Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Ngõ Nooks: On Hàng Bài, Golden Bún Cá Thái Bình in a Hole in the Wall

2026-08-28T10:00:00+07:00

When a friend of mine returned home after living abroad last year, he longed for a bowl of bún cá. I suggested the classic Hanoi dish, with satisfyingly oily deep-fried fish, but he had other ideas — a fresh feast originally from Thai Binh, located almost 100 kilometers from the capital.

We ventured to a narrow, lively alleyway close to Tràng Tiền Plaza. The restaurant is in a dimly lit room in a crumbling old colonial house. I noticed bowls of pickled bamboo shoots on the tables which, it turns out, are prepared specifically to go with the bún cá they serve. That point alone marks a clear departure from the dish’s Hanoian cousin.

When my bowl arrived, I saw how the broth barely covered the bún in my bowl. The noodles were also thicker — more akin to those served with bún bò giò heo — and the soup had a distinctive taste formed from fish stock and a hint of sour tomato. But what really topped it off was the meaty chunks of richly hued snakehead fish.

The fish held firm between my chopsticks yet, as soon as it entered my mouth, its tender flakes fell apart gorgeously. Later, I was told that these plump and juicy pieces were carefully picked from prime cuts and, to achieve their burnt orange color, they were braised in a rich mix of turmeric and cashew powder.

Feasting merely on fish and noodles can be a tad heavy; thankfully they are served with steamed seasonal vegetables such as morning glory, celery or water mimosa (rau rút) to add freshness. And if that wasn't enough, the aforementioned tangy bamboo shoots easily balance out the heartiness of the bowl.

If I had come by a little later in the day, closer to noon, they would have been serving pork rinds with each meal. These crunchy, fatty, deep-fried snacks are a favorite among office workers who regularly swing by.

The restaurant’s owner was born in Thái Bình City but moved to Hanoi years ago. She tried and failed to sell general household goods before eventually offering customers her hometown’s celebrated noodle soup. Initially, only those familiar with the dish came by, but word gradually spread, and these days her restaurant is always brimming at meal times.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–8pm
Parking: If you come by motorbike and are unsure of where to park in the tiny lane, keep heading straight past the shop and you’ll see a big yard used by the community there. Parking is free.
Contact: 0989310749
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Hà Tạ absolutely loves food and dreams of selling noodles.

Bún Cá Thái Bình

21D Hàng Bài Street, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

From Fine Dining to Comfort Food: Why Chef Thierry Mounon Followed up La Villa with La Fontaine

2026-08-27T11:28:00+07:00

“Beyond awards or recognition, a restaurant is about welcoming people, creating memories and bringing joy around a table,” explains Chef Thierry Mounon of his decision to expand from French fine dining into comfort food.

Chef Thierry Mounon and the La Fontaine team.

Thierry and his wife, Tina Trang Phạm, spent over 15 years building La Villa into one of Saigon's best-known French fine-dining restaurants. The Micheline-selected restaurant has earned a reputation as a destination to experience classic French cuisine, where exquisite ingredients are meticulously prepared and presented, accompanied by carefully choreographed service. One expects tasting menus with goose foie gras terrine, blue lobster tail, and Dombes barbecued duck, accompanied by an extensive wine list and choreographed service. With such success, one could expect Thierry to open another fine dining concept that builds off his experience. Yet, with La Fontaine, he chose to “return to the roots of hospitality … The heart of French gastronomy is much simpler.”

Locating the heart of French gastronomy

Just down the road from La Villa, La Fontaine takes inspiration from the neighborhood bistrots in the South of France, where Thierry grew up. Compared to fine dining, bistrots are more casual and part of to everyday life as opposed to special occasions. “A bistrot is spontaneous, lively, and accessible,” he says. “It’s where families, friends, neighbours and regular guests gather around honest food.”

Roast chicken, steak frites, and onion soup, all of which are exemplary items on La Fontaine’s menu, appear simple, but they do not require any less skill in the kitchen to prepare, according to Thierry. “I often tell my Chef Thanh that bistrot cooking leaves nowhere to hide,” he says, going on to explain that while fewer techniques are used in homestyle cooking compared to fine dining, there is no less love needed for the preparation or ingredients.

Given that the standards for skill and care in the kitchen are shared by both restaurants, the atmospheres that surround the meals are the biggest differentiators between La Villa and La Fontaine, in addition to price. By offering experiences that people can enjoy casually, without cause, pomp, or circumstance, La Fontaine becomes a member of the neighborhood. Families can rest there after busy days, couples can opt to connect over a bottle, and foodies can taste stellar food without the need to dress up or put on airs.

A reflection of Saigon’s evolving dining sophistications

With Michelin restaurants, celebrity chefs, and a headfirst dive into global trends, Saigon’s culinary world has changed significantly in the decade and a half since La Villa first opened its doors. Amidst the chase for attention, accolades, and recognition, there has emerged a counterbalancing desire for authenticity. Thierry sees the new bistrot as attending to people uninterested in highfalutin egos and distractions.

Attuned to classic French and a wide range of global cuisines, alongside Vietnam’s many regional delicacies, diners are skeptical of gimmicks and novelty. “What they appreciate is honesty,” Thierry says. This is achieved by serving staple French comfort foods like Lyonnaise salad, duck leg confit, seared scallops, and beef vegetable soup in a relaxed dining room where comfortable chairs stretch beneath the types of photos, posters, and images one might find in a French countryside home.

