The American War, as it is commonly referred in Vietnam, is widely regarded as a blemish on the U.S. record of foreign relations. However, the United States is not alone in this failure. This same blemish can be observed in the imperialist history of the Chinese, French, and even Japanese imperialist conquests of Vietnam. Dense jungles, treacherous waterways, and tight-knit communities with a strong knowing of the land in which they share have repelled multiple waves of foreign dominion throughout Vietnam’s torn narrative. Invading powers have been thwarted, one after another, and all for much of the same reason—a failure to adapt. Whether to environment, unconventional war tactics, or simply through complications in organization, each has fallen short. The Vietnamese, however, have embraced change, have perfected this skill of adaptation, and the effects of doing so reverberate throughout a conglomerate culture. Thus, Vietnam’s extensive history of foreign occupancy and colonization precipitates a rich culture of culinary graffiti: a preservation of heritage and cultural individualism achieved through the adaptation of foreign foods and culinary techniques to a Vietnamese contextual landscape.

One would assume a world power bolstering an extensive background of war and undeniable technological advantages should sweep dominion over a less developed people. Why, then, do all ultimately fail in their endeavor to occupy a relatively small S-shaped country exposed to the vast Pacific? The answer is not simple.

To begin, the Vietnamese have an undeniable home court advantage. The Vietnamese countryside is just as wild as it is beautiful. Heavy rain falls for many months out of the year. Dense foliage confuses friend for foe, and makes for a difficult terrain to traverse—especially to those foreign to the great green jungles of the interior. Yet, the greatest threat to the foreign invader is the way in which the Vietnamese utilize this advantage. By the time of the American War the Vietnamese are more than seasoned veterans in the defense of their rightful home and refuse to play to convention. The Vietnamese people flee from population centers into the protection of the wilderness in which, unlike the invaders, the Vietnamese were familiar. Here, each resource available, be it a physical weapon or, more often, the vast untamed Vietnamese country, is used as a tool in resistance. Thus each successive attempt at occupation is inevitably repelled through a collective effort of resourcefulness, ingenuity, and trial and error in which the Vietnamese force the invading power to adjust their conquest to a Vietnamese context. Possibly more interesting however, is not the product of the Vietnamese people’s uncanny aptitude for adaptation on the battlefield, but in the kitchen.

Despite living in a country ravaged by war, the Vietnamese people retain a firm hold over the most prominent aspects of their culture—quite literally pulling these aspects from the ashes. In doing so, much of the inherent culture is understandably mingled with aspects of the foreign. Perhaps the most intriguing facet of Vietnamese adaptation is the ability to repurpose: a recycling, if you will, of the remnants of occupational influence.  Beautiful French colonial architecture still lines the sides of bright bumbling streets lit by motorbikes in Hanoi, Vietnamese martial arts traces its origin to Chinese Kung Fu, American entrepreneurship has firmly rooted itself throughout Vietnam, and yet the most interesting of influences find shelter within the Vietnamese kitchen.

In the Vietnamese kitchen one may find New World spices from Chinese ports, seemingly French coffee beans and baguettes, or coconut milk from neighboring Thailand. A humble chef can be found demonstrating Chinese stir or deep frying with Vietnamese authority. Each foreign culinary commodity or technique now finds a home within the Vietnamese culinary narrative and do so in an interesting manner. However what is important here is not what is appropriated from the foreign, but rather how this appropriation occurs.

