GARLAND – A group of friends meeting me for a first dinner at Nam Hua hovered outside the restaurant's entrance. They'd already stuck their heads in the door.

COURTNEY PERRY/DMN

Chem chep nuong bo (mussels with cream cheese and scallions)

"It's smoky in there," they said, frowning. We contemplated trying another Vietnamese spot in the same strip mall, named Saigon Plaza.

But we persevered, and though several patrons athletically puffed cigarettes inside, the acrid smell seemed to diminish once we passed the restaurant's small vestibule. A server seated us in the designated nonsmoking section (such that it is in the open dining room), under a ceiling fan.

Our concerns retreated as we delved into the menu.

It listed more than 100 dishes, including all the Vietnamese restaurant classics: banh mi, vermicelli noodle and rice variations, lemon-grass-

scented grilled chicken, spring and summer rolls and (of course) pho. But what snared our attention was the menu's back page. None of those offerings had English translations. Curiosity

gripped us.

The server with the best command of English was sent over to guide us through the back page as well as she could. She mentioned hot pots, rabbit, goat, mussels with cheese (!) and salads. A feast soon

covered our pushed-together tables.

We began with a lau (hot pot) filled with seafood, simmering gently on a Sterno-fueled stand. Thick pieces of fish, spindly prawns, mussels and squid dominated the pot, into which we stirred fresh herbs and a pile of vegetables. The real treasure, though, was the broth. In Vietnamese restaurants catering to more American palates, the hot pot liquid is often over-flavored with pineapple and tomato, rendering it cloying. This

earthy brew hummed with a soft, distant sweetness derived

from the seafood. It tasted specific and distinctive, as if prepared by a grandmother who has made the same specialty over and over, mastering her signature flavor profile.

Next came salads, first a lotus root classic with shrimp and pork and then a beef version. The lotus root was cut lengthwise, giving it juicy crunch that stood out among the riot of carrot, daikon and other vegetables tossed into tangled strands. Lime heightened the lotus root, but the beef rang with a pleasant, unexpected note of orange. Both salads epitomized the clean, fresh flavors and textures that often distinguish Vietnamese cuisine.

Mildly curried goat lacked gaminess to the point of suspicion, though the server swore it was truly goat and not chicken, and it did possess goat meat's dark pigmentation. It had been grilled in boneless strips perfect for wrapping in rice paper (which we dipped in a water bowl to soften) and bundled with crunchy vegetables and more Asian herbs and dunked in nuoc cham, the spicy-sweet Vietnamese fish-sauce-based condiment.

Rabbit tasted more characteristic, though the meat was cut into rough pieces with the bone still attached. The most pleasurable aspect of this dish, honestly, was the coconut-milk-based curry sauce, which possessed a uniquely sweet, nutty complexity.

"What region of Vietnam is this food from?" we asked our server.

"My mother and aunt own the restaurant," she answered. "They are from the North but lived in the South, too." That made sense, considering the range of offerings.

The server treated us to a complimentary dessert, a whole coconut filled with coconut-

flavored jelly (we saw them for sale in the refrigerator cases that lined the restaurant's left wall). The jelly was rather pallid in flavor, but our table full of food adventurers otherwise agreed this was some of the most expressive and memorable Vietnamese food we'd tried in the area.

Two subsequent weekday lunches at Nam Hua didn't derail that opinion, though the noontime atmosphere was markedly different.

No smoke, for one thing. No noise, for another: An uncanny silence hung in the air, and the modesty of the restaurant's interior suddenly stood out. The straggling mix of customers mostly ordered the slightly oily but powerfully aromatic pho. A Vietnamese friend preferred the chao, or porridge rice soup

akin to Chinese jook, which reminded him of his mother's – not too thinned out as it is at many restaurants, he said. We doctored the chao with soy sauce and plenty of Sriracha hot sauce.

Beyond the chao, the translated menu held other riches. Banh xeo, the rice flour construct with a texture somewhere between a crepe and an omelet, was one of the most exactingly executed I've ever come across. Its impressively greaseless edges were crisp and lacy, but its center verged on custardy. We wrapped portions of the banh xeo in lettuce leaves, plunked the whole affair heavily in nuoc cham, and gobbled messily and happily.

A barbecued pork banh mi, the famous Vietnamese sandwich, came on a crusty baguette. Bargain price: $2.50. Clay pot catfish, though not technically served in a clay pot, arrived bubbling in thick, savory caramel sauce. It took navigating through occasional bony patches with chopsticks to gather thick pieces of the fish.

But, despite the many absorbing options with perfectly good translations, I couldn't shake my fascination with the menu's back page. Our server this time wasn't able to interpret more than a word or two. I was after an oddity the staffer from that first night had mentioned: mussels and cheese. After several guesses, I pointed at chem chep nuong bo.

"Shell," she said.

"Yes!" I cried.

Bingo, indeed. Out from the kitchen came mussels grilled on the half-shell, each sprinkled with scallions and smeared with a bit of cream cheese that had cooked down to the consistency of creamy goat cheese. The server set down the owners' signature condiment, a lightly jellied chile sauce. It was a combination unlike any other, the mussels smoky (in a good way) from the grill, with the thick cream cheese hinting at French influences in the Vietnamese cuisine but with the chile sauce grounding the dish firmly in Asian culinary traditions.

More escapades to Nam Hua are obviously in the works. In these trusted hands, the next quest may be for a little number from the back page called tiet canh vit. Translation (with Google's help): congealed duck blood salad. I hear it leaves quite the metallic aftertaste.

Food {star}{star}{star} Service {star}{star}{star} Atmosphere {star}

Price: $-$$ (spring and summer rolls $2.50 to $2.95, pho $6.50 to $7.50, rice and noodle dishes $6.50 to $12.50, most specialty dishes $12.95 to $28.95)

Address: 3112 N. Jupiter Road, Garland

Phone: 972-414-8638

Hours: Tuesday-Thursday

10 a.m. to 10 p.m., Friday-

Sunday 10 a.m. to 11 p.m.

Credit cards: MC, V

Wheelchair accessible: Yes

Smoking area: Yes

Alcohol: BYOB