But then I took a trip through Southeast Asia, from Singapore up through Malaysia, Thailand, and back down to Vietnam. About midway through that journey, I began to understand why aficionados say that fish sauce is to the cooking of Southeast Asia what soy sauce is to the cuisines of China. I also understood that the analogy is imperfect. I would say that fish sauce is to Southeast Asian cooking what salt is to French food; when properly used you notice not so much its presence as its absence. Added to a dish, it makes all the other flavors broader, fuller, and more intense; without it, that same dish seems somehow pallid.
Unlike many other versions (to which caramel sauce, hydrolyzed wheat protein, or fructose may be added), Phu Quoc sauce contains nothing but fish and salt. And not just any fish, either. The quality of the Phu Quoc brand derives from a particular type of fish, called ca com, or long-jawed anchovy, which swarm the waters of the Gulf of Thailand and are now also raised in farms around the island. Because of their especially high protein content, they yield what the experts say is the absolute best fish sauce in the world. I was determined to find the source.
Because cars are few and roads poor, the only practical way to get around Phu Quoc is on motor scooters. The young guys who rent them tend to hand you the keys and let you drive off, but they will chauffeur you if asked. My Vietnamese vocabulary comprises only a dozen words, but fortunately these include nuoc mam (fish sauce). As soon as the words came out of my mouth, one of the kids perched on scooters outside the hotel motioned me on board. We wheeled around, spun out of the driveway, and took off down the road. Ten minutes later we were careening along a little dirt lane, past tin-roofed, wood-sided houses where women sat shredding green papayas in mud-floored courtyards. We finally pulled up at a wooden dock jutting into a river. I knew that we were not yet near the factory because there was no noticeable smell of fish, so I figured we would be hopping onto the creaky boat that was tied up at the dock. Then my chauffeur pulled my arm and pointed to the sign over the stucco building we stood in front of: “Thanh Ha Fish Sauce.”
Since no one was around, we simply walked into the relatively cool, dim interior. There, stretching from one side of the room to the other, were row upon row of giant wooden casks about 12 feet high. The air was filled with the complex, slightly spicy aroma of fermentation, reminding me not of spoiled fish, or even fish at all, but of the inside of a winery. The sound was like the splashing of scores of miniature fountains.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed the plastic tubing that emerged from near the bottom of the closest vat; a caramel-colored liquid trickled steadily through it into another, smaller wooden vat. Laughing, my guide gestured for me to take a taste. I gingerly dipped my finger under the stream, brought it to my mouth—and tasted the haunting, unmistakable flavor of Vietnam. It was the best fish sauce I had ever tasted, at once lighter, fresher, and richer than any other.
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