Saigon, Take Three

My third time in Saigon was lighter on the surprises, but was still satisfying, providing me with all the delicious grilled shellfish I remembered, consistently good random street food, and complete chaos in every other sense.

By memory I sought out Ốc Đào, down its maze of flooded alleys, and introduced my companion to grilled blood cockles with garlic, which were less bloody than some versions but retained their slick oystery tang. Their mussels were cooked only lightly so that they, too, felt more like oysters in the mouth than like mussels, but somehow my companion, who thinks the texture of oysters is disgusting, magically liked both. We both took a leap to new territory with some big, pointy, triangular snails – somewhere between conch and cockle – grilled in sweet fish sauce. The guys at the next table had all coincidentally gone to college in the U.S. and helped us pass the time after dinner, when it poured so hard it flooded the entrance to the restaurant to the depth of about a foot, and we all had to wait for the water level to go down before we could leave

After an arduous temple tour of District 1, there was an abandoned-looking cart with ‘Bánh Canh Cá Lóc’ splashed across the front. As I expressed my disappointment about the apparent abandonment, the old woman who was squatting on the sidewalk a couple doors down selling flowers and magazines yelled a few words, and a young woman appeared and ‘opened’ the cart for business so we could eat snakehead fish udon noodle soup adorned with a bunch of tiny quail eggs.

At night, around the circle surrounding Turtle Lake, vendors were dotted, all equidistant from one another, selling bánh tráng nướng, often translated as Vietnamese pizza, but more closely resembling a quesadilla. One spread a sheet of dry rice paper with an egg mixture, grilled it, coated it with a sauce made of green onions and dried shrimp, and sold it to me for 10,000 dong, handing it over folded in half and wrapped in old newspaper. It was so hot I had to hot-potato it between my hands until I had climbed all the way up to the top of the fountain.

Little crispy fish cake and shrimp bánh khọt from a Vũng Tàu style restaurant were dwarved by the enormous leaves of lettuce they came with, and overpowered by the sprigs of fresh tarragon that were so peppery I sneezed fish sauce all over the table – twice.

On the way to the Fine Arts Museum, there was a bowl of mì quảng that was filled largely – surprise! – with cartilaginous jellyfish limbs? Tentacles?.. and tiny river shrimp that tasted like mackerel.

Just in the next alley from our Airbnb was Liên Hương, one of those vegan medicinal restaurants that lists how each dish will benefit various bodily issues and diseases (sample menu item: “green bananas, oyster mushrooms, fried tofu cooked with lemongrass, curry powder, a good deal of perilla. Quite a balanced dish, little known, tasty, full, beneficial to both the diabetic and the cardiovascular”). We ordered that and a coconut palm bud braised in a clay pot, both of which tasted nothing like anything we’d had before to compare it to. Banana soup? It wasn’t thick. Oyster mushrooms? They weren’t grilled or meaty. And the coconut palm bud had the look of a rock but the texture of slow-and-long-simmered jackfruit (or even pork). To finish it off, we had “pineapple leaf pasta, red bean, and coconut milk juice”, which unlike everywhere else in Vietnam, did not come over-sugared. We both felt energetic and cleansed after this meal, and spent no more total than the regular sit-down restaurant window of 150,000-200,000 dong (US$7-9). I would have been perfectly happy eating at this restaurant every night we were there, but it so happens that 25 varieties of sea snails exist seemingly only in the place I was in for one week, so…

Ốc Lá Lốt

Consider these two summer days in Sài Gòn, one year apart.

1.

I’m perched on a two-foot high plastic stool at a restaurant that’s half dining room, half sidewalk, festooned with plastic shell buckets, and just across a few streets from the narrow alleys of Sài Gòn’s touristy Phạm Ngữ Lão district. The shouts offering taxis, motorbikes, passport photos, buses to Cambodia, Laos, and Thailand, iPhone cases, and marijuana have faded into the background and have been replaced by the ever-present din of constant honking. Not even honking. So constant as to be one, droning, multi-tonal hum.

I’m new to Southeast Asia, so my ears still register this as alarming, rather than white noise. Also, I’m eatingplatefuls of snails, which just became my favorite food about 24 hours ago. Coconut snails. Blood cockles. Spotted, leopard-print snails.

