I can’t muster the energy to relate in wordy detail all that’s gone on over the past two days, so have some photographs instead, that’s what you like anyway, nowadays, isn’t it, all pictures and no real content.
At the weekend, the roads are closed off and children roam free in miniature cars, either self-drive or remote controlled. It’s chaos, but it’s the cutest and coolest thing ever.This is Finn, he lives at LENS Coffee. He barked at everyone but me. I felt blessed. Good boy.The view outside a wonderful bia hoi. I had a couple, read my book and ate beef. The young lads working there loved football. I told them I wasn’t bothered. This confused them, so I’ll be sure to lie in future. I currently support Newcastle.
The menu had some great hardcore/post-post-punk band names.
NailrollsBare FlooringCow BucketThrow PhungCalf HearingCow SqueezesWhere the magic happens.I found my all-time favourite beer at die Träumerei (49 P. Quang Trung, Trần Hưng Đạo, Hai Bà Trưng, Hà Nội)Not my photo, thanks to Anna Auden.They had a wide selection of European beers and deli specialities. If I ever need consoling with strong beer and cured meats, I know where to go.A terrible picture of a beautiful lake, Thiền Quang. It was Sunday night so it was very peaceful, the gentle chirrup of crickets punctuated by the occasional toot of a passing bike.I met some very cool students celebrating birthdays. They invited me to sit, they shared their passion fruit cake and we chatted about music, culture and language (read; swearing – vãi lồn!) Happy birthday to Tuan and Hien. I went in search of further refreshment. It was late, about 11, and this bia hoi place was showing Premier League. I approached gleefully, shoot the shit with the locals about the beautiful game (Come on you Newcastle… players…), what could go wrong? (Not my photo, credit: Thắng Môi Trường).
At this point, a man, sat with his two friends raised his arms in the air, crossed, and shouted ‘No!’ several times in an aggressive fashion. Perhaps the place was closing, perhaps he assumed I am a hooligan (easy mistake to make), or maybe he’s just a big, stupid racist. Either way, I went to watch the football and got shouted at/threatened within seconds. Makes sense really, stupid game for bigots (j/k, don’t throw a bench at me).
My view the following morning from The Note Coffee (64 P. Lương Văn Can), a cool place where travellers leave inside post-its of potted ‘wisdom’ on every available surface. Shaken by my interlude and in agony after a ludicrous amount of walking over the weekend, I sat and edited an audio drama. I felt incredibly cool, although none of the other Westerners acknowledged me. There are a great many po-faced adventurers here, Western-wise. Cheer up, pricks!
Shout out to CoBa Bakery (Hàng Gai, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi 10000) for the egg coffee (cà phê trứng), bao, and awesome pastries. Lovely people too.
The pickled vegetable pot had the cowering air of the liar…Alas, I was wrong. Eco cup my arse…
I spent most of Monday and Tuesday day time sleeping. I was fatigued beyond all measure, the realities of being an old, rapidly disintegrating bastard quickly catching up with me. Still, I have some vigor left in me, so by Tuesday tea time I was up and at ’em again, albeit feeling like my intestines were trying to chew their way out.
This cat at 1975 cafe (delectable hot chicken and cheese Bánh mì) is a trooper. A stray dog tried to pinch one out in front of the cafe and this little guy ran him off like a hero. Great work, tiny friend.Tiny Music Club at The Hanoi Social Club (every Tuesday, 6 Ng. Hội Vũ, Hàng Bông, Hoàn Kiếm, Hà Nội, Vietnam). Big recommend. Pink Frog headlined, lovely vocals over some beautiful, gentle guitar playing. Ayush, the host, also played a set of cheery (too cheery) reggae-ish tunes. Ayush is a genuinely lovely Nepalese guy who’s lived here eight years and has no plan to leave. I can see his point. I’ll go into further detail about this beautiful little event later on. May have done a little cry.
Some wicked art inside, too. Really cool place, I’ll be back, for sure.
Hỏa Lò Prison thenHỏa Lò Prison now.
