On September 9, 1883, ominous smoke hung over Huế. The sun was blue-green, and throughout the day, people on the streets had no shadows. As their legitimacy relied on maintaining the Mandate of Heaven, the Nguyễn royal court was alarmed. Three high-ranking mandarins rushed to advise the Emperor to change his ways to regain Heaven’s favor. While this strange incident can be easily dismissed as another case of outdated superstitions, a closer look reveals it as a rare conjunction of astrology, power, and — given the source of the smoke — volcanism, all set against the backdrop of France’s rapid incursion into Vietnam.

The smoke of that baleful day stemmed from the island of Krakatoa in the Sunda Strait, located less than 2,000 kilometers south of Saigon. A vigorous, multi-volcano component of the Ring of Fire, Krakatoa showed the first signs of eruption on May 20, 1883, when a strong earthquake reached as far as the Dutch East Indies capital of Batavia (now Jakarta, Indonesia), rattling doors and windows. The following day, plumes of whitish steam and thick black smoke soared from various vents across the island, and molten rock burned away the lush vegetation on the volcanic slopes. This smoldering phase continued all summer; ships entering the Sunda Strait would report large, barnacled chunks of pumice bobbing in the waves. By late August, even passage through the strait became impossible, as ships were bombarded with pumice and ashes falling out of the sky, and around the island, loud bursts were heard every few hours.

A 1801 map of Southeast Asia by English cartographer John Cary. Image via Wikimedia.
The indicator of Krakatoa located towards the bottom left, between Sumatra and Java is added by Saigoneer.

Then, on the morning of August 27, Krakatoa exploded. The noise was so intense that it blew the eardrums of British sailors more than 60 kilometers away and sent shockwaves circling the world three times. Nearly 70% of the island was destroyed, and the pyroclastic flows that gurgled out of its collapse scorched entire Sumatran towns such as Ketimbang, killing more than 4,000 people. Tsunamis swallowed the nearby port city of Merak and crashed against shores as distant as South Africa. At least 21 cubic kilometers of dust and ash were launched into the sky, carried west by high-speed air currents that only scientists in the aftermath would come to identify as jet streams. As noted by British meteorologist Rollo Russell, wherever it spread, this smoke scattered the sunlight, changing the color of the sun into a bluish green, and that of the sky into an ashen grey in the day, then a bloodshot red at sunset. After wafting around the world for two weeks, the smoke entered Vietnamese skies, still thick yet more dispersed, in early September.

Footage from the Japanese weather satellite Himawari-8 of the 2022 Hunga Tonga-Hunga Haʻapai eruption, which was of similar scale to Krakatoa. Image via EUMETSAT.

At the time, the Nguyễn Dynasty was in crisis. The last few years were marked by constant French encroachments, and with the death of the staunch Confucianist Emperor Tự Đức in July 1883, the French saw an opportunity to ramp up these attacks. On August 18, Admiral Amédée Courbet launched a naval assault against the forts at Thuận An Estuary, where the Perfume River led straight into the capital. The three-day raid took the lives of many Nguyễn soldiers, including commander Trần Thúc Nhẫn who jumped into the sea to his death.

Victorious, the French marched inland, and Commissioner François-Jules Harmand gave the court an ultimatum, vowing that if they rejected French demands, then “even the worst catastrophe you can imagine will fall short of what will happen to you. The Empire of Annam, its dynasty, its princes and its courtiers will have chosen their own extinction. The name of Vietnam will be erased from history.”

On August 25, the same day Krakatoa entered its critical phase, representatives of Emperor Hiệp Hoà signed the Treaty of Huế (Hòa ước Harmand) with the French, which recognized French protectorate over their territory, renounced their own diplomatic independence, and allowed Bình Thuận Province to be annexed into the colony of Cochinchina. While the treaty was slightly revised in 1884, it had effectively put an end to Vietnamese sovereignty.

One of the few portraits of Hiệp Hoà (left) and an artist's interpretation (right). Images via Khám phá Huế.

Let us now return to the morning of August 27. According to a report by British officer Richard Strachey to the Royal Society, as soon as Krakatoa erupted, its sounds were heard in Cape St. James (now Cà Mau, 1,800 km away) and Saigon (1,873 km away). That only two such locations in Vietnam were named was likely because Cochinchina had become a full colony and saw a stronger European presence than the rest; since the shockwaves circled the globe three times, it is possible that people elsewhere in the country heard the sounds too. Their wide propagation is also implied in Notes sur l’Annam (Notes on Annam) by explorer Etienne Aymonier. In his volume on Khánh Hoà, published in 1885, Aymonier wrote:

It is difficult to gauge just how much of this frantic response was real or exaggerated; however, the panic is not unimaginable given the intensity of the sounds. According to Richard Strachey’s report, in Singapore, there was no way to talk on the telephone line until 3pm; by shouting at the top of their lungs, both ends could hear each other, but “not one single sentence was understood.” More than 2,000 km west, in the landlocked Sri Lankan town of Bogawantalawa, the sounds “were like blasting [from the northeast] and kept on all day, from 7:30 a.m. till 4 p.m.” And far down south, in Western Australia, a local newspaper wrote that people were startled by a series of loud, artillery-like sounds, which continued “at irregular intervals till about 4 p.m. on Monday [August 27].” Sometimes, noted the newspaper, there were as many as three explosions in a minute, but “generally there was a few minutes’ interval.” With this context, we can infer that people not just in Bình Thuận, but all over Vietnam could have heard the eruption, and with the bombardment of Thuận An still fresh in their minds, many were driven to panic.

Then, two weeks later, came the strangely colored sun. An entry in the official chronicle Đại Nam thực lục (Veritable Records of Đại Nam) described that baleful day as follows:

Let us pause to situate the three mandarins’ appeal in their political lives. Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were all regents appointed by the late Tự Đức, who died without an heir. At first, they picked his 30-something adopted son, but to Thành’s horror, Thuyết and Tường teamed up to depose the new monarch after only three days for improper conduct. On July 30, the three regents crowned Hiệp Hoà, Tự Đức’s younger brother. Fearful for both his throne and his life, Hiệp Hoà quickly sought to make peace with the French, which also enraged the patriotic Thuyết and Tường.

After Hiệp Hoà approved the treaty of August 25 with Thành’s support, Thuyết and Tường devised a plot to remove Hiệp Hoà too. Seeing their conduct as a flagrant abuse of power, Thành retired to his manor north of the Perfume River. On November 28, while the French representative was away from Huế, Tường arrested Hiệp Hoà on charges of collaborationism, put him in jail, and poisoned him to death. On the night of November 30, Thành was murdered at home by unknown burglars; later historians suspected it was an assassination orchestrated by Tường and Thuyết themselves.

Tôn Thất Thuyết (left) and Nguyễn Văn Tường (right). Images via Wikimedia.

With such contexts, it is surprising that Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were appealing to Hiệp Hoà together, as noted by the official historical record Đại Nam thực lục, in response to the Krakatoa sun. Did it alarm them so much that they set aside their differences and rushed to warn the Emperor? Could there also be hidden motives for Thuyết and Tường, who already disliked Hiệp Hoà anyway? For although courtiers often saw astronomical phenomena as signs for their kingdom, they may also exploit these to their advantage.

