One of my favorite things to do while traveling is to hunt for local restaurants. I especially like to look for those off the beaten path that aren’t in guidebooks and make for the best stories — ones sprinkled with surprise and garnished with adventure. My first day in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, was spent exploring the dense network of streets, navigating the oncoming waves of motorcycles, and experiencing local cuisine. 

My friends and I were walking along a street toward the market when a young Vietnamese man asked where we were going. We were getting hungry and we told him that we were looking for some food. Despite his limited English, the man’s eyes brightened, and his voice grew excited as he said, “I’ll take you!” So we followed the friendly stranger to a nearby corner. The sign above the doorway, “Phở  2000,” alluded to the famous Vietnamese dish Phở, which is a rice noodle soup that is commonly served in Vietnam. We walked in to the restaurant and were seated at a plastic table with light plastic chairs. On the wall by our table was a picture of President Clinton sitting at a round table smiling down at us while he ate his Phở. It seemed that President Clinton had found our locally recommended restaurant as well. 

I knew I had to order Phở, but was not sure exactly what to expect. The waiter came back with my chicken Phở and this is what I was given:

First came the bowl. It was chicken broth with white onions, green onions, rice noodles, and chicken breasts lumped together. A few minutes later, the waiter returned with plates of basil, bean sprouts, and lime, allowing us to customize each of our own bowls. There were also chili peppers and other hot sauces if we wanted that extra kick. As this was our first day in Vietnam, eating the soup became a bit of a challenge as we struggled to maintain a grip on the slippery noodles with our chopsticks. However, as I finished the solid contents in the bowl, the question soon became, “What do I do about the leftover broth?” There were no spoons, and we looked at the tables around us. I did what everyone else was doing: I drank out of the bowl.

Phở 2000 turned out to be a chain restaurant with at least one other location in the city. I came across it later that week, and there was president Clinton again, happy as could be, with his Vietnamese noodle soup. 

My last night in Ho Chi Minh City was a late one. Three friends and myself were walking back to the ship and were incredibly hungry.  In Ho Chi Minh City, the Vietnamese seemed to eat late and at communal tables set on the sidewalks in front of the restaurant. Large pots of boiling noodle soup were shared between the members of each party. The style of dining appealed to our quest for local experiences, and, that night, we decided to try one of these places, but one small problem existed: we didn’t know any Vietnamese. Fortunately for us, gesturing and the waiter’s knowledge of a few English words were enough to get us seated at a table upstairs (sadly, away from the rest of the patrons). We had the whole level to ourselves, and we were able to look out at the street, watching those below us enjoy their late night meal. We didn’t know what to choose, but with some luck, we managed to order soup with chicken and beef. 

Just when we were beginning to think we had been forgotten, the waiter came up the stairs with a giant pot filled with boiling hot soup. Then, he brought in plates of raw meat and slid them off the plate into the pot of soup. The smell was tantalizing, and it didn’t take long for the boiling broth to cook the meat slices. Due to the language barrier we weren’t sure what to do with the other ingredients they brought to our table (similar to those at Phở 2000). Being unable to communicate with the waiter, and out of sight of the other customers, we decided to add everything — the noodles (which had been given to us in a large separate bowl), onions, basil leaves, and bean sprouts. It tasted better than the Phở, and even though we were separated from the locals, I knew this place was not one built for tourists. 

Since then, I have wondered if the restaurant staff placed us on the upper balcony for the locals’ benefit or our own. Unlike Phở 2000, we had invaded a private space, one generally inhabited by speakers of a common language, who knew the proper eating etiquette. Perhaps we could have learned from observation had we been given more of an opportunity, but until the next time I visit Vietnam, my shifting role between tourist and observational participant will remain undefined.

Welcome to the Cape Malay cooking safari. In Cape Town, South Africa, there’s a neighborhood known as the Malay district, home to families of Malaysian descent. A few of these families opened their homes to travelers, like myself and my friends, to give us an authentic cooking experience. Before we arrived at the home, we were taken to a spice shop. While in Morocco, I had seen bowls containing pyramids of spices in the markets. In Ghana, I had walked by stalls selling spices unable to avoid the tickling aroma of their presence permeating the air. This spice shop, however, was different. Here there were barrels of spices such as cumin, cayenne pepper, paprika, and masala leaf.

I was surprised to be offered an unidentifiable substance to try. At first, I thought our guide was kidding, but then I realized that he was offering us wintergreen mint leaves. We left the store with a bag full of several spices that we were going to use while cooking.

After greeting our host, she offered us a drink to welcome us to her home. The ingredients, milk and rose syrup gave it a light pink color. The drink was very sweet and refreshing, unlike anything I’d had before.  

Then, it was time to be put to work. First, she had us make chili balls. Chili balls are round, bite-sized, spicy, fried dough balls that take practice to get it just right. She had prepared the dough already to save time, and we watched as she expertly plopped the spicy dough balls into the oil to fry them. The trick to creating the perfect chili ball rested on the cooks knowledge and experience. Having done this many times before, she was able to pull them out of the oil at just the right moment, creating a crispy exterior and a soft interior. After a few tries, we were able to get the texture just about right, and regardless of our lack of expertise, the results were delicious. But the main course and side still had to be cooked. 

