Phu Quoc island, off the southern coast of Vietnam is to fish sauce what Kentucky is to fried chicken. As tourist attractions go a fish sauce factory tour on the largest and most scenic of Vietnams islands might not rank up there with the Pyramids, Disneyland, Butlins or the islands stunning beaches for that matter. But this isn't just any common or garden fish sauce, Phu Quoc is known to produce the worlds finest. Shirking the sauce on a visit to the island is not an option.

The main production hangar of the 73 year old Thanh Ha factory in Phu Quoc's biggest, central, port town Duong Dong is filled with row upon row of huge 10 tonne wooden vats each holding 7000 litres of putrefying anchovies, salt and sauce at varying stages of decomposition. At first sight it’s not unlike a whisky distillery, only a sniff of the air and a short climb up a ladder to peer into one of the vats reveals the distinctly unalcoholic contents fermenting below. Mr Nguyen Van Bang, the proud proprietor explained, ‘It is the high quality of the long jawed anchovies we catch off the coast in the Gulf of Thailand that make Phu Quoc fish sauce that much better than our regional rivals.’

Once caught the anchovies are immediately covered in salt. At Thanh Ha the vats are filled with the salty catch and simply left for twelve months while the sauce filters into the containers below. The first amber coloured batch has the highest protein content and is considered premium quality suitable for the table, selling for 18,000 Dong (80p) per 650ml bottle. Two further fermentations follow but unlike whisky, later vintages decrease in quality and price and are mostly used in cooking. The sauce is just as ubiquitous in Vietnam as salt and pepper is on any British dining table. And don't be put off by the pong, good ol’ Worcestershire sauce is based on anchovies too, just think of this version as a fragrant liquid salt. However, finding honest Vietnamese fayre on Phu Quoc to do justice to this pungent produce is more difficult than you might expect.

The islands western seaboard is a near continuous chain of empty white sandy beaches just begging for development. Several resorts have opened up along the 20 km coastline stretching south from Duong Dong. The most prestigious of which is supposedly the state run Saigon-Phu Quoc resort. This overpriced sheet metal and concrete monstrosity is hopefully not the shape of things to come. Fortunately other resorts are far better. The bungalow resort I stayed at is more bamboo bohemia than communist carbuncle.

Hidden away in a coconut plantation and in the opposite direction from all the other resorts is the German run Thang Loi bungalow resort on Ong Long beach. Dresdenite Reinhard Mueller fell in love with the place having arrived on a whim in 1991 at a time when foreigners needed licences to travel to certain parts of Vietnam. He was promptly asked to leave, but paid $50 to placate the local militia allowing him one weeks grace period ‘under house arrest’. Even so he was enamoured enough with the island and the people to return 8 years later to set up and manage the 12 basic beach huts at Thang Loi.

‘We don't advertise at all, we don't need to,’ says Mueller ‘we have to turn away three or four people a night.’ What Thang Loi lacks in palatial pleasures (there is no electricity during the daytime, only a generator from 5pm until midnight) it makes up for with its languid atmosphere of tropical tranquility. Only, as with many other tourist ventures on the island, the food is a let down, a pale imitation of what Vietnamese chefs are capable of conjuring up. A cuisine that uses fish sauce in such subtle ways it makes you wonder how you ever lived without it. Ironically the dulled down dishes served to tourists are designed to placate fussy western palates. Not mine. Trying the real deal means venturing outside the tourist traps.

Heading north to the fishing village of Ganh Dau I hoped for better luck. ‘You must try the Canh Chua Ca up there,’ suggested Reinhard ‘It’s really quite something.’ Deserted Dai beach fringes the western seaboard on the road to Ganh Dau. This being the dry season the sagging late afternoon sun blinks off the reflective silver anchovies and squid drying on the umpteen racks that dot the beach side road. A team of teenagers earn their keep classifying fish, hanging them out to dry and bagging them up. With clear skies drying takes 1 1/2 days. The skill of the drier is to know when to bag up. Too wet and bacteria can easily spread and ruin the fish, too dry and they become too brittle. The bulk of the anchovies wind up in the processing factories of Duong Dong, the dried squid is sold locally as a healthy, although smelly protein packed snack.

Canh Chua Ca is that most south east asian of concoctions, a sour fish soup. Fish steaks drowning in a sweet aromatic brew of okra, tomatoes, spring onion, pineapple, fish sauce and whole tamarind pods. Sprinkled with chilli and mung beansprouts, it’s more piquant pot pourri than soup. Bien Hai restaurant in Ganh Dau rattles out a mean Canh Chua Ca. This grungy, unassuming eyrie perched above the sheltered bay below isn't in any guidebook, but it is here that I find what I am looking for. Fish sauce utilised as it is supposed to be, to enhance, not over or underwhelm the main players in the dish, nor avoided to appease troublesome tourists. The taste arrests the senses. Even the tonal squeals of the exuberant 12 strong amateur karaoke club and its hour long rendition of Vietnamese folk standards on the table next to me did nothing to destroy my tastebuds delight. In Vietnam, tourists seem all too happy to settle for dodgy cover versions of local masterpieces, but why settle for Richard Clayderman when you could have Chopin? And at half the price, Bien Ha’s Canh Chua Ca was a resounding hit. Finding fish sauce in Phu Quoc is easy, finding someone who knows how to use it takes a little more effort.

©2003 Graham Holliday

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