There was a time when I substituted meals with bánh đồng xu.

Bánh đồng xu, or cheesy coin bread, is a pastry made from a mix of flour, milk, eggs, and sugar, typically filled with melted mozzarella cheese. It is baked in a mold that shapes it into a round form, imprinted with a design mimicking a South Korean coin.

Introduced to Vietnam in late 2023, bánh đồng xu quickly became a craze among the youth. At Emart, a Korean supermarket chain, people would queue for hours just to buy the few batches available from the two overworked molds.

A report by South Korea's broadcaster, JTBC, highlighted the bánh đồng xu craze in Vietnam.

For those with a sweet tooth like me, bánh đồng xu — with its crispy, buttery pastry and gooey cheese filling — is an ideal dessert. There was a phase when I was too lazy to cook and subsisted almost entirely on bánh đồng xu, buying them everywhere from upscale bakeries to street carts. The quality and price, of course, varied widely, but one element remained consistently iconic.

The distinctive design of the bánh đồng xu is inspired by sipwon, South Korea's KRW10 coin. One side of the coin displays its denomination and year of minting, while the other features an image of seokgatap, a national treasure in the city of Gyeongju, where bánh đồng xu originated in 2019. As Gyeongju was historically a capital with numerous scenic spots, the pastry began appearing in tourists’ photos, spreading its fame to other cities in Korea and neighboring countries like Vietnam.

Bánh đồng xu as sold its hometown Gyeongju, Korea. Photos via The Korea Times.

Ironically, despite promoting a positive image of the country, bánh đồng xu went through an “identity crisis.” The Bank of Korea, which holds the copyright to the KRW10 design, argued that using currency design for commercial purposes was against regulations and could lead to counterfeiting and devaluation of the currency. Shops selling bánh đồng xu weren't penalized, but to continue operations, they had to alter the design to avoid confusion. For example, instead of imprinting “This is the 10 Won of the Bank,” it could be changed to “This is abc pastry from xyz store.”

When introduced in Japan, bánh đồng xu was modeled on the JPY10 coin. Japan, with its prevalent vending machine culture, remains one of the few countries that still extensively use coins. Photo via Sora News.

It's hard to judge the rightness of another country's policy, but I can't help feeling a bit melancholic about the fate of my favorite snack. To me, coins are like film cameras or vinyl records — not the quickest or most efficient way to accomplish a task, but they hold an inherent value from their meticulous craftsmanship. As inflation rises and cashless habits gain traction, the smallest denomination coins are slowly disappearing from everyday life. When the original disappears, bánh đồng xu becomes a nostalgic reminder of the charm of physical and artisanal objects in a digital age.

The exclusive Vietnamese version of bánh đồng xu is modeled on the VND500 coin which stopped being issued in 2011. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Recently, I heard that a Korean snack chain has launched a new exclusive product, a Vietnamized bánh đồng xu, so I rushed to buy it. Though it was double the price of others on the market, the quality and flavor were significantly better, but what moved me most was the nostalgic feeling when I saw the VND500 face on the pastry, bringing back memories of when I used to carry a handful of change, how the metal clank in my pocket, and how the coins would slowly roll and disappear into a public phone booth when I’d call my mom to pick me up after school.

I wonder if one day, when traditional coin-shaped pastries are gone for good in Korea, would tourists come to Vietnam to recall a simpler memory of their past?

“We want our students to grow up be really good leaders with a moral compass and purpose for the future. Service learning is a great way of helping them to develop these key attitudes and skills,” explains Australian International School (AIS) Executive Principal, Jon Standen.

An Emphasis on Holistic Education

On May 24, AIS will hold an Open Day for prospective families that includes an education forum titled: “Educating the Whole Child: Embracing Service Learning for a Brighter Future.” Saigoneer sat down with Jon to understand this topic better.

While achieving great exam scores and going on to a good university is important, a holistic education also aims to develop young adults to be well-rounded, self-motivated problem solvers who can lead with passion and empathy. Donating one’s time, skills and energy to those in need is an important element of holistic education. This service learning, along with regular coursework, arts and athletics empowers AIS students to grow emotionally and intellectually. The dedicated AIS team strives to ensure that graduates are able and interested in contributing to positive change in the world. “They develop their character and skills so when they graduate and leave the school they're set up for whatever challenges life brings,” Standon says.

Service Learning in Practice

“A key part of holistic education is service education; particularly in schools like ours where our students are quite privileged …  We want to ensure that they are well-rounded and grounded,” Standon says. Many formal and informal service opportunities are available for AIS students to help make this possible. For example, all Year Six students spend a week exploring a global or local issue and working together to find and present solutions as part of the Primary Years Program that prepares for the International Baccalaureate Degree Program (IBDP), which involves a comprehensive service element. 

AIS students are also closely involved with a local orphanage and can visit to help the children read or assist with painting, for example. This emphasis on service learning results in an easy-to-recognize mindset and outlook on the world. Standon notes that on the recent long holiday, a group of students were out of the city on a vacation and noticed the area was filled with trash. They proceeded to clean it up simply because it was the right thing to do and made their community a better place.

The upcoming Open Day forum will provide attendees with more examples of service learning and allow the senior leadership to expand upon its importance as part of a balanced, holistic education. The event will also allow parents to imagine the type of young adults their children may develop into because it’s being moderated by the school’s Head Boy and Head Girl. These two students have excelled not just academically but as leaders and community members. The careful questions they ask and the experiences they share will showcase the type of smart, kind and inquisitive graduates AIS is proud to send into the world. 

Upcoming Campus Enhancements to Support Holistic Education

In addition to service learning and a broad introduction to AIS’s educational philosophy, practices and standards, the school’s facilities will be on display for prospective families. Over the years, Saigoneer has observed many impressive developments to the Thủ Thiêm campus, including the introduction of boarding options, a new IBDP lab, redesigned reception, and updated sports facilities. But never one to rest on its accomplishments, new changes are underway at AIS.

As a member of the global Inspired Network of Schools, AIS benefits from powerful cross-cultural exchanges, partnerships, activities and training. The membership also helps facilitate campus improvements. This summer, the AIS’s two early-year campuses in Thảo Điền and its primary classrooms at the main campus in Thủ Thiêm which includes the secondary school will all be upgraded. State-of-the-art classroom facilities and science laboratories in addition to enhanced art and drama facilities, sports fields and playgrounds are all part of the ambitious plans that will be mostly complete when classes resume in fall 2024. These later elements reveal AIS’s belief that student development outside traditional coursework is essential for a balanced education.

The upcoming Open Day on May 24 is the first to include a forum discussion and also the first to be held on a weekday morning when school is in session. While potentially facilitating families with schedules that didn’t allow for them to come on weekends, it will showcase the school’s values, routines and Australian “give it a go” attitude. Observing classes, students engaged in arts, athletics and play as well as noticing how the staff supports and encourages leadership and strong community is the best way for families to envision what their child’s future can look like.

Register for the May 24 Open Morning here. Attendees will also have opportunities to learn about the 100% scholarships available for students from grade 7 to grade 12 and tuition fees waiving up to VND 16.3 million VND. Application fees are waived for those in attendance. 

Stopping at the intersection of Saigon’s Trần Hưng Đạo and Trần Bình Trọng streets, the tranquil mausoleum of scholar Trương Vĩnh Ký remains hidden amid the daily commotion. Few realize that the visionary resting here, along with his associates and their contributions, laid the foundation for Vietnam's modern journalism with the launch of Gia Định Báo (Gia Định Newspaper).

After their conquest of Nam Kỳ in 1858, French colonizers focused on two primary objectives to solidify their power: controlling communication channels and building a new administrative apparatus. They quickly established a telegraph network to replace traditional means of communication, such as town criers, and began publishing newspapers to disseminate policies and directives to the local populace, scholars, and officials. The early newspapers were published in French for Frenchmen and locals fluent in the language, and in Chinese characters for the old-school intellectuals.

Traditionally, town criers were tasked with gathering villagers using a wooden snare, delivering news and official orders to them. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

From 1862 to 1864, the first French-language newspapers emerged in Saigon, including Le Bulletin Officiel de l’Expédition Française de la Cochinchine (Official Bulletin of the French Expedition to Cochinchina), Le Bulletin des Communes (Municipal Bulletin), and Le Courrier de Saigon (Saigon Courier). The primary purpose of these publications was to announce administrative and legal information from the colonial government.

Courrier de Saigon. Photo via Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Bulletin Officiel de l'Expedition de Cochinchine. Photo via Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Initially, the French intended to impose a language policy similar to their African colonies, where only French was used. However, they eventually recognized that Quốc ngữ would pave the way for a new cultural landscape, replacing the one deeply rooted in Chinese influence. This script would also help familiarize Vietnamese people with French and help train interpreters proficient in both languages to aid colonial governance.

Thus, despite its origins over 200 years prior, Quốc ngữ was chosen because it “Romanized the ideographs” and served as an effective bridge between the colonial government and the Vietnamese people. The launch of a Vietnamese-language newspaper was then essential to establish the ideological and cultural assimilation of the natives.

Dictionarium Annamiticum Lusitanum et Latinum, a trilingual Vietnamese-Portuguese-Latin dictionary by Alexandre de Rhode, was an important step toward the solidification of Quốc ngữ. Photo via Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal.

