It’s a little intimidating, when you haven’t yet mastered American food, to dive into the creation of foreign dishes. I mean, besides spaghetti, which stopped counting the minute Seeds of Change marketed a sauce better than homemade. Yet, there I was, searching the Web for recipes to make Vietnamese Bun (pronounced almost like “boon”), a scrumptious combination of fresh greens, rice noodles, marinated and sautéed meat, peanuts, and a tangy sauce so delectable you could down a tumbler full. See, normally, Bun — one of my all-time favorite dishes — fits into the let-the-experts-make-it-and-serve-it-to-my-table category. But there aren’t any Vietnamese restaurants on Whidbey Island, at least that I can find.

Which is too bad. Vietnamese food is, well, necessary: fresh rolls, lemongrass chicken, Pho (noodle soup), crepes. It’s all so snappy, delicate, and complexly flavored. And unlike Chinese food —w hich I dearly love, especially when I’m hung over and craving a big, gooey helping of General Tao’s Chicken — Vietnamese dishes aren’t so reliant on the deep fat fryer. They are the very stuff cravings are made of.

Anyway, through the Web I searched. And without much difficulty, I located a recipe for Bun. Capturing the flavor of Vietnamese food, it turns out, is all about understanding a specific spice grouping, a constellation of onion, coriander, garlic, and red chili pepper. There’s also the matter of fish sauce, which is to Vietnamese people what catsup is to Americans. You probably don’t want to know how fish sauce is made, but I’ll tell you anyway. (Long is the road and hard that out of darkness leads to light.) It’s concocted from fresh anchovies and salt, which are layered into huge wooden barrels. The fish sits around for about three months, at which time it begins oozing liquid through a spigot, which is poured back onto the top of the barrel. After about six months, the sauce is complete. Sounds tasty, I know. But, it is.

Fish sauce is crucial to Bun. Luckily, it’s readily available at the larger local markets and also at Angie’s, a great Asian grocery on SE Ely Street in Oak Harbor. Look for sauce that’s light in color (“nhi” on the label signifies highest quality; “Ca Com” indicates that it’s made from 100 percent anchovies). The best fish sauce comes from Vietnam, Thailand, and Hong Kong.

I downloaded a recipe that looked as though it would work and gathered the ingredients: 1 and 1/2-pounds of beef flank (you can also use boneless chicken, pork, or prawns); a hunk of fresh ginger (powdered is fine); sugar; vegetable oil; soy sauce; salted peanuts; rice noodles (or rice stick); bean sprouts (the tuberous white ones); a head of leaf lettuce (iceberg will do); a bundle of fresh cilantro; rice vinegar; fish sauce; fresh garlic; and a bottle of chili paste.

My boyfriend Delano was out for the night, so I aimed to enjoy a nice, pampered evening alone. In town, I rented Cool Hand Luke. Then I raced home and began chopping. I followed the Bun recipe to a T and when it was finished, plunked down on my big purple sofa. I placed the bowl at the center of a tasteful napkin/placemat combo, like a cute little goat on an altar. I started the movie. It was just as Paul Newman was decapitating that last parking meter that I took a bite. My eyes watered and my lips quivered. The dish was so pungent and sour that my throat immediately constricted. I choked down exactly two bites before tossing the mixture, unceremoniously, into the trash. I popped a pot-pie into the oven and spent the rest of the evening watching Friends re-runs.

I nearly gave up. I thought there must be some Bun trick I’d missed simply because I wasn’t Vietnamese and familiar with the traditions. But then, that old pioneer spirit came through. A recipe is a recipe. A dish is a dish. I found another formula. A perfect formula. One I’m pleased to share with you.

Bun

First, cut 1 and 1/2 pounds of beef, chicken, or pork into thin slices (leave prawns whole, if that’s what you’re using). Marinate your meat for a couple of hours in the following mixture:

1/2- thumb of chopped ginger (or about a 1/2-teaspoon powder)

3 cloves of chopped garlic (or about 1 teaspoon powder)

2 tablespoons water

1/2-teaspoon sugar

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons soy sauce

While the meat marinates, wash the lettuce, beansprouts, and cilantro. Make sure to let the greens dry in a strainer or salad spinner. Layer the bottom of four large soup bowls with lettuce first, then cilantro, then bean sprouts. Chop a handful of peanuts, but don’t add them yet. Also heat a pan of water for the rice noodles.

Sauce

It’s time to get the sauce (Nuoc Mam) started. You’ll need:

1 cup water

4 tablespoons rice vinegar

4 tablespoons sugar

5 tablespoons fish sauce

1 tablespoon garlic, finely chopped (a dash of powder will do)

A small squirt of red chili paste

Boil the water with the vinegar and sugar. Allow it to cool a little. Add the garlic and chili paste. Stir in the fish sauce. Set aside.

Now, pour a little vegetable oil into the bottom of a skillet and begin thoroughly frying your meat. Remove the pan of hot water from the stove and dunk in your rice noodles. Let them soak for 3 to 5 minutes.

When the meat and noodles are done, finish assembling your Bun this way: Strain the noodles and lay them atop the lettuce/cilantro/beansprouts. Place your meat strips on top of that. Then sprinkle on some peanuts. Lastly, douse the whole thing with a generous helping of Nuoc Mam.

Send recipes, suggestions, and dares to vogel@whidbey.net.