La Fontaine has a similarly grounded approach to the role of promotion. “People don’t return because of marketing; they return because a place becomes part of their lives,” Thierry notes. This means frequent guests are greeted by name and brought to their favorite tables, where they can order the same dish as always, prepared precisely as they expect. Meanwhile, seasonal dishes and flavors help keep every visit fresh.

One can consider La Fontaine a logical step for an esteemed chef with a passion for honoring the nation’s culinary legacy without judging success by accolades and prestige. One can also think of La Fontaine as reflecting Saigon’s ever-maturing dining landscape, which has space for high-quality international food within everyday routines. Or one can simply think of La Fontaine as an ideal place to linger over delicious food with loved ones, ensuring the day contains something exemplary.

La Fontaine's website

La Fontaine's Email

Phone (+84) 283 535 5487

La Fontaine, River Garden, 170 Nguyễn Văn Hưởng, Hồ Chí Minh 700000, Vietnam

Review: Pieces of Me | Nao Yoshioka (feat. Mỹ Anh)

2026-08-27T10:00:00+07:00

Mỹ Anh has come a long way since becoming the runner-up of The Heroes in 2021. Five years later, now with a full-length album and a spectrum of singles and extended plays under her belt, the Hanoi-based artist has proven to be one of the most dynamic singer-songwriter-producer of her generation.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mỹ Anh, to me, is her ability to move seamlessly between Vietnamese and English, no doubt a key characteristic that sets Gen Z apart from Vietnam’s previous generations of musicians. A firm grasp on English allows young Vietnamese to gain much more knowledge of the world, and bring those nuggets of wisdom into their creative works. Similarly, Mỹ Anh’s music, right from her debut single ‘Got You’ (2020), is strongly influenced by R&B, soul, and blues, something she also brought to her latest release, ‘Pieces of Me’ — a collaboration with Japanese soul artist Nao Yoshioka.

‘Pieces of Me’ is a '90s-inspired R&B track that’s mainly driven by keys and percussion, but lifted by the vocal layers of Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh — the former leads the vocals with classic soul techniques while the latter adds an airiness and softness to the lyrics. I find it unexpectedly delightful that Yoshioka’s voice bears some resemblance to Mỹ Anh’s; in a way, a more mature and seasoned version, but they’re singing to each other and reassuring the other self that these “pieces of me” are precious and worth treasuring.

Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh, at a glance, have quite different backgrounds: they belong to different generations; one is Japanese, the other is Vietnamese. Yet, their journeys with music share striking similarities. Yoshioka dropped out of high school and moved to New York alone to chase her dream of being a singer. Mỹ Anh was accepted to the Berklee College of Music in 2020, but, on the cusp of the global pandemic, she decided to remain in Vietnam to develop her own music. Both artists are also pursuing R&B and soul in English, creative choices that often struggle to find footing in the mainstream at home.

It was this sense of isolation that inspired the lyrics of ‘Pieces of Me,’ which express a sense of relief and epiphanous reckoning at finding pieces of self after struggling to live with expectations and seek validation. “I kinda like this so far. Never knew life’s this chill. Feel like I can breathe,” Yoshioka’s verse chants, before she belts out the first line of the chorus. In the chorus, the singers perform alternate lines in succession, as if in conversation — Yoshioka is passionate and empowering, while Mỹ Anh is more grounded.

‘Pieces of Me’ was released in May 2026 as a single, and later included in Nao Yoshioka’s latest album, “self.” The track comes with a visualizer on YouTube featuring the pair’s adventures around Hanoi — sipping phở on the sidewalk and vibing in a coffee shop — it’s like Yoshioka sings: “Never knew life’s this chill.”

To sum up:

Type: Single
Lyrics: Simple but empowering
Danceable: Very
Cryable: Not really, maybe a single tear of joy
Karaoke Potential: More for the shower

Score: 75/100

Exploring Chợ Quán Asylum, Saigon’s Oldest Prisoner-of-War Camp

2026-08-26T12:00:00+07:00

In a secluded corner of Saigon’s Bệnh viện Nhiệt đới, or Hospital for Tropical Diseases, a prison continues its century-long existence hidden from public memory and discourse.

It is uncommon knowledge to most people that the present-day Hospital for Tropical Disease (formerly Nhà Thương Chợ Quán) was once home to a 150-year-old detention camp where revolutionaries such as Trần Phú, Hà Huy Tập, and Nguyễn Văn Trỗi were held captive. According to historical records, the cells were originally built by French colonialists in 1875 as a specialized ward to treat psychiatric patients at Chợ Quán Hospital.

The institution later took on a darker purpose as the regime turned it into a base to confine political prisoners that were being treated at the ward to extract intel on anti-colonial efforts. The encampment went on to be responsible for detaining prisoners of war throughout Vietnam’s decades of conflict with French and American forces.

Chợ Quán Hospital was established in 1982 with donations and support from the local Vietnamese community. Long before the hospital’s founding, its plot was occupied by a French-run first-aid clinic. In 1864, the clinic operation was handed over to the succeeding government. A specialized wing was created to isolate and treat its psychiatric patients.

Despite the changes in the political and cultural landscapes that surround it, the structure retains its colonially inspired architecture. The design of the prison is in a cowbell shape. The front entrance directly overlooks the women’s cell, while the men's cell is on its right. The pitched roofs are covered in double lap tiles supported by fixed iron frames and the floor still has its original terracotta tiles. Under French rule, bunks used to shackle inmates were made of wood, but under American control, they were replaced by cement blocks that were common in the Phú Quốc and Côn Đảo prisons.