The decree permitting the first Vietnamese-language newspaper was signed on April 1, 1865 by the Governor of Nam Kỳ, with Ernest Potteaux, a French interpreter, as its editor-in-chief. On April 15, 1865, Gia Định Báo published its first issue, ushering in a new era for Vietnam's modern journalism.

The newspaper was compact, with four pages measuring 32cm by 25cm. The title was printed in both Chinese and Vietnamese. Initially, its publication was irregular, released monthly on the 15^th, with the cover noting, “This paper is published once a month, on the 15^th of the Western calendar. Those wanting an annual subscription must pay six 20 centimes.” By 1880, it was printed four times a month and became a weekly publication, delivered every Tuesday.

Gia Định Newspaper Issue 2 Year 2 (1866). Photo via Bibliothèque nationale de France.

In its early stages, Gia Định Newspaper mainly featured government decrees and directives. However, under the editorship of Trương Vĩnh Ký in 1869, it diversified its content. Alongside official news, it included in-depth articles, commentary, research, folklore, social reforms, and even ads. The content was divided into four categories: governmental affairs (official announcements, policy changes), non-governmental affairs (economic and social news), daily knowledge (science, social reforms, literature), and classifieds (advertisement, miscellaneous announcement).

Rue d'Adran, now Hồ Tùng Mậu street, where Gia Định Newspaper was printed. Photo via manhhai.

This change allowed the local intelligentsia to have a voice, breaking the elite Chinese cultural monopoly. While Trương Vinh Ký and his partners hadn't fully envisioned what modern journalism would be like, Gia Định Newspaper laid the groundwork for editorial formats such as reportage, commentary, reader's op-eds, and serialized stories.

Although it served the colonial government's propaganda needs, the Vietnamese scholars steering Gia Định Newspaper turned it into a valuable platform to popularize Quốc ngữ and promote local culture, particularly that of Nam Kỳ. Its articles vividly captured the social life of the time, addressing all topics from customs, festivals, taxation policies, marriage, infrastructure, and more. These documents still hold tremendous historical value today.

As researcher Nguyễn Hải Lộc from Vạn Hạnh University remarked: “Was the French promotion of Quốc ngữ out of goodwill? Definitely not. They wanted Vietnamese to read Gia Định Newspaper mostly to show their good deeds, and the privileges that those catering to the [colonial] status quo received... but despite their manipulative intent, we can clearly see the accomplishment of Petrus Ký [Trương Vĩnh Ký], Paulus Của [Huỳnh Tịnh Của], and Trương Minh Ký reflected in Gia Định Newspaper.”

Trương Vĩnh Ký. Photo via Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Gia Định Newspaper emerged during an age of political turmoil, when the French colonial government was tightening its grip over Nam Kỳ. But while its initial purpose was to reinforce colonial power, it also sowed the seeds for East-West cultural exchange and laid the first bricks for modern Vietnamese journalism. The legacy of the publication goes beyond its mere pages, cementing the pioneering spirit of scholars that brought enlightenment and knowledge to Vietnamese readers. 

My middle school memories are often peppered with the honking voices of adolescents chanting some silly chorus about household cleaning.

“Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” and the generation raised on Vietsubbed K-pop

In 2011, South Korean girl group 2NE1 made a comeback with their second studio album, pioneered by the title track “I Am The Best.” The song quickly became a hit in their homeland due to its message of self-affirmation. Young Vietnamese, caught in the middle of the K-pop craze sweeping across the region at the time, also embraced the song, but for different reasons.

The edgy style of the four girls and the catchy electro-pop melody filled a void that Vietnamese pop music, which was still struggling to find its identity at the time, lacked. Meeting the demand for groundbreaking pop, the song became omnipresent, blasting from every corner, from Nhaccuatui (a streaming platform) to my middle school's loudspeakers that previously only played patriotic songs.

During every break, my entire grade would enthusiastically dance when ‘I Am the Best’ came on. Many wanted to sing along but were held back by the fact that fewer than 1% of the students could pronounce the Korean lyrics correctly. Somehow, the chorus, “Nega jeil jal naga” morphed into “Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” which translates to “You wash the dishes, I'll sweep the house,” a quirky phrase that the kids cheerfully repeated. This was the tune that would become part of my high school years' soundtrack.

Much later, 2NE1 disbanded, and the members pursued solo careers. However, the iconic tracks and their unofficial versions continue to resonate among young people.

“On this occasion of New Year's Eve, we would like to welcome our domestic cleaning queen.”

Whether it is played at comedy shows or weddings, ‘I Am The Best’ is still considered the anthem of washing dishes and sweeping houses. Years later, when group leader CL returned to Vietnam to perform at a New Year's Eve concert, people excitedly whispered, “Ready to ‘wash dishes and sweep houses’ with our queen?’

In addition to ‘I Am the Best,’ many other K-pop songs of that era gained new identities upon arriving in Vietnam. With the creative touch of remix enthusiasts, tracks were subtitled and carefully dubbed with nonsensical lyrics that bore little relation to the original content but somehow fit the music remarkably well.

There was a time when people asked each other, “Ăn sáng chưa?” (Have you had breakfast yet?) to the tune of ‘A Boy’ by G-Dragon. They would “đưa nhau đi chơi xa, trên con xe tay ga” (go on trips, ride motorbikes) alongside Big Bang's ‘Fantastic Baby.’ And when Taeyang's ‘Ringa Linga’ chorus played, everyone would join in chanting, “Lên là lên, lên là lên!” (Up and up, up and up!).

“Lên Là Lên/Ringa Linga” — The ultimate club music for middle schoolers.

When reflecting on my “K-pop alternative” phase, I wonder what made these “K-pop chế” (K-pop parody songs) so popular. Young Vietnamese were eagerly consuming cultural products from Japan, Europe, and the US at the time, yet there were no Backstreet Boys or Westlife parodies. So how did we get here?

Tracing the history of Vietnamese-language adaptations

Throughout Vietnam's history, localizing foreign content has been a long-standing tradition essential for preserving knowledge through various times of turmoil. For instance, during colonial rule and periods of varying Chinese influence, language shifted and adapted. Via translations into Nôm script and Quốc Ngữ script, meanings were altered and lost, intentionally or not. From Truyền Kỳ Mạn Lục to The Tale of Kiều, imported works were transformed with names, settings, and events made to feel more “Vietnamese.” This localization made foreign elements more relatable to local audiences.

Having had significant exposure to foreign cultures, people in southern Vietnam before 1975 appreciated foreign songs with localized lyrics.

Such adaptations extended beyond literature, finding their way into theater and music. During colonial rule, new, powerful Western melodies became tools for stirring patriotism and anti-colonial sentiment.

Revolutionaries wrote Vietnamese lyrics to the tune of foreign songs to express their desire for independence. A notable example is ‘La Marseillaise,’ the French national anthem, which has spawn up to seven different Vietnamese versions with lyrics like “Hey, comrades! Forward to liberation day!” and “Citizens, rise up and answer the nation's call!”

Lam Trường was the face of translated Chinese-language pop.

The adapting of foreign material continued in the following decades as Vietnam encountered other cultures. In the south, Phạm Duy created Vietnamese versions of western songs like ‘You're the Most Beautiful Tonight’ and ‘When We Were Young.’ In the north, Soviet songs such as ‘A Million Roses’ and ‘Katyusha’ were also translated. By the 1980s and 1990s, Chinese pop adapted into Vietnamese had become hugely popular, producing timeless hits that defined the careers of artists like Lam Trường and Đan Trường.

However, during the 2000s, translated music lost its appeal for various reasons. Young people began listening to English songs in their original form, while Chinese pop music failed to keep up with new genres like hip-hop and EDM. Moreover, Vietnam joined the International Federation of the Phonographic Industry, which further complicated the translation and distribution of foreign songs.

Riding the Hallyu wave

As the era of translated music faded, Vietnamese audiences began to embrace a fresh breeze of culture — the Korean Wave, or Hallyu. Originating from the South Korean government's initiative to promote cultural industries globally, Hallyu aimed to enhance the nation's image by exporting its cultural assets.

As South Korea's comprehensive diplomatic partner, Vietnam quickly integrated Hallyu into daily life. Vietnam became the first Southeast Asian country to broadcast South Korean dramas on a national TV station. Korean fashion, hairstyles, and cosmetics became increasingly popular among urban youth. People in big cities started preferring “made in Korea” consumer products over those from Japan or America.

In the early Hallyu days, idol obsession became such a prominent issue that the Ministry of Education included “idol culture” in a national graduation exam.

However, when discussing Hallyu in Vietnam during the 2000s and 2010s, colloquially referred to as Gen 2, the most notable impact came from the music industry and the idol culture that accompanied it.

Unlike C-pop, South Korean music at the time was diverse in genres and appealed to a wide range of tastes. But unlike western music, the progressiveness of the Korean music industry was delivered through themes and expressions more relatable to Asians. It contained a measured openness, as seen in hip-hop music videos that embraced melodramatic cancer storylines typical of Korean dramas, catering to the tastes of a nation still learning the ropes of international integration.

A staple of school performances back then was not-so-polished K-pop cover dances.

