Jason
Google
You walk into these alleyways half-expecting to be lost forever. Da Nang can feel like a dream—strange, humid, flickering with motion. But this alley… it hit different. It was narrow, chaotic, crumbling—but it felt like home. Like the backstreets of Shanghai where I grew up. Not the polished postcard version, but the real one. Concrete walls that wept in the rain, rusted grates, the scent of burnt oil and old garlic. It brought back the kind of memories that sting a little—of not having enough, of making do. Of hunger, not just for food, but for something better.
At the end of that memory, there was a table. A plate. Bánh xèo.
The pancake crackled as it landed. Golden, blistered, folded over a mess of fresh shrimp, pork ribbons, and bean sprouts. Next to it—a pile of rice paper, a heap of greens, mint and lettuce, and a bowl of sauce thick with ground peanuts and fermented umami. Beautiful. Mysterious. Terrifying.
Because nobody tells you how to eat it.
I sat frozen, unsure, overwhelmed—like a kid at a rich man’s table. Hands too clumsy. Mind too noisy. I didn't belong.
Then she appeared. An older woman with the calm of someone who’s seen a thousand unsure tourists like me. She didn’t speak. Just reached over, laid out the rice paper, layered the lettuce, herbs, a chunk of the crispy crepe. Rolled it tight, dipped it, handed it to me.
I took a bite.
And just like that—panic gave way to peace. Confusion melted into texture, balance, beauty. The crunch. The warmth of the pork. The ocean kiss of shrimp. The garden brightness of herbs. It was a dish made by people who know how to stretch a little into a lot. But in that moment, it tasted like luxury.
Walking down that alley, I carried memories of being poor. Of not knowing. Of always wanting more. But leaving it, I was full. Not just from the food. But from the realization that sometimes, the best things in life find you when you’re lost, not when you’re looking.
