9 Ways To Immediately Start Selling Best Food In Hanoi

To soak up the rush of beer on an empty stomach, freelance local snack purveyors roam the aisles between tables with plate sized rice crackers, fermented pork rolls wrapped in banana leaves, cut fruit and peanuts - all of which we go easy on. Filling up on this fodder is not the reason we're here.

Wrangling over weight, price and preferred cooking technique take place before beer drinking and anticipation begin. Aerated tubs and tanks containing prawns, crabs, different kinds of clams and other shellfish and, of course, fish are subject to close scrutiny. They're not called 'wet' markets for nothing.

And then there are the buckets and old tins carefully placed in the spaces to catch the rain when it comes. Protection from the elements is tenuous; perishing mouldy flaps of awning, jammed up umbrellas jostled against one another, sheets of corrugated fibreglass weighted down with half a brick. Not much money is being invested back into the fittings.

Wobbly odd timber shelves are held together with bits of twine, a rusted nail or a simple irritable wedging into putrid polystyrene or faded plastic. Every scavenged scrap of solid matter makes up the labyrinth of stalls inside. The interiors are, in contrast, a very rambunctious definition of hanoi tourist attraction make-shift.

There may be in some cases a solid exterior to South East Asian market environments; a wall with a securable gate or door, like any other business enterprise. That is, it wouldn't taste as good. A thorough scouring of these joints, I suspect, would result in a catastrophic collapse, possibly having implications for the taste of the produce.

I get the feeling that this is often holding the market buildings together - like a powerful glue, porous with generations of food particles and dust. These markets - almost regardless of country or location - are clad with clutter and grime. But there is stuff underneath that rudimentary function and showy veneer, too.

All with the aim of getting food in the eating hole and money in the pocket. Routine and going through the motions, too, like all religious practice. There is a kind of worship or fanaticism going on. Ritual most definitely.

Rub pearly grains of rice in your fingertips. In this part of the world, we can feel food without being compelled to buy. Inhaling over Vietnam's herb basket gives a rush of zingy green crack.

Limes , chilies , dragon fruits, persimmons and hibiscus flowers project a prism of riches almost vulgar. Food is built up into displays, towers and installations to admire, catch the eye and tempt. The wet markets in South East Asia are shrines to food culture.

Wailing CD music emanates from the cupboard directly behind me, which before long is accompanied by the discordant pipes of the elderly father of the sugar cane juice vendor. A bloke with a knife and scissor cart trundles by. He makes a sale, too. A roving vendor selling limes and sour plums is transacting with my new best friend, the elderly parking matron.