In the 1430s, Bùi Thì Hanh rose to prominence for his forecasting; he would use this knack for astronomy to gain favors from Emperor Lê Thái Tông, becoming chief of the Bureau of Astronomy (Thái sử viện 太史院) until he was exposed for a false lunar eclipse prediction. Combing through Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư, historian Ho Peng Yoke also found that some eclipses had no match in the records of neighboring countries, and may have been invented by later compilers to condemn the kings during whose reigns they occurred, which in fact was a practice among other East Asian dynasties too. In a similar vein, Thuyết and Tường could have seized the rare opportunity of a blue-green sun to strike fear into Hiệp Hoà’s heart. Whether or not they had such motives, their appeal worked, based on Hiệp Hoà’s reaction. Unfortunately, this was not enough to prevent his fall three months later.

An illustration by William Ashcroft of a typical dramatic sunset after Krakatoa, as seen from London in 1883. Image via Bodleian Libraries/University of Oxford.

Krakatoa was not the Nguyễn’s first rodeo with volcanoes. In 1815, Mount Tambora erupted, causing a drop in global temperatures and adverse weather effects for years to come. In Europe, the cold, stormy summer simply inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein, but in Vietnam, it led to a widespread famine and a Bengal-born cholera outbreak that killed hundreds of thousands of people, including the great poet Nguyễn Du. Still, the regime was able to pull through, thanks in part to Minh Mạng’s quick reactions by relieving taxes, distributing monetary aid, and supplying medicine to localities despite not fully understanding the disease himself.

Krakatoa, conversely, found the dynasty in a critical spot, with an ineffectual ruler, a domineering pair of regents, and an impending foreign conquest. Thus, although Krakatoa did not seem to take a heavy material toll on the dynasty like Tambora, it still left both the court and the commoners shaken. Whether the residents of Bình Thuận did flee en masse after hearing the explosions as Aymonier described, whether Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường had hidden motives in addressing the blue-green sun to the Emperor, the reality was all the same. The kingdom was no longer as it was under Minh Mạng; if anything, with the treaty signed just days before, it seemed that the kingdom was slouching towards doom.

Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường, the dynamic duo that they were, would go on to enthrone and dethrone another emperor, before settling with the 12-year-old Hàm Nghi. The French would maintain an arrogant, aggressive attitude, convincing the duo of imminent war. On the night of July 4, 1885, Thuyết launched a preemptive attack on the French, who quickly overpowered his forces and burned the citadel. Thuyết got away with the young Emperor and issued the Cần Vương (Aid the King) edict, exhorting patriots nationwide to rise up.

Meanwhile, Nguyễn Văn Tường stayed behind, and was arrested and exiled to Tahiti, ironically a volcanic island itself. He would live here for a year before dying of illness in 1886. That same year, Mount Tarawera erupted in New Zealand, the closest large landmass to Tahiti. It is tempting to wonder if Tường had lived to witness the effects, and if for a moment, far away in exile, he was reminded of that blue-green sun.

Conquering Mount Fansipan’s 3,147 meters was once a feat reserved for those willing to take on the potential multi-day hike from Sapa to the summit and back.

It’s now available to all those willing to spend around VND1 million each on the return cable car journey.

Taking the cable car allows for expansive views of the Lao Chải Valley, with its curved rice paddies eventually giving way to steep cliffs and seemingly impenetrable jungle. At a certain point, the cable car steepens its ascent and takes you through the lingering clouds, revealing Fansipan’s jagged ridge.

The view from the cable car, looking towards the pass at the top of the Lao Chải Valley.

The view evolves as you gain altitude, revealing hidden valleys and prehistoric waterfalls. However, before you know it, you’re swinging into the station, reminding you that you’ve yet to reach your destination.

The valley’s intricate terraced farming from above.

The visitor center and gift shop were bypassed on this trip as it was late in the day and the light was fading fast. The 630 steps to Fansipan’s summit were taken at pace, not least because of the cold and wind. The many steps wind around a multitude of statues and pagodas on your way to the summit, each with a different and seemingly more impressive view than the last. 

Looking back towards Sapa with Hàm Rồng (Dragon Head) mountain perched above.

By some stroke of luck, this visit afforded good visibility in every direction, and Fansipan’s summit did not disappoint. The low, rolling clouds. The ragged peaks extended into the distance. The setting sun illuminated all in its glow. 

Ascending — Fansipans’s peak and assorted pagodas and statues are silhouetted on the narrow ridgeline above.

Bích Vân Zen Monastery.

The summit was quiet at this point as most tourists had departed and left the freezing wind behind. The few that remained rubbed their hands and stamped their feet in an effort to stay warm. Their reward? Seeing the sun dip below the horizon from Vietnam’s highest point.

The sun sets on Vietnam’s highest point.

Descending on the cable car allowed for cold bodies to thaw as a twinkling Sapa re-emerged from the mist.

There was a fear that the cable car would somehow dilute the experience, removing the sense of adventure and accomplishment found in the hard-earned summiting of mountain peaks. While that could easily be argued as being the case, the ease of which these views and this experience can be accessed makes for a memorable trip.

Left: A secluded waterfall hidden in the dense jungle. Right: Mist rolls down the near-vertical cliffs.

Left: Inside Kim Sơn Bảo Thắng Pagoda, sheltered from the cold wind. Right: Kim Sơn Bảo Thắng Pagoda perched below Fansipan’s summit.

The last light catches a ridgeline leading into the distance.

This article was originally published in 2021.

As part of the current crackdown on intellectual property infringement, Vietnam’s Ministry of Public Security recently took down a major network of websites providing illegal anime streaming.

As Tuổi Trẻ reports, on July 1, the Economic, Corruption and Smuggling Crime Investigation Police Force (C03) charged seven people for alleged copyright infringement, four of whom were arrested and also charged with money laundering.

The police investigation shows that, from 2020 until April 2026, five members of the group created over 100 websites hosting and providing streaming service on over 26,000 series and movie titles without permission from IP owners. Their operation had allegedly earned approximately US$12.85 million (VND308.4 trillion) in ad revenue before being shut down just a few months ago.

The streaming websites went through several name changes over the years, but the most current iteration was HiAnime, a well-known media archive with features similar to Netflix.

According to the police, members were paid by foreign advertising companies in cryptocurrency, which was laundered through intermediaries before being transferred to their personal accounts at local banks. They also purchased cars and real estate to hide the true origins of their earnings from authorities.

C03 carried out the crackdown based on intelligence from US organizations, local media reports, including the Homeland Security Investigations (HSI), Motion Picture Association (MPA) and Alliance for Creativity and Entertainment (ACE).

Vietnam has been intensifying efforts to squash piracy and reinforce intellectual property rights in the past months in direct response to complaints from the United States Trade Representative (USTR), which applied the “Priority Foreign Country” status on Vietnam for the first time in 13 years in April 2026.

The designation Priority Foreign Country means that USTR has 30 days to determine whether a formal investigation is warranted. Ambassador Jamieson Greer moved forward with the decision in May, announcing: “While Vietnam has recently taken some steps toward addressing IP concerns that the United States has chronicled over many years in USTR’s Annual Special 301 Report, IP infringement in Vietnam continues to impair the competitive position of U.S. innovators and creators. We need to see Vietnam resolve these long-standing concerns, including on a range of IP enforcement issues, in a manner that is sustained and that deters future IP infringements.”

Japan is also another party with a vested interest in Vietnam’s anti-piracy efforts. In July, Kyodo News reports, the Japanese government presented plans to use official development assistance (ODA) to support 10 developing nations’ efforts to curtail piracy of Japanese anime, games, and manga. These include Southeast Asian infringement hot spots like Indonesia and Vietnam.

According to Kyodo, government data shows that last year, Japan suffered JPY10.4 trillion in losses from illicit media sharing and fake merchandise. The Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), which is in charge of ODA, will start determining local needs in August and supporting funds are expected to be available from April 2027.