A communal cell with double lap tiling where male inmates were held.

Though seemingly cramped, the women’s cell was actually the space that got the most sunlight thanks to the large windows that run along the wall.

The prison’s long and narrow corridors sent a chill down my spine, as the deeper I ventured into these halls, the colder and gloomier the atmosphere became, even though it was midday. Taproots from trees outside were seeping in through cracks in the wall, and in a few cells, shackles remained where they had been for decades. The innermost chambers were impenetrable by sunlight, further adding an air of mystery to the building.

Apart from the regular cells, the French also built solitary confinement quarters to quarantine patients that had infectious diseases that could spread to the rest of the inmates.

The inside of a cell for patients with infectious diseases.

A communal restroom that prisoners shared. 

The stairs in these dimly lit rooms lead to buckets placed underneath that were used as toilet bowls.

Iron shackles are kept intact for display

One of the most historically significant parts of the structure is the cell that held Trần Phú, the first General Secretary of the Indochinese Communist Party, who was still in captivity when he died of tuberculosis on September 6, 1931. His last words to fellow comrades were:

Keep your will to fight.

Trần Phú’s portrait and headstone, as well as information plaques detailing his capture and death, are still shown at the cell where he passed away. Here, flowers and wreaths are sometimes placed by visitors to remind current and future generations that this was the final resting place of a nation’s leader and patriot.

On special occasions such as Trần Phú's death anniversary or public holidays, bouquets are often placed by his headstone to commemorate his sacrifice.

In stark contrast to the bleakness that the prison bears within, a lush garden surrounding it has sprouted up to provide shade and comfort to patients receiving treatment at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, who are most likely unaware of the fact that every brick, tile, and frame around them bore witness to a painful scar in the nation's history.

Documents about Trần Phú's life and revolutionary contributions are preserved and exhibited for visitors.

Readers keen on exploring more of the prison in person may easily do so since the site is accessible to the public and located to the right of the hospital's dining hall, which is only 100 meters away from the main gate. But as the prison is under the supervision of the District 5 Cultural Center, be sure to contact them for permission before planning a day trip!

Visit ttvhq5.com.vn or call 028 3855 6161 to learn more about the site or to schedule a visit.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Art Exhibition ‘Limerence’ Explores Where Romantic Desire Distorts Into Obsession

2026-08-25T12:00:00+07:00

Thom Nguyen utilizes portraiture and depictions of mushrooms and organic objects to explore the concept of limerence in a solo exhibition at Permanently Closed Gallery in Thảo Điền, beginning Friday, August 28.

Limerence describes “an intense psychological state of obsessive longing for another person ... characterised by intrusive thoughts, emotional dependency and a powerful desire for reciprocation. Unlike ordinary attraction or infatuation, limerence involves obsession, emotional volatility and disruption to daily life.”

Thom approaches the term through a distinctly queer lens. The exhibition's works concern themselves with intimacy and imperfection as observed in the moments when longing becomes fixation. His typically colorful and confident oil works depict the beautiful and grotesque results of projection and idealization. Tasteful nude images are not committed to fantasy or reality, while a selection of mushrooms and other organic materials hint at the transformation and decay inherent to an emotion of intense romantic desire and fixation.

Work from Thom Nguyen's previous exibition, Nước | Water Resistance. Photos via Thom's Instagram.

Born in Saigon and raised in America, Thom held his first solo exhibition in Vietnam, “Nước | Water Resistance,” at A. Farm last year. That collection of oil paintings, sculptures, installations, and fashion works considered queer bodies in the context of water’s ability to shift one’s identity.

Scenes from ACHI's Peach Garden at Permanently Closed. Photos via L'Officiel.

In 2026, Thom expanded his artistic practice to curation and community development with the establishment of Permanently Closed Gallery with his husband, Michael Bell. The gallery space is devoted to providing a platform for emerging queer artists and has presented several projects including Nothing to See Here, Nothing to See There, ACHI's Peach Garden, Lyon Nguyen's performance SWEET, and Yellow Fever's The Scent of Pipe.

The opening reception for LIMERENCE will be held on Friday, August 28 from 5pm to 9pm. The exhibition remains open through September on Friday–Sunday at 1–6pm.

The Artworks in “LIMERANCE” Explore Where Romantic Desire Distorts into Obsession

How Vinahouse Fosters Sonic Belonging in Modern Saigon's Queer Collectives

2026-08-24T11:00:00+07:00

If you spend a night wandering along Bùi Viện Walking Street and its dense concentration of bars and clubs, you will almost certainly hear the same sound spilling from multiple directions: fast, pounding basslines layered with Vietnamese pop melodies, punctuated by dramatic buildups and explosive drops. If you fall into the right algorithm on TikTok, you might encounter these same sounds circulating as background audio. This music is Vinahouse. Its ever-presence in both physical and digital spaces makes it one of the most recognizable yet least critically examined musical forms in contemporary Vietnam.

Though saturating everyday life, Vinahouse occupies a marginal position within dominant hierarchies of musical taste. The genre’s cultural significance becomes most visible when examined within queer nightlife in Saigon. Particularly, through the practices of queer collectives such as Bung L0n, the genre is reclaimed from the musical hierarchy that valorizes western electronic dance music (EDM) and becomes a vehicle for belonging and local queer expression. By tracing how Vinahouse circulates through urban soundscapes and queer nightlife spaces, and listening to the perspectives of those within that scene, we can better understand Vinahouse's role in solidifying collective identity and queer sociality in a rapidly transforming urban environment.

