Unity of chaos? When Western cuisine crosses the border into Vietnam

Recently I went on a coach trip to Da Lat with around 20 Vietnamese men and women, thinking I was going on a holiday when really I was walking straight into what could only be described as a large-scale military campaign led entirely by the stomach. The moment the engine started, the eating began and it did not stop. First snacks, then breakfast, then more snacks, while I sat there belonging to the so-called "Spartan faction," one meal a day, high protein, zero feelings, eating like a monk trying to hit some KPI, no fancy cooking, no dishwashing, just get it over with, and I found myself surrounded by grilled frogs and sour bamboo shoots.

I understood, finally, that these people are rich in emotion, they know how to connect and enjoy life, and who could really criticize a stress-relief mechanism made out of fried food and milk tea when it clearly works so well for them.

Vietnamese cuisine, of course, is outstanding, hundreds of fruits, thousands of noodle dishes, millions of recipes that sometimes make you pause and think, "Wait, is this even legal here?" Every corner is bursting with sizzling food, smoke curling into the air, or a lady in a conical hat calmly throwing fire like she has survived two heatwaves already, which, by the way, she probably has, and you look at it and think, "This is how humans were meant to live, maybe, if we didn't all have to sit in offices."

Then comes Western fusion food, which is sometimes good, sometimes a full-blown diplomatic incident served on a plate.

I'm talking hot dogs stuffed inside banh mi, pizza smothered with imitation crab sticks and mayonnaise, spaghetti drowned in ketchup so badly it needs a lifebuoy, and they call it fusion, but I call it illegal culinary immigration.

Tacos, one of my favorite foods, are often made by someone who has only heard rumors of tacos, red sauce flooding like a monsoon, the meat soggy like steamed socks, Gruyère or crème fraîche? Forget it, you get mystery cheese and a white sauce with the exact same ingredient list as milk tea syrup.

They call it Turkish bread but it is really "tho" and "ky", rough and weird. You imagine fatty lamb, fragrant spices, reality slaps you with a dry bun, wilted lettuce, and something that may once have been chicken, and the highlight is the chili sauce, nuclear condiment, spicy like rage, sweet like a scam, red as a level-four emergency alarm. Many Vietnamese people have this faith that chili sauce goes with everything, noodles, rice, pastries, give it a year and we will be seeing iced coffee with chili sauce, or vanilla ice cream drizzled with chili sauce to elevate the experience, and the overall flavor. Imagine spraying perfume on yourself after three days without a shower, overpowering, haunting, lingering like a memory you desperately want to forget.

Texture, too, gets ignored, which drives me crazy, because crunchy, chewy, soft, dry, these are all vital parts of flavor, but here they are usually ignored like deadlines in an office.

But there is hope. Guacamole is wonderful, simple, ingredients available everywhere in Vietnam, just ripe avocado, tomato, onion, garlic, a bit of lime juice, salt and pepper, chili if you are a true Vietnamese, or homemade taco sauce, crushed tomatoes, red vinegar, chili powder, paprika, garlic, cumin, honey, salt, pepper - fresh, cheap, and delicious.

My personal favorite is relish, the Western cousin of Vietnamese dua gop (cucumber salad), just diced cucumber, tomato, vinegar, sugar - amazing yet somehow invisible here.

I love Vietnam, I love that Vietnamese people love food, but some of these fusion Western dishes are nothing more than culinary fanfiction, and so let me propose just one thing, less ketchup, more guacamole, because the union of East and West should be a cultural bridge, not a tastebud war.

*Jesse Peterson is an author who has published some books in Vietnamese, including "Jesse Cười", "Funny Tragedy: adding color to life".