Top image via Lao Động.

Authorities believe nine soldiers, alongside artifacts including a military poncho and hammock, are part of a mass grave of about 900 soldiers killed in the 1968 Tết Offensive, according to Tuổi Trẻ. After an eight-year forensics undertaking, local officials have undertaken a mission to recover the remains beneath Lê Thị Riêng Park in Hòa Hưng Ward (former District 10). 

On the morning of July 6, a ceremony was held to initiate the mission in the former Chí Hòa-Chợ Quán cemetery, where it is believed that at least five mass burial trenches are located, between a children's playground and a fishing lake. Onlookers gathered to observe the recovery issues begin with solemnity and appropriately respectful rituals, including incense and flowers. 

Recovery operation in progress. Photo via Dân Trí.

DNA testing has already been performed on some of the remains, with the hope that this will reunite them with family members and foster healing. Successful efforts have recently been undertaken in other areas of the country, with identities of “unknown” soldiers restored. 

Architect Nguyễn Xuân Thắng, a member of the Vietnam Association for Supporting Martyrs' Families, identified the site after years of investigating old photos, maps, satellite images and historical records. Photo dates and verification of four two-story residential blocks alongside a water tower proved essential.

With the support of various departments, ministries and American veterans, the site was identified for exploratory digging that proved accurate, allowing for the current efforts. In addition to unearthing and identifying all the soldiers, leading to their return to families, Thắng noted that “a shared memorial space would be deeply meaningful and provide comfort to the families of the fallen.”

Modern-day Lê Thị Riêng Park. Photo by Tuan Hung at VietnamNet.

The nation-wide, 500-day campaign to accelerate the recovery and identification of fallen soldiers has already recoved more than 1,300 individuals. Taking place from March 15, 2026, to July 27, 2027, it hopes to recover remains of 7,000 martyrs with the support of more than 3,500 personnel. More than 50,000 DNA samples have already been analyzed and entered into a database to reunite the individuals with their families. The undertaking coincides with efforts to clear battlefield sites of unexploded ordnance.

Top photo via Lao Động.

After his Saigon trip in 1972, famed French photographer Raymond Depardon returned in 1992 to traverse the length of Vietnam.

Depardon’s 1992 visit yielded many incredible photos with people as the main subject. There isn’t one photo in the extensive collection that doesn’t feature a local in one way or another, be it a gaggle of laughing children in Hanoi or a pensive young teenager in Lâm Đồng province.

Through the French photojournalist’s lens, 1992 Hanoi doesn't appear that different than in 2017, at least when it comes to buildings and famous landmarks such as the Hoàn Kiếm Lake or the Old Quarter.

Have a gander at Raymond Depardon’s perspectives below:

Outside the general store on Tràng Tiền, Hanoi.

Two Hanoian friends at the Thủy Tạ ice cream shop, Hanoi.

At a coal mine in Quảng Ninh.

Two ladies wearing different styles of clothing in downtown Saigon.

Children play on top a tank carcass in Đông Hà, Quảng Trị.

The Đồng Khởi-Lê Lợi intersection from the Continental Hotel Saigon.

Trying to take a nap on the North-South train.

Outside the police kiosk at the Saigon Train Station.

Parked vehicles on the street.

The exterior of Vinh Quang Cineplex on Pasteur Street.

Posing for a shot in Nha Trang.

Vacationers in Hạ Long. 

Hàng Bông, Hanoi.

A street guitar shop in Hanoi.

Hanoi children in Lenin Park.

A paper shop on Lương Văn Can Street, Hanoi.

A beach dip in Nha Trang.

Locals in Nha Trang have a picnic by the sea.

Hàm Long, Hanoi.

Vendors run after a train to sell refreshments.

A xích lô man reads while waiting for customers.

A gas station in Xuân Lộc, Đồng Nai.

A cafe and makeup parlor in Lâm Đồng.

At 30/4 Park in Saigon.

A fruit vendor in Lâm Đồng.

An entire family squeezing into their seats on the cross-country train.

A port in Hải Phòng.

Hàng Mã, Hanoi.

In recent years, CÚT LỘN has cemented themselves as one of the most recognizable hardcore punk bands to emerge from the Vietnamese underground scene.

Photo by Cá koi lang thang (@cakoilangthang)

Propelled by electrifying performances and an ability to constantly reinvent themselves, CÚT LỘN continues to develop an increasingly radical sound throughout a fairly long career, especially when considered in contrast to the relative youth of the scene. “Dzữa,” their latest album, is steeped in a noise-driven physicality infused with raw energy tinged with a poetic sensibility that marks a shift away from the trash-inspired experimentation that initially defined them. Breaking away from the spirit of their early days, when they embraced a messy aesthetic that didn’t take itself too seriously, they have refined a more direct sound that emphasizes sincerity and a sharp awareness of the world around them, rather than the aggressive, hyper-masculinity so often found in the genre’s canonical imagery. This approach reflects a generation of young people who are seeking emancipation not only through alternative forms of expression but also by creating imaginaries that break free from the stereotypical constraints that could stifle the underground scene itself. I met with the band ahead of their European tour to discuss, amongst other things, their artistic evolution, their perspective on the Saigon music scene, and how touring around the world has broadened their horizons

Quang Sọt (far right) and Sergey (in back). Photo by Martin Kong.

Quang Sọt and Sergey are the two founding members still active in the band they formed in Hanoi in 2018. Quang Sọt is the lead guitarist, while Sergey took up the drums out of necessity. “To be honest I just was very annoyed that I could not find a good drummer for my band,” he noted.

They were joined by Nguyên Lê on bass, who was then working as a sound engineer for concert venues in Hanoi. Nguyên Lê responded as a joke to an online ad from the band, which was looking for a bassist at the time, but ended up joining the band permanently and hasn't left since. In 2021, they moved to Saigon, but it wasn’t until 2024 that Vui Qá, the current lead singer, finally joined the band. He, who at the time had no experience as a frontman, caught the rest of the band’s attention by taking the stage, grabbing the mic, and performing ‘Graffiti Song’ in such a memorable way that there was no hesitation in making him a permanent member of the lineup. The band’s spontaneity is thus evident even in how they’ve integrated members as they’ve evolved, demonstrating their intuition even in recruitment. This approach seems to have paid off, as they now consider their lineup to be solid and unchanging.

Quang Sọt in action. Photo by @saxichuongduong.

In their beginning days, CÚT LỘN stood out for their performances and music videos, in which they wore Pikachu costumes. The group played up a silly, unserious image that quickly set them apart from other bands. As they matured, the group shifted direction, taking themselves more seriously and embracing complex emotions that could no longer be reflected through the symbol of the juvenile mask, which, moreover, gets unbearably hot during live performances.

“We had so much fun in the first like five years when we were playing crossover trash midi hardcore but then we felt like we reached a point that firstly the Pikachu costume doesn’t fit the band anymore,” Nguyên Lê explains.

This decision to abandon the disguise allowed them to grow out of a style they had come to find limiting and to explore new creative territories.

The Pikachu era. Photo courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

As they mature, their music grows increasingly dark, and the album concepts — always centered around the image of the egg — reflect this transformation. While the band’s name reflects the embryonic nature of the group at the time of its creation (cút lộn is a fertilized quail egg), the title of their second album, “Bắc Thảo” (century egg) reflects a sound that has darkened over time and gained a more intense flavor.

