Takeaway chicken

The boy walking towards the camera in the middle of the photo is eager for our custom. Understandably so, there are about a dozen other places we could go on this small street in Chinatown to buy a roast chook. Apparently, Andrew tells me, the patriarch of the business was perched behind us on the other side of the street, orchestrating the touting and generally controlling his workers by clapping and pointing to what needed to be done. An interesting management style.

We did come here to buy a takeaway chicken. The potato salad was already made at home and waiting for its accompaniment. I had read that this was the street to get a succulent blown skin roast chicken, by a guy who writes about food in expat magazines here. I wasn’t sure if I should trust a man whose writing oozes with his passion for Saigonese food, yet still chooses to wear a turtle neck sweater in his profile photo, but it was a good excuse for a trip to Chinatown.

 Once we’d located the street, we took a wander around the area before committing ourselves to a particular vendor. We kept following the street past the chicken joints, and across a main street, where the bustling food stalls and restaurants petered out into a dusty stretch of single storied corrugated iron roofed houses. People looked at us like they didn’t see our kind in these parts so often. Old folks sat here and there, contemplating the street. Not much was going on, except for a card game that had drawn a dozen or so onlookers. A little girl caught up with us, obviously because she wanted to check us out. We said hello and she walked with us for a while.

We came to an intersection and were intrigued by an uncommonly tree-lined street leading off to our left, again it seemed worth the detour before buying our chook and heading home. This street was more prosperous. The houses were small and mostly two storied. As often happens in Vietnam, the houses opened right onto the street, so you couldn’t help but peeking in. The interiors had tiled floors in soft pinks or other pastel colours, red and gold Chinese ornaments, a retro feel. It was a happy little street, and definitely gave you the impression of being somewhere else.

 At the next intersection, it was only slightly surprising to see more of the glass and metal cases, but this time the carcasses filling them were darker in skin and longer in shape. I stood close to one and noticed how the fat had dripped and congealed, hanging suspended from their rear ends. Yes, we had walked from chicken street to duck street.

It was starting to feel like dinner time so headed back, where we were beckoned in by this boy. I was surprised to find that our chicken had to be taken from the glass case and deep fried, before being chopped, and put in a bag with some salad and sauces. So it wasn’t really a roast chicken after all. No doubt our taxi driver’s mouth was watering as we drove back down Nguyen Trai street to District One, as our dinner steamed up his cab with the smell of deep fried succulence.

And the verdict on the chicken? Honestly, it was good but not great. But it really didn’t matter. This was one of those experiences where the journey was the reward.