Julian is ambling across the street, camera in hand, parting the sea of motorbikes by what looks like magnetic repulsion. He stops in the middle. The middle of the street! He raises his camera. Are you kidding me, Julian? The middle of the street?

Click.

2.

I’m way outside Phạm Ngữ Lão this time, miles out, in the very local Bình Tân district, walking aimlessly, deftly avoiding potholes, uneven sidewalk edges, and space-invading motorbikes. Since I’m white and I’m not hefting a giant backpack and I’m not at the bus station that serves points south and Cambodia, I don’t fit into this picture at all. I fit in even less because I’m angry, storming down the street after a fight with Julian, looking neither right nor left at the shops, parks, homes, or street stalls around me.

At some point, I arrive at a T-junction. Directly in front of me is a never-ending whirlwind of helmets, wheels, brushed plastic, and exhaust. Directly in front of THAT is a lady standing at a trio of grills, all covered with little cigar-looking blackish-green things. Surrounding her are buckets of vegetables, vermicelli, and what I gather are raw versions of the cigar things, looking a much brighter green and more like tamales in that state.

The smoke from her grills overpowers even the exhaust: caramelizing meat and some kind of pungent leaf. Suddenly drained of all anger and filled with the singular desire to try whatever is happening on the far side of the street, I find my way home, retrieve Julian, bring him back, and sit down on another two-foot high plastic stool. Then we await whatever happens to people when they sit there.

—

I’m in the U.S. now, albeit in perhaps the best place in the U.S. to approximate Vietnam – the greater Los Angeles area – and finding either snails or anything wrapped in betel leaves is not easy. So you can imagine my surprise when I stumble upon a restaurant that serves ốc lá lốt – snail sausage wrapped in betel leaves: a combination of the two most potent Vietnamese food-memories I possess.

When we walk in, the lady at the front takes one look at us and runs away, into the kitchen. The young waitress who follows her back out in a minute says cautiously, “How may I help you?”

“Well… we’d like to sit down and order food?” Suddenly, my social script interrupted. I don’t even know how to be at a restaurant.

She’s embarrassed because they don’t have an English menu. “Don’t worry,” I tell her, but she doesn’t really believe me. “We have pork and broken rice…” she says, trailing off, before I see what’s on the wall behind me and laughingly, stumblingly order the snail in betel leaves.

Without the frenetic, honking drone and the pouring sweat and the two-foot high plastic stools, it’s hard to approximate urban Vietnam. Chả Ốc Gia Huy is about as close as it gets. The kitchen is open and aromatic, divided from the eating area only by a tiny counter. The menu is an afterthought, jumbled onto one laminated page. Workers at the next table mix cha and load leaves with the mixture, rolling them up as deftly as any cigarette-rolling hipster. Their workspace takes up one out of three of the available tables in the restaurant, and puts the laborious process on display for all to see. It makes eating the result all the sweeter. Sometimes, you DO want to see how sausages are made. There’s something about looking at the raw sludge of filling and the bright green vegetation, separated and in bowls, while biting into a sweet, caramelized, crackling bundle of umami and marveling at the power of fire and spice.

What cements the mental teleportation, though, is their bún mắm, an anchovy-laden, muddy-looking broth filled with shrimp, pork, fish balls, and vegetation. On another visit, my dad took a spoonful and immediately said, “I’m back in Ha Noi.” From behind the counter, the waitress, a different one this time, peeked at him drinking the last dregs of the broth from the bowl and smiled. Not twenty minutes earlier she had been trying to convince us that bun mam was perhaps not the best choice for our American tastebuds. I’d heard it before from the guy at Ha Tien Quan and heeded the warning about as much this time.

Ốc Đào: Worth the hype

As long as I'm reviewing Hồ Chí Minh city restaurants that have expanded their fame to international levels (see: Bánh Xèo 46A), I may as well stay on that path and divulge that the place I will miss the most isn't a hidden gem, or an unassuming street stall, or totally inaccessible to tourists or anything.  It's even another Bourdain-vetted place.*

Ốc Đào.

Its address is a uniquely Saigonesque maze, including not only the implication that the place is in an unnamed alley off the main street, but is tucked away on one of four branches of the alley (A, B, C, and D) that are completely unlabeled.  Passing by about fourteen nail salons, a bunch of domestic doorways with curious old people peering out of them, and some too-interested dogs, I thought for sure we were going the wrong way.  But we weren't.