In many ways, the modern iteration of Vietnamese cuisine can be interpreted as a taking-back of inherent culture in the face of the foreign. Each dish serves as a tool, a mouthpiece to an instrument of an expressive art, to provide a voice for a people. New World spices are grown amongst native Vietnamese alternatives such as black pepper to produce a unique Viet flavor profile. The coffee beans mentioned earlier are prepared cold and sweetened with dairy, and the baguettes are made with rice flour to produce a new distinct texture. Bánh mì might resemble a French baguette, but the two share little further than pâté. A rich beefy base balances with the crisp crunch of pickled vegetables and arrives at a coriander crest. A single bite of Bánh mì, the “symphony in a sandwich,” as the late Anthony Bourdain brands it, forever taints one’s opinion of the French baguette. This is one of many instances in which the Vietnamese take a foreign framework, remove the foreign, and insert a familiar, Viet substance. In doing so the Vietnamese create a shared space, one in which both parts are allowed to exist freely and symbiotically. Often when one culture is exposed to a more dominating influence, three courses of action are considered: to reject, to accept, or a sort of mingling of the two—to adapt. Instead of rejecting foreign influence or simply accepting it for face-value, the Vietnamese have invited it into the home, and in this case, left a seat at the table.

The process of culinary adaptation totters the line between the foreign and the local in a sort of culinary balancing act. No single influence outweighs another as each is considered in its compliance with the Chinese principle of Wu Xing or the concept of the five elements: wood, fire, earth, metal, and water. Zoe Osborne argues in her article “A Dash of Vietnamese Spice History,”² that the Vietnamese apply this theory by corresponding each individual element with its respective spice (ngũ vị), organ (ngũ tạng), color (ngũ sắc), sense (ngũ giác), and the primary nutrient provided by the food (ngũ chất). For example, the element of wood is found amongst sour spice, the gallbladder, the color green, the visual sense or sight, and in carbohydrates. Earth is sweet, represents the stomach, is yellow in color, is embodied by touch, and is associated with protein. Harmony is achieved, within the dish and amongst the palate, through the balance of each of these separate elements. The most prominent and obvious example of this harmony is demonstrated in an unmistakably Viet dish— phở.

Phở is a broad range of noodle soups known for its invigorating flavor profile. In phở, the conglomerate of foreign and local spices mentioned earlier work vigorously to confuse the tongue. Spicy chilis compete with sweet hoisin sauce. Sour lime juice tickles the taste buds. Yellow beansprouts befriend green onions. Bitter anise stars form floating communities amongst a black sea. White and red fatty bits of beef entangle themselves within a bed of rice noodles underneath a dense coriander canopy. And yet all cooperate under the supervision of a hearty and salty dark broth that has more than likely simmered throughout the night. Count all five—spices, colors, senses—they’re all there in front of your face and in a giant steaming pot prepared to share. It is here at the communal table where Vietnamese cuisine transcends the typical boundaries of culinary discourse to open a new dialogue between the Vietnamese people and the soup’s audience. It is here where phở becomes an instrument—a voice. The sharing of foods is an often sacred and sentimental act. Anyone paying attention to the plate placed before them can see the complexity, the literal layers of cultural mingling taking place right before their eye. One sees the narrative of the torn country as it is played out in a bowl of broth. The history is impossible to ignore, but thankfully so is the accompanying message.

Follow the streets of Vietnam and you’re sure to find scattered tags, condensed social critique, or simply beautiful works of art plastered about on alleyways and underneath bridges or on low uncovered walls. Graffiti is a recycling of resource that relies on preexisting infrastructure to provide a canvas. Graffiti is a semi-permanent rallying cry of resistance that demands attention. Graffiti is a voice—and in these ways, it is not so separate from Viet cuisine. In both instances, the foreign frame is filled with a lively local substance and presented to the public. Within the context of cuisine, the consumer becomes an artist and the bowl his canvas. Phở is served communally from a large pot, but still, the individual is encouraged to tinker with their own individual course until it arrives at an inviting flavor. It is here that culinary graffiti takes place. More coriander. A couple dabs of hot chili sauce. Less noodle. Strokes of red, green, and white. Through consumption, the consumer unknowingly ushers themselves into the long narrative of Viet history, and in doing so, engages in the very mingling of cultures that lies at the heart of Vietnamese cuisine. One looks down to their canvas and in this abstract portrait finds a message, a rallying cry, that balance can be found in all things and that culture should be appreciated as it experienced—together.