chasing cravings
Searching for Home in Brussels and Berlin - My encounters with Vietnamese food and hospitality
Hanoi Station, Av. des Celtes 6, 1040 Etterbeek, Belgium
Situated near Parc du Cinquantenaire, Hanoi Station sits unassumingly on Avenue des Celtes. I arrive at 10 am on Sunday, an hour and a half before the restaurant would welcome a bustling crowd for lunch.
The Av. des Celtes location is eight years old and the first of five restaurants of owner Ms. Hải's.
Hanoi Station's claim to fame is street food, and more specifically, northern Vietnamese street food. Unlike most sidewalk vendors in Hanoi, which typically serve one or only a few specialty dishes, Hanoi's Station menu boasts a wide variety. From Hanoian delicacies like bún chả (vermicelli with grilled pork) to stir-fried noodles to bò lá lốt (grilled beef wrapped in lolot leaves), a brief scan of the offerings makes you wonder if it's even possible to do this many dishes well. Or perhaps I was just raised as a Hanoian to be skeptical of any street food vendors that have extensive offerings (it's why I don't trust the Cheesecake Factory menu).
Variety wasn't there from the start; over time, Ms. Hải gradually introduced more options to the menu so regulars could have more choices, beyond staples like phở. For example, she only recently brought on nem rán, or fried spring rolls, which was a long deliberated process due to the intense health regulations in Belgium for restaurants serving fried food. The menu also deviates from Vietnamese cuisine to include Thai dishes like curry and pad Thai.
The restaurant's signature is Vietnam's most ubiquitous: phở. Like any decent Hanoian phở spot, there is a sizable serving in each bowl. The broth, seasoned with a house-made spice mix and bones, is made daily. Ms. Linh, one of the cooks who opened shop that day, told me that there's not much you can't replicate here in Belgium. It used to be the case that your family would mail you ingredients from home, but now the Asian supermarket stocks most things you'd need.
Between the blanched dried rice noodles and a generous serving of green onions and coriander, you get a choice of protein, between the typical beef or chicken, or the not-so-typical shrimp, tofu or veggies, to accommodate for pescetarian and vegetarian diets. Previously, I had only seen "vegetarian" phở with tofu and vegetables in Chapel Hill, for the first time at local establishment Phở Happiness. In Vietnam, you won't find phở, or phở as Vietnamese people know it, with anything other than beef or chicken as the primary protein.
Ms. Hải chose for me, opting for a classic, northern-style phở bò (beef phở) as we sat down for lunch. I tend to be a purist when it comes to phở, so I leave out the complements of sriracha and garlic-chili vinegar. As we slurped down the warm, clear broth, Ms. Hải recalled to me that earlier this year, when four Vietnamese students from Paris visited her restaurant, they questioned how the business could stay afloat selling northern-style phở over southern-style phở. Apparently, the simpler northern approach and its absence of garnishes like hoisin sauce and bean sprouts wouldn't fly for the Parisian-Vietnamese folks in Paris.
Ms. Hải says she insists on keeping the phở northern as is, so that Hanoi Station would have something of its own. Before Hanoi Station, there had already been an established phở restaurant in Bruxelles by the name of PhởPhở, which sells the dish southern-style, more similarly to the popular Saigonese noodle dish hủ tiếu. But Hanoi Station's version is distinctly and adamantly northern.
It is far from being the only adamantly northern thing about Hanoi Station. The interior design of the Avenue des Celtes location is industrial, with influences of Ms. Hải's 1970's upbringing in the capital and marked by decorations like old street signs and a rotary dial phone. In the upstairs seating area, the walls are lined with colorful propaganda posters of "cổ động" art, the kind that dates back to the Vietnam War and is still prevalent today in patriotic messaging in Vietnam.
Interestingly, phở is the only menu item that Ms. Hải knows how to make. Contrary to my preconceived notion about all restaurant owners being passionate foodies, she does not care for cooking at all. The genesis of Hanoi Station came more from a need to put food on the table (figuratively), when she started the restaurant in her early thirties with her Belgian husband, Bernard. At that point, she quit her job in travel journalism in Vietnam, moved to Belgium to for her masters, and had started a new life for a few years.