Gen 2 is also considered the golden era of K-pop, as it gave rise to many groups now regarded as legends: TVXQ, Super Junior, Girls’ Generation, Wonder Girls, Big Bang, etc. With generous production budgets and exceptional stage performance skills, the idol wave quickly captured the hearts of young Vietnamese. Issues of teen magazines like Hoa Học Trò and Mực Tím that featured K-pop artist posters were hot commodities. The catchy beats and choreography of popular K-pop songs, performed off-rhythm but enthusiastically by students, became fixtures in school assemblies and youth group meetings. Naturally, the torch of translated music was passed to Korean songs when local artists released Vietnamese versions of trending K-pop hits despite legal ambiguities.

Mom: “We have Lee Hyori at home.” The Lee Hyori we have at home:  

Vietnam's K-pop chế universe

With limited resources to access idols' official products like concert tickets, fan meetings, or even CDs, Vietnamese fans supported their idols through the internet, joining fan forums like 360KPOP and tirelessly streaming music videos.

In the early days, companies didn't provide subtitles. But fans who wanted to connect with idols had to feel both the visuals and the lyrics. Since Vietnamese cover versions weren't ideal, “Vietsub” music videos became popular. Fans fluent in Korean would translate lyrics, add Vietnamese subtitles, and re-upload them.

Big Bang's ‘Haru Haru’ music video is hip-hop inspired but still incorporates a dramatic cancer storyline typical of Korean dramas.

During this period, Vietnamese-subtitled K-pop music videos flooded the internet. Statistics show that 60% of the videos tagged with “Vietsub” were Korean-related. With K-pop closely tied to fandoms, fans did not merely want to consume the music but also interact with their idols and other enthusiasts.

Because fan meetings and official concerts were rarely held in Vietnam, translating and subtitling music videos and sharing them became a way for fans to recruit new members and lay the groundwork for their communities. From active fans promoting their idols to the innate trendy nature of the Hallyu wave, the hottest K-pop music videos at the time began to spread beyond the fandom. They were broadcast on mainstream TV channels and consistently appeared at the top of YouTube's recommendation lists, sparking curiosity and interest from casual viewers who weren't deeply invested in the artists' details and simply wanted to enjoy the music.

However, back then, Korean wasn't as widely spoken as English, and even the Romanized Korean syllables were challenging for people to sing along with. Thus, K-pop parody videos emerged to meet public demand, adjusting lyrics to be memorable and easy to sing. The original messages vanished, replaced by creative rewrites from fans and creators.

‘Oh! Chế,’ or ‘Oh! Parody,’ is considered the cornerstone of K-pop parody music.

In the early days, well-known K-pop parody songs often carried a negative connotation because they originated from anti-fan groups who sought to “throw shade” at specific artists. An example is ‘Oh!’ by Girls' Generation, or SNSD. Upon debut, the nine-member group quickly became a national phenomenon in Korea due to their fresh image and music.

In Vietnam, SNSD fans (including the author of this article!) were mostly marginalized because the group was constantly boycotted for ridiculous reasons, like being disrespectful to seniors, having plastic surgery, or interacting with male idols — rumors that were later proven unfounded. “Oh! Chế” transformed what was originally a lighthearted love song into one that attacked the female singers' looks and personalities:

Bụng em giờ rất thon / My waist is now so slim
Trông người em thật mí nhon / My body looks so petite
Hút bao nhiêu mỡ mà cũng phát biểu / But that's liposuction
Quá đáng anh thật là / You're such a jerk
Cứ phụ lòng của người ta / Messing with my heart
Mất bao nhiêu công em đi tu sửa lại đồ đấy. / You know I went under the knife to fix myself.

After ‘Oh! Chế,’ SNSD's sizable anti-fan contingent released more parody classics such as ‘Run Devil Run.’ Paradoxically, many people grew more interested in the group due to these parody songs, and even became K-pop fans because of the songs' sharp-tongued and sarcastic lyrics.

“Raise your hand if the Oh parody introduced you to K-pop.”

“I was even happily singing along because I thought it was a fan-made cover.”

The negativity of early K-pop parodies likely stemmed from young people's limited awareness of the internet, which was just beginning to be common in Vietnam in the 2000s and 2010s. At the same time, fandom culture strongly promoted parasocial relationships. Loyal fans felt they needed to protect their idols' reputations and achievements against any competition, even if that meant personally attacking other idols.

Fortunately, as young people learned to use the internet more responsibly, their perspective on female artists also softened as Gen 2 idols gradually established their careers. K-pop parody culture within the community evolved, shifting from mockery to humor. By incorporating relatable details like trà đá, bún chả, and motorbikes, idols became characters who felt closer to Vietnamese people. The parody lyrics were carefully crafted for rhythm and catchiness, making them singable like genuine songs. Thus, timeless choruses such as “Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” or “Lên là lên” became woven into the daily lives of millenials and Gen Z's.

With K-pop parodies, language differences were no longer a barrier. Instead, they distilled the work into its fundamental elements: fun moves and catchy sounds. Everyone could enjoy the music videos' entertainment value without needing to understand the lyrics. This created a blank canvas for anyone with a computer to unleash their creativity and convey personal messages and emotions, for better or worse.

Not just Vietsub, it's Nghệ-An-sub.

In recent years, with a booming economy, Vietnam has become a market of interest for the K-pop industry. Fan events like concerts and meet-and-greets are now organized in Vietnam, and some music videos even come with Vietnamese subtitles. Translation and parody lyrics have thus become less essential for fans to feel connected with the artists. The golden age of K-pop parody has become a nostalgic memory for Gen 2 fans. Even so, the legacy of K-pop parody music continues to inspire and be carried forward by a handful of current creators.

“I started listening to K-pop in 2012. The first K-pop songs I heard were ‘Oh Chế,’ ‘Haru Haru Chế,’ and ‘Em Yêu Ảo Lòi.’ These songs had a massive impact on me,” Bạch Ân Khoa, a longtime K-pop fan and remix master, told me. Bạch Ân Khoa is known for viral parody tracks like ‘Love Dive Tình Ái,’ a “collab” between IVE and Đàm Vĩnh Hưng. Khoa's other remixes also always include a random Vietnamese twist. With the support of AI tools, idols can sing duets with Bé Xuân Mai or even perform in a Nghệ An accent.

“The ideas just come naturally and serve no other purpose than to satisfy my passion, bring laughter, and spread my idol's songs to more people,” Khoa shared. “The Nghệ An series started with a friend, a NewJeans fan, who posted a video showcasing a Central Vietnamese accent. I thought, ‘What if K-pop idols sang in the Nghệ An dialect?’ It's also my way of promoting the region's special dialect to friends across the country.”

What goes around comes back around?

For the longest time, K-pop parodies reflected the influence of Korean culture on Vietnamese youth. Yet today, they're a demonstration of the creativity that young Vietnamese use to share their unique identity with the world.

The girls of IVE used Bạch Ân Khoa's parody song to thank their Vietnamese fans in a message in Vietnamese: “DIVE ơi, chúng ta kết lâu đài!” (“Hey DIVE, let's build a castle!”)

Imagine having your favorite artists quote you.

When BlackPink held the first Vietnam concert in Hanoi, the audience sang along enthusiastically to the chorus of ‘Flower’ in its Vietsub version called ‘Lửa Hận Thù.’ The performance by 60,000 Vietnamese fans left the artists astonished, and the international community praised Vietnam as probably the coolest fandom during BlackPink's tour. Recently, with the global rise of Hoàng Thùy Linh's ‘See Tình,’ Korean-subtitled versions have also started appearing all over South Korean social media.

The ‘Lửa Hận Thù’ performance that crowns Vietnam's fans as the coolest in the world.

As evidenced by Vietnam's history, no matter the era, fostering cultural exchange and integration is crucial when a nation opens its borders. Embracing and influencing each other's cultures between nations not only strengthens diplomatic relations but also enriches the cultural life of each country's citizens. After more than three decades of friendship and a decade filled with fond memories of Vietnamese K-pop parody music, could there be an opportunity for a “V-pop parody wave” to emerge in South Korea? I'm eagerly awaiting the answer.

Where are all the female writers?

Foreign editors asked this about an upcoming book I co-translated with Quan Ha that features a novella and 18 Vietnamese stories written between 1930 and 1954. The collection consists entirely of male voices. We wished it wasn’t that way, but literature was an exclusively male domain during that period, in part because more than 90% of the Vietnamese population was illiterate at that time.

Thankfully, literacy rates rose rapidly after colonial rule, and women experienced greater opportunities across society, including in literary communities. Today, any anthology providing an overview of contemporary Vietnamese literature would have no excuse for sidelining the many talented female writers who offer a breadth of styles, subject matters and perspectives as wide as their male counterparts. Within this context, there is a considerable need for a collection consisting exclusively of female voices. Even accounting for the recent success of writers such as Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai and Nguyễn Ngọc Tư, here and abroad, the cannon remains overwhelmingly male; the pendulum must be swung vigorously in the opposite direction. 

