About

About

Welcome to my website. I am the author of ‘Vietnamese – Simple Vietnamese Food To Cook At Home’. I am a photographer and film maker. You can book into my supper club, Vietnamese cooking classes, buy my book, check out my photography and lots more here.

Please follow me on instagram @loveleluu – Thank you so much for visiting x

Food Styling & Photograhy

My Photography Work

Supper Club

Supper Club

The supper club is held in my home in London Fields, Hackney. It is like a dinner party in the tradition of a Vietnamese feast with homemade Vietnamese food.

Classes

Classes

Vietnamese food is about the balance of flavours, of sweet, salty and sour – there is no measuring device that can ever match your own taste buds.

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Preface

Our first days in London in Nov 1983
I saw my breath for the first time when I pushed myself against the steamy window of my father’s brown Ford Austin as he drove us home in the night for the first time and the grainy radio blared, ‘Her hair is Harlow gold, her lips sweet surprise…’ 

It felt strange yet mesmerising to see the smoke pour out of my mouth, lingering and then dispersing into the air like it were our ghosts exiting us. I kept breathing heavily over and over, in beat with the euphonic sounds of the radio, to see, to understand. Daddy, what is happening to us, I marvelled with worry of a miracle. I tried to touch the vapours by pawing the air like an inquisitive kitten but when I couldn’t touch it, I drew a pattern of circles with the tips of my fingers on the glass where the breath laid and my hands became cold, wet and stiff. I had never felt so cold before. This was London, in November in 1983, I was five years old and if there was a soundtrack, it’d be “Please Please Tell Me Now…” (Is There Something I Should Know) because my father kept playing that over and over.

When I stepped out of the car, I heard the quietness and my father picked me up into his arms. The serene, still, snow dusted road was filled with grand tall trees with their arms of branches waving at the sky. The white houses were gigantic and beautiful and I was in awe of the spectacle and my dreams of being a princess dressed in white  with a red riding hood coat came true. I was the happiest girl inside the arms of my father. I took comfort and buried my face inside his warm neck next to his long hair tucked somewhere between his ears and the synthetic fur collar as he carried me up the stone entrance staircase to the door. I smiled so big, I felt the air turn my buck teeth dry into ice and my red button nose dripped everywhere. 

Once settled into our new home and the luxurious feeling of cosy warmth crept through to our bones, Top Of The Pops was on the television and my father handed my brother and I two Denby bowls of Frosties cornflakes. He poured crisp cold white milk all over it and it made a sort of crackling noise. We had no idea what it was and nor did my mother. “r?t ngon!” [its delicious] he said to reassure us, “?n ?i,” [eat up] and we did. The crunch and the sweetness next to the soothing chilled milk excited me and my little three year old brother to a high heaven. We chewed, relished and giggled as our eyes widened with delight and pleasure. The music enchanted us, True, Every Breathe You Take, Karma Chameleon…We drank from the last drop of the bowl and licked our spoons dry. With two of his little  hands cupping the bowl, my brother tagged my father’s trousers and said, Daddy, can I have some more please?

To my father’s delight, my mother started to unpack our luggage, a straw woven basket on wheels. It contained all the food he had missed from being in England two years prior, like the three sticks of bánh mì with barbecued pork, coriander and pickles that had gone stale from the journey. He roared at the parcel wrapped with lotus leaf: inside sits snug,  the lunar new year’s cake (bánh ch?ng) of sticky rice, pork belly and yellow beans. Fry this, he yelled excitedly, did you bring ch? l?a? (Vietnamese ham) and my mum beamed as she digged through the woven sacks and pulled it out with a sack of pickled sour ham (nem), a jar of pickled shallots, Maggi sauce and a bunch of fresh chillies. We can try to grow chillies from the seeds, she exclaimed as she kept pulling from the basket as if it were a magician’s hat, we can have dried pork floss in the morning for breakfast with congee, showing my father a small bag of rice. They have rice here, he said in great amusement at my mother’s naivety, but its Uncle Ben’s, its not like Vietnamese rice, nothing beats a good bowl of Vietnamese rice.

I saw my father kiss my mother tenderly on her checks as she blushed and chuckled. This is England, and we are finally here, she said to him, his eyes were still widened with breaths of excitement as he finished his piece of bánh ch?ng,  scooping every grain from the plate and moping every bit of chilli soy sauce. My mother then placed a banana leafed package in front of his and seductively untied the earthy strings apart to reveal a handful of tiny dumplings with pink prawns seeping through the translucent tapioca wrapping – (bánh quay v?c), it was my father’s most favourite gift to the mouth which is a speciality in my mother’s coastal hometown, Phan Thi?t. 

I could tell that he fell in love with her (again) right there and then. He was salivating as she emptied the sweet and citrusy chilli fish sauce out of a small plastic bottle onto the cornflakes bowl she had just washed for him to dip the dumplings in. He took one to his mouth and it seemed like he had elevated onto a celestial seat for those few seconds he let the dumplings sit on his tongue before munching slowly and slowly. He was savouring the chewy texture and then he bit into the prawn inside the coating. It crunched as the spicy, sharp treacle sauce seeped through and was hitting every spot of paradise. And then he offered the only few remaining gems to us, the children and his wife, you will always remember this moment, he commanded, relish every flavour of those silky dumplings, the sweet, sour, hot and savoury of that dipping sauce, that is Vietnam, we must never forget where we have come from.

