Ginger, garlic, chili, lemongrass and shallot.

We arrive at the Green Bamboo Cooking School on a humid morning in Hoi An, Vietnam. The school is run by a warm Vietnamese woman named Van — classes are small (twelve people or less) and run right out of her own home. However, every class starts at one of Hoi An’s vibrant markets.

We crowd around Van on a street corner, ready to start a day of cooking. The market stalls are packed in side-by-side, making it hard to see where one ends and the next begins. Van attempts to explain how the market visit will work, but with her slight accent and competing flurries of motorbikes whizzing by, most of us simply smile and nod. While we discern almost nothing, it’s comfortable to be in Van’s orbit.

She weaves us through various market stalls, looking much like a mother duck with her troop of stumbly ducklings. All of us are given Vietnamese hats to wear with a bright green band, making us easier to spot among the chaos of transaction taking place. Van slides through endless alleys to visit her favorite squid vendor, her trusted spice supplier, or her friend who gives her the best deal on eggs.

One important stop along the journey is getting the magical five spices used to flavor most classic Vietnamese cooking: ginger, garlic, chili, lemongrass and shallot. “One, two or a combination of these are used in almost every Vietnamese dish. There will be a quiz later,” Van teases.

After the market visit, we head to her house to prepare twelve — one per guest — Vietnamese dishes from scratch. Matt and I were responsible for two of our favorites: fresh spring rolls and bún thịt nướng (vermicelli noodle topped with grilled pork, fresh herbs like basil and mint, and bean sprouts).

The kitchen is awash with the smells of grilled meats bathed in sesame oil, sautéed lemongrass and shallots, and a simmering bone marrow phở broth. Van directs us all like a confident conductor, allowing each of us to move at our pace while slicing and dicing meats and vegetables. She floats around the kitchen subtly helping the slowest students peel prawns, finely dice ginger, or mix their nước chấm dipping sauce.

Every student samples every dish. Halfway through, I’m convinced I can’t eat another bite. The kitchen heat becomes sweltering, and iced Larue beers appear on the counter. Slowly, we make our way through the twelve dishes.

By the end we can barely move. We are in Van’s orbit again, this time with full bellies slumped around her dining room table. And like any mother figure, she doesn’t forget about the quiz promised earlier.

Garlic, ginger, chili, lemongrass and shallot.