The Cha Gio Trail: Decades of Chasing the Perfect Vietnamese Spring Roll
There are foods we enjoy.
And then there are foods that become part of our personal geography. Our stories. Our legacies.
For me, that food is cha gio.
If you’ve never had one, a cha gio is a Vietnamese spring roll—crispy rice-paper wrapper, seasoned pork, mushrooms, vegetables, herbs, lettuce, and nuoc cham dipping sauce. Simple. Humble. Unpretentious.
Yet somehow this little spring roll has followed me across decades, countries, friendships, and entire chapters of life.
My first encounter was at Germaine’s on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, D.C.
Germaine’s: Where It All Began
Long before Vietnamese food became commonplace in America, there was Germaine’s.
The restaurant was founded by Germaine Swanson, a Vietnamese refugee, journalist, and entrepreneur who introduced many Washingtonians to Vietnamese cuisine during the late 1970s and 1980s.
The restaurant quickly developed a loyal following.
Including me.
There were days when a few of us would make what can only be described as a completely irrational decision: fly to Washington for lunch and return home that evening.
No meetings.
No business.
No agenda.
Just cha gio.
It really was that good.
The late Walter Coakley was one of my fellow explorers. Walter loved cha gio with such enthusiasm that whenever he ordered it, he practically shouted the name across the restaurant.
“CHA GIO!”
Heads would turn.
People would stare.
We didn’t care.
Because we knew something was terribly right.
The Rule of Cha Gio
Over the years I developed a simple rule.
When you discover a restaurant with truly exceptional cha gio, you keep ordering cha gio until something else finally earns your attention.
That rule led me to some remarkable places.
One summer in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, France, we stumbled upon a Vietnamese restaurant preparing to open at four o’clock in the afternoon. It was tucked along a street near a French cathedral: Sabai-sabai.
Forty tables were already reserved in the courtyard.
The doors weren’t even open.
I didn’t need a menu.
Any restaurant creating that kind of anticipation was doing something special.
The cha gio confirmed it.
Years later I found another memorable version while spending time in Antibes.
Then another in Chicago.
Another in Greenwich.
Each discovery became part of an informal network of fellow enthusiasts.
The Cha Gio Society
Some friendships require long explanations.
Others require only one photograph.
Over the years a small circle of friends developed an understanding.
Whenever one of us discovered exceptional cha gio, we would send a photo to the group accompanied by a single message:
CHA GIO!
No explanation needed.
Everyone understood.
The message translated roughly as:
“I found one.”
“It’s excellent.”
“I wish you were here.”
Perhaps that’s what I love most about food.
The best meals aren’t really about the food.
They’re about the people who would appreciate it.
More Than a Spring Roll
The older I get, the more I realize I wasn’t collecting restaurants.
I was collecting moments.
Germaine’s in Washington.
A courtyard in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.
A summer evening in Antibes.
Lunch in Chicago.
Friends laughing around tables.
Stories shared.
Plans made.
Lives unfolding.
Some of those restaurants are gone now.
Some of those friends are gone too.
Cities change.
Neighborhoods evolve.
Entire chapters of life quietly close behind us.
Yet somehow a plate of cha gio can reopen them in an instant.
One bite and suddenly you’re twenty years younger.
One aroma and you’re back at a table you haven’t thought about in decades.
The spring roll becomes a time machine.
The One Constant
Recently, while reflecting on all these memories, I noticed something curious.
The one constant was never the restaurant.
It wasn’t the recipe.
It wasn’t even the company.
The one person seated at every table was me.
For nearly fifty years I have been chasing cha gio.
What I found along the way was something much larger.
A trail of friendships.
A collection of adventures.
A map of a life measured not by destinations but by moments.
Perhaps that is why I still smile whenever I see cha gio on a menu.
Because I am never simply ordering lunch.
I am revisiting a lifetime.
And whenever I discover a truly great one, I still feel the same urge.
To take a photograph.
Send it to old friends.
And type a single message:
CHA GIO!