Moreover, gender balance has improved in Vietnam, but women remain tragically underrepresented in positions of power and reverence while being often reduced to narrow archetypes. What society-wide recognition offered to them seems steeped in patriarchal concepts of women as martyrs or objects of beauty. A recent field trip I took with novelist Dạ Ngân to the Southern Women’s Museum exemplifies the situation. The museum contains little more than an áo dài fashion exhibit and the stories, photographs and artifacts of women involved in the nation’s 20^th-century struggles for peace and freedom. There was no mention of writers, teachers, scientists, mothers, chefs, business leaders, athletes, or artists. “Propaganda,” Dạ Ngân concluded. Promoting beauty queens and representatives of the heroic mother figure is fine, but it should be joined by the celebration of women valued for what they accomplish with their minds. Literature is a valuable means to showcase these individuals via stories’ authors and characters. 

Finally, while female writers are capable of producing many of the stories that male authors can, they can also offer up experiences and perspectives unique to their gender, particularly those related to motherhood, patriarchy and traditional societal roles. These stories are invaluable for both female readers who benefit from seeing themselves represented in literature as well as male readers who may otherwise have little access to the innermost thoughts, feelings and lived experiences of women. 

All that is to say that Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers is an important book. It collects 22 stories by female authors originally written in Vietnamese and translated by Quan Manh Ha and Quynh H. Vo. The stories from emerging and established authors were originally published within the last 30 years in various Vietnamese newspapers, literary magazines and short-story collections.

A broad exploration of the minds, desires, and hopes of Vietnamese women

While born and raised in Vietnam, both Quan and Quynh now teach at universities in the United States. Admitting that they do not read enough new Vietnamese literature each year to do this collection justice, they connected with literature professors and authors in Vietnam for recommendations. While the stories are all written by women, they do not explicitly focus on the concepts of femininity or feminism. In so much that they do come together to offer a singular comment regarding women, it’s merely that women contribute immensely to the nation’s literary landscape and are not a monolith in thought or action. There are certain themes and topics that do emerge numerous times within the book, particularly romantic love, prostitution, Confucian notions of filial piety, and one’s search for meaning in the world. Yet, the conclusions or impressions one can glean about these subjects occasionally contradict or oppose one another, which makes for a particularly rich reading experience. 

The most repeated source of tension in Longings involves romantic love. Women search for husbands, mourn the loss of lost husbands, fight with poorly behaved husbands, suffer at the hands of abusive husbands and reflect on the joys that husbands bring. Notably, one cannot separate romantic love from the institution of marriage in the works. While the collection as a whole can be seen as progressive in its aims of elevating female voices and touching on taboo subjects, many of the individual pieces reflect Vietnam’s conservative or older values that include virtue being a result of choices and marriage as a foregone conclusion along with having children. For instance, the elderly protagonist in ‘Under the Blooming Silk Cotton Tree’ by Tịnh Bảo is described as: “All she had ever wished for was a happy family, a humble life, a kind and hardworking husband, and a simple house.”

As works of realism, the stories hold a mirror to modern society and, in doing so, can question and criticize traditional values, particularly marriages, and make arguments for improvements. In ‘Selecting a Husband,’ by  Kiều Bích Hậu for example, a protagonist entertains the idea of marrying a rich man, a masculine man, a man who satisfies her sexual needs, or one who provides her with children, before reaching “the epiphany that the perfect man is one she must make for herself.” Similarly, after experiencing an abusive, morally defunct husband, the protagonist in ‘Under the Blooming Silk Cotton Tree’ advises her daughter: “Women always have stood below men. But your generation is more educated. You’ll need to live for yourself. You’ll have to live for yourself. Marriage is not the only path to happiness.”

“Women always have stood below men. But your generation is more educated. You’ll need to live for yourself. You’ll have to live for yourself. Marriage is not the only path to happiness.”

Views on marriage that deviate from norms often coincide with radical lifestyle choices in the stories. ‘Late Moon’ by Nguyễn Thị Châu Giang, for example, offers a character who flaunts notions of traditional behavior and runs off to lead a bohemian lifestyle before having a child she intends to raise as a single mother. As with much good literature, there is no simple, singular point being made or expressed through this woman’s trajectory. Rather, “her life resembled an abstract painting characterized by large, barely visible black strokes among which thin red strokes slithered in no particular order. These strokes were like the smoldering remains of a fire that could burst back into a blaze and burn everything into ashes.”

If marriage is an expected joy, then prostitution seems to be a regrettable inevitability in society. One of the most repeated topics in Longings is women depicted at their most commodified and in doing so, they give a voice to the often silent objects of desire in men’s stories. The act of selling one’s body for sex, however, is presented via different lenses. While never glamorized nor condemned as a moral failure, some stories, such as ‘Green Plum’ by Trần Thùy Mai examine root causes and explain how prostitution is the result of poverty, patriarchy and a lack of education that victimizes women. Some stories emphasize the violence and dehumanization of the job, while others stress the resilience and strength of the women forced to endure it. 

Most of the authors featured in Longings were born in or after the 1960s and thus the nation’s 20^th-century wars do not overwhelm the collection, appearing in only a few stories. And except ‘The Smoke Cloud,’ by Nguyễn Thị Kim Hoà,  they are set long after peace has arrived, when characters must tend to the lingering wounds. This allows for interesting variations on the familiar theme of women carrying the greatest burdens of war. Dạ Ngân’s stunning ‘White Pillows’ for example, explores the challenges a wife must face when her husband returns physically and psychologically devastated by combat. She must find somewhere, literally and metaphorically, to stuff “half a century of emotions and suffering.” 

While domestic relationships provide the most common sources of tension in the stories, there are a few exciting deviations. ‘After the Storm’ by Trần Thị Thắng, for example, follows the life of a domestic caregiver who must work in Saigon after her family lost everything in a devastating storm in Cà Mau in 1997. The classic “human vs. nature” conflict carries a strong environmentalist message with Buddhist underpinnings when showing what happens to human lives when societies do live in sustainable partnership with the planet. Human trafficking, another important contemporary problem, is shown not via familiar journalistic numbers and statistics but by individual women and involved actors in ‘At the Border’ by Võ Thị Xuân Hà. Religion makes few appearances, but when it does, it arrives as a bold force with the potential to disrupt the societal conventions laid out elsewhere.

Contemporary and even online Vietnam as a setting

Vietnam serves as the setting for most of the stories, with several exceptions incorporating non-Vietnamese societies as sources of tension and hinting at Vietnamese peoples’ legacies of migration. The 1980s conflict between Vietnam and Cambodia and the culturally, ethnically and politically porous border between the two nations serves as the backdrop of ‘Boozing with a Khmer Rouge’ by Võ Diệu Thanh. Elsewhere, the world abroad is not a source of danger, but one of opportunity. In both Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s ‘Buds’ and ‘Selecting a Husband,’ the main characters question whether they can find greater happiness outside of Vietnam. Similarly, the caregiver in “After the Storm” is offered the opportunity to move abroad. The decisions each of the characters make regarding life overseas underscores the collection’s commitment to diverse opinions and observations that reinforce the diversity of Vietnamese experiences. 

This breadth of subject matter in Longings is impressive, but the variety of represented regions within Vietnam might be even more significant. The editors have done an excellent job finding representation from all areas, including rural and urban settings. Whether it’s a southern island, a northwest farming village, or a Central Highlands forest, the rural settings all suggest a certain timelessness. The often miserable experiences of the characters are not dependent on where or even when they live. Endurance, suffering and acceptance are thus presented as Vietnam-wide qualities.

The editors have done an excellent job finding representation from all areas, including rural and urban settings. Whether it’s a southern island, a northwest farming village, or a Central Highlands forest, the rural settings all suggest a certain timelessness.

But other stories, particularly those set in the cities, are very much of the modern world, with references to social media, business trends and cultural changes. Those placed in the overt present allow for interesting commentary on the pursuit of happiness relevant to younger generations. In ‘The Eternal Forest,’ by Trịnh Bích Ngân, the narrator is representative of an educated, urban-dwelling class that many readers will relate to: “Like everyone else, she had experienced the vicissitudes of life. She reflected on herself and her life and dared not abandon the online masses to be alone. In addition to her few close friends, many people whom she had never met in person ‘liked’ her photos. That was sufficient for her — the ‘likes’ she received filled the days’ emptiness. An emptiness that consumed her heart even when she and her husband made love.” This particular story and several others help the collection to not only look at Vietnamese society of the recent past but also the present with the assumption that both are needed to understand where it may be headed.

Because several stories take place in the nation’s mountainous western regions, Dao, H'Mông and Ê-đê ethnic minority communities are represented. Particular customs, such as Dao women using a separate entrance to their homes for a full month after giving birth as depicted in ‘Raindrops on his Shoulders,’ by Tống Ngọc Hân, remind readers that Vietnamese is not synonymous with the Kinh ethnic majority. Indeed, Kinh Vietnamese only make up 85% of the population and it's incorrect to conflate the two when attempting to provide a panoramic view of society via literature. Some, particularly western readers, may perhaps raise issues with the fact that two of the three ethnic minority stories were written by Kinh authors, raising questions of appropriation and questioning who has the right to tell which stories. Saigoneer spoke with Đỗ Bích Thúy about her story in this collection, ‘The Sound of Lip Lute Behind the Stone Fence’ for a longer feature detailing how it became the basis for the popular film Chuyện của Pao (The Story of Pao) wherein we discussed this issue. The situation in some ways mirrors the reasons why there were no female writers during the colonial period while also leaving space to debate how matters of representation may differ in American versus Vietnamese contexts.