The next step was to make the samosas. Samosas are little pockets of fried dough stuffed with any filling you can imagine. Common fillings include: meat and cheese, vegetables and potatoes, and even chocolate (as a dessert). However, our host mom had prepared a cheese and onion filling, one that could be enjoyed by both vegetarians and meat lovers. The trick to making samosas lies in the art of folding the dough around the filling. While it is possible to make the thinly rolled samosa dough, it’s much simpler to buy it at the store. Once you have the dough, fold it in such a way as to create a sealed triangle pocket (it is imperative to keep the oil from leaking into the interior) . Each of us got the opportunity to try folding a couple of samosas and learned the technique for frying them for just the right amount of time. 

Through the course of the next few hours, we also made chicken curry and homemade tortillas to accompany the samosas and chili balls. We mixed the spices for the curry from scratch, and many of us were curious about how our host knew how much of each spice to add. This conversation highlighted an interesting difference between my experience and that of her family: history of cooking. In my household, my parents took care of most of the cooking, leaving me with easy tasks like baking cookies, or mixing things. Her daughter, however, grew up in an environment that encouraged learning how to cook. Our host told us how her daughter asked, “Mom how do you know what to add?” She answered her daughter the same way as she answered our inquisitive stares, “Practice.” By the time our host’s daughter was thirteen, she was able to cook almost as well as her mom. 

To me, this points to a large cultural difference centering on the utilization of food preparation as a means for family bonding. Our society functions on a rapid timetable that often leaves little time for preparation and consumption of food. For this Malaysian family, cooking was a skill to be passed down through the family chain, an activity intimately shared. I found that this idea permeates other African societies.  The sharing of this information and experience  makes me all the more enthusiastic to continue soaking up the cooking and baking knowledge that my parents have, so that one day I will not be confined to Easy Mac, Spaghetti O’s, and frozen pizzas! 

As a tourist in Morocco, I repeatedly found myself staring at the unique and interesting food offerings proffered by vendors in the marketplace. My food experience began in their capital, Rabat, where the colorful displays of spices and freshly made pastries were enticing.  Moroccans purchase their meat and vegetables raw from markets in each city, yet as a foreigner to the country it’s ill advised to eat the uncooked food from the street vendors.

As a tourist in Morocco, I repeatedly found myself staring at the unique and interesting food offerings proffered by vendors in the marketplace. My food experience began in their capital, Rabat, where the colorful displays of spices and freshly made pastries were enticing.  Moroccans purchase their meat and vegetables raw from markets in each city, yet as a foreigner to the country it’s ill advised to eat the uncooked food from the street vendors.

Unfortunately for my companions and I, we were traveling on a day that coincided with a religious holiday, Ramadan. Consequently, many of the shops were closed, and restaurants deserted, Despite this, we were able to find a small corner-side restaurant near the train station. We sat down, and all four of us ordered a glass of orange juice. It was phenomenal, as we had been told it would be. I don’t pretend to be an orange juice snob, but the freshly squeezed, pulp-rich juice was refreshing and well worth the money. For the main course, I tried something called chicken tajine. This is a popular Moroccan food with a presentation just as unique as the flavor. ‘Tajine’ refers to the ceramic bowl and cone lid in which the dish is cooked. The first time I didn’t know what to expect, but was very pleased by the moist chicken that had been soaked up the pleasantly spiced sauce. 

However, it wasn’t until I dined in a beautiful restaurant in Merrakech that I fell in love with tajine.  For our main course, the waiter brought out a giant tajine (at least as big as the diameter of a beach ball) and pulled off the lid to reveal chicken wings, drumsticks, and chicken breasts marinated in a dark red sauce. The chicken was moist, tender and flavorful. Not only was the chicken itself delicious, but the sauce cinched the deal. I couldn’t stop soaking up more of it from the bowl in the middle of the table even after all of the chicken had been eaten. All I can say is that this was the best chicken I’ve ever had. It was at this moment I decided I needed a tajine of my own so that I could attempt to recreate the powerful flavor and quality of this dish. My search for a tajine would have to wait though, because the next day we were off to the High Atlas Mountains and the Berber Villages.

The Berber villages, home to indigenous people of Morocco, offered a different food experience. Here we had our meals prepared in front of us form fresh ingredients. Men peeled potatoes, carrots were chopped, and couscous was prepared. While the food was cooking, the local villagers joined us in creating music with trash bins, and everyone began dancing in the dining area. The communal atmosphere carried through to the meal, with each of us serving ourselves from bowls placed in the middle of the room. Unlike the couscous I’ve had on previous hiking trips, this took hours to prepare. Our patience was rewarded with light and fluffy couscous that didn’t need spoonfuls of additional spices to give it flavor. (I still preferred tajine, and couldn’t wait to explore the markets in the port city of Casablanca for my perfect pot.)

