I am an open-minded citizen of the great world of Nippon, and nothing culinary frightens me, having grown up with the famed and delicate foods of my homeland. Some foreigners pale when they see Sushi so fresh it is dancing on the plate, but that is for weaklings. In incorporating the outer world into the inner one, we gain strength and wisdom. So my visit to Cộng hòa Xã hội Chủ nghĩa Việt Nam is taken in the Samurai spirit of utter fearlessness.

The Nguyen Noodler lay at the very end of a rather tacky alley. It had rained recently and puddles gleamed with more than simply water. Not having a street-cleaning brigade, there were things in the water and smells in the air that made my eyes water, but I straightened my shoulders and charged to the very end of the alley where, I was told, the best noodles in the city could be found.

When I say "restaurant," understand, there was an awning of some kind of very old fabric (only torn in two places) stretched over two bamboo poles, and a sort of counter made from a single plank of wood. All the cooking was done in the back, where the steam obscured the view, and one perky little grandmother apparently served customers with an endearing faith that someone in the back would hear the shrieked orders and produce food at some point in time!

When my turn came (several lightly-dressed locals were ahead of me), I asked (as I had been advised) for an order of Pho, the Beef Noodle soup with beef balls & fresh spring onions. Unfortunately, the woman standing beside me sneezed at the very second I shouted my order, but grandmother smiled demurely and howled something to the back. I stepped aside and wondered where I would eat my order, there being no seats, but others seemed to be perching on one leg and wolfing down noodle happily, so why shouldn't I? Nothing intimidating about this to a son of Nippon!

In a fairly short time, a bamboo plate shot forward with a rather dark mess of what appeared to be noodles and, in the center, a single egg. Well, the egg idea was new, but I'm fond enough of duck eggs, so I grabbed it to peel the shell. Grandma slapped me! Of course, I know how to say "please, thank you, and how much" in Vietnamese, but that's my limit. I smiled and again tried to peel the egg, and this time Grandmama shouted at me. I couldn't imagine why, but she was looking wildly insulted!

I turned helplessly to the others eating around me, but no one apparently could serve as a translator. Grandmama mimed popping the egg in my mouth, shell and all!

Let it not be said that a Samurai fears ANYTHING. Mainly to get the old bat off my case, I bit into the duck egg, planning to politely spit it out just past the right palm tree. However, it appeared surprisingly tough. Surprisingly! In fact, it almost seemed like something was inside it . . . something rather slimy, with what felt like teensy weensy feathers in my mouth. I pulled away the egg and there, staring right back at me, was apparently the inhabitant of the egg, lightly poached in the shell.

I must admit, I paled.

There was a container of spicy sauce on the wooden counter, and in haste so that I wouldn't really TASTE what was in the egg, I poured a health dollop atop the egg and crammed the rest in my mouth. That was the True Test of Samurai Courage. Without realizing it, I'd grabbed a large mouthful of nearly-flapping dead duck smothered in fermented dead fish sauce.

This was my introduction to Balut (Trung Vit Long) - duck egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten in the shell - covered with -
Nuoc Nam sauce. I still count it as one of the bravest acts of my life that, mouth full, I heroically swallowed while Grandmama beamed at me, before turning to another customer. Then I walked straight to the nearest bar and drowned it all in sake!