Young people in Saigon out and about in 1994. Photo by Ed Kashi.

Vinahouse emerged in the late 1990s and early 2000s as a localized adaptation of Euro-American house, trance, and hard dance styles, shaped through remix practices, pirated media circulation, and club cultures in rapidly urbanizing major cities in Vietnam. The genre quickly became embedded in everyday celebratory contexts such as clubs, weddings, and informal parties. Despite its widespread popularity, Vinahouse is often framed within Vietnamese cultural discourse as lacking refinement, originality, or artistic depth.

Quỳnh Chi is an enthusiast of Vinahouse, whose listening practices also sparked my interest in the genre; she shared the same understanding: “It’s almost implicitly taught that Vinahouse is something that you’re not meant to listen to — much less to enjoy — as a middle-class person.” Queer nightlife in Vietnam occupies a similarly ambiguous and precarious position. While homosexuality was decriminalized relatively early and public attitudes have gradually shifted, queer social spaces remain shaped by discretion and episodic visibility. Nightlife venues and temporary events, especially in Saigon, therefore, have become crucial sites where queer communities negotiate safety, intimacy, and belonging. Within these spaces, music plays a central role not only in entertainment but in structuring bonds and enabling forms of self-expression. In these contexts, Vinahouse is reworked as a locally grounded sound of belonging, transforming the dance floor into a key site of queer social life in the city.

A gathering of queer Vietnamese in 1990. Photo by Catherine Karnow.

Reclaiming the local

Amid Vietnam’s rapid post–reform urbanization in the 1990s, during which a Vietnamese urban culture was being developed, EDM was hastily reshaped to fill the gap in the local urban music scene. Indeed, Vinahouse borrows heavily from global EDM structures while remixing V-pop melodies, bolero, and lyrical references into its core. The genre first became a staple music of Đôn Chề (Dolce) culture — a “marginalized” subculture distinctive of its aesthetic, specifically fashion. However, with its rhythms spilling out of neighborhood cafés, wedding tents, and roadside speakers, the music registers less as a discrete musical choice than as part of the ambient soundscape in Vietnam. This mode of circulation, alongside the digital one, produces a form of musical intimacy grounded in repetition and recognition.

Dancing in the club in Vietnam in the 1990s.

What critics dismiss as derivative can instead be understood as an important aesthetic resource that prioritizes familiarity and recognizability. Saigon’s dense club economy, informal venues, and relatively flexible social atmosphere have allowed hybrid musical forms to flourish. Yet even here, Vinahouse remains stigmatized within “elite” club cultures that privilege techno and other globally valorized electronic genres. Mainstream discourses repeatedly contrast “white” or “western” electronic music, often associated with seriousness and sophistication, with Vinahouse — labeled as trẻ trâu (childish) or bay phòng (drug-party music).

Queer nightlife scene in Saigon provides a crucial site for reclaiming Vinahouse from these hierarchies. Within these spaces, the genre’s local specificity becomes an asset rather than a stigma. Trí Nguyễn (a.k.a. Smoothie Boiz), a co-founder and DJ of Bung L0n, described a conscious shift toward incorporating Vinahouse more centrally in his sets as a way of asserting the Vietnamese-ness within club spaces otherwise dominated by transnational sounds. This move is not framed as a rejection of global club culture but as a modification of it within a local context. In fact, early Bung L0n events relied more heavily on techno and international styles; only later did they start to incorporate Vinahouse.

Đôn Chề is a subculture rooted in fashion, street life, and social media trends.

“After a while, we were like, ‘we are Vietnamese, why don’t we play this type of music more’… [Because] each of our parties has a theme relating to Vietnam, and having no Vinahouse in our parties is not okay,” Trí said, “we felt we were missing something.” When Vietnamese tracks were introduced, he observed that there was a “kind of difference with the participants, people seemed to enjoy it more, or felt a greater sense of familiarity… People [became] more in rhythm.” Reclaiming the local, then, is less about cultural assertion than about affective resonance.

Queer sonic kinship

Bung L0n emerged after COVID-19 as a nightlife collective responding to a perceived lack of inclusive spaces for queer communities in Saigon. Founded by a small group of friends with little background in DJ–ing and party organization, the collective is one of the few existing underground parties geared toward members of the LGBTQ+ community such as Vấp Cục Đá and Gái Nhảy. However, Bung L0n deliberately avoids claims to a specific “community,” Trí said, instead trying to “make it so that when people come, they feel comfortable being themselves, not constrained,” because “ở đâu vui nhất, ở đó có bê đê” (where it is hot, the queers hit the spot). This refusal of overt politicization is itself significant. As dance floors are often romanticized as inherently liberatory spaces — obscuring the gendered, sexualized, and racialized exclusions that structure access to nightlife — Bung L0n’s approach acknowledges the constraints without reproducing them. The result is an environment where queer visibility emerges through atmosphere instead of declaration.

An event organized by Bung L0n. Photos by @captain_____bipolar via Instagram page bung_l0n.

As a participant of multiple queer raves, Linh Phạm sees Bung L0n events not only as spaces of care and intimacy, but also “spaces of becoming”: extravagant dress and makeup, and bodily expression allow participants to safely inhabit identities that may not be possible in everyday life. The queer raves become “transcendental” spaces, but also “liminal.” The experience of exclusion often felt by queer individuals in heterosexually dominated nightclubs is not produced solely by sound but by its atmospheric and spatial by-products as well. When scenes relocate or are reworked — as in the creation of queer nightlife spaces — these atmospheres shift, and gatekeeping boundaries are redrawn, allowing different bodies to feel welcomed rather than deterred. Crucially, this process of becoming in queer spaces is collective.

