I Sing of the Saigon Market

One true gem has arisen from the panned rocks and soot of the summer: the local Asian supermarket.

The Saigon Market sits quietly adjacent to the Oyster Bar, just down from the Fiddler's and well set back from the street, and so I've often regarded it in my time here -- mostly while trying to situate my car outside the crowded Fiddler's and cursing the Saigon's intensely threatening parking signs which promise towing, misery, and death to anyone other than a Saigon Market customer who dares breach the gate.

But toward the end of the summer, dying of boredom and stress and hankering for something recklessly new, I decided to crack open the Japanese cookbook I had purchased sometime in the spring (and if you think I'm being facetious, you don't know my quivering eagerness to master world cuisines, or Japanese cookbooks). After hunting through the glossary and the 100-page introduction deciphering the ingredients, I elected to make miso soup and, armed with a shopping list, exultantly parked in the forbidden lot and walked into the store.

It had a distinctive, and not unpleasant, smell. Odors of fish and fish powders, seaweeds, and other scents unidentifiable to the ignorant Western nose clamored for my attention. I wandered through the three small aisles staring at the produce and trying to figure out which of the twenty-five varieties of dried seaweed appeared on my list, especially since most of the packaging was labeled in characters which, sadly, I have yet to learn.

Finally I shyly approached a manager and asked for help. The Market appears to be run by a family, and all of them are friendly and expert, and grant Western shoppers the kind courtesy of not speaking in front of them in their language (someday I will learn an Asian language. Someday. And I am grateful for the courtesy because once at a gas station, the cashier, a man not a native English speaker, said something to me in his language which sounded extremely unkind. From his tone and the contemptuous way he looked me over I conjectured it was about my gender, and it wasn't even so much lewd as simply nasty. What I would have given to have been able to answer him back). The manager was quick to find me substitutes for the ingredients he didn't have, showed me the locations of the refrigerated tofu and miso, helped me select the correct varieties, and wished me a pleasant day.

The girl at the register seemed to find me mildly, though cutely, insane for making miso soup from scratch when there are plenty of instant varieties in a bin; that's when I began to get the impression that I really am a psycho cook, even by the standards of other cultures.

But truly best about this lovely Market (and I didn't even mention the fresh and frozen produce yet! Enormous varieties of seafood -- fish, squid, eels, shrimp -- and knobs of root ginger the size of your head) is the spice aisle. Half a pound of ground cumin for a dollar-fifty. Half a pound of fennel seeds for a dollar-fifty-nine. Five ounces whole coriander seeds for eighty-nine cents. My friends, two OUNCES of fennel seeds at the local grocery store cost nearly five dollars. Whole coriander is nearly impossible to find. And the quality is wonderful. I used the fennel and coriander in an olive marinade for MP's birthday party last Saturday, and it was scrumdiddlyumptious.

So I usually walk out of the market with the euphoric conviction that I've legally stolen something. And what a lovely hoard of spices I have nesting on top of the fridge!

So if you're worried about spice stocking (which can be dismally expensive), check out your local Asian market...chances are you'll get away with some glorious deals, and you can peruse the awesome candy.