Chicken Feet

And other delicacies in Hanoi's old city

“Do you like chicken feet?” My guide asks. “I have very good place in old city. Best chicken feet in Hanoi!” Hai is so excited at the prospect of taking me to the “best chicken feet” restaurant, how could I possibly refuse? But gently, I explain that I don’t eat chicken, or any meat for that matter—just fish.

Hai feverishly nods his head up and down and smiles. Thankfully, he understands my dietary needs.

“Okay. Okay. I take you to best place for pork breast—very famous. Many local people eat here every day.

“No–no. I eat only fish. No meat. No pork. No beef. And definitely no chicken feet.”

“Okay. Okay. I take you to fish place. Very good pho made with fish.”

For the next ten minutes I cruise along the narrow streets of Hanoi’s old city on the back of Hai’s motorbike. Unlike my travels in India, I am now wearing a helmet and sitting with my legs astride, and not “sidesaddle” like a proper lady. It feels a bit anti-climactic by comparison. No cows sleeping in the road, no street dogs frantically fornicating on the sidewalk. It’s very civilized — even with the chicken feet. But it is just the beginning.

The nightlife in Hanoi is a full-on disco in the streets. There are portable speakers mounted on wooden crates outside nearly every restaurant, some are playing Western music while others blast songs from the Vietnamese Top 50. Everyone eats outdoors on little stools that remind me of my kindergarten classroom with tables equally low. Food is cooked at the table on mini-Hibachis while the beer flows faster than water from a hydro station. I soon learn that just as the streets are divided into specific areas for clothing, jewelry, electronics, etc. so is the restaurant district. There isn’t just one place specializing in chicken feet, there are nearly three blocks, and from there it’s on to the streets for squid, octopus, and a realm of other edibles I can’t identify—a level of ignorance I am willing to accept.

I am in Hanoi to interview a woman who weaves lotus silk, specifically, the fine threads inside the lotus stem. Vietnam does not have a cultural history of weaving lotus silk, that practice originated in Myanmar where I did a story in 2012. But Mrs. Thuan began weaving lotus silk just five years ago and I’m anxious to see her work. However, I have a few more gastronomical hurdles to overcome before we meet.

Not surprisingly, the street that serves fish pho isn’t very crowded or noisy. This just isn’t the popular place, particularly on a Friday night. Our two bowls of soup plus bottled water costs about $3.00. A 10% tip is considered generous, but it feels like robbery. Alternatively, if I over tip, this reinforces the belief that Western tourists will always pay more and so the dichotomy of inequality persists.

My bowl of pho is actually quite good. There is a small tray of condiments to make it sweeter, saltier, or spicier so I carefully sprinkle modest amounts of all three. It tastes better than the chicken feet—I’m sure.

Like nearly every place I have travelled this year, the impact of Covid is still quite palpable. Hai used to work for an Australian tour company which ultimately folded due to Australia’s extreme lockdown restrictions. Subsequently, he began working for another company, but I am his first client in nearly three years. He has a fifteen-year-old daughter and a ten-year-old son. It is not just their quality of life that has suffered during the pandemic, but his children’s education. I decide, to hell with the ‘no over tipping’ rule; children come first.

During our ride back to my hotel, Hai gives me a grand tour of the old city. It’s nearly 10:00 p.m. and the streets are choked with young people in all manner of dress. I think the men use more product on their hair than the women. They have tamed their mohawks into a peak of perfection. Not even a typhoon will alter their ‘do. Alternatively, many of young lady’s wear skirts that as a friend of mine in the Falklands likes to say, “I have belts that are wider than that.” One street, in particular, is all but impassable. Hai puts the bike in neutral and maneuvers through the crowd using his heels. Somehow, the music has gotten even louder. The karaoke has started and so has the puking and passing out.

“Too much ‘happy water,’” Hai says with a laugh.

I doubt many will be laughing in the morning.

At my request to travel away from the traditional tourist spots (in part, because I can only look at just so many monuments before my eyes glaze over), I get up early the next morning to go to the wholesale fish market in Ha Long Bay.

“You see everything at market.” Hai says. “Vietnamese eat everything.”

What he means to say is, Vietnamese eat EVERYTHING!

The fish market swings into action around 2:00 a.m. as fisherman arrive with baskets of jellyfish tentacles, giant mudskippers (fish that can swim and walk), pufferfish­—which can potentially kill you, and tubs of live turtles like I used to see in the pet shop. And that’s just the first aisle.

What Hai neglected to mention is that this isn’t just the fish market, they also sell fresh chicken—they will cut off its head and de-feather it at no extra charge! There are three very limp, very naked, and very dead ducks draped across a wooden block. Their life-less heads dangling over the edge in perfect view of the ones still breathing, stuffed in the wooden crate below.

As I walk through the different aisles, my guides points to nearly every oddly shaped fish asking, “Do you know what is this?” And I keep shaking my head no, until we reach the aisle with all the egg cartons.

“Do you know is this?” Hai asks again, pointing to a basket of large white eggs.

“Eggs!” I say, feeling rather proud that I have finally been able to correctly identify something in this maze of gastronomical offerings.

“No. This is egg with duck embryo. We have two kinds; first have embryo seven to fourteen days old, and this one have embryo fourteen to twenty-one days old. You want to try?

  “No, thank you.” I reply, sensing the whole no-meat diet just doesn’t translate into Vietnamese culture. But I know in my bones that all Hai is trying to do is make me happy. He is proud of his country and the multitude of cultural experiences it has to offer. It is no different than many who come to Maine—particularly foreigners— and see a tank of lobsters, looking like gigantic prehistoric bugs crawling about, and then being told that throwing them in a pot of boiling water, you will eat them.

I don’t know if I can say I loved my time at the fish market, the smell of blood and death is pervasive. But it has been fascinating, and as Hai promised it is not on the typical tourist route. But I will still feel relieved to leave the land of edibles and head for the wearables when I visit Mrs. Thuan and her beautiful lotus silk fabric.