The other night we went out to a specialist seafood restaurant on the riverbank, where Calvin had squid stuffed with mushrooms and herbs and I ordered fish and chips.  I realised I had never actually had real fish and chips before, and this despite being a Briton with a vast experience of them in UK, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa.

If the fish was 2 hours dead, I shall be surprised.   It was firm, sparkling white flesh, succulent, but not watery, and came enclosed in a beer batter so light it just coated each piece, without being an extra layer.   The chips were a uniform golden brown, lightly crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside.  The way chips should be, and almost never are.   This all came with two sauces, one a mayonnaise full or chopped spring onions, and the other a mixture of coarse salt, coarsely ground pepper and lime juice.   Heaven on a plate.

March 29th

Last night was Earth Night and Vietnam also celebrated.   We were out to dinner with new-found French friends, dining outside as usual.  There was a procession of fairy-lit cycle rickshaws, to much applause and then the lights went out and the waiters provided candles, and everyone in the street lit a candle in a paper boat.   Delightful.  As we tottered home in the dark, we saw that many of the young folk had neon bracelets on, which made their arm movements surreal.