My waiter, the nephew of the owner, said he waits on foreigners all the time.  He's the designated foreigner-waiter because of his good English.  As I sat down for the first time, the fluttering of menus and giggling surrounding me dispersed in the same direction - to go get this guy, Linh, an enthusiastic twenty-year-old who immediately squired me to the cooks' area to look at all the snails.  Big coiled oblong snails, tiny flat snails, corkscrew-shaped snails, leopard-spotted snails, striped snails.  Not to mention the splayed salty flesh of oysters, mussels, scallops, and clams.

After I'd made my choice, we sat down together and I tried to help him learn the English names for the dishes on his menu.  It was nearly impossible.  The Vietnamese have a different name for every species of edible snail, whereas we... well, we hardly have a mental concept for an edible snail in the first place.  I was able to translate 'mussels', 'scallops', and 'lemongrass' and that was about it.  (As a bonus, I eventually ordered all the things I translated!)

---

The first night, chosen right from a living lineup:

Ốc bông me: snails in tamarind sauce

These snails were rich, slickly orange and sweet-sour, punctuated occasionally with candle-waxy stubs of pork fat.  The snail flesh resisted pulling with toothpicks, and it was a joy the few times one came out in one perfect piece, curled inner coil and all, whole and ready for swishing in fish sauce, spearing with rau răm, and dragging through chili-lime paste.

Sò điệp mỡ hành: scallops with peanuts and green onions

As many scallops as I've eaten in my life, I never knew they came in such a picturesque shell.  When I saw their scalloped edges, a lightbulb burned suddenly in my brain.  That's why they're called scallops!

Smaller than I'm used to, and tougher, with a texture more like a firm white-fish than the silky smoothness of raw scallops or the striped firm flan texture of scallops on a barbecue, these were a wholly new scallop experience to me.

---

The second night: ordered confidently from the menu after some internet research and translating:

Chem chép mỡ hành: mussels with peanuts and green onions

Though these mussels had the same preparation as the scallops the first night, they had a much stronger flavor.  Apart from a ring of snapping rubber, the flesh was yielding and full of ocean.

Note the appearance of green mango spears in the upper left-hand corner: I finally caught on that the roving bands of snack-toting women had things to offer other than baguettes and packets of 10 quail fetuses.  (3 or 4 quail fetuses would have been fine; 10 is pushing it.)

     Ốc hương xào sả : leopard-spotted snails steamed with lemongrass

Usually snail flesh itself doesn't taste like much: it just serves as a vehicle for flavor.  This type of snail has a distinct taste: fishy, kind of froggy even, with a bouncy texture.  Since steaming with lemongrass is not a hit-you-over-the-head kind of preparation, the dish needed the natural flavor of the snails to come through.

Also, rambutan had appeared by now (upper right).  It was placed without comment next to me by a smiling older waitress.  Grateful, I dug into them with my hopelessly greasy fingers.  Like little sponges, the rambutan skin soaked up the oil, cleaning my hands better than any towel.

---

Expensive by Hồ Chí Minh City standards, each meal cost me the stunning sum of US$5.

Had I had another month there, I would have returned six or seven times.  Enough to sweep their menu.  Enough to extract snails from their shells blindfolded and armed only with one dull safety pin.

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*I may generally shy away from famous places, but if I'm going to culinarily follow someone around Vietnam, it's Anthony Bourdain.  Anyone who has the kind of credentials he does, and the connections to eat with, and at, the sweethearts of the food world, and still calls Vietnam his favorite food place, choosing to move to Vietnam for a year... that person might just be my tastebud twin.

Quận Bình Dân, Part 1

I spent my first 12 days in Hồ Chí Minh City in one of the the outer districts: a far cry from downtown and the backpacker areas.  Bình Dân has the highest population of any district (as well as the highest migrant population) but aside from a few nods to its west bus station, it's not mentioned in any tourist guidebooks.  It's skirted over even on websites dedicated to mentioning things about HCMC districts, meriting two entire sentences.

I wasn't so naive as to expect quaint, undiscovered gems to burst from every picturesque corner, or to return singing the praises of the 'real, unspoiled' HCMC.

What I expected was open friendliness mixed with curiosity, neighborliness, and merely decent but extremely cheap grub, and for the most part, this is exactly what I got.