The allegory of the egg is carried forward in the title of their latest album, “Dzữa,” which is intended to reflect a shift stemming not only from their increased maturity but also from their perception of the world around them. The album’s sound aims to reflect an era of crisis, where culture, the economic system, and politics seem to be falling apart. Hence, the image of the trứng dzữa, an egg that is nearly rotten but still edible and whose interior is in a state of decay and parts of which are shattered, mirrors the universe poetically described through the lyrics written by Vui Qá.

The album, which is particularly refined, was nonetheless a painful process for the band members, who were heavily occupied with other commitments at the time. From this constraint emerged a creative process in which the members worked in layers. One of them would arrive with an initial demo, after which the rest would come together to add new touches one by one and reorient the song’s emotion as they went along. Thus, if the first draft was a block of raw aggression, the second musical layer would seek to bring more poetry to the song, and so on, adding complexity to music they were determined not to let become dull and monochromatic.

Once the instrumental part was finished, the musicians would get Vui Qá and take him to Bomb’s place — a key sound engineer and true pillar of the local hardcore scene — so he could start writing lyrics, and then they’d doze off while he began recording his vocals. This piecemeal modus operandi is also reflected in their visuals, the music video for the title ‘Cà Phê Sáng’ was created exclusively from concert footage filmed on a camcorder by videographer Vinatapes, who then glitched the footage to achieve a look that captures the spirit of decay they convey in their music.

Cà Phê Sáng (Official VHS Video). Video via CÚT LỘN's YouTube.

Although firmly rooted in the local scene, the band aspires to expand its reach internationally and has already toured East and Southeast Asia, including Thailand, South Korea, the Philippines, Malaysia, Cambodia, China, etc. Countering anticipated cultural differences, these trips have instead allowed them to anchor themselves in the crossover nature of an international community whose values transcend borders, and the encounters made during these trips have comforted them in sharing common anti-establishment core values with their peers.

“For this kind of community, I think it is the same everywhere. Every tour feels like we met friends, because this spirit is international.” Vui Qá says.

While the tours entail significant expenses, the group is able to offset these sometimes substantial investments through the sale of merchandise, wherein they can expand their creative expression not only via clothing but also through unusual items like a hot sauce bearing the band’s image, which, incidentally, was delicious.

The band's hot sauce Cayvailon. Image courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

Experiencing major scenes abroad allows them a newfound perspective on the state of the Saigon punk scene, which they have observed evolve since its inception. They are pleased to see that in recent years, the number of bands has increased dramatically, accompanied by an ever-growing audience. This development is part of a broader trend of expanding subcultures in Saigon, which often interact with one another due to the still-small size of these circles — a permeability that is part of the charm of Saigon’s underground scene.

But young people’s growing interest in these alternative forms of expression is hampered by the economic difficulties and pressure faced by clubs and concert venues, which have been closing one by one in recent years, foreshadowing a period of struggle in the years ahead. While the DIY tradition fosters solidarity within the community — particularly through the sharing of equipment — CÚT LỘN laments the lack of access to quality venues and sound systems, revealing the significant strain on Saigon’s music venues.

CÚT LỘN at a live gig. Photo by Martin Kong.

At the time of writing, CÚT LỘN is getting ready to embark on a European tour. They are profoundly grateful for the opportunity to travel to so many countries and reach such a milestone, and the response to the tour announcement has been overwhelmingly positive, revealing a level of enthusiasm from an international audience that the band itself hadn’t anticipated. But, beyond the apparent glamor, a tour like this is extremely exhausting for an independent act, and Quang Sọt — the only driver with an international license — will be handling the tour van in addition to performing at every show, sometimes playing back-to-back dates in different countries for five days straight. He adds nuance to the positive reactions received following the tour announcement, clarifying that he doesn’t want to use it as a way to “show off,” and above all, doesn’t want CÚT LỘN to be reduced to being one of the few Vietnamese artists to have pulled off a large-scale tour in Europe. For him, this tour comes at a time when the entire band is fully convinced of their artistic prowess, and traveling represents an opportunity to connect with new audiences and share their musicianship around the world.

“We really know where we are. We know where our music is. We want to share it,” he summarizes.

CÚT LỘN's European tour poster.

“Remember to write that we’re nerds!” Vui Qá tells me as we’re concluding our interview. Indeed, CÚT LỘN’s approach to being hardcore resides in the attitude of not trying to act according to the tough tropes usually found in these genres, preferring to appear as true as they are. They want to walk in front in the audience with a genuine attitude, embracing their individual offstage personalities. It is this feature that sets their performances apart from the conventions of hardcore punk. While some bands focus on perfecting their attitude and stage presence, the members of CÚT LỘN are primarily concerned with having fun on stage and delivering a nerve-racking performance, increasingly blurring the line between themselves and their audience. Their style is noisy and distorted, and raw energy is their main focus, as that is what remains fundamental to them, far beyond the lyrics or even the compositions. Their motto is that they have nothing to prove on stage, no matter how nerdy they look, and that’s what gives them such a unique and poignant presence. I believe this is what it means to be a punk in the current era: embracing being cute while maintaining a sincere approach without trying to perform another persona. And this approach proves to be infectious and liberating in a context where opportunities for cathartic expression are becoming scarce.

“If you happen to pass by Huỳnh Mẫn Đạt Street in Hồ Chí Minh City
There’s a strange bar with a Mekong theme
Where cải lương is performed every Saturday, a piece of our hometown heritage
Beside the show, you’ll have a chat with Đờn Ca Đó Đây troupe
A Mekong corner in the middle of skyscrapers”

This intriguing invitation appeared on my social media, a whimsical suggestion in the middle of Saigon. As someone who grew up to the sounds of Mekong Delta folk melodies, I was immediately curious of the promise of a đờn ca tài tử experience inside a city bar. Upon doing more research, I learned that the venue was just one of many spontaneous stages of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, a collective of young Vietnamese who found one another in their quest to promote the beauty of southern đờn ca tài tử arts in the mid of Saigon.

From random encounters to a borderless space for đờn ca

As a performance art form, southern đờn ca tài tử has been around for over a hundred years. This genre of folk performance had its start in the ceremonial orchestral music from Huế — which originated from court music itself — but under the influence of folk music in the south. At first, it followed musicians and artists from the central region as they emigrated to the south, and then was adapted to the local culture. Đờn ca tài tử reflects the sentiments, spirits, and living circumstances of communities living in this new land of natural resources. The end of the 19th century was the apex of đờn ca tài tử, when melodies, compositions, and techniques were created and systematized in documentations, becoming a comprehensive wealth of folk art that has continued to exist alongside southern Vietnamese.

A đờn ca tài tử troupe in Saigon in 1911. Photo via Wikipedia.

I managed to arrange a phone call with Đỗ Thanh Phong, the leader of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, on an afternoon when I was visiting my hometown in the delta. I sat on the deck in the back of our homestead, with a placid river and thickets of swaying mangroves in front of my eyes, as I listened to Phong’s stories. Our conversation flowed in and out amid the rustling breeze and memories of a đờn ca lover living in Saigon. These contrasting settings somehow meet in the middle, where these melodies ring.

Members of Đờn Ca Đó Đây.

Although Phong is quite busy handling tasks at his own office job, he still channels as much effort as he can to sustain folk arts. Phong himself can play đàn tranh, or Vietnamese zither, on a novice level, and is tasked with connecting collective members, envisioning group directions, and helping to maintain cohesion without losing freedom.

True to its name, Đờn Ca Đó Đây was born of impromptu performances.

Phong reminisced about the early days at Lê Văn Tám Park in Saigon, where they first convened to play together: “Back in the days, we often met at the park. Right in between busy streets and crazy traffic, there was one corner where the mood turned contemplative thanks to the music and vocals. A few instruments and a few music lovers can carve out a very distinctive space for art.”