An unburdening rooted in realism

Much of this review of Longings has involved noticing similarities between the stories and recognizing powerful deviations. This can be done for the writing styles as well. They all fit within the larger category of realism with no wild experimentations. However, differing points of view, voices, tenses, timelines and descriptive interests keep each story feeling wholly distinct while allowing readers to grasp the variety of influences and styles that exist in modern Vietnamese literature, reflective of a vibrant and evolving scene. 

When I first read, ‘On the Rạng Riverbank’ by Trịnh Thị Phương Trà, it struck me as a familiar story. It opens with a journalist from the city working on a newspaper’s annual Tết issue, who travels to a remote, rural area to interview a widow about her experience meeting and falling in love with a local man, and her decades of isolation after he dies not long after their wedding night. Their bond is strengthened throughout the brief personal moments afforded them during the war with America. This tale of sacrifice and longing will not seem unique to anyone who has read much Vietnamese literature.

And yet, if one looks at it from a slightly different angle, it offers powerful commentary on literature generally and this book specifically. As Quan recently explained to me, the woman is only able to share her story because the newspaper wants to publish it. And she seems to have been waiting for such a moment, the narrator noting that she tells it “like she had been practicing this soliloquy before some invisible audience for years.” By unburdening her life’s narrative, she brings it to others who may have family or friends with similar stories who have never had the opportunity or confidence to share them. Literature is thus a crucial element in the dissemination of experiences. The stories in this book function the same way, and in doing Longings allows readers to engage in the construction of collective knowledge, understanding and, ultimately, empathy.

When I was growing up, my family owned a broken TV whose screen would unexpectedly go black while the audio continued to play. Turning it off and on again a couple of times would fix the problem, but it was such a hassle that sometimes we just let it be. It was stationed in our dining room, and my parents loved putting on Korean dramas when we were eating. So whenever I reminisce about my childhood, the sound of dubbed K-dramas always plays the background.

During the mid-2000s amig the Hallyu wave in Vietnam, K-dramas were widely broadcast. Always dubbed in Vietnamese, these early series relied on voiceover, typically a northern woman's voice, for all the dialogue. In the 2010s, more professional voice acting work started gaining popularity, allowing each character in the series to have a unique voice.

The voiceover lines back then were quite monotonous, so I wasn’t as fond of them as my parents were, preferring Japanese and American cartoons. However, I did continue to encounter K-dramas, albeit in a different way. My parents placed an old TV in my room at some point, so in addition to watching my favorite shows on it, I developed a habit of playing dubbed K-dramas to fill the silence while doing homework or other activities. The familiar voices of these family drama characters going about their mundane lives and having routine conversations put me at ease. 

My Lovely Sam Soon (2005) and Winter Sonata (2002), two highly rated K-drama hits of the 2000s. 

The habit stopped once I got a laptop that allows me to watch whatever I want. If I need background sound in my room, I can just go to YouTube and play lofi hip hop radio - beats to relax/study to. It's more convenient in general, but those old dubbed  K-dramas are hard to find online. 

Every once in a while, I would visit an older relative’s house and hear those recognizable dubbed voices again. Such occassions take me back to my family dinners and my teen-era bedroom, when the biggest worries in my life were finishing homework and preparing for tests.

Before Squid Game became an international phenomenon and put K-dramas on the world map, audiences in Asian countries including Vietnam were enthralled by Boys Over Flowers, The Medical Brothers, Terms of Endearment, Dae Jang Geum — all of which are classics that we still look upon with nostalgic affection.

My mother and I were deeply invested in K-dramas in the mid-2000s. If we found a series we both liked, we would remind each other to turn on the TV at airtime so as not to miss a single episode. Once the whole series had concluded, we would hunt down a bootleg DVD copy to rewatch it, often together. We would laugh at the subpar voiceover and weird Vietnamized names.

Growing up, a love of K-dramas was one of the few similarities Mom and I shared, making it a precious bonding opportunity that bridged a wide generational gap. We had incredibly different tastes when it comes to entertainment; she liked Vietnamese TV series, which were always too cheesy and absurd for my taste. I liked Disney Channel and American TV series, which are in a language she doesn’t understand with no voiceover, often featuring plots that are too complex or explicit. K-dramas were where we met each other halfway. 

By high school, I had gradually grew bored of K-drama’s predictable plots, stereotypical characters and frequent use of cancer to add drama. The often histrionic performances that were once funny became tiresome. When Netflix was first introduced in Vietnam, I switched completely to American TV shows which struck me as more intelligent and interesting. For two or three years, I abandoned K-drama in favor of these English-speaking series. As a result, Mom and I spent significantly less time together laughing and talking.

I haven't been paying any attention to the new and trendy K-drama series like I once had, until Netflix added much more Korean-language content. Out of curiosity, I started watching again and saw how dramatically the genre had changed. It has grown out of overuse of cancer; and tragic, predictable love triangle setups, instead introducing more diverse themes with greater focus on visual quality and acting performance. K-drama is no longer just a go-to choice for sappy love stories. 

These days, I enjoy well-made K-dramas among other series in different languages. But sappy K-dramas are still great when I want something fun, and lighthearted that won’t leave me pondering the implications of after the series ends. More importantly, they remain an opportunity for Mom and I to spend time together, laugh, and be reminded of how much we both loved them back then. 

“I’m basically Demi Moore from Ghost,” this intrusive thought plagued my mind occasionally during our visit to Haru Cottage to participate in the cafe’s ceramic class.

The sensuous, supernatural romcom was the highest-grossing film of 1990 and single-handedly catapulted pottery wheels into one of the hottest intimacy devices of the 1990s. Moore plays a ceramist and the romantic scene involving her, a shirtless Patrick Swayze, and a spinning wet vase is forever entrenched as the most memorable pottery sequence in cinematic history.

Haru Cottage's outdoor studio space.

Our class at Haru Cottage didn’t feature any pottery wheel, took place to the soundtrack of soft Korean indie tunes instead of ‘Unchained Melody,’ and taught us to make adorable clay brooches in lieu of phallic vases. I’ve come to realize that there’s an inherent intimacy to pottery that might elude other art forms. Of course, with the right person and chemistry, one could seek to replicate the kind of sensual experience à la Demi and Patrick, but even working on cutesy things with friends can afford us a sense of quiet intimacy that can only come from being in touch, quite literally, with art.

Based in a modernist house in Bình Thạnh, the cafe focuses on a rustic vibe.

Opened just a few months ago before the rainy season, Haru Cottage is the newest location from the team behind Haru Cafe, the charming cafe nestled inside the old apartment at 14 Tôn Thất Đạm. Cottage checks all the boxes that have endeared us to Haru Cafe — i.e. coziness, good drinks, and a fluffy ginger cat — and expands into providing on-site pottery sessions that one can attend while sipping on their favorite drinks. Despite the name, the cafe is not based in a cottage on a meadow somewhere, but a sleepy modernist house deep inside a hẻm in Bình Thạnh. It does, however, embody the calming spirits and easy-going personalities of a rustic house in the countryside.

Haru Cottage is awash in shades of green. A pastel mugwort-colored gate welcomes visitors into its front yard, where a spacious table and a shelf full of ceramic knick-knacks await in the Cottage’s open-air studio space. There’s an indoor studio room for those who want to hide from the summer heat as well. Just a few steps more from the gate, one is greeted by the front door, tinted in bright green and casting an emerald hue onto the interior. And of course, plant pots dot the many tables and shelves across the dining area. If you’re lucky, you might be graced with a few playful meows and zoomies from Cottage’s resident cat, a recently adopted creamsicle gremlin named Gona — after Dalgona, the famous Korean candy and now foamy coffee drink. 

Kim Ha-kyung, nicknamed Haru, studied Ceramics in college before moving to Saigon with her family. She first rented a small space in District 7 to make art.

While the ceramic studio might seem like a new amenity for some customers, for Haru, the South Korean founder of the place, it was the first spark that brought everything into motion. Haru is the nickname of Kim Ha-kyung, the creator of Haru Cafe and main artist behind most of the place’s ceramic products. She gave herself the name, meaning “one day” in Korean, as a simple word so everybody from Japanese to Vietnamese can pronounce it.

When Haru first moved to Saigon, she worked as a graphic designer for a Korean cosmetic brand. As a ceramics major in college, she has always been passionate about the creative world, especially drawing and making pottery. So, following her mom’s suggestion, Haru rented a location in District 7 to establish a small studio as a sanctuary for herself to create art. To her complete surprise, the presence of the studio caught the eyes of a few young Saigoneers who visited the place and offered to help around, and even a South Korean art teacher who wanted to collaborate with Haru to organize ceramic classes.

At Haru Cottage, one can relish their beverages alongside a friend, a good book, or even during a session at the studio making their own ceramic tchotchkes.

