In the mass consumerist world of the West where the movement, consumption, and pricing of products yield a hierarchical system of its own, I often find myself in the middle of this discourse. That is to say, the acquisition of goods and their inherent strategies are things in which I am fluent. Yet, it was on a seemingly random Monday, after I had just spent a whole night out catching up with old friends, knowingly detached from the colonial systems of Western consumption, that I found myself in Whole Foods, dumbfounded by the choices I soon had to make. As I expertly navigated through the aisles of Whole Foods to the cashier, as if I had a blueprint of the store ingrained in my mind, my eyes were glued to my palms, both holding a different emblem of conflicting values that dictate my own life: the socially crafted “East” versus “West”, being frugal versus occasionally treating myself, purchasing something out of need versus out of necessity.
The moment I reached the line at the cashier, I knew my expertise had failed me. Time was running out and I could feel the warmth of bodies starting to amass behind me the longer I stood there. Just when I thought I had decided in my mind, my knees seemed to have locked–I was paralyzed. Between me and the Ozempic-fueled cashier at Whole Foods, there was only one person left. As the sweat from my scalp started slowly escaping my pores, setting my head ablaze, I shrugged as I left the line in defeat. In my hands were two jars: one containing “Cinnamon Ground” costing $2.29 while the other with “Vietnamese Cinnamon Ground” costing almost $5.49. I normally would have opted for the cheaper option; yet, this one stumped me.
Truth to be told, I never knew there existed such a thing as Saigon or Vietnamese cinnamon, as opposed to ‘American’ cinnamon. Part of my hesitation stemmed from my nationalistic tendencies to support exports of my home country despite the price, motivated by the curious 139.7% markup, but part of me wanted to test the power of propaganda inherent to Western political systems that allows them to capture and control products, skewing consumer perception. So what was the true difference, if there was at all? There was only one thing left to do. Confidently heading back to the checkout line, I bought both jars of cinnamon, along with a baked sweet potato, and sat down on the benches outside, conducting pivotal field research then and there.
Peeling the plastic covering off of both, there was an immediate cosmetic difference between them. The ‘normal’ cinnamon ground is lighter in color, leaning more towards beige, while the Vietnamese cinnamon ground is much darker, resembling a redwood tree bark with hints of deep amber.
Growing up in Vietnam, my mom used to send me to the local market to get the groceries for the week. As we both reminisce over my childhood on the phone, she remembers, “I used to get so mad when you would bring back those pale cinnamon sticks from the market for us to make Pho,” laughing as she continued, “They were so bland.” I was given strict instructions on which produce, which spice, which supplies to get from specific stores, but always seemed to wander off on my own. Unlike Whole Foods, ceylon cinnamon, also known as ‘normal’ cinnamon, was usually much more expensive than cassia cinnamon, or Vietnamese cinnamon, as they were imported from the U.S. Standing at the vendor as I decide between the two, the sellers always convinced me to get the ones imported from the U.S., as it was better due to its ‘origin’ from the “West”. It also did not dawn on me as a kid that not everything more expensive is better, not everything from the West is superior, so I continued getting ceylon cinnamon until I was officially fired as the family’s shopper.
Opening the cap of each jar, I went in for a closer inspection, testing my olfactory system this time. The ceylon cinnamon was pleasant, exactly what you expect to smell when you open a jar of cinnamon–rather boring. However, upon opening the Vietnamese cinnamon jar, I could immediately sense my mucous membrane tickle. My tear ducts were getting more and more activated every millimeter I got closer to the jar. The moment I finally inhaled, my eyes shot wide open as the sharp scent of cassia cinnamon struck the back of my throat. I seemed to be immediately dazed by the pungent scent, all enveloped in a warming sensation, that felt all too familiar as a smile seemed to have bloomed on my face.
“I don’t want this,” I complained while pointing to the bowl of Pho sitting in front of me at our small dining table, with its steam rushing through my face, covering me in a cloud of cinnamon, star anise, and ginger. I just started attending an international middle school this academic year in hopes of getting a scholarship to America one day. We could not afford the meal plan at school on top of tuition, where American delicacies of cinnamon buns and pancakes were served for breakfast daily. So I had Pho for breakfast almost every morning before heading to school. Back then, I much preferred cinnamon sprinkled in the gooey crevices of the cinnamon bun as opposed to its delicately warming flavor in Pho since all my white counterparts were enjoying them at school without me, mocking me incessantly for missing out and eating my boring bowl of Pho at home.