A practice session at a cafe.

From such rustic setups, Đờn Ca Đó Đây gradually took shape. Members come from different walks of life: a teacher, a worker, an engineer, a student, etc. Albeit not professionally trained, they all share a passion for đờn ca tài tử and cải lương. The collective found one another first via social media, and then started organizing offline meetings from the beginning of 2025 at the park. In March 2025, the group became more organized and began performing at casual venues like eateries, schools, exhibitions, and especially bars, bringing a novel experience to listeners.

A show by Đờn Ca Đó Đây at Hai Tô Bar.

Many key members of the group’s current roster were recruited from chance encounters. Phong recalls: “I got to know one of them when he was just in 11th grade in Đồng Tháp, via his practice videos on TikTok. We started chatting about instruments. When he moved to the city for college, he asked to meet me. When we met, I recognized his musical talent straight away, so I connected him with other members. Since then, he’s been in charge as our music expert, establishing the musical identity of the group, in addition to musical arrangement and editing our content.”

Another member who works as a teacher for his day job can make use of his pedagogy skills to facilitate the group’s school outreach programs. He is tasked with writing the script, planning the content, and executing it in a way that’s accessible and educational so the knowledge can reach the school children.

Promoting the art of đờn ca tài tử to the younger generation at their school.

Right from the name Đờn Ca Đó Đây, the collective is very clear about their operation philosophy. It can be loosely translated as “performing here and there,” reflecting the group’s “nomadic” nature. They can perform at a range of different venues and not just on stage, for anyone who is interested enough to listen and connect. Music then, can transcend the confines of a one-way performance to be a two-way interaction. The performers and the spectators are brought closer.

A contemporary language to chronicle an age-old art form

Đờn ca tài tử was not an intentional destination ifor many collective members, but it managed to find them again by evoking their childhood memories, such as the quiet evenings watching TV with their family members or festive gatherings at the village temple. Even without professional music training, these formative experiences have fostered a fondness for đờn ca tài tử within them. During the lockdowns of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everything came to a standstill, some found time to explore this connection deeper and transition from merely consuming to learning, practicing, and even creating.

Regarding đờn ca tài tử, they are aware that the art form’s biggest barrier is the public’s stigma. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương are usually thought of as sentimental, obsolete, and inapproachable. Nonetheless, they believe that these are not inherent to the music, but could be the result of the execution and communication, so they try to present đờn ca using a language of the modern society. The performance content is adjusted to reflect more familiar social issues like career pressures, urban ailments, and the mental state of young people. The execution is also refreshed to fit each venue and its audience.

During interaction sessions, even audience members can join in.

The performances at local bars have been especially acclaimed for their high interactivity. Each night is written separately, so actors can improvise their script to fit the particular bar.

Besides, the group has been writing new lyrics based on traditional melodies like lý so they depict the contemporary state of southern provinces. These compositions showcase the cultural, geographical, and social shifts today while retaining the structure and spirit of the original version. Phong showed me a paragraph lionizing VĨnh Long after the national province merger, set to the tune of ‘Lý Đêm Trăng’:

In another video, Phong gives an example of how the group interacted with the audience, via these news lyrics sung in the tune of ‘Lý Chim Xanh”:

Connecting a community of đờn ca enthusiasts

Sustaining an independent folk music troupe is not a cakewalk. Phong explains: “Where to perform and interact with the audience is the biggest struggle. Official venues don’t prioritize grassroots performers, so our activities are often spontaneous and fully independent. Besides, the older generations are still quite wary of our new approach to this old art form.”

A performance at the “Thanh Kiều” exhibition.

Despite the hurdles, the positive reception from Saigoneers is a crucial factor motivating Đờn Ca Đó Đây. Phong proudly tells me about a woman in Đồng Tháp who messaged to gift them sets of brown áo bà ba to boost the authenticity of the performances.

After sharing the clips online, another fan sent over a pack of southern checkered scarves. Not long after, someone else donated more colorful áo ba ba so the group “don’t look so monotonous.” And just like that, clothing items like áo dài, khăn đóng started arriving from across the country to keep their morale high.

Phong also met a Việt Kiều visiting from years abroad at a performance, which moved him to tears, and invited them overseas to participate in cultural exchange programs. On the other hand, right at rustic venues like in public parks, many older uncles and aunties would stop by to listen to music and tear up seeing young people being in touch with folk music.

Through every time they perform, Đờn Ca Đó Đây has learned that the true value behind their music is not dependent on how it’s performed but whether it’s performed with sincerity and if it can bring people together. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương will continue to exist in any space in the future if that spirit is treasured and sustained.

“I was in a creative writing program for grad school at the time, and I thought, as an artist, going on MasterChef would give me something to write about.”

Little did Christine Ha know that her decision to enter the American version of MasterChef, the competitive cooking show made famous by Gordon Ramsay’s acerbic assessments, would give her more than just fodder for her literary ambitions. In a sense, she was right: winning MasterChef comes with a cookbook contract and hers, Recipes From My Home Kitchen: Asian and American Comfort Food, became a New York Times bestseller.

Photo via FOX

Christine’s family is originally from northern Vietnam but they immigrated to the south, along with almost a million other northerners after the Geneva Agreement of 1954. “Because my family was originally from the north, we eat our phở the northern way with the wider rice noodles and few herbs or condiments. My grandmother was also known for her giant 8”x8” [20 cm x 20 cm] bánh chưng during Tết,” she explains.

On April 29, 1975, Christine’s father, who was still courting her mother, realized they needed to leave the country very, very soon. He rushed to ask for her mother’s hand in marriage, and they ran to find a US naval ship. Bouncing from the Philippines to a refugee camp in Guam to Pennsylvania to Chicago to southern California (where Christine was born), the family eventually settled down in Houston, Texas when Christine was two years old.

Flash-forward 18 years and Christine started losing her vision due to neuromyelitis optica (NMO), a rare inflammatory autoimmune disorder, just as she was begining to experiment with cooking. While in grad school for Creative Writing, her then-boyfriend (now husband) John Suh set up a blog. They called it The Blind Cook.

Photo via FOX

In 2012, they reached out to her about auditioning for Season 3 of the show and Christine thought the name Gordan Ramsay “sounded familiar.” John and her friends strongly encouraged her to apply so she could bring awareness to what visually impaired people were capable of. Christine simply saw it as a way to gain experience and inspiration for her writing.

So she set aside her thesis and answered the open casting call, which asked potential contestants to present a dish that represented their life story. “For me, I’ve been on this eternal hunt to recreate my mom’s recipes,” she says. Christine’s mom passed away when she was 14 before teaching her daughter how to cook or writing any of her recipes down, so it’s been a series of trial and error since college. “I chose thịt kho because it was the dish I grew up eating the most often. There was always some in the fridge at our house.”

“I chose thịt kho because it was the dish I grew up eating the most often. There was always some in the fridge at our house.”

For her first audition in front of the judges, Christine put together another classic Vietnamese dish: cá kho tộ. Khôi Phạm, Deputy Editor of Saigoneer, reflects in a Saigoneer Podcast episode, “I think she’s one of my favorite contestants because she sticks to her roots. Her audition dish is actually a very, very traditional dish. If you watch western cooking shows, the fish is usually filleted horizontally but for Christine’s dish, she cut it vertically. If you go to fish markets in Vietnam, all the butchers will cut it that way. She doesn’t even try to deconstruct it or add any frills, bells and whistles.” A perfect balance of savory and sweet, her caramelized and braised catfish dish impressed the judges, and thus Christine’s life was changed from that point forward.

