I was born in a coastal village in the Central region full of sunshine and wind. When I was young, every time my uncles and aunts visited my house, they always brought some local gifts. Sometimes it was a bottle of passionate fish sauce, sometimes it was a fragrant dried squid. On days when the boat returned early, my uncle also packed in a bunch of fresh tuna, scales sparkling as if still imbued with seawater.
In my memory, tuna is a rustic fish, not expensive, but the most "liked" by my mother. The fish is big, round, firm meat, with a rich sweet taste, which can be processed into many delicious dishes. But perhaps, the deepest is still Quang Ngai tuna noodle soup, a dish associated with rainy days and my childhood. Every time the sky just falls, the sea breeze blows through the porch, I urge my mother to cook a pot of tuna noodle soup for the whole family.
The cooking method of this dish is not elaborate, but requires meticulousness and patience. Fresh tuna is cleaned, gutted, cut into thick slices about a finger joint thick. The fish is soaked in salt water, washed thoroughly, drained and marinated with a little salt and pepper to absorb the flavor. When the fish has just absorbed the spices, mother will fry it briefly to make the surface firm.
Light yellow fish slices are placed in a pot, poured with simmering water, plus sliced tomatoes, onions, garlic, chili and fish sauce. The pot of water is boiled, then mother carefully removes each layer of foam to keep the broth clear. Then, the heat is reduced, adding a few slices of fragrant and a little pork belly, starting the "um" process lasting for hours.
Mother said that tuna must be simmered over a low heat like that to absorb, the meat is firm but still retains its natural sweetness. According to the experience of coastal people, the longer tuna is simmered, the more flavorful and delicious it becomes.
While the fish pot was simmering on the stove, my sisters and I were assigned the task of preparing raw vegetables. A basket of lush green vegetables with lettuce, thinly sliced banana flowers, a few sprigs of basil, a little raw bean sprouts and a bowl of crushed red chili. The vermicelli must be fresh vermicelli, small strands, pure white, neatly arranged in a bowl.
When everything is ready, mother scoops the clear, hot broth into the bowl of vermicelli, arranges it on a few slices of fragrant braised tuna. The heat rises up, carrying the characteristic aroma of the sea. A authentic bowl of Quang Ngai tuna vermicelli is a harmony of the sour taste of tomatoes and aroma, the spicy taste of chili, the rich sweetness of fish and the fresh crispness of raw vegetables.
The whole family gathered around the tray, eating and sniffing because it was spicy, but no one could stop their chopsticks. Each spoonful of hot broth seemed to penetrate the heart, dispelling the cold of rainy days, leaving a very unique warm feeling of a hometown meal.
Now, my mother rarely cooks that dish as before. On days when I suddenly crave the taste of my hometown, I stop by a small shop located in a winding alley, ordering a bowl of tuna noodle soup. The water is still clear, the fish is still thick and sweet, but somewhere there is still a lack of the familiar taste of the old kitchen. Sitting next to a bowl of smoky noodle soup, I suddenly feel like I have returned to the porch of that year, where the sound of waves crashing nearby and the drizzling rain outside the yard.
Quang Ngai tuna vermicelli is not a sophisticated dish, nor is it a delicacy. But it is that rusticness that creates a unique attraction. Just once enjoying it, people can hardly forget the rich taste of the sea, the spicy taste of chili and, above all, the simple, warm human love entrusted in each bowl of vermicelli.