She says that it wouldn't have been possible to start the restaurant without Bernard. To market and run a successful food business in Belgium requires a firm grasp on navigating regulations and culture, which Ms. Hải didn't have, being a non-native in the country. She tells me: you'll see that many successful Asian restaurants in Bruxelles are owned by young European, Belgian entrepreneurs. There are strict regulations for aspects like sanitation, food safety, but also property regulations (for example, you can only open a restaurant on a piece of property that has been designated to be a restaurant/food business) that make it difficult to start a new business if you are unfamiliar with the rules. Over the years, Bernard's expertise and her ability to run a tight ship have led to five restaurants, with an upcoming sixth about to open just a block away.
Past noon, the place is packed with customers. On weekdays, the Av. des Celtes location's proximity to offices like the European Parliament headquarters makes it a prime lunch spot for workers, but also a prime dinner takeout stop for those on their way home. This office crowd, which is primarily non-Vietnamese, has strongly influenced Hanoi Station's operations and menu. Because customers are in and out (and Ms. Hải wants to keep it that way), whether they're sitting down to eat a quick meal or grabbing food to-go, all menu items are prepped beforehand and made in a matter of minutes.
To maintain this high daily customer traffic, Ms. Hai also eventually left coffee or dessert off the menu. She says coffee and dessert extend meals, and the last thing she wants is for customers to dilly-dally. For this reason, drinks are also self-served, available in conveniently bottled and canned forms in a fridge next to the cash register. When you want to keep a bowl of phở less than 20 euros (which is a generous cap for "street food"), you've got to get enough phở-fed customers in and out the door to keep prices reasonable.
So, unlike most, I stuck around and had chè, or dessert soup, gifted by one of Ms. Hải's employees. Most of her staff are Vietnamese immigrants, working on a flexi-job basis or part-time while pursuing higher education in Belgium. She tells me that they do a big Tết (Lunar New Year) celebration every year, and she tries to help her staff family feel connected to home. She asks me if I feel I've lost my roots from moving abroad, which I frankly did not have a good answer for. It seemed like a rhetorical question anyway, as she said my lack of Vietnamese literature knowledge meant I had no roots. But I'm trying.
Ms. Quỳnh's Home, Zellik, Belgium
During my time in Bruxelles, I was generously hosted by Ms. Quỳnh and her family, who live in a charming three-bedroom just outside of the city. Ms. Quỳnh and her husband are also from Hanoi and try to make the trip back home every year. I was treated to homemade Hanoian meals like bún chả (vermicelli and grilled pork) and phở sốt vang (a fatty, delicious version of beef phở born from an amalgamation with bœuf bourguignon from French colonial influences), accompanied with more Belgian treats like chocolate truffles and red wine. In their home, I practice the proper etiquette of inviting others to eat before digging in myself, for the first time in months.
Over dinner, Ms. Quỳnh shares an anecdote from her college days: one time, after cooking with nước mắm (fish sauce) in the communal kitchen, a roommate couldn't seem to stand the pungent smell of the condiment and elected to complain to their property manager. She never dared to cook with fish sauce again, at least not until she had moved out on her own. I luckily have very accepting roommates and ventilation when it comes to nước mắm.
Ms. Giang's Home, Berlin
After a long riverside walk with Ms. Giang and Ms. Nga, I sat down for a warm bowl of bún bò Huế. Ms. Giang had graciously agreed to host me in her apartment along with Ms. Nga, who is a fellow food aficionado and a dear friend from high school of my mother. Ms. Giang has lived in Berlin for a few years at this point. Her husband, Mr. Nam, is a diplomat and works for the Vietnamese embassy in Berlin. Fewer people are better equipped than them to introduce me to the city's large, thriving Vietnamese community.
Bún bò Huế is a hearty meal that would have put me right to sleep (save for the internship application I had to submit that night). The dish combines a playful number of textures: the bite of thick rice noodles with tender sliced beef, the chewy giò bì and chả (types of ham), the fall-of-the-bone meat from pork knuckles and the watery crunch of bean sprouts. The broth was a little tame in spice level than expected (although my spice tolerance has been much diluted from being in the States), but hit on the savory and sweet just perfectly. The "secret" ingredient for sweetness? Mắm ruốc (fermented shrimp paste).
