While the baskets dotted around the room hinted at hundreds of mounds of dough to be kneaded.

Through the haze and dim light, a yellow-handled paintbrush caught the light from a flickering fire. Its bent bristles sat in a chipped ceramic bowl of oil. Here, a woman dressed in the floral two-pieces painted sheet after sheet of pressed dough as it was fed into the slicer. Her brush kept a steady rhythm - swipe, swipe, swipe, dip. She only ever paused to pull an uneven portion from the stack, putting it aside to be cut by hand into chips rather than noodles. Even though I lost track of my janky handiwork, I guarantee this pile was its destination.

The dough that made the cut and became noodles was arranged in baskets like rows of pale silk ribbons on banana leaves. Soon to be steamed over the fire that burns continually in the corner, filling the rooms with a comforting glow and an ash-laden quality. So I was surprised when I saw the old man taking a break in a chair off by the entrance, not so much the break, but the fact he immediately lit a cigarette.

After some time, the heavy noodles were carried basket by basket from the steamer. The weight of the bamboo baskets was evident, judging by the grimaces on their faces, the straining sinew in their arms, and the staggered steps of the men carrying it. One by one they were placed by a fan that blew warm air and ash around the room. The contents of the basket were flipped, and the charred banana leaves pulled away to reveal steaming noodles. Gone were the ivory bone coloured noodles; in their place, a mound of glistening honey-mustard strands. It’s said that the noodles are at their best as soon as they come out of the steamer, and I agree. The texture is warm and chewy, yet firm to bite, but it’s the flavour I couldn’t believe. It was like a chewy warm egg sandwich, with hints of sulphuric tang that hovered around the edges of each bite.

Not long after tasting the noodles, it was time to say goodbye. They had let us see a glimpse into their world, for which I was grateful, as our presence must have interrupted the steps of their silent dance. As we mounted our scooters, ready to head to the next destination, one of the others went back inside to give them some money, but I had other plans.

A few hours later, after visiting the remaining stops on the tour, Sam and I headed to Cho Hội An in search of the kuia (old lady) selling noodles. Stepping into the vast two-storey mustard building down by the river was like stepping into another world. Rays of light from the windows high above cut through the dust like beams and drew our attention to the centre of the market. Here, a row of butchers sold the last morsels of the day’s pork and beef selection proudly displayed on cardboard-covered tables. Unsure of where to find fresh noodles, I approached a butcher. “Xin chào, Cao Lầu?” I asked in my very broken Vietnamese, no doubt massacring every inflection of the language. She looked at me with a questioning squint as I pointed randomly around, feigning lost - something I didn’t have to delve very deep into my imagination for - then pointed towards the light at the end of the row and said something I didn’t catch, but I didn’t need to, as now we had a direction.

We emerged into the strong light of the produce section, where tables held tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, and other vegetables I was only briefly acquainted with, filled my vision, but still not noodles. By now Sam was busy looking at some kitchen utensils on the East side of the market, so I headed that way, trying to ignore the knives on sale in the corner. As much as I love adding another cooking knife to my collection, our chosen method of overland travel - namely via high-speed Chinese trains - means confiscation was only a matter of time.

I walked further down the rows of stalls past the piles of fruit arranged with architectural precision and tables with towers of egg cartons, towards the colourful paper lanterns. I was just about to give up the search when I saw a scooter with an aged bamboo basket of pale golden chips drying in the sun. Looking up, I saw the kuia I’d watched basting the dough a few hours ago. She stood behind the stall, eyes down, diligently pulling noodles apart strand by strand. Even though I was almost certain it was her, I pulled up my photo to check.

I approached her and said, “Xin chào.” She looked up from her task, but there was no flash of recognition on her face, so I held out my phone and asked, “You?” It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the screen. Then they lit up, and a beaming smile replaced the demure look of concentration that had been there moments before. She took my phone, peering closely at the screen, her smile growing. She seemed incredibly surprised we wanted to buy anything, let alone 100 grams of noodle chips. The kuia kept trying to give us 1 kilo for 100,000 VND, and I had to keep gesturing for her to stop as she scooped up more handfuls into the bag sitting on her green scales. I handed her the 100,000 note and left with a quick “Cảm ơn,” before she could fish out any change. Despite their smoky taste, we soon discovered the chips needed to be fried before eating, so we didn’t end up snacking on them as planned. Instead, we gave them to Long, our homestay host, which was quite timely, really. The following day was Remembrance Day, and his wife was making Cao Lầu.

Ma te wa,

Beck