Picture this: you’re sitting alone, maybe you’re studying for an upcoming test, maybe you’re binging old but awesome kung-fu movies or just mindlessly scrolling on your phone. All of a sudden, a thought creeps into your head, sweeping aside the things you were previously focused on. With all your previous thoughts popping like a bubble, to set it aside for food cravings. But what is it that you want? How about a slice of chocolate cake? A scoop of ice cream? One that just melts the moment it hits your tongue, one that is frothy and filled with defined flavors? But, maybe sweets aren’t the thing for you. Perhaps you’re looking for something savory, like a simple bag of thin, salty chips. Or, something sour, potentially a bag of Sour Patch Kids, with its mix of sugar and a sharp, tangy, acid sensation. But, what if you want it all? Savory, sweet and sour? What if all this internal conflict is just a way to hide a simpler truth? You just want something good.
Whether you want something rich or cheap depends entirely on your choice, with your never-ending cravings. However, this begs the question: what is defined as “good”? Is it the food, or is it the experience?
Sometimes eating is an opportunity to share with a friend. You can crack jokes, gossip and talk about literally anything, or perhaps talk and eat with a stranger, share some of your ideas with them and listen to their ideas. Because who knows? There could be a possibility that you could become friends. After all, our friends used to be strangers. So are we connected by what we eat, or by what we’re willing to share? Is food to satisfy your stomach, or to have a connection with another person?
I remember when I was about eight, and my family and I went on a highly anticipated summer trip to Vietnam. They were excited to reunite with their relatives, but I couldn’t care less. I didn’t want to live through an awkward interaction with that one great-uncle or aunt who cradled me when I was only two months old and expected me to remember. Though it was nice to see them again, it was more interesting to fantasize about Vietnam’s famous phở (a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup), since my mom always told me how good the phở was over there. She once said that it was better than her own and that alone sent my expectations through the roof. My mom’s phở is so incredible that even my two goofballs of sisters, who normally don’t like phở, love hers.
When the trip was announced, I dreamt of swimming in the fragrant broth of phở, taking small bites of fresh garnishes like bean sprouts, basil, cilantro, while also simultaneously slurping on the flat rice noodles and chewing on the tender, broth-soaked beef or chicken.
Yet, even though my mind was filled with thoughts of food during my trip, I took the time to notice the bustling streets of Vietnam: the intense motorbikes zooming through traffic, the weirdly narrow, yet somehow spacious tube houses, the countless street vendors and more.
Before my trip, I had heard stories and gossip that life in Vietnam was different. I’d imagine myself a part of that different life: one that wasn’t built on convenience like in San José, where the weather was always burning hot, and it was exaggerated that life is significantly harder than the one I’m living right now.
I was so used to the modernist, tech-suburban sprawl of San José that even the regular life of another country left a deep impression on me. San José, where I was born and raised, had a wide variety of foods that come from different places, but was oftentimes overshadowed by big franchises. The average dining experience, I’d noticed, is like a system: stop, fill up and leave. This system added to the cut-and-dry routine of everyday life, where modernized life is built on an emphasis on individualism and progress. Though this isn’t a bad thing, this type of fast-paced lifestyle, which many take up, deviates from the art of enjoying the quality of time or the art of enjoying a meal.
Fortunately, this appreciation of time isn’t entirely lost. I see it when I turn to cooking, where different paces emerge and connection has a chance to flourish. Dishes are made with respect, setting distractions aside and the small-talk common to my family and many local Vietnamese restaurants. Setting the tables, from putting down silverware to handing out napkins is in a group fashion. All this, to prepare for a hearty, comforting dish made with love, honor and the art of togetherness. My family and I always try following the “no talking while eating” rule, but we often break it anyway by talking about the food itself. It’s like food is a naturally interactive experience that can’t be stopped.
I spent about a month in Vietnam, and in those days, time never went by so fast. It felt like every day, I was experiencing something new, something memorable. The unfamiliar air, the overwhelming streets and the vibrant, fast-paced food culture were an experience that no amount of tour videos and stories could have ever prepared me for. Vietnam was a delicacy in that way.