While those spaces often valorize individuality, Linh emphasized that “individuality [brought into Bung L0n] is interconnected.” Individuality is experienced as relational, with diverse expressions coexisting within a shared platform. Vinahouse generates this platform by providing a common cultural language that anchors differences. When a familiar Vinahouse track appears unexpectedly within a set, the dance floor response “shifts noticeably,” said Linh — participants sing along and become more energized, transforming individualized dancing into collective vocalization. These moments are explosive not because of technical virtuosity but because of shared “sonic memory.” This interconnectedness emerges because dancing is simultaneously an individual and collective act. The dance floor becomes “one organism” when individual musical experiences merge into a shared collective experience, allowing clubbers to feel both immersed in themselves and part of something larger — akin to spiritual or religious experiences.

Vinahouse’s timbral and lyrical familiarity enables listeners to feel connected not only to the music but to one another. However, this kinship is not automatic but carefully cultivated by performers and organizers. Trí emphasized the importance of selection and balance, noting that excessive Vinahouse can alienate some listeners, while too little undermines the collective’s local grounding. This curatorial practice reflects an acute awareness of the genre’s contested status and demonstrates how kinship is produced through labor rather than assumed.

The pulse of belonging

The affective power of Vinahouse in queer nightlife spaces is inseparable from its sonic materiality. Tempo, texture, and volume work together to shape embodied experience. Vinahouse’s high BPMs and predictable structural patterns create cycles of tension and release that resonate with buildup and drop sections in EDM; the latter returns listeners “home” after a period of suspension, intensifying pleasure through contrast.

In queer raves, this return re-anchors bodies in shared cultural space with the reintroduction of familiar melodies and lyrics following extended techno passages. Texture plays an equally significant role. Dense bass frequencies layered with melodic lines invite tactile engagement, encouraging listeners to attune not only to sound but to vibration and movement. Such a tactile immersion blurs distinctions between self and crowd, and fosters levels of embodied intimacy. Volume further intensifies this experience by collapsing distance. Vinahouse is often described as “louder” and more “bustling” than other electronic genres, a quality that Trí identified as immediately signaling “Vietnamese house.” This loudness is not merely auditory but social. It demands participation.

Bung L0n's anniversary event. Photos by @ilang.tmp via Instagram page @bung_l0n.

Therefore, the traits of musical spaces are often less about sound itself than about the atmospheres it produces. In Bung L0n events, sonic qualities of Vinahouse contribute to an atmosphere of inclusion by drowning out self-consciousness and social surveillance, allowing queer bodies to move without constant self-monitoring.

Perhaps most importantly, Vinahouse negotiates the relationship between Vietnamese cultural identity and queer expression in ways that challenge dominant narratives. Queerness in Vietnam is frequently framed as western or foreign, while Vinahouse is often understood as stubbornly local, even anti-western. The convergence of queerness and Vinahouse in nightlife spaces destabilizes both assumptions. In other words, their confluence unravels an inherent antithesis: on the one hand, as Chi put, Vinahouse — being excessive and positioned outside the ordinary — is in and of itself “queer”; on the other hand, queer communities in Vietnam are eager for a local and unique grounding in place of Western norms of sexuality and club culture.

Vinahouse thus has become a means of “localizing western club culture” into something distinctly Vietnamese rather than derivative, said Linh, with whom Chi and I also shared a Vinahouse playlist on Spotify. These moments of localization are not primarily ideological, as ideologies tend to recede inside the rave, replaced by what Chi described as “embodied,” “carceral,” and “more felt” experience. Yet the effects are nonetheless political, allowing participants to inhabit queerness without disavowing cultural belonging. In this sense, Vinahouse within queer nightlife unsettles both the cultural hierarchy of music and the societal hierarchy of sexuality, demonstrating that queer expression in Vietnam does not need to be sonically western to be legible or meaningful, and that Vinahouse can function as a medium through which queer belonging is not only performed but locally grounded, sensorially felt, and collectively sustained. At the same time, the genre does not resolve the tensions between the socially constructed cultural hierarchy and sexual marginalization, but it renders them temporarily livable. Its significance lies not in transcending stigma but in dwelling within it, transforming what is dismissed as low, repetitive, or unserious into a shared language of joy, recognition, and care.

Is the Yeti Vietnamese? This Ancient Ape Might Hold the Answer.

2026-08-23T03:00:00+07:00

Can you name a Vietnamese animal that hasn’t been hunted to the precipice of extinction or become a commodified item whose flesh, fur, or feathers are only deemed significant in relation to their practical use by humans?

It’s not so easy to think of one, but there is an enormous example: Gigantopithecus. A massive orangutan-like ape believed to have weighed 200 to 300 kilograms and stood over 3 meters tall rambled around modern-day China and northern Vietnam some two million years ago.

Speculative scene of Giganthopithecus by Garcia/Joannes-Boyau, Southern Cross University. Image via National Geographic.