Then, as if the generous serving of noodles and meat wasn't already extending my appetite to its fullest, Ms. Giang brought out a hot tray of crispy chicken wings with a sweet and sour chili dipping sauce to round off the meal.
Coco Cup - Vietnamese Streetfood Berlin, Dircksenstraße 37, Berlin
After exploring the East Side Gallery, Ms. Giang, Ms. Nga and I head to Coco Cup, a cozy street food eatery centrally located in the heart of Berlin near Alexanderplatz.
While Coco Cup seems to spotlight its chè (dessert cup) the most, there's also an extensive array of savory "street food" items that were not to be glossed over, including various bánh mì sandwiches. So, after ten minutes of choice paralysis, we land on bánh mì chảo thập cẩm/pan thập cẩm (think almost like an English breakfast, cooked in a cast-iron pan and eaten with a Vietnamese baguette), bánh mì xá xíu (bánh mì sandwich with charsiu pork), bánh xèo (a savory Vietnamese crêpe) and gỏi xoài tai heo (mango-pig's ear salad). And, obviously, a cup of chè with customizable toppings for each of us.
As opposed to the grab-and-go haste of Hanoi Station, the pink suede chairs of Coco Cup invite you to stay and chill, a warm welcome juxtaposing the fast and casual nature of the food. While waiting for our pager to buzz, we check out the buffet bar for chè toppings, which must have had at least 20 colorful options, from taro pudding to tapioca pearls to mung bean chè to mini custard flans. This impressive variety leaves no wonder why Coco Cup advertises its chè upfront.
My main focus was bánh mì chảo (roughly translates to "pan bread"). I tear into the bread, which has a white, fluffy and light inside and a thin, crispy golden outside, unlike a French baguette's thicker and rigid crust. Vietnamese baguettes, in my belief, are also the perfect size, at double the size of one's fist, which makes it just filling enough to finish on your way to school or work in the morning. My cast iron was a heavy platter of pâté, fried eggs, a poached egg, and German sausages. This was all covered in a thick, sweet tomato sauce, which was an unconventional addition, and topped with sliced cucumber, scallions and onions.
We decide the big star of the show is the bánh xèo, an airy and crispy affair made from fried turmeric-colored batter with prawns and pork inside, which has somehow, by seemingly nature-defying means, retained its crisp for the entire hour we were feasting. Normally, the crisp life expectancy of a bánh xèo, rapidly dwindles, after leaving hot oil for serving. We wrap cuts of the goldenness in lettuce and herbs, and dip them into nước chấm (which translates literally to "dipping sauce," and is a universal Vietnamese sauce made of fish sauce, rice vinegar and sugar), which is an acidic cut through some of the fattiness from the pork for a delightfully fresh and crunchy bite. The gỏi xèo tai heo (mango pig's ear salad) was a refreshing, balanced addition, with a sweet, tangy and savory tossed mix of fresh julienned veggies like carrot, cucumber and radish. We are told that sometimes the greens are the hardest thing for Coco Cup to get their hands on due to their seasonality, but it never seems to get in the way of nailing down the right flavors and textures.
A staff member tells us that we were like the other Vietnamese customers; while Westerners usually opt for what's more familiar, like the bánh mì, Vietnamese customers order the lesser known, specialized dishes like bánh xèo and bánh hỏi.
And then, the much-awaited grand finale: chè.
The base of Coco Cup's chè is a mix of thickened coconut milk, soybean puree, dried banana, jackfruit, taro, durian and ice. I stack my six-euro cup to the brim with as many of the toppings as I can fit. The Coco Cup chè is a versatile dessert like any other back home, and the recipient of the best compliment you can get from a Vietnamese person — it's not "too sweet."
Thành Koch, Berlin
Thành Koch is located minutes away from Đồng Xuân Center, a vast Vietnamese market comprised of six halls that is the largest Asian market in the city. Đồng Xuân Center's supply of all the right produce and ingredients is what makes restaurants like Thành Koch as authentic as they are.
I arrive at Thành Koch for dinner with the owners and my Berlin hosts on a more quiet night for the restaurant. Before this, Ms. Giang had said that it would not be right for me to come to the city without stepping foot into Thành Koch. Immediately, the interior of the restaurant feels quintessentially Vietnamese. There was an almost comical contrast of a large, bald German man sitting in the corner drinking a Vietnamese coffee (which I soon learned was not uncommon for people to do even in the evening). The furniture is all dark wood and I feel immediately at peace with the soft, fingerstyle Ed Sheeran covers playing in the background.
