I Made A Crepe For You, Daddy

Somewhere In The Crowd, There's You

“I really crave bánh xèo”, said my father to my mother, “like the ones they had on the streets in Phan Thiết, do you remember?” My mum took a seat, contemplating the sizzle in a daydream, her mouth was almost dribbling. “That old lady had the best batter, ummmm, so crisp,” he said, “we ate so many that night with Luu Hien, Luu Vinh and Luu Thu, she won the lottery. I miss those guys…(his brothers, who were separated by the mass exodus of Vietnam).”

“Lets make it,” said my mum.

“Do you have rice flour?” Said my dad.

“No, but you can you drive us to Chinatown and we can try to find some.” Said my mum with glee, hope and plenty of enthusiasm. In 1982, Asian ingredients were scarce and soho was the only place to do your shopping.

My parents gathered my brother, aged 3 and I, aged 5 together, “we are going to Chinatown!” They dressed us, ready to go out into the fog of winter on a Saturday morning. My dad twirled me around like a ballet dancer to pirouette a matching white woolly, slightly itchy hat and scarf. My brother excitedly jumped up and down in his new pumps, coat slightly small, his hat was a bit tight. It made my mum anxious because it rode to the tip of his head like a pyramid no matter how hard she tried to pull it down. We all laughed and hurried to dad’s car. It was golden, a Ford Fiesta type perhaps with squeaky tanned leather seats. “Turn on the music daddy,” we’d yell and with perfect timing, commenced a cappella. “Super trouper beams are gonna blind me but I won’t feel blue. Like I always do. Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you”

Green Banh Xeo from Vietnamese Vegetarian by Uyen Luu, Photography Uyen Luu

When we got back, it was dark, but our flat was warm and cosy. My mother had a full supply of ingredients and greens poking out of the many crinkling plastic carrier bags. She had never made the crispy coconut crepes before. She didn’t have scales or measuring jugs, just a memory of how her mother used to do it. She mixed the dipping sauce with her chopsticks with cheap fish sauce, chillies, vinegar and sugar. She arranged a plate of leaves. She attempted the first pan cake, folded it and scraped it out of the frying pan because it stuck.

“Its a little scrappy and soggy,” said my dad, treading on shells. My mum’s spirits fell like a bucket of water. “Its not your fault,” he said with comfort, ”we didn’t buy very good coconut milk and the flour is probably not right either”. Silence. “It still tastes very good,” he assured her and she began to breathe again.

My mother has another go, “more oil”, she picks herself up and mixes her runny yellow batter with a ladle. “Plus, I need to get you another frying pan,” said my dad,"we can go to John Lewis or Argos on Holloway Road next week.”

The oil did the trick. With a leg crossed over on a wooden chair, my dad used a pair of chopsticks to prize off a section of the folded crepe, beansprouts poking everywhere. He took it to his palm where already laid a leaf and some herbs and he rolled it up, like a cigar. “Eat,” he said to my brother, “ngon rất ngon,” it means, it’s absolutely delicious. My brother suspiciously takes a small bite and crunches the crepe and the leaves, tear rolling from one eye, he eventually swallowed out of fear of a retaliation. My dad laughed, wiped the tear with his fingers and said, “this boy is so loveable! I love you so much! It’s good isn’t it?” We waited patiently for my mum to fry one crepe after another. He bounced me on his knees and played aeroplane with my brother. 

My dad bought my mum a new frying pan after that weekend. She still used the old one she got from the second hand shop so she can make two at a time. 

This is a rare memory of being with my father. He left soon after to start a new life with new family in the (united) states where he found his brothers, his sisters and his parents. I met him once or twice again. He passed away on 12th May 2023 without knowing how much I loved him. I still have glimpses of his young face smirking a smile at me, “you want to eat some more?”

My father, sometime in the late 70s, early 80s when he first arrived in London