My time in Morocco convinced me of something else: tea is a nice addition to any meal. Every time I sat down to eat, I was served mint tea, and it became something of a challenge to see which place served the best mint tea. They don’t use tea bags, but rather combine fresh mint leaves with green tea leaves, adding sugar to give it its unique, refreshing taste. I realize now I should have bought some mint tea for the road.

After the trek through the mountains I had one day left to find my tajine. After searching all around Casablanca, I finally decided on this beautiful green- glazed tajine. This functional and gorgeous tajine would be my souvenir from Morocco. I carefully carried it back to the ship, and gingerly placed it under my bed because I didn’t want the rough seas to cause it to break. I was ready to try a new recipe and cooking style! 

Unfortunately, only hours from home, the bag carrying my tajine slipped through my fingers, and it crashed to the ground, ceramic shards tumbling everywhere. While I have been lamenting the loss of my broken tajine, it has recently come to my attention that Williams-Sonoma are selling these cooking vessels, and I’m looking forward to finding a new one to replace my broken souvenir. Could it be the next cooking sensation? 

I’ll see you next time when we travel to South Africa!

As the famous French philosopher Voltaire wisely said, “Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” I couldn’t agree more, and I know this because I had the unique opportunity to taste the world. Over the course of three and a half months, I visited countries in Europe, Africa, and Asia, which enabled me to explore culinary tastes around the globe. Over the next few months, my intent is to take you on this journey with me. The first stop on our trip is Spain…

One of the first things I was told to do while in Spain was eat, eat, and eat some more.  In fact, it seemed like every part of the day was categorized to include food. To start off, there was the delicious option of churros con chocolate.  A churro is a cinnamon sugar-coated fried pastry, best when fresh, and it may cause you to roll your eyes up into the back of your head in rapture. To make the experience even better, the chocolate is a thick, creamy liquid that puts Hershey’s chocolate syrup to shame. This delectable treat is just the beginning of the culinary experience that abounds in Spain. 

In Spain, el almuerzo, or lunch, is generally eaten around 2:30, and dinner is at 9 or 10 o’clock. So for those people (such as myself) who are hungry all the time, they created “tapas” bars to curb hunger. Tapas refers to a wide variety of snack food or appetizers, and a tapas bar is a place for socialization, eating small  plates of food, and drinking beer. It’s common for people to bar-hop from place to place, sampling various tapas from each location. My personal favorite tapas is the Tortilla Española (the Spanish omelette made from potatoes, onion, garlic, and eggs).  “Tapear,” a Spanish word meaning “to go eat tapas,” became one of our favorite everyday activities. 

I mentioned above that lunch is eaten around 2:30. That’s true, if you are a local Spaniard. However, as a tourist I’d recommend eating earlier because from about 2:30 to 4 everything shuts down. The streets empty, and the Spanish people go home to eat, nap, and relax. In these situations, you’ll want to plan your food eating experience around country-wide habits. 

While in Cádiz (a small, coastal town in southwestern Spain), a few of my friends and I wanted dinner. It was about 10:00 p.m., and night had already descended, yet the cobblestone alleys were still teeming with adults, children, and teens, and the restaurants were all gearing up for a busy night. We went to a small square called La Plaza de los Flores, and sandwiched between a gelato shop and another restaurant was, based on my friend’s expertise, the restaurant with the best tasting sangria in the area. As a novice sangria drinker, I was curious to learn that the drink’s taste varies depending on location due to the style of mixing it.  Sangria consists of varying quantities of sweetener, brandy or spirits, slices of fruit, and a few spices. As for me, I was also drawn by the promise of paella.  

There were seven of us, and the waiter accommodated us by pushing two tables together while we dragged over additional chairs. Once we were all seated, the menus were brought over and we were presented with our paella options. Paella is a rice dish, often made with chicken, seafood, or both. The rice is a yellow color due to saffron and olive oil, which combine to give the dish a distinct flavor that I found delicious and unique. (For those of you who have eaten in the dorms, there really isn’t a comparison. The paella in Spain is far superior). It’s very popular in Spain and I’d been looking for an opportunity to try it. I ordered chicken paella, and a few of my friends decided to split “paella negra,” a version of paella smothered in octopus ink. 

The sangria and paella came, and we all paused our conversation to dig in. We agreed that the paella was good, and the sangria clinched the meal. It was at that moment that I noticed a curious phenomenon.  All of the tables were full, yet the local patrons were quiet. It wasn’t just a difference in volume, but rather one of style. The other people at the restaurant had their chairs positioned facing the street, which was a huge contrast to our table, where we sat across from each other. There was a couple directly to my left who hardly said a word during their entire meal.  Meanwhile, in the next restaurant over, a group of Dutch tourists laughed uproariously. 

From that point on we tried to stay quieter, but our food eating experiences were characterized by laughter, jokes, and loud conversation, and it was difficult to change our patterns of behavior. As my trip around the world progressed, I became increasingly aware of the different styles of preparation, eating, and etiquette that mark the diverse regions of the world. The way people eat says a lot about them. I can say with certainty that your parents were right — mind your manners, and adapt to the food culture in which you find yourself participating. 

I will see you next week when we travel together to Morocco!