Gigantopithecus, the largest homonoid known to have walked the earth, was first discovered because of the same superstitions that doom animals today: traditional medicine. In early 20^th-century China, bones and teeth were used for all sorts of elixirs and potions passed off as “dragon bones.” Vendors hardly took a scientist’s eyes to the calcium, keratin, and enamel specimens kept in their drawers before pulverizing them. Knowing this, Ralph von Koenigswald, a Dutch geologist and paleontologist, made a habit of scouring apothecaries while researching in the region. In Hong Kong in 1925, he noticed a molar that appeared human-like but was five times the size of his own.

Gigantopithecus's holotype molar (left) and mandible (right). Images via Wikipedia.

Recognizing the importance of the finding, Koenigswald arranged scientific expeditions in mainland China. With the help of local marketing and supply cooperatives, he narrowed his search to caves in southern China, near the border with Vietnam, where he discovered hundreds more of the animal's teeth. The large teeth were distinct enough to warrant classification as an entirely new species, and in an all-too-familiar situation, he named the species Gigantopithecus blacki, in honor of Canadian palaeo-anthropologist Davidson Black, who had studied human evolution in China and had died the previous year.

Modern-day photo of Dinghu Mountain in Zhaoqing, Guangdong Province, southern China, which is believed to resemble the habitat of Gigantopithecus. Photo via Wikimedia.

In the subsequent decades, researchers discovered hundreds more Gigantopithecus teeth and four mandibles, including at cave sites in Vietnam. The research trips included American scientists working despite the 1990 embargo, suggesting that perhaps pursuit of science supersedes political posturing. While the sites contained significant mouth matter, the sizable skeletons are assumed to have been eaten by porcupines before they could fossilize. Still, scientists can make astounding understandings from fragments. Observing the large, flat molars with thick enamel attached to heavy jaws and analyzing residue on the teeth allowed them to conjecture that Gigantopithecus survived on tough, fibrous plant matter. Later examinations of carbon residues left on the teeth with high-powered microscopes suggest the apes had a mixed diet of fruits and fig seeds along with some variety of grasses, probably bamboo.

Giganthopithecus compared to modern-day orangutan as speculated for the Brainmaze.

This diet and estimations about its anatomy mean that compared to its closest relative, the modern-day orangutan, adult Gigantopithecus were likely too large to climb into trees to forage for fruits. Mathematical modeling places it at more than 10 feet tall and 1,200 pounds (for comparison, the average gorilla tops out at around 400 pounds). Such understanding has allowed scientists and artists to make educated depictions about its appearance, but there is no certainty about elements including fur color or bulk. Aspects of their behavior, temperament, intelligence, and social bonds can only be guessed at with the help of related species.

The misty line between fossil and legend

Gigantopithecus is believed to have existed for approximately one million years, up until about 100,000 years ago, which would have meant it could have occupied the same forests and jungles as early humans. While people are not believed to have contributed to their extinction (more on that to come), run-ins with the animals continue to populate myths and legends as intertwined with stories of Yeti and mysterious ape monsters.

Yeti as depicted in popular western legend and spectacle, specifically an American comic from 1971. Photo via New York Times.

The Yeti, a hairy, ape-like hominoid, has been said to roam the Himalayan mountains, with legends passing from Tibetan and Russian communities to the west where it is occasionally referred to as the Abominable Snowman. Owing to the region’s remoteness, intrigue persisted into the mid-20^th century when western explorers arrived to obtain dubious evidence, including grainy photographs, large footprints, and mysterious strands of hair to delight foreign audiences. Every pelt debunked by DNA testing and piece of available modern technology increased skepticism until we arrived at the current widespread belief that no such cryptid exists.

However, amongst certain cryptozoology communities, the Yeti might still be out there, explained as a small, persisting population of isolated Gigantopithecus and their descendants. Putting aside the fact that the icy mountains do not resemble the ecosystems the ape is known to have inhabited, some believe that a group has survived tens of thousands of years and adapted to the climate. Moreover, Yetis are nearly always described as bipedal while Gigantopithecus is thought to have walked on all fours like an orangutan, for which no convincing explanation has been offered. The efforts to connect the Yeti to the great ape ultimately say more about 21^st-century people’s desire to ground myth in science and our current age’s desire for empirical truth than any likelihood that Gigantopithecus is an extant species.

The rock ape as depicted in the Cryptid Archives.

We should apply a similar skepticism to claims that Gigantopithecus is behind the rock ape legends that circulated during Vietnam’s war with America. While never receiving formal academic journal coverage or serious news attention, if you spend time on GI blogs and subreddits, you will encounter mention of rock apes. These creatures, whose observers are adamant were normal animals and not mythic beasts, were given their name because of their penchant for throwing rocks at soldiers. While sightings of the creatures and their prints and fur predate and postdate the war, and were also made by Vietnamese forces, they were most widely reported by American soldiers in highland posts. Despite heights significantly less than Gigantopithecus’ 10 feet, some attempt to explain them as remote communities of the species agitated by the presence of armed forces.

The fact that rock apes have not been seen in the past several decades should convince us that they never existed at all, let alone as Gigantopithecus. But we can also make some conclusions about the psyche of soldiers during the war. Overwhelmed by the savagery of their assignments and the strangeness of their surroundings, troops latched onto the surreal to maintain sanity. Such an interpretation coincides with the existence of a large ape-like creature in Bảo Ninh’s The Sorrow of War, wherein a soldier kills an orangutan-like creature, despite none existing in the nation. Rather than reveal a potential lost species, such instances can be interpreted as man’s inability to explain the horrors of war in rational terms. Only by evoking the possibility of extinct species and the unlikelihood of prehistoric life persisting until today can there be room to justify the barbarity humans inflict upon itself.