But Christine may be more familiar to Saigoneer readers for her turn as a judge on MasterChef Vietnam (Vua Đầu Bếp) Season 3 from 2015. The role made her the first former contestant to become a regular judge — in any country — and placed her amongst the few female judges in the whole international franchise. “It was a great feeling to go from contestant to the other side and become a mentor,” Christine reflects.

MasterChef Vietnam Season 1 Runner-Up, Trí Phan, reflects, “From her story, I realized the most important thing when it comes to cooking is taste. And since then, I started to put more emphasis on flavor combinations that make sense, [instead of] throwing many things on a plate, just to make it look impressive.”

The Five Fungi Congee served at Christine’s new restaurant Xin Chao. It’s a grown-up take on a dish all Vietnamese children remember eating. Photo by Tam Le.

To reference the ubiquitous Thai phrase known to anyone who has traveled to the Land of Smiles, filming MasterChef Vietnam was “same same, but different” from filming MasterChef US. “A lot of the challenges emulated the American ones, but there were still many differences. For example, the contestants cooked for the military, just like I did, but the military bases were so different. The ingredients in the pantry included a lot of fish and shellfish I’ve never heard of because they’re regional to Vietnam.” Additionally, the unionization of film crew labor in the United States meant that production could only take place six days a week, stretching filming over a period of three months; whereas Vietnam’s ability to work seven days a week meant a rigorous one-month film schedule. Same same, but different.

As a Việt Kiều, Christine faces the additional challenge of having only spoken conversational Vietnamese at home. “When I came to MasterChef Vietnam, it was terrible. Not only was there new slang, but there’s a different lexicon to speak formally on TV.” If Christine’s upbringing was anything like mine — which, as a Việt Kiều who also grew up in Houston and attended the same university undergrad program as Christine, I think is a fairly safe bet — she may have only heard this formal way of speaking on Paris by Night which has been playing non-stop at all Vietnamese family gatherings since the late 1980s.

Photo via Ngoisao.net

“As I grew older, I didn't really have family around to keep it up. So I feel like my Vietnamese [was] rusty when I first arrive in Vietnam. It’s an ordeal when I travel with my husband John, who is Korean American, but has sight. Whereas I know Vietnamese, but I can’t see. So he has to spell out all the signs, and I need to remind him to include the accents or I won’t be able to read it. But it’s like riding a bike — it comes back.”

When I asked Christine about the dishes in Vietnam that surprised her the most, she had the same answer I did when I first moved to Saigon: the new street snacks. “In America, the Vietnamese food we got was what our parents brought over [in the late 1970s], which has stayed stagnant. Now a newer generation has come up with new dishes like bánh tráng trộn and bánh tráng nướng. That’s the kind of stuff that really intrigued me.”

Creative street food dishes and nhậu culture inspired Christine and John to open their first restaurant venture: The Blind Goat (Christine was born in the Year of the Goat) in 2019. Currently located in Houston’s Bravery Chef Hall among other creative culinary concepts (there are plans to move it to a standalone restaurant), The Blind Goat is an open kitchen with about fifteen seats wrapped around it like a bar. It was the first place the public could enjoy Christine’s cooking and dishes made famous by MasterChef, such as Rubbish Apple Pie, a Pop-Tart-shaped pocket pie inspired by McDonald’s apple pies but with a Vietnamese touch of star anise and ginger in the filling and a fish sauce caramel drizzle on top.

Pork Belly Baos make the perfect fried, sweet, savory, fatty snack.
Photo by Tam Le.

It was there that Christine and John serendipitously met Tony Nguyen, chef and partner at Saigon House and their future business partner. Not long The Blind Goat opened, Tony introduced himself to the couple and the restaurateurs started commiserating on the labor-intensiveness of Vietnamese food. Tony offered to help prep at The Blind Goat so they wouldn’t have to take Christine’s egg rolls off the menu, and soon one conversation led to another. "We have similar backgrounds and it turns out, the same philosophy on Vietnamese food: our parent’s food is great, but we want to make it more contemporary and reflective of Houston," remarked Christine.

At Saigon House, Chef Tony Nguyen was known for his Viet-Cajun crawfish and his H-Town Bang sauce which contains 29 ingredients including garlic, butter, citrus, cayenne pepper and cilantro. It is now a weekly special at Xin Chao.
Photo by John Suh.

Within a few months, a location with a good deal on rent opened up and by January 2020, Christine, John, and Tony signed a lease for their new brick and mortar restaurant Xin Chao. “Going into business together is like a marriage, and we didn’t know each other that well, but you don’t know until you try.” Xin Chao would be a larger, more sophisticated restaurant than The Blind Goat, with a more robust modern Vietnamese menu complete with tequila and nước mía cocktails.

Local Houston artist Caroline Truong contributed on of the murals that cover the restaurant’s colorful interior and exterior. There is ample outdoor seating on bright blue picnic tables, a lifesaver considering Xin Chao didn’t open for business until September 2020 when America still had many pandemic restrictions for indoor dining. The inside consists of sleek wood tables, echoing the contemporary dishes.

Xin Chao Interior.
Photo by John Suh.

Speaking of their menu, the duo’s differing tastes result in a range of offerings. “Tony’s palette is very into robust flavors. He loves smoking meat and working with beef and pork. I am on the other end of the spectrum. I feel like less is more and when flavoring foods, I’m disciplined in creating a delicate balance. I enjoy creating more refreshing dishes and working with chicken and seafood,” analyzes Christine. And like any good marriage, “we complement and challenge each other.”

Xin Chao’s Smoked Beef Rib Flat Rice Noodles is one of the dishes that represent both Christina’s Texan side (smoked beef rib) and her Vietnamese side (flat rice noodles).
Photos by Tam Le.

You can find updates from Christine Ha, The Blind Goat, and Xin Chao on Instagram. You can also catch Christine Ha on a bag of Uncle Jax American Gourmet popcorn. As a notorious snack lover, I, Tam Le, will emphatically tell anyone who will listen and any readers of this article that Uncle Jax (either the Wisconsin cheddar cheese flavor or the Uncle Jax mix of cheese and caramel) is the best snack brand available in Vietnam.

Designed by Phan Nhi, Phuong Phan.
Top graphic by Jessie Tran.
Illustrations by Patty Yang, Hannah Hoang.

This article was originally published in 2021.

In the 2010s, my journey to study abroad took me to Singapore. Being a tiny person in an enormous city was a huge undertaking for a teenager, as I had to adapt to countless changes, from minute to major, at once: living in a different language, academic pressures, foreign customs and cuisines, and being away from my family. Gradually, things fell into place. The public transport worked well; the accent got more familiar; and I didn’t miss bánh mì and cơm tấm nearly as much as I thought I would; but there was one thing I never managed to entirely overcome — the bum gun-shaped void in my heart.

Singapore, like many other developed nations in the world, has a toilet paper culture. At the heights of the COVID-19 pandemic, I watched videos of American supermarkets being stampeded by the toilet paper horde in confusion. While I understand the rationale behind the phenomenon, toilet paper has always played such a trivial role in my growing up that it’s never occurred to me how important it could be elsewhere. I am an equal-opportunity hygienist, so I would never shame anyone or any culture for how they choose to service their tushy. You do you lah, Singapore.

Inside a bathroom at Jewel Changi Airport. Notice the miserable lack of bum guns.

However, I don’t need to go into too much detail about how undesirable toilet paper could be: clogging, chafing, fragile plies, abrasive surfaces, poopy finger tips, and not to mention the environmental cost of wood pulps. Bum guns rule with soft power instead of harsh deterrence. Bum guns care about the environment and your comfort. Bum guns will treat you — and your butt — right.