This was our first meal in London in a bed and breakfast motel, in Highbury New Park. We thought it would be the last Vietnamese meal of our lives.

 

This is written for Andrew X Pham, author of Catfish & Mandala, guest post to be published on spoonwiz.com

It Doesn’t Matter Anymore

I am getting back into film making. I shot this with Mia Redemo, a Swedish, singer/ songwriter who currently lives in Hackney, London. I met Mia in 2006 when she first came to London and looked for work in my boutique. We have been close friends ever since. Mia occasionally helps out at the supper club too when she is not producing TV shows.

“It Doesn’t Matter Anymore” from Uyen Luu on Vimeo.
Live Performance by Mia Redemo
Written by Paul Anka and recorded by Buddy Holly in 1958
Film by Uyen Luu
leluu.com

Songs For You

I have had a few dinner parties in my time and with hand on heart, some of them have been amazing fun and have become fond memories me and my friends will grow old clutching on to. There have been some nights where I couldn’t possibly think another could top until I a few weeks ago, I had a couple of dinner parties for some of my closest friends and my friends from Michael Buble’s band, whom I met years and years ago (story here).

I loved seeing the big smiles on everyone’s faces and the happiness everyone brought to the dinning table. Admittedly on the first dinner, I didn’t cook enough food as I got too excited as also had a photo shoot with Charlotte Schreiber during the day for another book I am featured in and James Lowe was still very hungry!

What made the evenings utterly special was the music from the band, my friends, Son Of Jack and Mia Redemo. They sang with gut and soul and played like it was an expression of love, generousity and give. Even Rosie Birkett was performing Tiny Dancer, with Michael Buble’s band! It was so funny and brilliant! As if in our wildest dreams, we may have concocted a notion…

On one evening, friends made food to bring over. Food and music, good company and happiness… I can’t find words to express how grateful I am to have such wonderful, talented and beautiful friends.

Working 9-5 by Mia Redemo & Marcel Camargo

It had also been amazing to hang with the band backstage, on the boat and after parities!  What an amazing month its been!

I hope you enjoy the videos of some of the songs I managed to capture as much as we did.

Wicked Game By Son Of Jack

Marcel and I also managed to squeeze in a photoshoot at The Town Hall in Bethnal Green where Viajante is.

For My Grandmother, Rest In Peace.

Maria Nguyen Thi Bich
1934 – 2013

Tell me, now that you are high above floating between the milky way and galaxies and beyond, do you see the small things within me too? Do you see the things deep inside the avenues of my heart and the history of the houses of love and sorrow that were built on the foundation of your love and devotion? Or have you gone too far? Far beyond into oblivious obscurity from dust to dust, ashes to ashes…? Now that you have faded and your eyes are closed, what can you see now that I can not see you? Won’t you send me a sign?

Have you risen with Jesus? Does he hold your hand and did you beam that big smile of yours when he welcomed you with your name? Does he cradle you in his arms like you did to me? You swung me  from side to side on your lap and you bounced me up and down and you sang to me in your high tone, your voice describing the softness of your soul and the gracious honour of your heart. I felt your love. Your love seeped through me like a natural flowing stream and I had never ever forgotten it because you are a beautiful melody of a song, a ballad that I have held close even though I have been far from your embrace and the sweet beloved tunes of your faith and compassion.

My earliest childhood memory, which I savour, is of the taste and character of your noodle soup, bún bò Hu?  – my favourite thing! I always reminisce the perfume of pigs trotter, beef bones and zest that clinged to your brown humid skin and your doll-like hands smelled of basil and lime next to my face.

As a child, admiring every inch of you, I sat on a little table in the corner and watched you serve bowl after bowl. You worked so hard but you always smiled at the customers, and bantered with them in your chirpy merry voice. No matter what, you would always smile. You found things to smile at all the time, it was your thing.

I remember seeing you somewhere among the clouds of lemongrass scented steam – that would surround your small stall: your hair up in a bun, you were curvy and chubby and you would always capture my brother and I into your wholesome arms and you would sniff us and sniff us, over and over, taking us into your breath and inhaled all that you could of us. You would smile such a big smile that your nose would flatten and flare and became bigger; your face turned into the sun and everything on your face took shape of a smile. Your infectious giggles, like that of a young girl in love with life would make us fall deeper and deeper in love with you, our grandmother, the mother of love, kindness, strength and of all possibilities. Thank goodness you are mine!

I have eaten this soup all the years of my life without you near (London/ Orange Country). Every time, I am relishing you and hankering on the memory of us, in Saigon. I am always in search for your broth, the broth that quenches the emptiness I have felt in the absence of you and now I will always be hollow without you.

Every morning, you saved my brother a piece of beef or pork tendon so that he can grow into a big and strong handsome man. And you would save me a chicken heart so that I can be full of love, your love…which will never fade.

