As an advisor to the Vietnamese riverine boats in 1969-70, I had no choice but to eat food prepared by their sailors. I contributed money to a Vietnamese officers’ mess. Sailors purchased meat, fish, fruits, and vegetables the nearest local market place or simply hailed sampans heading to market. Everything was boiled. It was the only way anything was cooked. The only condiment was nước mắm, a fish sauce made by aging layers of anchovies and salt for a year on bamboo racks in the sun, collecting the drippings. When the smell was strong enough to knock a buzzard off of a dung heap, the sauce was deemed to be ready.
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