(Links on dish names below lead to an approximate Google map location of where I ate them.)

The first day, snakehead fish porridge (cháo cá lóc) eased me gently into what I remembered best about Vietnam: its ability to stuff more flavor into things than has any right to be there.  The porridge's deceptively oatmeal-like exterior yielded to waves of pepper and caramelized onion as well as seemingly more fish than could physically fit in such a tiny bowl.  In case my tastebuds were bored, sliced limes, three kinds of chili sauce, salt, sweet soy, and hoisin were of course provided.

$1.25

That night, after watching groups of shirtless, sweating men play đá cầu in the park, I approached a man with a cart whose tiny sign said "Bún riêu cua, 12000".  What he brought out about 8 seconds after I ordered it had marinated tofu, fish cakes, a glistening blood cube, plenty of crab cake shreds, a plump tomato, and a biting tomato-seafood flavor, almost like cioppino.

$0.60

Good broken rice (cơm tấm) is a tough find in Vietnam, because the name is applied to every stale-riced, soggy-porked buffet languishing on the street.  My rule is if there is no one cooking any meat at the stall, I don't stop.  This particular stand had no less than twenty grilling porkchops on a knee-high grill by the gutter, plus a bonus line full of old ladies.  Old ladies know exactly what they are doing, so I joined it.

One old lady's grandson graciously helped me order, and I joined the throngs pressed knee to knee at the metal tables behind the cart.  The egg cake relied heavily on noodles and mushrooms rather than Little Saigon's pervasive pork, while the bi was as powdery, savory, and wriggly as I could have hoped.  The fat, candy-red lạp xưởng sausage tasted like strawberry sugared meat candy, which I wasn't feeling, but the highlight was absolutely the fresh-grilled pork chop, whose salty crust broke to veritably ooze meat juice wherever it was bitten.

$2.00

Last year's HCMC highlight was snails.  I hadn't realized, though, that snail/seafood restaurants popped into existence every night on nearly every corner of the city, downtown or not.  Addresses which at lunchtime were barred, deserted, and dusty transformed upon the setting of the sun into sprawling lots of tables and fish-tanks.

The first snail place I saw in my neighborhood was modest: just a woman throwing molluscs in a wok and a little table set up with about a platter's worth of each species. I stopped to check it out; an eager old man hobbled up and took my arm. "Ốc Hương," he barked, waiting for me to repeat after him. When I did, he moved my hand, and his, to the next bowl. "Sò Điệp," he asserted. "Nghêu. Chem chép. Ốc mỡ."  And so on.

When he had named all the varieties, he seemed satisfied that I was now well-schooled in the art of shellfish.  He shook my hand, said 'Bye!' and was gone, which surprised me, because I had thought that he worked there!

Feeling nostalgic for last year, I got the blood cockles, which she threw in the wok almost as soon as I uttered their name.  They came to the table coated in rau răm leaves, which stuck to the firmly closed shells.  Blood cockles are one of the only varieties of shellfish that don't open when cooked.  You need some serious fingernails to dig their stubborn shells open.  Here, their color wasn't so shockingly red and the texture was slightly more raw oyster than clam.  I also had to discreetly drop a few bad ones on the floor.  Overall, though, it was a happy reunion.

$2.50

My second snail restaurant was fancier, a lot covered in corrugated iron.  It had chairs with actual backs.  A skinny cat sharpened its claws on a stack of Heineken boxes and the waitresses giggled at my side, occasionally saying things like "Rice!" or "Chicken!" when I got to the relevant page of the menu.  No thanks, ladies - I am here for snails.  Bring me a big plate of ốc mỡ with garlic and onions!

And they did, but they also brought out a plate of seafood fried rice that I definitely did not order.  No matter.  The snails were mealy at certain ends and rubbery at others, but I swear you can put that lime-salt-pepper mixture on anything and cover it with garlic, cilantro, and rau răm and it'll be delicious.  Also, a platter of trứng cút lộn?  There's no better feeling than having waitresses watch you expectantly, waiting for you to gag on an unexpected baby duck beak, and instead ending up watching you pop three in a row.

$3.50 for the snails alone, $6 for the lot

To be continued...

Stumbling on snails

Before last year, it never really occurred to me to eat snails.