An extinction explained

If we can assume Gigantopithecus did not persist in the Himalayas or remote Vietnamese forests and is in fact extinct, how did it happen? Scientists have some thrilling theories. Simply put, they were too big to adapt to climate change. Animals as large as Gigantopithecus have massive metabolic needs while producing few children, which makes them particularly vulnerable to the changes in vegetation that result from altered global temperatures and precipitation patterns. Unfortunately for them, this is exactly what began to happen around 300,000 years ago.

During this period, what had been tropical forest became grassier patches of land, as determined by analysis of pollen in the fossil record. A recent academic paper explained that “Just before and during the extinction window between 295,000 and 215,000 years ago there was enhanced environmental variability from increased seasonality, which caused changes in plant communities and an increase in open forest environments. Although its close relative Pongo weidenreichi [orangutans] managed to adapt its dietary preferences and behaviour to this variability, G. blacki showed signs of chronic stress and dwindling populations. Ultimately, its struggle to adapt led to the extinction of the greatest primate to ever inhabit the Earth.”

The extinction would not have been a fast process. Rather, as the forests grew drier, the abundance of the ape’s preferred food would have been less available. While young Gigantopithecus, as well as the orangutans who once inhabited Vietnam, could have climbed trees to access fruit, adults would have been reliant on dwindling plants on the ground. Evidence reveals they were forced to turn to more tree bark, reeds, and non-nutritious ruffage. Given their large size, this was ultimately not enough. As their preferred foods disappeared, and they couldn’t adapt to the plants that emerged to fill the niche, they disappeared. We will never know where or when the last great ape perished.

Photo via Reddit.

What should we take from Gigantopithecus’s disappearance? In one sense, it is comforting to know that humans are not the cause of all extinctions, and like dinosaurs, all species will meet an eventual end. But I refuse for this to be my conclusion, as such a perspective can easily become an excuse to continue our wanton destruction of the environment and its inhabitants. Rather, I would like the life of Gigantopithecus to remind us that the world is capable of wonders, but only if we allow it time and space. No great ape can populate reclaimed land encrusted with cement towers looming beside sundered mangrove forests; no mammals can thrive on deforested coasts converted to luxury resorts; and no creature will evolve amidst the hammering of karsk stone into a fabricated European amusement park. We never knew Gigantopithecus, and think of all the other fantastic plants and animals we will never know if we don’t get our shit together and stop treating the planet as a commodity instead of a blessing.

Inside Tế Tiêu, Home to Vietnam's Rare 'Land Puppet' Performances

2026-08-21T08:00:00+07:00

Bidding goodbye to central Hanoi, I took the National Road 21B to reach Tế Tiêu Neighborhood, a small community in Đại Nghĩa Township of Hanoi’s Mỹ Đức District. This fertile patch of land by the Đáy River is the cradle of a unique form of traditional folk art: Tế Tiêu puppetry.

As water puppetry (rối nước) is a better-known art form in Vietnam, sometimes, Tế Tiêu’s version is referred to as rối cạn (land puppetry) to differentiate the two.

On the day of my visit, the puppetry troupe was preparing for a show in the afternoon for a tour group, but the temple courtyard was bustling with activities right from the early morning. Someone was busy setting up the stage, another was arranging chairs, and technicians were testing the sound. In a room next door, rows of wooden puppets were hung neatly, awaiting their turn in the limelight.

The Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe comprises about 20 members, including some who are over 60.

Some time later, troupe members returned from the field. They parked their bike outside and swiftly began changing into their performing costumes — brightly colored áo tứ thân and áo dài with accompanying headscarves. Every day, they are seasoned farmers hard at work cultivating plants in the field, but once on stage, they transform into masterful artists whose every movement is in sync with the actions and emotions of the puppets.

Lão Trượng, the opening character of Tế Tiêu puppet.

“Does someone like me need to announce my presence?” a deep, robust voice boomed out from behind the stage. In front, Lão Trượng appeared in his crimson robe, silvery beard, and measured steps. In water puppet shows, the narrator is Chú Tễu, but in Tế Tiêu shows, the narration is done by an elderly man, the symbol of the village’s most respected generation.

Phạm Công Bằng, an artisan and the leader of the Tế Tiêu troupe.

After the show, artisan Phạm Công Bằng sat down with me to retell the centuries-old history of Tế Tiêu puppetry, a rich tradition that’s not only valuable because of its artistry, but also how it anchors the soul and collective memory of an entire community.

Rối cạn, the cultural root of Tế Tiêu ancient village

In Vietnam, puppetry is closely linked to an agrarian way of life. It is how farmers express their love for life, the nation, and the people; their wishes for a content life; and their faith in kindness. Water puppetry is no doubt the most famous form, but land puppetry, despite being lesser-known, has also existed for hundreds of years.

Getting ready for a performance.

Tế Tiêu, as a region, is a historic land where early Vietnamese settlers founded villages. They cleared jungles to create farms and established cultural practices. According to local elders, puppetry has been here for over 400 years thanks to Trần Triều Đông, a court mandarin. In 1573, he relocated here to form a village, teaching the people to cultivate rice, creating the art of puppetry, and passing it down to community members. Since then, this art form has taken root here as a crucial part of the people’s treasured pastime.