Are you dancing with Jesus who would twirl you underneath his arms and together are you both singing songs and hymns to your hearts content? If you could, I know you would watch over us. I know that if you could, you would protect us all with your love and power like you always had.

When I will see blossoms on the trees, a sea of beautiful and wonderful things and receive a blast of happiness I will think of you because you are those things to me, to my little brother Cu Toon and to my mother and father. I thank you for your love, your loyalty and all the nutritious goodness that you have given to our hearts and souls.

Rest in peace, our beautiful dearest grandmother, Ba Noi, we love you with all the might, the strength, the inspiration and grace you have given us from far beyond here, now, then and for always. I know you hear me. You always have.

Your chicken heart first granddaughter,

Love, Chou Chou

Strings

Michael Buble – To Be Loved Tour, The 02

Sometimes when something happens, I don’t think much of it until years later when I piece the events together then I can see that some simple actions or paths changed life in a way or so. In November 2003, this happened when I purchased a CD by Michael Buble and that changed everything. No one had heard of him yet. I liked the music and I used to play it all the time in my boutique in Earlham St and pretty much got my customers to go and purchase one when they left. Then I saw in The Guardian’s Saturday listings that he was on at Ronnie Scotts so my friend Aggie and I queued at the bottom of the 20ish people line in the sharp cold of winter and got in to see some jazz. We thought we would do something grown up for once!

The concert was stunning, the songs were immaculate and we fell ridiculously in love with him and 3am ‘jazz’. We were about 10 feet away from Michael and for the love of music and all things good and manly – we joyed in such a high cloud of heaven and just wanted to have our way with him. How do we meet him? Said Aggie. I don’t know! I said. We can’t just have our way with him!! The agony!

Hi. Said the young handsome American bass player in a black suit. Hi. We said. Did you enjoy the show? The weeks and months to follow were one of the best times in my life.

Almost 10 years later, we are here. He stands behind Michael with the double bass over the years as I catch them on various TV shows and youtube uploads as we drift in and out of each other’s lives. Our lovers came and went; our journeys through life met hills, valleys and mountains; and age saw us through to nights where we would meet and fill each others ears with tales of love, adventure and sorrow.

I’ve seen every tour in London from the beautiful old room at Ronnie Scotts, to The Royal Albert Hall, to Wembley to The 02. Everytime, Michael sings the acapella, Song For You, without amplification from the smallest to the biggest arenas and I am moved to tears every time.

The other day, we saw the first show of To Be Loved World Tour, which started 10 nights at The 02. Michael sang many songs from the first concert at Ronnie Scotts, like Thats All, How Can you Mend A Broken Heart and Fever. It all comes full circle.

Thank you my dear friend Craig for taking me with you & to my new found soulful friend Marcel (on guitar) for keeping me with you guys.

Far-Far

Every Monday morning, I see you sitting on this bench by the birch tree.
Every Monday morning, a sharp knife scores my heart with fear, that you may have moved onto another being or have passed onto the earth where you would see the secrets of this life. You may find there the answers to everything, but you wouldn’t have the ability to voice what you see and I wouldn’t know if you are gone or if you have become the trace in all the leaves of the tree above me.
You hold the key to all the stories that I can not write. You hold the voice to all the memories I can not compose and you know more than you let me see. What if you leave before next Monday morning and you are not on that bench for me to see? Where would you take the laughter and the tears we shared? How would they transpire after you’d gone? Do you take them with you if you can?
Sometimes, I imagine meeting you as a young man. Sometimes, I imagine sitting with you on a Monday morning as a young mister. We’d smoke some cigarettes and share a bottle of cold white wine by the window sill, facing a field of cornflowers. Your now fluffy white hair would have been thick and full with streaks of blonde and auburn brown. But your voice would have still been deep, chirpy and sometimes sarcastic. Your nose would have been smaller and refined. Your azure eyes would have been opaque with kindness and the stubble on your face would sometimes glimmer in shades of ginger and ash. Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to be held by you.
As a young man, were you as bitter as you seem to be? Or were you more naive like me, opening your heart like doors to a room of many tales?
I worry every Monday morning that your wife would telephone and tell me in her shaken voice that you have gone. Or it could be your sturdy daughter who would apologise in vain for your abrupt departure. What would I do? Would I bawl with your wife too or would I try to act indifferent and strong like your daughter does, like you act for me?
Every Monday, on this bench, you ponder the tunes of my life, filling the shoes of a father, the one you do wish I would have but don’t and never did; the one you are but could never be.
Sometimes, I would watch you wonder and I wonder if you are wondering or if you are listening. But you do. I know you always do.
Once, I told you that I liked your beaten up old linen satchel because it resembles the one I had as a teenager. The one where I would ink boast my love for pop stars and super men, whom I hoped one day would find me but never has. As I told you that, I wondered if we are alike and mused on you once again as a young man when you danced with your wife and held her close to your milky lavender smelling face. Did you hold her hand and lock her shoulders into your arms as you roam the streets with a guitar on your back?
I wonder all the time about you. I hope that that Monday never comes and you see me as an old old lady.
Happy Fathers Day.

This was written in writing class from www.creativewrites.co.uk

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