The cafe element would come into the picture later, as a space for more local customers to use and enjoy handmade ceramic products, from mugs to tiny little spoons. Patrons can pick a favorite mug to go with their drink of choice, from the cafe’s range of classics like cà phê sữa or a Haru signature like apple cinnamon tea. Apple slices are simmered in a sugar syrup with cinnamon, to be enjoyed with black tea or soda for a glimpse of Korean autumn. Another unique flavor at Haru’s is the vegetal taste of mugwort (ngải cứu), a herb that northern Vietnamese and Korean cuisines share. If Hanoians are fond of fresh mugwort in their omelets, Koreans powderize the leaves and use it in desserts the way one would employ matcha. The cafe integrates mugwort powder in a fluffy cream on lattes to create an unfamiliar but surprisingly pleasant drink.

Latte with mugwort cream is a signature drink.

At Haru Cottage, one can relish their beverages alongside a friend, a good book, or even during a session at the studio making their own ceramic tchotchkes. The most affordable and easier class for absolute beginners like me entails the making of five clay brooches, so that was exactly what we did. From a small ball of wet clay that fits perfectly in the palm of my hand, I managed to sketch, roll out, shape, and paint a watermelon slice, a pig, a cat, an avocado, and a bum gun into existence. As my Saigoneer colleagues and I hulked over our own little clay brooches, I felt the coolness or the wet clay seep into my fingertips, soothing my mental state and reminding me of the importance of touch in the human experience.

The indoor ceramic studio.

This revelatory connection with tactile art was probably what Haru felt too when she first encountered clay. “When I was young, I really loved to draw, so I wanted to be a fine artist, like a painter,” she recalled. Fine art, however, was too competitive a university program for her when it came time to enroll. “My mom wanted me to have a passion for ceramics, so she let me try out for one month in a ceramic studio. I was really stressed, but I went there, made ceramics and felt really relaxed, so I changed my mind. I realized later that it’s a really good match for me.”

My brooches slowly taking shape and colors.

Sitting at Haru Cottage amidst the energetic cat, cordial murmurs and the occasional hum of beverage machines, it’s obvious that fondness for drawing is still very much alive. Many sketches and paintings on the walls, and even the quirky menu, were created by the owner herself. There’s also a dedicated space upstairs equipped with paper sheets and crayons for guests to try their hands at a little art therapy. Overall, that sense of coziness often found in Korean coffee shops is present across the drinks, activities, and decorations of Haru as well. It’s a little ironic that for such a stressful society, Korean-style cafes are often known abroad for being adorable little… cottages. Perhaps it’s to make up for the cutthroat pace of life and unnerving societal expectations out there.

Desserts and snacks are also available, such that this portion of mayak toast (egg and bacon).

It was precisely these aspects of living in urban South Korea that Haru couldn’t adapt to due to her family history of living abroad from a young age. Her father is in the clothing manufacturing sector, so when she was a little girl, the family moved to Qingdao, China where the factories were. For 10 years, she studied at Chinese schools in huge classes with 70 students and two Korean nationals. Her parents later resettled in Saigon, and she joined them after graduating from college.

To Haru, the owner, opening a ceramic studio in Saigon is a happy development in her life.

“Seoul is not easy, that’s why I think I want to live with my family, that’s why I wanted to move to Saigon,” Haru explained to me. “In Korea, there are many guidelines, you have to do that, you have to wear that — I’m not good at that. Living in Seoul is very stressful, you wake up early, go to the subway, go to work. Qingdao is like Saigon. I really enjoy living here.”

Two weeks after our session at Haru Cottage, just as I was starting to forget about them, my clay brooches arrived in a paper bag, all sturdily baked and covered in a shiny glaze. They are imperfect and might not compare to whatever Demi Moore was making as foreplay with Patrick Swayze in ‘Ghost,’ but they serve as the perfect reminder of a time in my life when the stillness and intimacy of quiet moments triumphed over the weights of living.

Haru Cottage is open from 9am to 10pm. Ceramic classes need to be booked in advance.

This featured article was originally published in 2023.

To sum up:

Taste: 5/5
Price: 4/5
Atmosphere: 5/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 3/5

Khôi loves tamarind, is a raging millennial and will write for food.

There are probably Saigoneers who will grow old without ever setting foot in Phú Mỹ Hưng, just like how several of my relatives living in District 8 have never visited Nguyễn Huệ Walking Street. Having grown up in the southern district too, I’ve gone three decades without visiting Cần Giờ or District 12, though our proximity with District 7 means I’ve gotten a few chances to get to know Phú Mỹ Hưng.

My personal theory is that Saigon’s numerous residential enclaves are too self-sufficient and our public transportation network too underdeveloped to encourage citywide exploration. With affordable ready-made meals, groceries, optic shops, nước mía carts, pharmacies, hair salons, pet shops, cinemas, nhậu eateries, and any other amenities necessary to sustain life accessible just a short bike ride away, many Saigoneers feel little incentive to venture out of their residential bubbles — which is a shame because Saigon, to me, is a city of endless novelties.

Phú Mỹ Hưng is a sleepy residential town south of Saigon.

First envisioned by Taiwanese land prospector Lawrence S. Ting in the early 1990s, Phú Mỹ Hưng remains Saigon’s most successful urban planning project, turning forgotten swampland into a livable, spacious, and smooth-running town that is still thriving after decades. Today, Phú Mỹ Hưng is known among Saigoneers as Saigon’s unofficial “Korea Town,” hosting the city’s most populous and arguably authentic collection of Korean restaurants, cafes and drinking establishments. Of course, it would be amiss for Saigoneer to run our Korea Chapter without including Phú Mỹ Hưng.

Inside Crescent Mall where our Stroll began.

On this Stroll feature, the Saigoneer team headed to Phú Mỹ Hưng to visit some of Saigon South’s most iconic spots, like Ánh Sao Bridge and Bán Nguyệt Lake Park, and try out a few Korean activities that we’ve only seen on TV dramas. Without giving away too much, I can make a bold claim now that the Korean sauna, or jjim jil bang, is as fun as it looks on the screen and was the best stop in the whole trip.

1. Photo Time

Address: 5th Floor, Crescent Mall, 101 Tôn Dật Tiên, D7

Photo stickers are a mainstay of Vietnamese friend groups.

While the photo booth was first invented in New York a century ago, East Asia really took the technology to another level. Photo booths first arrived in Vietnam at the turn of the century via South Korea; if you’ve taken photo stickers with friends before here, that was probably at a Korean-style photo booth. Our first stop, naturally, is at Crescent Mall for convenient parking, and the Photo Time store is just a few floors up — a whimsical start to document this memory with the team. Birthday dedications on Instagram stories, specially made Spotify mixtapes, and Facebook pokes — today’s expressions of friendships have seamlessly integrated with our cyberworld, but there’s just something special about holding in your hand a physical copy of a photo, feeling the texture of the paper, and how the printed colors depict your crazy poses.

Choose a headband (or five) to complete your look before getting the photos taken.

Feature:

• Many fun props, from fluffy cat paw gloves to duck headbands, to enhance the beauty of your visage
• A simple vanity station to zhuzh up before taking the photos
• Limited selection of filters and frames

Cost: VND30,000 per person
Tips:

• The shop provides a link with a QR code to download the photo sets and a video recording the posing, which turns out to be surprisingly delightful. This link only exists temporarily, so remember to download the files.
• Download the app for a first-timer discount code.

Friendship milestone unlocked!

2. Ánh Sao Bridge & Bán Nguyệt Lake Park

Walking in April under this heat is unbearable, so we started at 5pm.

Right behind Crescent Mall is the home to Bán Nguyệt (Semicircle) Lake and Ánh Sao (Starlight) Bridge, which leads pedestrians to a spacious park right on the lake shore. The most common comment I get from friends and families who’ve never been here is that the area doesn’t feel like Vietnam. On one side, a placid water surface reflects frond-heavy nipa palms and a bright setting sun. On the other side, a curvy stretch of elevated shopfronts with white steps leads to expansive walkable paths. According to the civic space’s original planners, they took inspiration from Singapore’s waterfront to craft the Bán Nguyệt Lake area.

Ánh Sao Bridge is pedestrian-only, though skateboards and segways seem to be fair game.

Ánh Sao Bridge earns its name from the peppering of floor lights on the bridge's surface illuminating the path in the evening. While the idea is quite cute in a slightly cheesy way, in practice these rays of light can be disorientating if you’re not careful while walking. If the northeastern side of the bank has a put-together foreign feel, once you’ve crossed the bridge to the other side, that very Vietnamese sense of chaos is in full reign: entrepreneurial locals have turned the area next to the park, where Tôn Dật Tiên Street meets a dead-end, into a race track for miniature cars. In the evening, one can find racers of all ages excitedly careening on the asphalt on Hello Kitty bikes, Frozen-themed cars, and other wacky themed vehicles.

A top-tier park well-suited for your picnicking needs.

Feature:

• Buskers lending their musical talent to lake-side performances
• Well-maintained grass patches for picnics and dog-walking
• Miniature racecourse

Cost: Free
Tips: Some finger food and cold beverages would be perfect to enjoy here while you walk around taking in the beautiful sunset and raucous atmosphere of childlike glee.

3. Avocado, Durian and Pumpkin Ice Cream

Address: 1 Đường N, D7

The kitschy exterior of Quán Thỏ Ngọc Xinh Xinh.