Yesterday, I went to Hỏa Lò Prison, aka Maison Centrale, aka the Hanoi Hilton, aka Heartbreak Hotel, aka (Get to the point – ed.), John McCain’s former residence, not to mention the tens of thousands of political prisoners who upset the French, but that’s a whole thing that it’s best not to get into when you’re probably fatigued with all of this self-indulgent guff.
So, that’s it. Largely uneventful and I’m sorry I put you through it. No real insight to offer, other than that I’ve been told by several people (shout out to Thung, aka Bluemato https://soundcloud.com/bluematoofficial) that the incident with the aggressive football man is very unusual, and I was simply unlucky. I love this place, all of its chaotic traffic, endless food stalls, po-faced travellers and welcoming locals.
There’s a huge storm forecast in the south, so I’m chilling in Hanoi for a few more days before heading towards Hải Phòng and the stunningly beautiful Hạ Long Bay.
Bia Phượng (2RPX+62H, Hàng Đồng, Hàng Bồ, Hoàn Kiếm, Hà Nội, Vietnam)
I heard tell of the freshly brewed, daily beer of Hanoi. Brewed fresh each day, anything unsold by close is no longer good and is thrown out (a sin, unforgivable, I must prevent this crime). Cheap, plentiful, the wise choice, considering I was recently fleeced once again, £6 equivalent for a La Trappe. I sure know how to pick ’em…
After a long walk, semi-aimless, around the monumental area (quite literally)…
Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, I didn’t go in to see his embalmed corpse because I was close to dying of heatstroke)
… I stumbled upon this chaotic corner.
Life flies by at a mile per second so I decided to help slow things down with a cool refreshing glass of cool refreshment. As beers go it’s entirely inoffensive. Cool, refreshing (- edit this, repetition, Ed.), lacking any real flavour but the perfect tincture on a balmy evening. Served via hose by a sullen young man, you can basically drink as much as you like without fear of ever getting really smashed.
A beer, in case you’re unsure what I’m on about.
I had three and then spied a fellow Westerner, so I did as all intrepid adventurers must and foist myself upon him.
Dan, from Glastonbury.
I checked with him that he was okay to use his real name (his real name is Lenny) and we sat and shot the shit for a good while. He was in crisis, but a ‘fun-time happy’ crisis, having just quit his teaching job because he was hungover after a birthday celebration. A good guy, we discussed the nightmare that is England and the opportunities available here. He drank a few too many and became animated. He gave at least three renditions of Sweet Caroline (Brits abroad!) and demonstrated in very clear international terms his desire to hang Liz Truss from a nearby branch.
The branch, for reference. It’s far too low to hang someone on but it seemed insensitive to point that out.
A really nice guy though, one of those lucky few that fall into the catchment of free Glastonbury tickets, he’s a singer songwriter and has been in numerous metal bands (Hidden Enemy, I haven’t checked them out so can’t vouch for them) and he used to rehearse in a studio in Brighton next to Sikth (I have checked them out and can vouch for them, they’re fantastic) which is pretty close to as cool as it gets, nerd-wise.
Then we met a lovely Polish gent, umm… let’s call him Tim.
A real swell guy.
Lenny immediately dived into a discussion about Russian aggression and the incumbent right wing Polish government, in quite combative, intense terms, but Tim took it with good humour and charm. A fellow wastrel, he was only two hours into Hanoi and was already smitten, as am I.
Lenny left us to it and I miss him, his rampant enthusiasm for debate and his good time humour. Tim and I continued the shit-shooting and the afternoon became the evening. In total we had far too many bia hois and a single plate of delectable fried tofu and it came to 200k dong, about eight English pounds.
At this point, I was keen to continue lively discussion with fellow English speakers so I jumped in a cab and hot-footed it to Ha Dong, a district to the West that is a very, very long way off the tourist trail. The journey was almost beyond belief, tens of thousands of bikes, the main roads here feel more like rivers, the flow of bikes and cars and buses weaving in and out, ever forward, in a way that, when you get your head around it, makes complete sense. It’s a fascinating study in fluid dynamics, if there’s a space that space gets filled.