Admittedly, it was not until after I arrived in the United States for boarding school, severely deprived of the flavors of home–or any at all from the food here–that I realized the imbuing transcendental power of Pho. My eyes were locked with the waiter as my friends and I waited for food after school at a Vietnamese restaurant the winter after I arrived in the United States. The fact that there even was a Vietnamese restaurant within a ten mile radius of Blair Academy, situated in Western New Jersey, was a miracle in itself. As the water picked up the two bowls of Pho from the kitchen and headed toward us, I was already locked and loaded: chopsticks and spoons out and ready, each with a personal bowl of Sriracha and pickled garlic, and most importantly, a plate of cilantro, bean sprouts, and fried dough in the middle to share. I could not help but sit and bask in the steam from the bowl of Pho rushing through my face, covering me in a cloud of cinnamon, star anise, and ginger. I was almost mad at myself that I took this for granted; yet, the fact that I was able to enjoy this delicacy, albeit nowhere near as good as home, was a privilege I will never again take for granted.
Finally getting to the meat of the research, I grabbed the freshly baked sweet potato along with the cinnamon to test the flavor profile of both. Sprinkling the ceylon cinnamon onto one half, the sight was rather disheartening. As I put the spoonful of sweet potato with a thin layer of brown ash into my mouth, I immediately coughed as the seemingly flavorless powder covered my throat, dislodging itself through my nasal cavities and disappearing into thin air. I quickly gulped down my water before immediately moving on. The cassia cinnamon, on the other hand, had coated the sweet potato in an even layer of rich, espresso fairy dust that glistened under the afternoon sun. What I experienced thereafter was something indescribable. The complex flavor profile of the Vietnamese cinnamon immediately exploded in my mouth the moment the spoon hit my tongue. It was decadent–a slight bitterness undercut with a pure sweetness all enveloped in a sharp spiciness that confused my taste buds. What lingered in my throat was not just a numbing sensation but an enwrapping warmth that transported me back to the countless bowls of Pho I have had.
From the flavor profile alone, it was understandable that Vietnamese cinnamon was priced much higher than your typical, American grocery store cinnamon. Yet, this was not always the case. Prior to the early 1960s, Vietnamese cinnamon, specifically Saigon cinnamon, was the most commonly sold cinnamon in grocery stores across the United States. However, with the imposition of a trade embargo on Vietnam in 1964, Vietnamese cinnamon became increasingly rare, wandering from the shelves of the Spice section straight into the “Foreign imports” where ‘exotic’ goods live, all with an exponentially higher price point. Reflecting on this phenomenon, Alex Kanya, former lead of retail design at Cliff Bar and current senior retail growth manager at Premier Nutrition, shares, “Exoticization is the best marketing tool most consumer-focused companies possess,” speaking from his own experience at companies also selling products to mass chains such as Whole Foods. He continues, “Of course, no one wants to admit that companies following consumer trends is a mere distraction from what they are really doing, of presenting international goods as something they discover and have the right to control consumers’ perception over.”
What is purely speculation and gut feeling has now materialized into the unveiling of prominent imperial systems of Western propaganda that convinces the global audience of the supposed superior Western products while making it much harder for global importers, with far superior products, to remain economically competitive. This colonization of cinnamon, along with various other spices, has made the little pockets of home for the Asian diasporic population inaccessible. All of which are built on the exploitation of cheap foreign labor, like Vietnamese labor for high-quality cinnamon at a cheaper price, as one U.S. dollar is equivalent to 25,590 Vietnamese Dong; yet, most farmers are still not paid living wages. Whether it is the stigma against the foods of my culture containing cinnamon, or its exoticization resulting in limited accessibility within grocery stores, the history of cinnamon and its involvement in the exploitative spice trade is one that haunts the population of the socially crafted ‘East’ daily.
Sitting in the Whole Foods at Palo Alto, I still can not conclusively decide which cinnamon I would recommend my fellow spice connoisseur to purchase here. While moving between the Spice and Foreign Imports aisles myself, I vividly remember my foot getting heavier with each step. It is as if I was also being traded and judged whether I am exotic or inferior, ‘Eastern’ or ‘Western’, yellow or white. Either way, it is only the pockets of the Western conglomerates that will benefit from these transactions, never the producers nor farmers as they are mere machines in the eye of the distributors. After witnessing my reaction on Facetime throughout this whole conquest, my mom asked, “What about that Vietnamese grocery store in San Francisco you used to go to?” This seems to be the only answer for now, as it is only here that Vietnamese cinnamon is not considered an ‘exotic’ good with a hefty price tag but a piece of home: a portal that immediately transports you back to the richly warming bowl of Pho you enjoyed in the morning.
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Duc is currently a student at Stanford University pursuing his Master's in Environmental Communications and Bachelor's in Art History. He is interested in the intersectionality between art and climate, especially analyzing these fields through a queer framework.
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