Vinahouse music picks, odd interior style, and kitschy decorations: this little corner cafe is a confounding mess in terms of vibes, but luckily, the food and drinks are a treat. Quán Thỏ Ngọc Xinh Xinh — I know, what a name — advertises kem bơ sầu riêng bí đỏ, and manages to deliver that with great aplomb. For the uninitiated, kem bơ is a cold dessert made famous by Đà Lạt, featuring a base of avocado purée and a scoop of coconut ice cream with desiccated coconut flakes sprinkled on top. Here, the menu expands on that concept by adding durian and pumpkin purée as options. Once you can get over the mental hurdle of thinking that pumpkin purée is essentially baby food, it’s a pleasant, cooling snack for a hot summer day in Saigon.

Not baby food! But I won't fault you for thinking otherwise.

Feature:

• Campy Instagram check-in sets
• Hottest Vinahouse tracks to relax/study to
• Quite well-balanced kem bơ and other desserts

Cost: VND55,000 per person
Tips: If the cafe’s ambiance weirds you out, get the desserts to-go and hop to the park to enjoy while people-watching and sitting on the grass.

4. Perilla Restaurant

Address: 161 Tôn Dật Tiên, Tân Phong Ward, D7

Perilla / Tía Tô focuses on wholesome food that's supposed to be good for your health.

As much as I enjoy the savory, saucy, finger-lickin’ goodness of Korean fried chicken, my favorite thing about Korean cuisine is its serious dedication to side dishes, best known as banchan. Perilla restaurant in District 7 has one of the most generous, diverse, and tasty collections of banchan in Saigon. Elsewhere, you might get a few types of kimchi and some dried anchovies, but Perilla’s banchan spread is made fresh every few days and changes often depending on the season. Ever since a Korean colleague introduced me to this place, I have lovingly gorged myself on their banchan every visit, and the best thing is that you can ask for refills. The menu has staples like K-BBQ and deonjang jjigae, but also many other home-style Korean dishes that you might not find at Saigon’s typical K-fastfood places. Perilla’s homey atmosphere makes it an ideal stop for a cozy trip to Phú Mỹ Hưng, getting your stomach well-satiated to prepare you for our last stop: the Korean sauna.

Feature:

• Rustic cơm nhà-style Korean dishes
• Free after-meal cinnamon punch
• Every banchan everywhere all at once

Cost: Approximately VND200,000 per dish
Tips: The restaurant requires at least one dish per pax, so order sparingly. On numerous occasions, I’m already half-full on side dishes even before my order arrives.

5. Golden Lotus Healing Spa

Address: 139 Tôn Dật Tiên, D7

Golden Lotus is open from 7am to 12am.

Picture this: In an enclosed space awash in cedar wood accents, a working-class K-drama protagonist lounges around with her gaggle of auntie friends to talk shit about their neighbors. They all wear quirky-looking pajamas and carry around a bath towel to sometimes whack the heroine on the head should she fail to follow their romantic advice. This is probably a typical vista familiar to anyone who grew up with Korean soap operas in Vietnam, but few might ever get to experience this uniquely Korean activity in person, Saigoneer included — until now, that is.

A visit to any jjim jil bang would be incomplete without cute towel hats and selfies.

This distinctive-looking sauna is known as jjim jil bang in the Korean language. How do I even begin to explain jjim jil bang in this limited article space without sounding like I was paid handsomely to shill their business? I will shill anyway because I enjoyed myself that much, just know that we paid for this ourselves.

A typical dosirak.

First, there are a few components to the spa experience at Golden Lotus: many options of massages, which we didn’t try due to time constraints; a wet bath house on the first floor where participants are all naked, though there are separate male and female sections; a upper-floor dry section with a smorgasbord of different spa rooms to try, and ample space to lounge around shooting the breeze while snacking.

Dinner at Mr. BBQ features typical Korean dishes like soups and banchans.

Speaking of food, the spa compound has a restaurant attached to the first floor called Mr. BBQ, where we had our dinner while waiting for the spa happy hours to kick in. The food, comprising mostly common Korean dishes, is serviceable, though it’s quite exciting to try out dosirak (Korean lunch boxes) for the first time. The dry section has a snack counter selling the iconic jjim jil bang eggs and sikhye (rice punch), amongst other simple munchies like cup noodles. The snacks are on the pricey side (VND45,000 per small Shin ramyeon cup), but the eggs and rice juice are must-tries.

Jjim jil bang eggs are brown and have a nutty, toasty hint to their taste.

For temperature-control spa enthusiasts, there are numerous novelty rooms to try out. There’s a chilly room (like sitting in a freezer), a hot kiln (steamy but a little uncomfortable), an oxygen room (very cozy vibes but I can’t verify the oxygen concentration claims), a few infrared capsules (claustrophobic), a ticklish but nonetheless delightful fish spa, amongst other amenities like kids’ room and exercise machines. While I’ll be the first to question any health claims presented here, I’m still amazed to learn that there are so many different ways to sit in a room, which makes jjim jil bang a great experience for me, because there’s nothing I enjoy more than sitting around doing nothing.

Feature:

• Various ways to sit, lounge, and lie around
• Gainful employment for fish
• Comfortable pajamas
• New way to eat eggs

Cost:

• The entrance fee per person is around VND315,000 generally, but after 7:30pm, it drops to VND150,000.
• Before our visit, I was astounded by the sheer volume of good reviews of the place on Google Maps, but it turns out the spa offers a special rate (VND170,000) for any guest willing to give a five-star review on the spot. The service mostly deserves the good reviews, but beware of the artificially inflated high ratings.

Tips:

• Learn how to fold the provided towels into cute headwear before visiting.
• The fish massage tank is outside the dry mainroom, up a short flight of stairs past the exercise machines.

“What inspired you to open a Korean cafe?” I ask Giang, the manager of Hayoon Cafe in Nam Từ Liêm, a popular Korean district in Hanoi.

Giang giggles with a glint in her eye. “I got a Korean boyfriend,” she says.

But Giang’s interest in Korean culture goes back much further than her relationship. She majored in Korean Language at university and met her boyfriend while working at a Korean company in Hanoi. Now, she hopes other Vietnamese people will fall for Korean culture just as she did, and Hayoon Cafe is the ideal venue for people to do just that.

If they can find Hayoon Cafe, that is. As it's situated among a grid of leafy, hidden streets, getting to Hayoon Cafe feels a bit like breaking into a private estate. I gave the security guard as innocent a smile as I could muster as I stepped through the gate, not quite believing he would actually permit me to enter. He watched emotionlessly as I walked past, and I soon found the cafe tucked in amongst a long row of houses. 

The project started as a language center in 2022, teaching both Korean and Vietnamese. The second and third floors of the building are comprised of classrooms fitted with long white tables, projectors, and television screens. There is also a room for private events, complete with a full beer fridge and a balcony overlooking the pedestrianized streets below. 

Photos via Hayoon Cafe.

As well as language classes, students can take part in workshops teaching traditional Korean arts and crafts, such as arranging bojagi (wrapping cloth), painting bokjumeoni (coin purses), and hanji (folding fans). In June 2023, Giang expanded on this idea of cultural exchange by turning the ground floor into a Korean-style cafe. 

The cafe has a minimalist aesthetic — white walls with flashes of blossom pink, bare wood, blocks of elegant hangul script, panoramic windows, and stacks of Korean board games. There is a small, quieter mezzanine with a large window overlooking the garden. The garden is fronted by a lavish, solid wood gate and hemmed in by white walls topped with Korean “giwa” (tiles). It all creates the perfect backdrop for what Giang claims is the most important aspect of the cafe’s charm: the fancy dress.

Giang gets up from our table and leads me into a small room near the back of the first floor. Here, customers can choose from a variety of different color hanboks (traditional Korean gowns), sporting pastel pinks, bold stripes, and elegant gold patterns. There are also hats, fans and headdresses, as well as tripods and flash diffusers for all your amateur modelling needs. 

Photo via Hayoon Cafe.

The menu is as vibrant as the fancy dress, with punchy fruit smoothies accompanied by indulgent bowls of bingsu (fluffy Korean shaved ice), with toppings ranging from crunched Oreo, to mango chunks, to matcha cream. There is also a selection of Korean teas and cakes. 

Giang’s passion shines through in every detail, and it’s clear she has the greatest respect for Korea, its culture, and its people.

“I was first attracted to Korean culture by the kindness of the people,” says Giang. “Not only are they very friendly, but they are also very stylish and very hardworking.” 

Văn and Quỳnh Anh, two staff members who kindly offered to translate for Giang and I, also chip in with their take on the matter. “Compared to Korean people, I think Vietnamese are maybe more free and less hardworking,” says Văn. 

“And who is more fun?” I ask. “Both,” says Quỳnh Anh. “Both are very fun in different ways.”

Photo via Hayoon Cafe.

Perhaps this throwaway comment hits upon Hayoon cafe’s biggest achievement. While Giang’s ultimate goal of bringing Korean and Vietnamese cultures together might sound lofty, she achieves her objective through a focus on enjoyment. Her smile when she quips about her Korean boyfriend, the splashes of pink, the elaborate fancy dress, the decadent desserts and the handicrafts are all reminders that learning is supposed to be fun. Hayoon cafe delivers this with passion, style, and a welcome bit of silliness.

Hayoon Cafe is open from 10am to 10pm.

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 4/5

Oliver describes bún chả as “wet burgers” and burgers as “dry bún chả.” 

