PASADENA, Calif. — In his backyard, Hong Pham tipped a pale, soupy batter onto a piece of cotton stretched over a pot of boiling water, and covered it with a lid. It was the first step in making banh cuon, a Vietnamese sheet noodle steamed on cloth, then rolled with finely minced fillings like pork and mushroom.
“It’s a little bit like making a pancake,” Mr. Pham told the class of 20 or so students who had gathered to learn the technique. “I mean, the first one you cook never turns out right.”
But less than a minute later, Mr. Pham lifted the stainless steel lid and the noodle was, in fact, just right — wet and opaque, so fine it was practically see-through, so light that parts of it floated. As he scraped up the edge and pulled it away from the cloth, the noodle trembled, threatening to rip and crinkle.
CreditCoral Von Zumwalt for The New York Times
“This is so revelatory,” said Rose Lawrence, a pastry chef who watched in awe. “I am so pumped.”
Though in some dated American menus and reporting, banh cuon (pronounced bun koon) is referred to as a kind of ravioli, the comparison falls flat. Typically made from water and ground rice, or a mix of rice and tapioca, the noodle used to make banh cuon is its own kind of marvel — so delicate and full of moisture that it’s nearly gelatinous, with a soft, satisfying stretch and the simple, comforting flavor of freshly cooked rice.
And while a bowl of handmade ravioli in Los Angeles can cost $20 or more, a generously portioned plate of handmade banh cuon is more likely to go for $6. Mr. Pham had this in mind back in March, when he and his wife, Kim Pham, planned to host a noodle class at their home, along with Helen Yanyang Li and Leo Lamprides, the couple behind the Los Angeles food truck Chinese Laundry.
“Some cuisines are more associated with artisanship, and some aren’t,” Mr. Pham said.
Like many immigrants, and children of immigrants, the Phams, who write a food blog called The Ravenous Couple, had been asking themselves why for years. What determines how diners value restaurant food and labor? Why are some foods presumed to be “cheap eats,” but not others?
“These noodles require so much skill,” Mr. Pham said, as he poured more batter onto the cloth and used the back of a coconut-wood ladle to smooth it out. “It took me a long time to become even just adequate at it. I really want people to appreciate that.”
Cathy Van, a nurse who works in downtown Los Angeles and signed up for the class, had always considered the dish special-occasion food. When she was growing up, her family usually went out to eat banh cuon at restaurants, or had them at the home of a skilled uncle or auntie.
Ms. Van’s mother had tried making the noodle at home once or twice, using a nonstick pan. That method — using a pan or cake tin — is easier, but produces a thicker noodle with a less delicate elasticity. And because it’s cooked in fat, instead of steam, it winds up a little greasy.
But there are some Vietnamese restaurant kitchens, staffed with masters of the huge, diaphanous noodles, that serve traditional steamed banh cuon about an hour south of Los Angeles, in and around Westminster, in Orange County, in the area known as Little Saigon.
Orange County is home to the largest Vietnamese population outside Vietnam — more than 200,000 people, according to census data. The Nguoi Viet Daily News has been printed there in Vietnamese since the 1970s, and many hundreds of Vietnamese food businesses thrive in local shopping malls.
On a recent weekday morning at Pho Tau Bay LTT, in a strip mall in Santa Ana, teenage girls at the start of their summer vacations pulled chairs up closer and closer to one another to chat. Retirees met for quiet, early lunches, and workers from the small businesses next door popped in for a snack after their smoke break.
Henry Le, the owner, originally opened the restaurant in 1997, specializing in pho and banh cuon, but everyone leaned over platters of the kitchen’s long, translucent noodles.
The noodles were laid out in a single layer, framed with slices of pork sausage and a mound of bean sprouts and herbs, and sprinkled all over with dark, crisp fried shallots. Served at room temperature, the banh cuon was soft and slippery, pale and wrinkled in places like pruny fingertips, served with a sweet nuoc cham, or dipping sauce.
That sauce, often a tangy mixture of sweetened fish sauce, was more vibrant at the nearby Banh Cuon Luu Luyen in Garden Grove, where it was flecked with raw, sliced garlic and left in Mason jars at the table so diners could help themselves. The scant fillings were still visible through the shimmering noodle, piled here with extra toppings of fried shrimp cakes, woolly pork threads and hot mung-bean fritters (though most diners kept their eyes on the TV, where a sequin-adorned pop singer competed on a reality show).
Inside Hong Huong, also in Garden Grove, posters advertised corn milk on ice and the refrigerator was full of tapioca drinks and Vietnamese sweets. The noodles were in wide, creased rolls, and the sausage held a faint blush of pink at its center, served at room temperature but maintaining its texture.
Children poured the dipping sauce all over their plates, while their parents dipped carefully as they went, to get each mouthful seasoned just the way they liked it.
When Mr. Pham first decided to learn more about how to make banh cuon for a family lunch, he hit a wall. He found that there was no one to mentor him, and no school that he knew offering classes in Los Angeles.
Like making cheung fun, the Chinese steamed rice noodle occasionally cooked on cloth, though more commonly steamed on perforated metal, the technique for banh cuon is best learned by doing, under the watch of a professional.
Even preparing the pot for cooking, by tying a porous muslin cloth around a frame and tightening it with a piece of bamboo, required some trial and error. Like many noodle makers, Mr. Pham gleaned the basics from an elder — his mother, Ly Pham, who lives in Michigan. He later bought his own stainless steel pots from a Vietnamese supplier so he and Ms. Pham could practice at home and eventually teach their daughters, Emi and Mira.
Together, they have made banh cuon for the family’s weekend brunches, haphazardly folding the noodle around a bit of finely minced, heavily seasoned mixture of mushroom, pork and jicama, which delivers the same kind of juicy crunch as a water chestnut.
Though the restaurants in Little Saigon, run by an older generation of Vietnamese immigrants, don’t tend to veer from traditional fillings, the Phams, when they’re feeling more experimental, color the batter a pale yellow with a pinch of turmeric, or make vegetarian versions with a jackfruit filling, seasoned with soy instead of fish sauce. They’ve also tried gently steaming an egg in the noodle as it cooks, and serving it soft and runny.
At the class the Phams hosted in their home, students included nurses and food bloggers, pastry chefs and retirees. The couple encouraged them all to steam noodle after noodle, coaching each on technique, and making the case for seeking out the noodle in Little Saigon.
On their way home, a few students stopped by the pots to practice the day’s lessons and make one or two more for the road. Even after a day of steaming and pulling, the noodles were imperfect, and slow to make — a testament to the demanding technique.
Ms. Van and Ms. Lawrence folded the slippery banh cuon directly into their mouths, the noodles somewhat squashed and misshapen, thicker than they should be, but still hot and melting, slick with shallot oil.
They made plans to go out for the noodles next time.
Pho Tau Bay LTT, 3610 West First Street C, Santa Ana
Hong Huong, 8861 Westminster Boulevard, Garden Grove
Banh Cuon Luu Luyen, 14351 Euclid Street 1J, Garden Grove
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