“Gooood morning, Vietnam!” We’ve all seen the movie, and it’s no wonder Adrian Cronauer was in such a high state each morning. Forget the adrenaline of the broadcast; it was more likely the high-octane Robusta surging through his veins.
Vietnam is the second-largest coffee producer in the world, a title it’s held with stubborn persistence since the French planted the first seeds in the 19th century. But while the French brought the bean, the Vietnamese made it an art form.
I’m starting to think Vietnam could be my spiritual home. They have my favourite dish, Pho, a broth that, when done right, is a translucent miracle of beef and bone, and they have the coffee.
In Melbourne, we treat coffee like a surgical procedure, but in Vietnam, it’s a living, breathing pulse. From the decadent, whisked clouds of Egg Coffee to the salty-sweet revelation of Salt Coffee, it’s a culture that thrives on low plastic stools and the slow, rhythmic drip of the phin filter.
I’ve joked about writing a book on the subject, perhaps a travelogue titled The Caffeine Chronicles, if only to justify the tax write-off and the inevitable heart palpitations. I can’t wait to be sitting on a plastic stool in the humid evening air, a glass of dark liquid sweat-beading in my hand, watching the motorbikes flow like a river of neon.
The clock is ticking with only a few weeks until the first sip.
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