Bánh chưng and bánh tét are the two reigning monarchs of Tết food, representing the north and south of Vietnam. Still, not many know that in Central Vietnam, there are a plethora of Tết treats that are just as iconic, such as bánh thuẫn. To celebrate the new year, central families display a plate of bánh thuẫn in the living room to honor ancestors, entice visitors, and reward kids for their good behaviors.
It’s the last month of the lunar calendar, the most joyous time of the year. Everywhere in Central Vietnam, kitchens are constantly baking. The neighborhood smells of burning charcoal, gingery caramel, sticky rice paste, and mung beans; the air is filled with the sounds of excited banters, clinking pots and pans, sizzling batter, and the pops of firewood stoves — everything becomes a harmonious background in a timeless Tết musical special.
Bánh thuẫn somewhat mirrors the shape of an apricot blossom. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.
Bánh thuẫn takes the form of a golden five-petal apricot blossom, so our ancestors saw it as a symbol of good fortune, luck, and prosperity in a new year. Central Vietnam tends to call things for what they are: the molds to make this pastry is oval-shaped, also known as “thuẫn-shaped” in Vietnamese, so the thing that comes out of them is called bánh thuẫn.
Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.
The typical ingredients include arrowroot flour (bột bình tinh), chicken or duck eggs, sugar, and ginger. People often call it “the pastry that comes straight from the garden” because a shopping trip is not necessary to procure the key components to make it.
You get the flour from pulverizing the bình tinh tuber (Maranta arundinacea). The plant grows in thick clumps, producing white elongated rhizomes. Arrowroot flour is not just a baking ingredient, but also a coating powder for deep-frying, and a thickening agent in desserts. It is the heart of bánh thuẫn and the deciding factor whether the resulting product can fluff up or not.
Bánh thuẫn “rises” into petals. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.
Preparing the batter is both fun and time-consuming. Before, every step required human labor instead of appliances like today, so the process consumed more time and effort. But being there from start to finish also created fond memories for everyone involved, no matter how old they get or how far they’ve traveled from home. First, whip the eggs until the mixture turns spongy and as light as cotton. During whisk-less times, people had a secret homemade “weapon”: bundles of chopsticks. Ten in each hand, they form a powerful tool to aerate the eggs. Once the texture is ideal, add the flour, sugar and ginger. More whipping is needed until the batter comes out viscous, golden, and uniform.
Bánh thuẫn is baked on firewood stoves. Photo via Pexel.
Finally, the baking begins. I think the tastiest bánh thuẫn hails from firewood stoves. Bánh thuẫn molds are often made of cast iron, with a thick bottom and 8 or 16 hollow segments on top. Grease the surface with a thin layer of peanut oil and then ladle the batter into the holes. Put the lid back on and then weigh the entire thing down with hot coals.
The dual heat from below and above makes quick work of the eggy batter. A special feeling swelled in me whenever it was time to take the lid off. The kids gather around the stove, whispering to one another: “Why do I feel so nervous? I don’t know if mom’s batter will fluff or become deflated like Aunt Sáu’s.”
Bánh thuẫn encapsulates the Tết joy of Central Vietnam kids. Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.
Children in Central Vietnam have a unique hobby that takes place during the last month of the lunar calendar: going door-to-door to watch bánh thuẫn baking — The Great Miền Trung Bake Off, if you will. Which family's batter is lumpy, which family's pastry is half-baked, which family produces the prettiest dough, the kids have the receipts.
Naturally, the unlidding is a moment that rouses them the most. One would cover her eyes, one can’t stop giving commentary, one has to hold his breath, and, once the lid’s off, they burst into cheers and hugs like football fanatics celebrating a goal. “It’s risen! It’s risen,” they chant. They watch the batter rise with the same anticipation of a plant lover waiting for the first mai blossom to unfurl on the first day of Tết.
Bánh thuẫn is inherently a dry pastry. Photo via Người Lao Động.
A freshly baked bánh thuẫn is called a wet bánh thuẫn, with a texture as soft as sponge cake. Alas, the wet version will spoil easily, so it’s often dehydrated to increase the shelf life. Fresh pastries are arranged on a large bamboo tray and put on top of a low charcoal fire. They slowly dry out and become desiccated — dry bánh thuẫn. I remember my first encounter with them, a gift from my grandma. I thought this batch was spoiled. They look like little sponge cakes, but also arid. The first bite was crumbly and dry, but tasted magical.
The pastry melted in my mouth, alerting every taste bud of the flavor of egg, sugar, and a little zesty ginger. The aroma stayed at the tip of the tongue as the sweetness traveled down my throat. I devoured one, then a second one, and then a fourth and a fifth in the blink of an eye. Adults often enjoy dry bánh thuẫn with hot tea, but for children, washing them down with just tap water is enough.
Bánh thuẫn on sale at Bà Hoa Market in Tân Bình, HCMC. Photo via Thanh Niên.
Living far away from home, I think of the bags of bánh thuẫn as emotional triggers for my homesickness. I miss my grandma and my mom, who work all day to make the batter and bake the bánh. I miss the memories of my childhood, when I too was part of its making, an experience both tiring and exciting. Our Tết joys were simpler back then: wearing pretty clothes, going out of the house, and eating tasty pastry.
Sometimes when I have a sudden craving for bánh thuẫn, I would drive to Bà Hoa Market, Saigon’s famous corner of Central Vietnam treats. It might not taste exactly like my hometown’s version, but it helps abate the missing.