Upon arrival, we headed to my grandfather’s house for a big family reunion. I was surprised by how narrow our house and the houses throughout Vietnam were. As my uncle led me to my family’s and my bedrooms, I sniffed out our upcoming feast. There was a large assortment of dishes, which first started small—with cháo, a small rice porridge soup—followed by larger portions of roasted, crispy pork, rice bowls, rice noodles, spring rolls and various other dishes. I still remember the feeling of comfort and heartiness while eating, followed by feeling like I ate five mountains.
My mission of the day was done, but my appetite still called to me as I stuck around the dinner table. I didn’t expect myself to be fully invested in the loud conversations that I overheard from other relatives, but I was. My uncles, aunts, cousins and all kinds of people from my family tree shared stories of their lives, and a communal atmosphere quickly grew from the house. After enduring countless awkward first-impressions with my relatives, it felt like being welcomed in the most awesome and overwhelming way of all time.
After that day, the rest of the trip was full of travel from the streets to the high-end districts of Vietnam. There were bustling street markets that were always full of people, giving out fresh, quick dishes and an assortment of fruits. Alongside the vibrant streets of Vietnam lay global franchises extending from food (Popeyes, McDonalds, etc.), to brands like Nike and Adidas, which were a shock to me. The similarities between San José and Saigon were as stark as the differences. Getting a quick meal in Vietnam felt similar to the “system” that I’d observed at home—stop, fill up, leave—but had another level to it, too. The markets on the streets of Saigon—other than being a sensory overload—were like social connectors. On top of eating, I got to know the cook, learn about the dish, enjoy food at a street-level spot surrounded by strangers sitting side-by-side and initiate conversations in an instant. This kind of mentality was also in the Vietnamese countryside, though in different forms from the urban sprawl of Saigon and Hanoi. Among the jungles, the sandy grounds, the rivers where markets and restaurants sometimes reside, the idea of collectivism and togetherness was like its own town.
After the trip, looking back at my relatives—both those raised in rural areas and those closer to me—as well as strangers I met, I realized how environmental conditions and shared beliefs define perspectives. Their daily lives are often summed up in a simple meal and the way they create it.
While food has historically been seen as a source of survival for replenishing energy, a pinnacle of human evolution and animal sustenance, there’s always been another side to it. From the discovery of fire and the agricultural revolution, to settler societies being established, to developments in modern preservation and food cuisines, food has always also had a profound significance. Ancient civilizations like Egypt, Persia and China established food systems for medicine and religious feasts, rather than only for survival.
Christianity, for example, sees food as a central gift from God, believing that bread is a symbol of sustenance and the body of Christ, seeing it as God’s glory. Islam sees food as a source of worship, balancing spirituality with food from physical health to consuming foods that are halal. Other religions such as Buddhism, Hinduism and Judaism view foods in similar, or different ways depending on their individual beliefs and practices. Sharing meals across faiths, whether it is through fasting, dietary laws or communal meals, acts as a window to see other’s values, disciplines and how they interact with each other.
Urban cities—where countless infrastructures and large population settlements usually lead to a diverse food scene— often face challenges of food insecurities and limited nutritional needs, as food is costly and mass-produced. These insecurities lead to a superficial look into food, straying away from the quality of taste to just the necessary need of it, which isn’t as fulfilling. This contrasts with rural areas, where instead of industrial production, there is a limited amount of produce to be made, leading to more value and care being put into each curated meal.
In a city where we can buy a pre-packaged sandwich at a gas station, one doesn’t think of the farmer or the cook; food is nothing more than fuel. Though industrial food production isn’t inherently bad, it unfortunately leads to a society run by convenience, where interactions with communities and cultures are disregarded. I’ve experienced this many times living in San José. Despite being surrounded by history where Mexican, Asian and European influences are put on a pedestal, the city still faces challenges regarding authenticity, even within the act of sharing meals. In contrast, in less developed, less modernized and less technologically advanced areas like Vietnam, the experience feels more authentic.
There is always a special connection in meeting the person behind the food and turning a meal into a conversation. From humble street food to fine dining cultures, I’ve realized that the most nourishing ingredient is not just the food itself, but the human connection, the history and the story the dish brings to the table.
I had gone to Vietnam for a bowl of phở and left with a life lesson. I truly suggest everyone try the same.
