by BJ Naple

My brother from a different mother in Hanoi asked a friend of mine to carry a gift for me on her return from Southeast Asia. Just the other day, she stopped by to drop off the package. In it were 2 pounds of Vietnamese coffee along with some Viet coffee candy.

Prior to that tour, in February of 2020, I met Ngoc, Phong’s lovely wife who is co-owner and equal partner in the tour business they run from their home in Hanoi. She and I met in the lobby of that city’s Apricot Hotel over a lavish spread of afternoon tea that included wee sandwiches and puffy mini sweet cakes. Ngoc is vivacious, smart, the epitome of the type of broad thinking, 30-something businesswomen needed to help keep their small but dynamic country sharing in the bounty of 21^st century human possibilities.  At that time I was in Vietnam to scout the trip for a US tour company, but soon after meeting Ngoc I fled Hanoi in front of the COVID wave that was about to crash over their northern border with China.

It wasn’t until 2022 that I could return to help the US company run our own “tour of Vietnam.” A tour which was way different from that of my husband, Rich. His “tour” was from 1972 to 1973 aboard the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk off the coast of Da Nang around the DMZ in a body of water that many call the South China Sea. Most Vietnamese refer to this body of water as the East Sea as they deign acknowledge any jurisdiction over their coastline to their looming northern neighbor. Rich did not set foot in Vietnam, but from the bridge of the Kitty Hawk he watched in dismay as the night skies above the country alit with bomb blasts from the A6 Intruder bombers and F4 Phantom fighters that made their round trips from the deck of the carrier. (Rich’s story of what I call being an “accidental Naval officer” will be told another time. Go Navy, Beat Army.)

Fast forward 50 years, and oddly enough I can report that most of the Viet people love Americans. “You only bombed us for twenty years,” they would say, “but the French enslaved us for 200.”  The friendliness I often experienced was primarily from the those younger than sixty.  Many of the older folks were still a bit guarded, offering me a weary, sad gaze as I nodded a smile at them.

Now. Coffee.

Brought to Vietnam by the French in the late 19^th century, the plant flourished in the climate of Vietnam, especially in the central highlands. Nowadays, coffee is as culturally a “thing” for the Viet people as it is for any Parisian or other European. I did a fair bit of exploration of the varied brews from north to south – from the short hot and creamy “egg coffees” of Hanoi, to the unusual “salted” coffee of the central Hue region, to the always tall iced coffees swirling with sweetened condensed milk in warmer places like Ho Chi Minh City and the towns along the Mekong River delta.

I smiled when I opened that package from Phong. He remembered how I found the coffee in Vietnam so very lovely. Though I’ve been a decaf drinker for more than 15 years – try and find decaf coffee in Vietnam. It isn’t going to happen. So, risking peeling myself off the ceiling in what I anticipated would be a jittery tropical caffeine high, my first drink of the full-bodied Viet stuff was in hot and humid Saigon.

Yeah, yeah, I know it is called Ho Chi Minh City, but the locals young to old still refer to their city as Saigon – that is, when an aspiring Communist party ladder climber is not within earshot. Though the Communists won the “American War,” not everyone throughout the land joyfully waves the red flag with the one gold star, especially in the south. Even the young folk in Hanoi lower their voices if they think that what they are saying might be construed as negative to the Communist regime. The walls may have ears, even in coffee shops.

Knowing what I’ve learned of the Viet people, I shake my head with amusement. To this country of more than 97 million people from fifty different ethnic groups, we Americans in our blessed ignorance plan our 10-day tours encompassing north to south of the country with a view as if the country was one homogeneous beach-front nation all on the same page. But stop to spend more than a passing moment anywhere in the country and what is revealed is a highly diversified population that jealously, if not voraciously, guards its ancestral heritage.

Which includes its coffee styles! Ancient? No. Heritage? You bet.

The Cheo Leo Café in Saigon bills itself as the longest-lived establishment of its kind (since 1938). It offers “racket coffee,” which basically is coffee brewed in large porous bags stuffed in cooking pots. The coffee is often double brewed in this style. For the pots, Cheo Leo Café uses beautiful old ceramic urns that gorgeously display the marriage of old-fashioned Viet ingenuity mixing with the influence of French-colonial culture.