The name "Thành Koch", with Koch meaning "cook" in German, is a direct reference to the restaurant's head chef-owner, Mr. Thành. He juggles supervising the kitchen and hosting gracefully, only leaving our table a rare few times throughout the night to check on service and greet guests from a different table. His partner and co-owner, Ms. Hồng, who is the backbone of Thành Koch's operations, is a radiant yet grounded personality unlike any other. Upon our welcome, she is thrilled and embraces me with open arms, even though we have never met.
I never catch a glimpse of the menu, as Ms. Hồng starts sounding off the dishes we must try. Canh hến (clam soup), thịt trâu (goat meat), thịt ba chỉ rang cháy cạnh (fried pork belly), rau xào (stir-fried, garlic bok choy) and rice, obviously — these correspond to all the elements of a well-rounded family meal on any given Vietnamese dining table: a soup, meat/protein-based dishes, cooked vegetables and rice. And then to round the big meal off in true German and Vietnamese fashion — a few glasses of beer. In addition, I am treated to a delicious iced, lemongrass-infused lemonade.
The food is anything but overly sophisticated. All the dishes are tastefully presented and are of high restaurant quality, but retain a home-cooked simplicity.
Mr. Thành's approach is entirely purist; he says there is nothing to compromise the Hanoian way he has always cooked, even when 40% of the customers that come through the door are German and not Vietnamese.
It's likely the reason for the popularity and fame (yes, fame that reaches Vietnam itself) surrounding his fried pork dish, thịt ba chỉ rang cháy cạnh, which roughly translates to fried pork belly with burnt edges). The thin slices of pork belly are sweet, fatty, fragrant with green onions and fish sauce, with a pleasant crisp on the edges. I understand why politicians like Nguyen Chi Dung hold such high praise for Mr. Thành's version of this dish over any other fried pork belly in Vietnam.
The restaurant is a first-choice destination for many diplomats and ministers and high-profile politicians in Vietnam for good reason; it's a slice of Hanoi in a completely different continent. And it's not just the food; Mr. Thành and Ms. Hồng are also the most warmest welcome with their authenticity and the highest degree of Vietnamese hospitality. It is hard to see through their success and humility the resilience it has taken to get Thành Koch where it is now.
After managing a series of restaurants, they decided to bring Thành Koch to life on their own in 2000. The beginning was rough, as the restaurant would open late for customers to party and karaoke. Ms. Hồng says sometimes she would sleep at the restaurant after driving her workers home at 2 a.m. and oftentimes took on the burden of staff tasks like cleaning, too. But, she says, without the hardship, how can you know what true happiness looks like? Over the years, she's found solace and liberation through spiritual teachings and readings.
More than anything, though, there was no other choice but to survive and make it work. There was no return to Vietnam at that point. Ms. Hồng says, with a shrug and a smile, there's no getting off a tiger once you've gotten on it. Because then there's only death.
The couple has seemed to tame that tiger now with a thriving business. Ms. Hồng attributes that to nhân duyên, or fate, because nothing belongs to each of us at the end of the day; it's all in the hands of fate. This reminded me of a Korean word I'd recently learned watching the movie "Past Lives," 인연.
The owners are also beloved figures in the Vietnamese community in Berlin for their philanthropy and acts of kindness. When the Vietnamese Embassy held its Tết celebration this year for over 1000 Vietnamese residents in Berlin, the restaurant donated almost just as many bowls of phở as there were attendees. They are also known to send soups and chè and all kinds of healing food to friends in times of sickness or hardship. Mr. Thành says that the cure to all sickness is sickness, and it's why he hasn't visited a doctor since arriving in Germany in 1991. As Mr. Nam put it (and beware of this watered-down translation), a lot of times, affection is a pile of green vegetables or cooking a pot of chè or bánh cuốn (steamed rice rolls). Because in our culture, food is a love language, too. A well-spoken one, at that.
While Thành Koch doesn't take reservations, Ms. Hồng says I am always welcome back any time, and if I'm willing to host her in Chapel Hill, she might come and visit me, too. If nhân duyên allows it.
