The crowded alleys behind Hanoi’s massive Dong Xuan market are a labyrinth of street stalls, tiny shops, and tinier walkways. Throngs of shoppers jostle salesmen, tourists, and the occasional daring motorcycle as it weaves in and out of the masses. In the dizzying heat of the early afternoon sun, two women sit curbside, a basket of steamed crabs between them, calling to passers-by.
My seafood policy is a strict one. I almost never buy it from street vendors, and I definitely don’t if said vendors are either far from the ocean or lacking in refrigeration. I must have been feeling especially daring that afternoon, or perhaps especially hungry, because I sat down with them anyway, breaking all of my rules at once. The women handed me my first crab as I perched on a plastic stool, shaded by a hodgepodge of tarps tied to rickety bamboo poles.
It dawned on me that I was a long way from Annapolis, my last whole-crab-eating experience. (Are these crabs even already dead?) The crab and I stared at each other for a few minutes, sizing each other up. When it became clear that I was not going to triumph in this silent battle of wills, the kindly crab stand proprietor took pity on me and demonstrated how to crack them, laughing at my clumsy efforts on my own crab.
No problem. I thought, silently cheering myself on. I got this. I cracked into crab number two, feeling pretty good about how things were going. Legs and claws defeated, I basked in the sweet, delicious glow of victory before standing up to leave.
The crab lady started to laugh. (Are we laughing in delight at how good I am at eating crabs?) Shaking her head, she pulled me back down to the stool and, taking a knife out of her apron, picked up the body of the crab, which was largely untouched, and pried open the shell. In a string of Vietnamese I can only guess at, she proceeded to pull chunks of meat at from hidden crab compartments. Then, in a much scarier turn of events, she began scooping out what I can only identify as “goop.” She pointed at the goop and, patting herself on the chest, breathed deeply. Ah. Tasty crab lungs. Her smiles and encouragement suggested that this was in fact the best part. She returned my plate and waited expectantly.
And so, faced with the Sophie’s choice of either offending the nice crab saleswoman or eating piles of mystery crab parts, I dug in. I will say that there were some flavors and textures that were new to me and not entirely unpleasant. I can certainly appreciate a culture in which nothing is wasted. However, I can also admit that when the crab lady looked away to tend to another customer, I hid the lungs under a large piece of shell.
I found the crab ladies the next day, in a different spot in the labyrinth of streets behind the market and joined them again for another crab, and another lesson in crab biology. The crabs were big and fresh and inexpensive, but that’s not what compelled me to return. I had certainly enjoyed the experience, relaxing outside with my plate of crab parts watching the hustle and bustle of Dong Xuan market rush by. There’s also something exhilarating about rolling the dice and eating mystery street seafood. This experience aside, it’s almost never worth it.
More than anything, however, I was drawn by the two crab women, their easy camaraderie and willingness to share parts of their culture with me, despite our language barrier and my obvious crab lung anxiety. Steamed crabs, common to my native East Coast, were suddenly foreign, rediscovered in the alleyways of Hanoi. But sitting on low plastic stools laughing with two Vietnamese women as I struggled to eat them, that felt like the most familiar thing in the world.
Let’s be fearless,
Jen