There I met Jim, a friend of many, many years, who was sitting and playing low stakes card games with Mr Chi, a charming Vietnamese gentleman, two Russians, Alex and Nadine, and two Belarusians, Igor and Natalia. They were amazing people with a keen, disgraceful sense of humour.
A strange photo and the only one I got, the inverse relationship of photographic ability to drink in its clearest form.
We sat and talked and had delicious deep fried rat penis (it was pork but Alex is a funny guy) and I lost every game. Inverse relationship of gambling ability to drink in its clearest form.
Eventually they called it a night but I was not done so I hopped in a cab and drove to ‘The Warehouse’ for some dance music.
The view from the rooftop, my favourite part of the venue because you can see places that aren’t The Warehouse.
It cost a bomb to get in, it was full of eager tourists and it demonstrated clearly why I absolutely detest almost all clubs. Terrible music, utter dogshit. Well, not banging techno so… Slow house, do one mate. What’s wrong with people? The sound system was great and the lighting was cool, I’d imagine there are good nights there, I was just unlucky.
I left after one hideously overpriced and undersized beer in protest and went off to enjoy the dawn. I sat outside a Circle K at five am watching the world go by.
The Ice Man Cometh
For ‘ the world’, read ‘an endless stream of youths on motorbikes’. 5am and the place was ‘popping’, as the youths tend to say.
This is more like a list of rather bland events so I’ll keep the rest brief.
Morning yoga in the park (I need to do more yoga, it felt good and everything hurts now)
Dancing to traditional ballads with a huge group of older folks (they were in hysterics at my inability to coordinate even the most basic of movement)
A sleep, deep, restful, interrupted by a very helpful but entirely unwelcome member of hotel staff.
Now I’m sat at a locals bar, supping a Saigon and feeling fresh as a kicked apart melon in the sun
Pray for Mojo.
One more thing, they’ve closed off massive sections of road and put out tons of remote control / driveable mini cars for the kids to goof around in and it just drove the point home even more that Vietnamese babies are the most stinking cute babies ever. My womb is fit to burst.
Takoyaki is the true food of the gods. The Osaka street food speciality is the perfect blend of hot goo, chewy meat and savoury sauce. I have had the finest, freshest takoyaki in central Kyoto during Hanami and the very worst over-fried, frozen disgraces from central Milton Keynes (for shame).
Takosama Takoyaki (6 P. Nhà Chung, Hàng Trống, Hoàn Kiếm, Hà Nội). It’s a daunting task, serving up such a uniquely Japanese dish, the art of folding the balls in the concave pan a true craft (check it out online, looks easy but it’s nails). The prep counter was well organised so kudos for that. The batter was good, perfect consistency with a chewy exterior and a generally pleasing shape. The octopus within was generous, chewy little nuggets of aquatic joy. The sauces were authentic and applied with exacting precision.
BUT (and it’s a very big but)…
See those flakes on top? That’s katsuobushi, shavings of dried bonito fish. It’s what elevates takoyaki from dough balls ‘n’ sauce to food of kings. The katsuobushi was there, albeit in somewhat oversized, chunky shavings, but the takoyaki themselves were warm, instead of hot. Proper takoyaki should be served so hot it blanches the roof of your mouth with every bite, yet you cannot wait, so you continue in excruciating bliss, steam pouring from your mouth like a mildly miffed volcano. When served at this frankly obscene temperature, the shaved flakes dance seductively, shimmering sprites, as the heat emanates upwards.
That is the mark of good takoyaki. This fell short of the mark by a fair few degrees C.
So, in summary, so very, very close to perfection, a solid 9/10. Next time I will specify freshness, the desire for masochism in dining form. I am already salivating at the thought. And the hangover is gone. It’s a miracle.
It’s been twenty four hours and I’m smitten with Hanoi. The people are wonderful, the coffee is delicious, the cyclo drivers are dissuaded with a simple wave of the hand and the beer is plentiful. This is a very short initial post as I have little to say right now (neck deep in a powerful hangover).
Max Lawrence Writes 