Back then, I would visit home once or twice a year, and, every time, that first spray after a long trip from the airport and months abroad would heal something in me. That water pressure. That laminar flow. That cooling sensation. There’s a certain comfort and privilege in spraying until you’re bored, knowing you have achieved peak cleanliness without checking.

I was not born into this accessible luxury. In the 1990s, most Vietnamese families, mine included, made do with a squat toilet, a water basin, and a big plastic mug. In the 2000s, when we managed to save enough money to renovate our childhood home, a seated toilet and accompanying bum gun became part of the picture for the first time.

A typical Vietnamese toilet in the 1990s.

The presence of bum guns became my personal hallmark to gauge Vietnam’s progress as I traveled across the country. To see if people’s lives got better, a comfortable toilet with a bum gun is usually the first sign. They started appearing at rest stops along highways to Đà Lạt and the Mekong Delta, and at public venues like malls and airports. From a luxury, the bum gun transitioned to a staple amenity at every home.

An assortment of bathrooms at Saigon coffee shops. Recognize any?

Imagine my disbelief when I landed in Changi, widely considered one of the best airports in the world, just to see nary a bum gun in sight. A total eclipse of the butt. I did an informal poll in my social circle. The US, UK, Australia, Canada, Ecuador, China, Taiwan: these are but a few nations existing sans bum guns. While you’re reading this, there are people going about their day in those countries alongside dingleberries.

A vintage bidet in France.

France is often credited with inventing the bidet, nozzles not included. Japan, of course, has built a global reputation for multifunctional smart toilets. Yet it is unclear who invented the bum gun. It might not have been Vietnam, but we have cultivated such a rich bum gun culture that I think it’s high time we take the lead to propagandize the beauty of bum guns to the world. I want bum guns to be a basic human right, the result of a social movement that Vietnam spearheaded. You, too, deserve a squeaky clean ass, comrade.

Soon after its completion, Saigon’s iconic Notre Dame Cathedral developed an embarrassing tilt.

Saigon Cathedral was built in 1877–1879 to a design by Jules Bourard, as a replacement for the ill-fated 1863 Église Sainte-Marie-Immaculée, which stood on the site of the modern Sun Wah Tower (Nguyễn Huệ) until it became infested by termites and had to be demolished — see Icons of Old Saigon: the Eglise Sainte-Marie-Immaculee. The first stone of the new cathedral was laid on October 7, 1877 by Admiral-Governor Victor Duperré, in the presence of Bishop Isidore Colombert.

The ill-fated Église Sainte-Marie-Immaculée (1863).

At the time of construction, the problem of supplying fresh water to city residents had reached crisis point. It was therefore seen by many as an “act of God” that in 1877, while the foundations of the cathedral were being laid, workers chanced upon a deep underground aquifer. Later that year, the first Château d’eau (water tower) was built on the junction of rue Sohier and rue Catinat prolongée (the modern Turtle Lake roundabout), to supply drinking water to city residents via a network of underground conduits and street pumps.

In his feature “Monumental Saigon – streets and boulevards,” published in the July-December 1893 edition of the geographical adventure magazine Tour du Monde, Pierre Barrelon commented: “That great underground aquifer now amply feeds Saigon with water which many cities in France would be envious of. The flow of this underground lake is inexhaustible, and during the dry season, as during wintertime, public fountains and private pipes never dry up.”

Saigon's first Château d’eau (water tower) was built on the junction of rue Sohier and rue Catinat prolongée (the modern Turtle Lake roundabout).

However, as Barrelon went on to explain, the discovery of this aquifer was not welcomed by the cathedral construction team.“The sandy soil, which forms a natural filter for this beneficial lake, created a thousand problems for the builders of this heavy construction, making it necessary for them to lengthen their initial works in order to find a very deep resistant layer.” Eventually a solution was found, construction resumed, and three years later on April 11, 1880 (Easter Sunday), Cochinchina Governor Charles Le Myre de Vilers and Bishop Isidore presided over the inauguration of the new cathedral.

The cathedral construction site is visible in the background of this picture of the Cercle des Officiers building (1876).

In the years which followed, this “beautiful monument of brick and stone” became “dear to many Saigonnais…” until one day, someone noticed that the cathedral had begun to tilt over on one side. “The mass gained the upper hand,” explained Barrelon, “and one of the towers began to sink! Quite lightly, but nonetheless in an observable way, so that, like Notre Dame in Paris, the cathedral of Saigon now has towers of unequal height, which displease those in favour of irreproachable symmetry.”

Urgent remedial work was done to prevent further subsidence, but the embarrassing tilt remained. Finally, in 1892, it was decided that two cast iron spires should be added, at a cost of 66,500 francs. Albert Butin's article “Les Flêches métalliques de la Cathédrale de Saigon” (The metallic spires of Saigon Cathedral), published in the May 1896 edition of Le Génie civil: revue générale des industries françaises et étrangères, describes in detail the construction of the spires, which was entrusted to M Michelin, “Ingénieur des Arts et Manufacture,” and got underway on December 26, 1894.

The Saigon Cathedral spires under construction in 1895.

In the original specifications, the spires took the form of 27m high octagonal pyramids with unequal sides, placed directly on the top of each tower and sealed into the masonry by means of brackets extending 3m inside the towers. Each spire was topped by a cross and incorporated four skylights order to provide ventilation to the upper parts of the building. However, during construction, a decision was made to increase the height of the west spire slightly, making it taller than the east spire, in order to restore symmetry. The spires were completed on February 28, 1895.

Saigon Cathedral in the early 1900s.

The addition of those spires seems to have solved the problem of the “Leaning Cathedral of Saigon,” but it seems that that not everyone was convinced: for many years afterwards, it was said that if you stood at the top of rue Catinat (modern Đồng Khởi street), the difference in height between the two towers was still clearly visible!

Cathedral square with Saigoneers coming out of mass.

Tim Doling is the author of the guidebooks Exploring Huế (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2018), Exploring Saigon-Chợ Lớn (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2019) and Exploring Quảng Nam (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2020) and The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam (White Lotus Press, 2012) For more information about Saigon history, visit his website, historicvietnam.com.

My earliest memories of breakfast are of Omachi beef-flavored instant noodles cooked with tomatoes and ground pork. On days where noodles sounded uninspiring, my mom would offer me the same plate as my dad: rye bread, butter, and Russian caviar. Eager to follow in his footsteps, I welcomed this addition to my breakfast menu, eventually replacing my beloved noodles.

When I was young, rye bread with butter and caviar existed in my universe simply as my dad’s breakfast. It was not Soviet or Russian, because I had no concept of Eastern Europe, and it could not be Vietnamese because it was never available at local eateries. It had no nationality; it came from nowhere in particular except my fridge. Only much later did I encounter it again as a Soviet Russian item, and began indulging in it after breakfast hours at CCCP Saigon, this week's Hẻm Gems. Here, at perhaps the most well-known Soviet restaurant in Saigon, my family and I eat our way back to my dad’s cherished college years.

The cozy wallpaper and interior at CCCP

Soviet cuisine in the 1970s in the eyes of a young Vietnamese student

From 1974 to 1979, my dad studied fluid mechanics at State University Moscow, also lovingly referred to as MGU by its Vietnamese alumni. At 18 years old, his academic achievements earned him a 12-day journey by train, taking him outside of Vietnam for the very first time. Within the boundaries of the school cafeteria, my dad quickly familiarized himself with Soviet cuisine. Albeit limited by cafeteria dining standards, he remembers this culinary experience as utterly wholesome.

