by Long Tran

My family and I have always been fruit people. Rarely do we prepare sweets or baked goods. We often have a plate of apples or oranges on the coffee table (but as a family of tea drinkers, we take the liberty of calling it a ‘tea table’.) After meals at the dining table, we descend onto the sofa, the floor or the beanbag chair, and surround the fruit plate. Other than the regular players mentioned above, sometimes peaches, kiwis or grapes make appearances. Of course, there is more variety back in Vietnam, but we make do with what we have in Tokyo. Now, I want you to know that there is more to the way we eat fruits than meets the eye.

My mother will pick an apple, Fuji, wholly red and two-fists-plump, and use her fruit knife to skin it. With years and years of experience, her blade slides and separates the skin from the fruit. Each motion is like a wave and sounds like one too. She undresses the apple from its redness to a creamy pastel yellow. Then it is split down into pieces, each like a boat, thick or thin depending on whether it is for my sister or myself. Sometimes she adds bunny ears. The apple pieces rest in a circle on the plate but will quickly float away. Morsels of goodness reach everyone equitably: younger children always receive priority while everyone else sensibly adjusts their share. Each bite seems to contain all the juice in the world, yet keeps you wanting. When shared between a family of four, even a box of two dozen will not last long.

Fuji Apple

This type of act is a metaphor for a kind of love: washing the grapes before bringing them out, peeling oranges and handing your child one half, picking out the seeds of grapefruits, or indeed skinning the apple. A love best captured in the phrase ‘điều gì tốt nhất mẹ rành con’ (‘what is best for you, I reserve’) - a phrase which regularly appears in disagreements over my personal choices. There are times we disagree with what our family thinks is best. There is a kind of shielding act which is scantly verbalised. What is formal, odourless, and mundane on the outside can be overflowing just below the surface. My mother sometimes jokes that I should peel the apple for myself as I would not eat it any other way. I’ve tried while living alone at university, but I can never bring myself to the knife. Perhaps I have a sense from my childhood that they are typical feminine acts, always done by mother, aunts, and grandmothers. It feels strange, as a man, to perform such a form of love to anyone - even for me. My best imitation is to wash the Scottish strawberries and put them on a plate before offering them to my friend.

Let us say there are three main reasons for all our decisions with food: health, taste, aesthetics. Culture provides the standard for all of them. Why is it that we peel one kind of apple called quả táo tây (Western Apple) but not another called quả táo ta (Vietnamese Apple)? Because of a fear of pesticides and preservatives from imported apples from our northern neighbour? (Despite being the world lead exporter of apple, China only claims four per cent in Vietnam’s import.) Because some fruits taste and look better skinned than not? Or because what we do out of necessity has somehow taken on new meanings and become habit. In Tokyo, my family no longer fear poisoning, yet the way we treat our food remains the same. We peel no longer to protect the wholeness of our health but rather the wholeness of our identity.

Gastronomy is chemistry and culture, art and human affection. In this case, the raw mundane is transfigured into pure sacredness through simple preparation and requisite attention. Our cuisine mirrors our fruits: fresh and transparent ingredients with minimal yet hands-on and sophisticated cooking. Rarely do we use the microwave or oven. That could be why I am mostly apathetic to Western desserts where the oven seems to do most of the cooking (with the exception of ice cream, which I don’t eat because of my lactose intolerance). Barely do I see the traces of the original ingredients. To me, the water of fruits is somehow superior to the stuffiness of baked goods. Of course, fruits are present in cakes, but, in those instances, their essence seems lost. Fruits are cleaner, cleansing, and leave neither crumbs nor the chocolate smear on your face after a cookie. They are what we offer to ancestors and the Buddha in temples or the altars of our home on special occasions. Then, we subsequently take down and eat them in the spirit of sharing a meal with our collective past.

Home Altars in Vietnam

Western Cakes and baked goods belong to a different kind of collective past. I only remember eating two cakes growing up: Su Kem (Choux à la crème) and Ga To (Gateau). I had the most exposure to the latter because they were birthday cakes. But my parents never had birthday parties growing up like I did. My grandparents had forgotten the date on which they were born. Both are residues of a bourgeois colonial past and something my family did not taste until they had gone to university in the capital. Perhaps there is an unconscious aversion on their part that I have inherited. The birthday cakes we bought would always have leftovers and still do to this day. Thus, it is quite ironic that now baking is the hobby of my kid sister who, unlike everyone else in the family, grew up in Tokyo. It is what it is.

Of course, we Vietnamese do not just eat fruits for dessert. Our entries for this category are diverse and complex, like everywhere else in the world. I would be insane to suggest an absolute ethical reason to prefer my country’s food over yours (unless, perhaps, if you are from the United Kingdom). Yet, try to open your palate to how humans consume, swallow and digest our cultural values and principles through food. I say this to those who see my fruity preference as dull compared to your lemon meringue, brownies or chocolate chips cookies. At times I can appreciate your promiscuous sugary snacks, yet, none of them can beat the elegance of an apple well-peeled.

ST.ART does not own the rights to any images used in this article