During my first visit to Ho Chi Minh City, I was whisked to Cheo Leo on the back of BaoNgoc Vo’s vespa during a 3-hour vintage vespa tour of Saigon’s “must see” spots for those who can give up control, put their arms around a complete stranger, and hang on to join the millions of motorbikes that pour endlessly through the city like a herd of buffalo. BaoNgoc, in her 20s, goes by the more Westernized name “Na Na” with her vespa clients as well as on her Facebook page. She’s young and ambitious, caring and intelligent, with a great command of English, and an admirable love for her Saigon and Vietnam.

In the middle of seeing some of the must-see spots in Saigon, BaoNgoc expertly whizzed me on her old vespa through small streets, until she and I were in the heart of this city of nearly 9 million people. A couple lefts here, a few rights there – always in a crowd, streets becoming narrower and narrower – we arrived down what looked like a side alley and pulled to a stop. We were outside the open chain-linked store front of Cheo Leo.

With BaoNgoc as my guide (and, guys, you really need a guide in Saigon, if you want to see some important stuff and still find your way back to your hotel), she introduced me to the granddaughter of the fellow who started the shop in 1938. I sat in the woman’s kitchen and watched the process. Beautiful, thoughtful. No pour-overs here and off you go with a paper cup. This coffee jumps through hoops of cooking concoction-ness before it enters your glass. Yes, glass. I tried to get it hot, but after the curious looks, I smiled and deferred, opting for the traditional Saigon version – iced. (NB: When in Saigon and the south, if you order coffee it is assumed you want it cold. You need to specifically ask for it hot if that is your desire. Enjoy the bemused expression on the server’s face. Decaf is NOT an option and will just engendering more bemused looks.)

My iced coffee was handed to me. I drank this handcrafted, twice-brewed nectar from the tall glass while sitting at a picnic table in front of the small coffee shop.  Aaah. Sweet, smooth, and fragrant. There’s something about the coffee in Vietnam – from north to south, caffeinated as it is – I don’t have a problem with the caffeine in it, and I have no idea why. And the taste, well, somewhere between roasted cocoa mixed with a nutty wholesomeness. Quite satisfying.  

What is it they say about aromas, about tastes? That they can evoke memories, strong connections to events in our past? It is so true, isn’t it?

When I opened one of the pounds of coffee that Phong had sent, I immediately went to my stove top and brewed a batch in the long, slow brew tradition of the Viet people of Saigon. Then I pulled from the frig a wee packaged container of sweetened condensed milk I had pocketed a year previous from one of the many lavish breakfast buffets available to us in our tourist hotel while on another tour.  

And as I sat near the window in my living room in upstate New York, watching the chickadees, titmice, and cardinals take turns feeding at our late winter bird feeder in a backyard full of snow, I sipped from my cup and was immediately transported back to hot and humid Ho Chi Minh City, to my favorite café table on the Majestic Hotel’s top floor alfresco restaurant. There, with one arm resting along the rail, I recall bringing the cup to my lips as I scanned the urban sprawl either side of the Saigon River as a hazy sunrise pierced light across the tall buildings and oddly quiet streets, soon to be bustling with the many little cars and mini trucks that joined the rivers of motorbikes as the Saigonese started a new day in their more than 300-year-old city.

Soon, I’ll pull out my “egg coffee” recipe, and pay homage to the north – to Hanoi, to the Apricot Hotel’s lavish 3-tier tray of afternoon tea, to Hanoians Phong and Ngoc Nguyen, and to all the people I’ve ever met in Vietnam who looked me in the eye as we exchanged smiles and helped me see the joyful playfulness that is in everyone worldwide if you just stop to look deep enough.

As baby boomers drain their IRAs to travel the world ostensibly to complete bucket lists, and as us tour leader types dabble in life as temporary expats, I see that we are actually all on the same pilgrimage to something greater.  We seek meaning to the mystery of life, and somehow we find answers in the sweet connections we make with one another and in larger community no matter where we go. We gravitate to the kindred spirits we meet along the way. It matters little if our encounters are long term relationships or just sharing a cup of coffee in a small cafe.

On the surface, we delight in connections of similar likes, dislikes, dreams, hopes, visions. Beneath that, we recognize not just a bond but a common breath. We smile at the mysterious connection that joins us all. They breathe in and we breathe out. We are one.

Peace coffee, and thank you, Phong.

# # #