It never occurred to me to NOT eat them either.  They were just creatures that surfaced in apocalyptic numbers after a rain, lining the sidewalks with suicidal determination.  Little molluscs whose intentions I anthropomorphized when they slowly waved their tiny feelers at me as I relocated them to the safety of the bushes.

"Hey asshole, I was halfway across that sidewalk!"

Despite their resemblance to delicious sea creatures like conches and oysters, and despite their fancy French pedigree as escargot, I just never looked at them as lunch.

And then Vietnam happened.

We'd arrived in Saigon at 5:30 that morning after a hellish overnight train ride in upright seats with a terribly dubbed Alvin and the Chipmunks playing on repeat on the train's TV.

This picture about sums it up.  An eye-mask and a neck-pillow were not sufficient pacifiers.

The hostel desk clerk was asleep on a couch by the front desk and no amount of shouting and knocking could rouse him.  So we were forced to sit in the park and watch impossibly early-rising and spry senior citizens make their morning exercise rounds until about 7:00, when we were finally let in to take a much deserved-nap.

When we woke up at 11:00, we were starving, and Bến Thành Market was right there to help.

Now, Bến Thành Market is an earsplitting hotbox of frenetic activity, stalls jammed wall to wall, signs stacked five high, shouting proprietors grabbing your arm and pointing wildly at their wares.

Thanks, Wikipedia - that looks about right.  I would have taken my own picture except moving my arm would have meant drawing attention to my existence and being given no other choice but to purchase 100 belts, áo dài, and bowls of rice noodles.

At the time, I could technically read and understand about half of the Vietnamese menus I saw.  In practice, though, this didn't matter.  I was unable to stop moving long enough to read the words, lest I be physically maneuvered into a chair and practically hand-fed (this literally happened in Korea - I wrote about it here).

So rather than try to read anything, I just decided to look for unfamiliar text and slide into whichever stall advertised it.  Thus, snails.

Also, this snail-cookin' lady didn't even try to get me to eat there.  Reverse psychology works, guys!

This was my first snail meal ever...

Garlic oil snails with pepper.

... and it was so good - simply, freshly, three-ingredient-ly good - that it spurred a mad dash around Saigon looking for more.  I actually came back to the same place the next day, while I obsessively Googled further possibilities.  And I NEVER eat at the same place twice when I travel.

Apple snails with lemongrass (+ bonus jackfruit smoothie).

My Googling eventually led me to a place called Quán ốc út Trang (which I briefly mentioned once before).  It was dead during the day, overflowing at night, and served a staggering array of sea creatures, beef tendon and intestines, duck tongue, random animal cartilage, and yes, snails.

Not that we could tell by the menu what kind of snails they were.

Nail screws, anyone?  How about some horse property?  Chem Copy?  No?  Really?  Well, trenches and EFA sure sound delicious.

Our first half hour consister of me trying to shrink into my plastic bench and disappear while Julian giggled, cackled, roared, and snapped pictures of the utterly unhelpful yet hilarious menu.

Google Translate actually comes up with 'junk' instead of 'interesting components', so you could argue they were going for positivity here.

This page was doing pretty well until the Building Ireland part.

Our next half hour, however, consisted of me threatening to leave Julian for a Vietnamese snail farmer so I could eat like this every day.

Snails are such perfect, mildly-shellfish-tinged bases for flavor, and they combine that with being really, really maddeningly hard to get out of their shells.

But we like food that makes us work for it, you know?  

We love smashing crab legs with little wooden hammers and digging the claw meat out with metal picks.  

We stand at our cutting boards spattering pomegranate juice all over the kitchen, making it (and our hands) look like a bloody murder scene, just for the privilege of a few arils of yummy juice.

We cry as we chop endless onions, cut ourselves shucking oysters, scrape ourselves picking blackberries, and ferment grapes for decades just to have a glass of wine with dinner.

So by extension, coconut snails we have to dig out with safety pins must be about the most coveted dish ever, right?

No, I'm not exaggerating - you do have to dig them out with safety pins.

I'm not going to say that snails are always delicious.  They depend on what they're cooked in.  What they are is a fantastic excuse for flavor experimentation, and particularly in Vietnam, showerings of herbs and oil.  The above-pictured dish - coconut snails - was a rich, silky, tropical indulgence.  The two above (apple and garlic snails) were more refreshing, just vehicles for fresh spices and herbs. 