My first taste of the same flavors at CCCP was much more glamorous and comfortable. Wooden dining sets, made up of large tables and matching picnic benches on wheels; red-and-white checkered curtains, under which colorful lacquer tea trays and Nevalyashka dolls peek out; floral wallpapers and mismatched tablecloths: I imagine one would find the same rustic charm in the house of someone’s grandmother in a former Soviet country. But I wouldn’t know what the interior of a Soviet home looks like, and neither does my dad. As a poor Vietnamese student living abroad during an impoverished time, he focused solely on his education, and it never took him inside any Moscow restaurants or homes. CCCP allows my dad and I to envision the place that he once called home as we eat.

My dad (left) and his roommate (right) in Moscow in 1974.

My discovery of Soviet food was an intense love at first bite. Taking after my dad, I ate a lot, quickly, and grew devoted to dishes I had gone most of my life without. Like him, I did not find Soviet flavors foreign at all. I asked if it took him long to adjust to Soviet cuisine; surely, I assume, he had struggled to repress his longing for Vietnamese flavors and fell in love with Soviet food in the long and difficult process. Yet, his practical answer humbled my sentimental expectation: during his five years eating Soviet cafeteria food, my dad never missed Vietnamese food.

The nevalyashka (Russian roly-poly doll) was once a staple in Vietnamese households.

“I hardly thought about the food back home [Vietnam],” he explained. “I was happy that there was food here [Soviet Russia]. Rich, hearty, fatty food. I had never seen such richness before. Back then, there was nothing to eat at home, so there was not much to miss. In the student-designated cafeteria, which was different from and cheaper than the one reserved for faculty and staff, there was always lots of butter, soups, and bread.”

Saigon's corner for Soviet nostalgia

The counter features many Soviet souvenirs.

CCCP’s extensive menu retains that same abundance that my dad so fondly recalls. I firmly believe that every CCCP meal should start with rye bread, mustard, optional Russian butter, raw garlic, salo (cured pork fat), and dill. All should be assembled in this order into one glorious bite. I must admit to feeling adventurous when trying it for the first time, but my dad’s first encounter with salo is far more interesting. In 1974, his Russian college roommate returned to campus with a large bone-in ham that he brought from home. He left it outside of the dorm to harden in the snow; with ease, he sliced into the solidified pork fat and offered it to my dad.

Once your palette has been shocked, then wooed, by this combination, it is ready for the mixed salted fish platter. The beet-cured salmon and smoked mackerel, with an extra side of pickles, are my personal favorites. Conversely, the juicy lamb and pork shashlyk platter is worth the 45 minute wait, which the staff always warns you about. 

Rye bread and salted pork fat are a great way to start a meal.

One of my dad’s favorite Soviet dishes is on the menu: kotleta, which involves breaded and fried ground pork patties served with potatoes. The MGU student cafeteria deserves credit for adding such a hearty dish to his otherwise meagre diet. He explains: “If the dishes at the cafeteria did contain meat, which was already a luxury, it was mixed with a lot of starch, which acted as a filler in otherwise measly student meals.” Back then, he enjoyed the cafeteria kotleta and shashlyk primarily for their nutritious value.

Against all expectations, my dad has no sentimental attachment to the restaurant. Unlike him, I have grown emotionally attached to CCCP, where I taste pieces of my childhood, experience bits of my dad’s youth, and inherit his Soviet eating practices. This inheritance leaves me with an imagined sense of nostalgia for something I hardly know. 

Mix bread basket

Salo (salted pork fat)

Olivier salad

Such nostalgia, however faint in my dad’s case, was brought to Saigon by Nguyễn Duy Thành, the manager and co-owner of CCCP Saigon. After living, studying, and working in Russia for eight years, Thành developed a desire to introduce a new culinary culture to Vietnam, Soviet cuisine. To help Vietnamese diners understand the food of a country that no longer exists on the world map, CCCP relies on the recipes of Ukrainian Chef Svetlana Nguyen. Svetlana, Thành’s mother-in-law, created CCCP’s first dishes.

Cured fish platter

Shashlyk platter

Smetana with berry jam

Striving to preserve and share Soviet culinary traditions, Thành and his wife Suzanna brought Svetlana’s recipes to Saigon. He recalls: “In the early days, my wife and I were the ones directly in charge of the kitchen and training the staff,” most of whom “had never been to Russia, nor had they been exposed to Soviet culture or cuisine.” Despite the cultural distance between local chefs and the menu, CCCP quickly became “a space where those who studied, worked, or have memories of the Soviet Union could rediscover familiar emotions.” 

CCCP’s drink menu also covers all the Soviet classics: kvass, a lightly fermented drink; kompot, which is basically non-alcoholic fruit punch; Russian imported beer; and of course, vodka. Though the eatery's titillating appetizers and hearty entrees make for a satisfying meal, their desserts truly take the cake. The medovik, napoleon, and smetana have never been excluded from our CCCP table. Some 50 years ago, my dad had his first smetana, a thick fermented cream served with hard sugar cubes to be crunched on between every spoonful. Today, I indulge in my smetana with much more ease. When pork fat on butter just doesn't feel decadent enough, topping my creamy slice of napoleon with even creamier smetana is the only remedy.

A flavor to crave, in sickness and in health

While studying and living in Montreal, I spent many winter nights bedridden with a gruesome cold. When I could not bring myself to cook, and the snow, cold and hail ruled out picking up food, I searched for borscht on UberEats in vain. Inevitably, I wondered what my dad did to combat moments of illness all alone, through the unsympathetic Moscow winters. I wondered how much colder his winters must have been compared to mine as I scroll through Uber offers. I have only ever had borscht from CCCP: more than any other dish, borscht brings me back to the restaurant in Saigon, and makes me dream of CCCP even in Montreal.

The borscht at CCCP

It is admittedly strange for a Vietnamese girl to crave borscht of all soups when sick — had I no faith that a bowl of phở or bún bò Huế would heal me? But I have my reasons. I needed something rich in fiber without sacrificing starch and protein, a soup that I could consume with no more than one utensil, directly from my bed; any Vietnamese noodle soup would force me to use both chopsticks and a spoon. I needed something red, because it reminded me of tomatoes, which my mom threw into the noodles of my childhood for additional vitamins. Most importantly, I desperately needed to be soothed by that familiar and comforting feeling that I associate with eating borscht at CCCP with my family.

A meal at CCCP is best enjoyed in a group to share and experience more dishes.

Alas, there was no borscht in Montreal, so I settled for a miserable night’s sleep until the craving, and eventually, the cold, was gone. My yearning for a piece of Soviet tastiness was a surprising sentiment in contrast to my dad's immunity to cravings and nostalgia for CCCP. He laughs at my disbelief: “Simply because there are so many restaurants now, and I could easily eat at any of them.” In his day, scarcity made any food worth craving, let alone decadent and nutritious Soviet food. Now, he has both means and options, neither of which he had before. Today, he simply enjoys — rather than craves — meals that he shares with us at CCCP Saigon. However happy I am for his expanded access to cuisine, I am happier still that we do not share the same perspective on CCCP. As we both continue to relish CCCP’s food, I know that I will simultaneously be craving it. 

To sum up:

• Opening time: 10:30am–9:30p,
• Parking: Cars and motorbikes 
• Contact: 0338 068 688
• Average cost per person: $$ (around VND300,000)
• Payment: All forms accepted
• Delivery App: Not on apps but can be ordered via Facebook messenger and Zalo