It’s undeniable that Mười: The Legend of a Portrait has left a lasting impression in the minds of a generation of Vietnamese, as the first collaboration between Vietnam and South Korea’s cinema industries. Watching this contemporary classic in 2024, however, made me realize that Mười has not aged well.

Excitement in the early days of the Hallyu Wave

Mười was the first-ever horror film I watched in the theater, and the experience was memorable for many reasons. Beside the grown-up excitement of going to the movies alone with my teenage buddies, our encounter with Mười was made even more thrilling by the fact that the movie was NC-16 and we weren’t of age. Oh the simple joys of being young, when eluding the nonchalant eyes of the ticket clerk — who probably wasn’t paid enough to care that we were underaged — could make one feel like such daredevils.

The official poster of Mười.

When Mười was first announced in 2006, it was a project of many firsts, too. Tuổi Trẻ called it “Vietnam’s first commercial film with elements of mystery and horror”; the film was the first Vietnamese release scandalous enough to receive the NC-16 rating, but the media at the time was more celebratory about the fact that it was also the first collaborative release between Vietnamese and South Korean productions. The movie poster, featuring the two Korean leads clad in sleek áo dài, inspired much pride amongst Vietnamese cinema fans, who have long held the belief that our local film industry is well beneath that of Korea.

If the US and the rest of the world are only just getting a taste of the Korean wave in recent years thanks to the bombastic global success of Parasite and Squid Game, Vietnam and much of Southeast Asia fell under the Hallyu spell much earlier than that. The first South Korean drama to ever grace Vietnamese TV screens, Hoa Cúc Vàng (Marigold, 1992), was broadcast in Hanoi in 1996 and then syndicated in Saigon in 1999 to rapturous reception by Vietnamese female viewers. The next decade witnessed a popularity boom of Korean TV series in the country, marked by the release of notable classics like Cảm Xúc (Feelings, 1994), Người Mẫu (Model, 1997), and Bản tình ca mùa đông (Winter Sonata, 2002). This newfound enthusiasm for soap operas ignited a Korean fever that spread to all corners of pop culture in Vietnam, including cuisine, travel, fashion, and later, K-pop.

Mười was co-produced by South Korean mogul CJ Entertainment and Hãng Phim Phước Sang, one of Vietnam’s earliest film companies formed after Đổi Mới. The metaphorical handshake between the two was met with sanguine commentaries in the media; there was hope that it would be a sign of growth for the local cinema industry at the time, which was rife with cheap, raunchy slapstick comedies. In the 2000s, thanks to critically acclaimed titles like A Tale of Two Sisters (dir. Kim Jee-woon, 2003) and The Host (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2006), South Korean horror became a well-respected brand in Asia, producing high-quality works that were on par with and distinctly different from their Hollywood counterparts. So a Vietnamese co-production with Korea like Mười was seen as a great honor, though the movie ultimately failed to live up to its Korean predecessors.

A Korean horror with Vietnamese set dressing

Mười: The Legend of a Portrait follows the story of two Korean characters, Yoon-hee (Jo An) and Seo-yeon (Cha Ye-ryeon), who were close childhood friends but grew apart as adults. Seo-yeon mysteriously moved to Vietnam shortly after Yoon-hee published her first novel, part of which was based on malicious rumors about her friend. Three years have passed, and Yoon-hee, now facing writing deadlines from her publisher, is enticed by the legend of Mười, a Vietnamese urban legend of a female ghost with demonic powers, and decides to visit Seo-yeon in Vietnam to research Mười for her new book. The long-lost friends meet again when Seo-yeon invites Yoon-hee to stay at her French-built villa in Đà Lạt while she investigates the tale of Mười, but ghastly truths start to rear their heads as Yoon-hee gradually discovers that her childhood buddy is much more involved in the legend of Mười than she first appears.

Cha Ye-ryeon (left) as Seo-yeon and Jo An (right) as Yoon-hee.

The contemporary timeline is interspersed with sepia-tinted flashbacks recounting the life and gruesome death of Mười (Anh Thư), a young girl living 100 years ago. Mười was the tenth and youngest child in a poor family in the Mekong Delta. She fell in love with Nguyễn (Bình Minh), a local painter, not knowing he was already married to Hồng (Hồng Ánh), an aristocratic lady with a sadistic jealous streak. Enraged to discover the tryst, Hồng and her henchmen broke into Mười’s house, tortured her, broke her foot, and obliterated her face with acid. Pushed to a dead-end, Mười committed suicide, but her forever-disturbed soul started possessing an unfinished portrait Nguyễn was painting of her, wreaking havoc on Hồng’s life. Under the pretense of rekindling their love and completing the artwork, Nguyễn lured Mười’s phantom to a pagoda. After he was done with her portrait, a group of monks appeared, using Buddhist chants to subdue her in time for the head monk to lock her soul into the portrait using a hairpin.

Bình Minh (left) as Nguyễn and Anh Thư (right) as Mười.

For the most part, as a horror film, Mười is a decent watch, albeit a formulaic and predictable one. Its simplistic tropes surrounding a love triangle and demonic possession make it easy to digest even for non-horror fans, and its straightforward script leaves little room for plot holes to spoil the fun. Cha Ye-ryeon as the willowy and enigmatic Seo-yeon is the single bright spot in the film, acting-wise, balancing vulnerability and eeriness with surgical precision. You can’t help but sympathize with her tragic life, even though a small part in the back of your mind is ever creeped out by her wide-set grin.

The demon that's sidelined in her own film

The word “collaboration” often implies a somewhat equal relationship between involved parties, but in the case of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait, the Korean end of the equation completely dominated the movie, while the Vietnamese facets were haphazardly done at best and sidelined at worst. For one, the script makes little effort to get the background historical and geographical details right. 

Even the gorgeously shot Vietnamese settings are riddled with logistical inaccuracies: the two Korean friends meet at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport in Saigon, drive to Seo-yeon’s Đà Lạt villa, and, in the next scene, are sitting on a boat on the way to visit Mười’s homestead in the Mekong Delta, which is somehow still very well-preserved for a thatched hut that was constructed 100 years ago.

This riverine scenic landscape must be a new tourist attraction in Đà Lạt.

The worst thing about Mười is that I can count on one hand the number of sentences each Vietnamese cast member is given. Even as the titular character, Mười doesn’t have a single line of dialogue, save for the screaming when she is tortured, and the demonic shrieks when she apparates to do the haunting. What’s more, every Vietnamese character is depicted in a bad light: Mười is a demon, Nguyễn is a cheating fuccboi, Hồng is a jealous sadist, even the random old lady on the street is a creep with a white eye. The only helpful character outside the main pair is half-Vietnamese, half-Korean, played by a Korean actress. Maybe the real horror of Mười is how this purported Vietnam-Korea co-production has repeatedly failed its Vietnamese cast and setting.

Hồng Ánh was completely wasted as Hồng. Still, even with the scant material she was given, Ánh's facial muscles did a sterling job.

In every piece of promotional material and throughout the film, Anh Thư wears a white áo dài, accentuating the striking contrast between Mười’s lived innocence and her bloodthirsty, mangled demonic form. Nguyễn, her painter lover; and Hồng, his vindictive wife, are also portrayed in different cuts of áo dài. The timeline puts Mười’s birth year at around the 1900s, making this liberal usage of áo dài impossible, because the first áo dài wasn’t even invented until 1934, let alone the form-fitting, high school uniform-style version Mười is always seen in.

Mười is so ahead of her time that she wears a contemporary dress 100 years her junior.

This historical error is even more grating to notice, considering áo dài is the only key element tethering the film to Vietnam, because there is nothing in Mười that’s inherently linked to Vietnamese culture. The central conflict revolves around a jealous crime of passion so generic one can switch out Đà Lạt with Chiang Mai or Kaohsiung, and áo dài with Thai pha sin or Taiwanese qipao to produce other Asian iterations, i.e. สิบ or 十.

Áo dài is used throughout Mười as a poor attempt to emphasize the Vietnamese element.

Nothing is as ostentatiously “Vietnam” as áo dài — perhaps with the exception of a bowl of phở, but it’s much harder to make supposedly Vietnamese characters wear phở — so international productions usually slap an áo dài on their Vietnamese characters, as a lazy shortcut to signify Vietnam-ness, without bothering to research the appropriate contexts when áo dài is worn in Vietnamese culture. Curiously, the 2000s also brought us two other Vietnam-centric Korean TV projects: Cô Dâu Hà Nội (Hanoi Bride, 2005) and Cô Dâu Vàng (The Golden Bride, 2007). Both feature South Korean actresses in Vietnamese roles, wearing áo dài everywhere and speaking gibberish Vietnamese. Ironically, in this era, Mười was the only depiction of a Vietnamese woman in a Korean production that didn’t fall under the stereotype of a foreign bride.

The dynamic between Vietnamese and South Korean media industries is akin to that of an older sibling and their wide-eyed baby sister. One always peeks at the other through the lens of hero worship, trying on their shoes and makeup while they’re not home, hoping to be like them when they grow up. The other thinks the baby sister’s antics are… cute, but almost never taken seriously. The creation of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait epitomizes this skewed relationship, in which one side tries too hard to please, and the other just doesn’t seem to care enough to put in an effort.