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Where to find snails in Orange County:

I have had snails only twice since returning to the states, both at the same place.  The first time, I got a dish whose name I don't remember - but they were basically little garlic snails you pry out with a toothpick.  They were delicious, with a savory-light sauce.  The second time, I got ốc len xào dừa - snails in coconut sauce - hoping they'd be the same as the Saigon safety pin snails above.  They weren't - they were excessively slimy and almost cloying.

So attempt if you dare - but it's only a $5 gamble, so really, there's no reason not to.  Also, they serve hột vịt lộn* - I tried their version over the weekend and the baby I got was barely developed.  It would be a great place to start if you're squeamish.

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*When I ordered the snails, the lady behind the counter was all "UH, YOU KNOW SNAILS RIGHT?" but when I ordered the hột vịt lộn she didn't blink an eye.  I think this may say something interesting about what different cultures think other cultures are apt to find distasteful.

Part II: Trứng cút lộn

(continued from Part I) 

Saigon, early September.

The Ben Thanh Market had just taught me that I.  Loved.  Snails!

My whole trip quickly turned into a snail quest.  I wanted to try every variety of snail that Saigon had to offer, and quickly, because I only had four days.

This quest is a story for another entry, but suffice it to say it led me to Quán Ốc Út Trang in District 1.  Blood cockles and clams and coconut snails, oh my!

Julian risked life and limb to get this photo: he's standing in on the center line of a busy Saigon street!  Ha ha, just kidding, Saigon streets don't have lane markers.  He is in the center, though.

On every table sat a bowl full of quail eggs.  This was not unusual: lots of Vietnamese restaurants offer bowls full of quail eggs.  Usually, they're hardboiled.  You snack on as many as you want during your meal, and pay for however many you eat.  You know, like the Cokes in hotel fridges, except the quail eggs cost about 5 cents instead of 8 dollars.

Here is just such a bowl of quail eggs next to a delicious helping of bánh canh cá in Huế .

(An aside: I initially thought the quail eggs were free, like chips and salsa in Mexican restaurants, and was subsequently chased down a Huế street by a money-pouch-waving lady.  I never made that mistake again.)

Anyway, Quán Ốc Út Trang's bowl of quail eggs aroused no suspicions.  As I euphorically cracked cockles, unwound large snails from their shells, and plied the smaller snails with safety pins, I absentmindedly peeled a quail egg and stuck it in my mouth.

Surprise!  Quail fetus!

Thanks, Viet Street Food.  The immediate nature of my quail fetus dining experience did not allow me to take my own photo.

Without all the heavy baggage accompanying my first taste of hột vịt lộn, I was able to dine on the egg in the manner that it deserved.  It was cool, salty, crunchy, gamey, and gave satisfyingly easy access for a diner previously concentrated on laboriously extracting shelled animals from their shells.

In this breezy, natural context, these trứng cút lộn were to my snails as French fries are to a hamburger, falafel balls are to shawarma, poi is to Kalua pork, or naan is to chicken tikka masala.

Not a nightmare; not something to grit your teeth, grin, and bear; not an extreme challenge to conquer.  

Just a refreshing, complementary snack.

---- 

Where to find various bird fetuses in Orange County:

I haven't seen the quail version, but there are a few places to get the duck version.

The place which provided me with my first taste of hột vịt lộn is:

Hột Vịt Lộn Long An 
8942 Bolsa Ave
Westminster, CA 92683

I've also heard good things about:

C&C Express
9200 Bolsa Ave St 308
Westminster, CA 92683

While I haven't had them myself, one day, while I was waiting for my snails and sugarcane juice to be bagged up, I watched a guy come up and order one egg.  He was extremely specific about the level of development of the duck he wanted, and rather than blow him off, the lady behind the counter took a good two minutes thoughtfully weighing each egg in her hands before carefully selecting one to give him.

Sitting in his mall folding chair with a handful of rau răm and salt in one fist and his egg in the other, taking big old bites and grinning brightly, he looked like the king of the world.

In Los Angeles, there is a market in Echo Park that has almost an entire aisle dedicated to fertilized eggs, and I MAY have seen some quail eggs in there too.  I can't speak to their quality, but there must be some serious turnover if they have an entire AISLE of extremely time-sensitive eggs.  Its info is:

A Grocery Warehouse
1487 W. Sunset Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90026