Tế Tiêu puppetry has witnessed many ups and downs too. Wars and separations nearly wiped out its existence, but in 1965–1960, it was slowly restored and thrived thanks to the efforts of veteran artisans like Lê Năng Nhượng and Phạm Văn Bể. From many small groups, the official Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe was formed in 1956. The troupe still maintains around 100 plays today and thousands of puppets controlled by around 20 members.

Interacting with members of the audience.

Artisan Phạm Công Bằng told me, back then, puppetry existed alongside nature and followed the rhythm of the harvest season. A puppetry show wasn’t an ostentatious occasion. Once the harvest was over and farmers had more free time, villagers gathered at temple courtyards on full-moon nights. Before electricity was invented, kerosene lamps and moonlight were the only light sources illuminating those get-togethers. Puppeteers didn’t make a living from performing; they were just farmers entertaining one another. During the day, they worked in the fields, but at night, they retreated behind the curtains to put on shows. That’s why Tế Tiêu puppetry is considered a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, puppetry is still a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, the structure of puppet shows has changed: spectators are mostly tourists while performances are put on at tourist attractions, but that communal spirit is still mostly intact.

An amalgam of many art forms

Tế Tiêu puppetry is the combination of many different artistic skills, including puppet craftsmanship, staging, puppet control, singing, spoken words, and music. What’s more, many puppet plays are directly adapted from materials of chèo, tuồng, quan họ, and hát văn — many other genres of folk performances — to create puppet shows both diverse and recognizable.

There are many steps in the creation of a puppet.

According to Bằng, the creation of a puppet involves many steps, all of which require a high level of intricacy. Firstly, artisans choose a suitable type of wood to form the puppet body, often fig or jackfruit. Then, they carve out the body details; specific characters need to look a certain way. Once the physical form is done, body parts are assembled alongside control sticks in a way that produces movements as smoothly as possible. Then comes the beautifying stage when the puppet is painted, drawn on, and decorated to complete the character’s appearance and unique personality. Once that is done, outfits are created for the puppets. Finally, after a few adjustments, it can make its stage debut.

Buồng trò is the stage wings.

The main plays featured in Tế Tiêu puppetry often originate from real-life events and figures, such as historical characters, traditional customs, and spiritual lore. The background could include elements of agrarian life like rice paddy fields, rice milling, field ploughing, areca nut harvesting, water buffalo, and chickens. The source materials can include historical episodes like Thánh Gióng’s resistance against Ân forces (China’s Tang Dynasty) or the story of how Lý Công Uẩn moved the capital from Ninh Bình to Hanoi. Everyday activities like festivals, religious ceremonies, cultural activities, fruit collection, swings, palanquin procession, and wrestling are emulated using puppetry’s dynamic movements and colors. Each trope also carries didactic messaging to spread moral lessons and warn against vices and crimes.

A wrestling scene.

In order to best communicate the message and soul of the play, performers are expected to fully grasp the role of each puppet and the flow of the narrative to use the appropriate movement for each moment. The most common ones are walking, standing, arm-raising, head-turning, holding props, etc. Harder ones consist of emotional expressions, such as fright, joy, or sadness. Together, they form the “life” of the puppet. Mastering this life emulation requires not only flexible control, but also a deep understanding of each play and each character.

An equally crucial component of the performance is music and dialogue, guiding the emotions and rhythm of the play — sometimes it’s urgent and compelling, at times, it’s gentle and reverent. The orchestra accompanying the troupe includes percussion instruments like base drums, snare drums, and cymbals; and string instruments like đàn nhị and đàn tam. Depending on the play, performers sing melodies from different genres, from common folk songs, spoken poetry, to tuồng, chèo, hát văn, and quan họ.

Nguyễn Văn Thuyết, the đàn nhị instrumentalist in the troupe.

The guardian of Tế Tiêu puppetry

In the field of land puppetry, perhaps the most well-known figure is Phạm Văn Bể, considered by many as a “walking dictionary” of puppetry and the soul of the troupe. Since he was eight, he had already shown great passion for puppets and then spent his entire life with this art form. He was well-versed in every step of the way from puppet making, scriptwriting, staging to instructing and performing.

Bể’s son is artisan Phạm Công Bằng, who grew up amongst the thuds of puppets being carved from wood blocks and the sounds of đàn nhị and drums. “It was his life story that inspired me to follow the family trade,” he shares. Bằng remembers vividly the elation when he held the first puppet he crafted himself in his hands. It was Thạch Sanh of the famous folk story Thạch Sanh–Lý Thông. His first performance took place when he was just 12 years old.

Standing in the stagewings, artisans could hear every laughter, every round of applause.

At the time, despite being the smallest and youngest member, he insisted on joining. Those formative experiences cultivated within him an affection for his ancestor’s lifework. After Bể passed away, the troupe lost a crucial pillar, but to Bằng, the work to keep it going is important as it encapsulates the collective memory of an entire community. “Standing in the stagewings, artisans can hear every laughter and every round of applause. When my hometown’s legacy is introduced to more people, I feel motivated,” he explains.

For someone who’s in charge of the Tế Tiêu troupe’s operation today, Bằng’s biggest concern is how to protect it from obsolescence, so that Tế Tiêu puppetry will continue to exist in the everyday life of villagers, and one day could become a unique tourist attraction for travelers.

How Quy Nhơn's Old Cemetery Slowly Expands up Vũng Chua Mountain

2026-08-20T10:00:00+07:00

You might miss it if you were driving past, but once you walk down a small hẻm off Quy Nhơn’s main Tây Sơn Street, the massive cemetery sprawls in all directions.

Saigoneer had to take to the skies to get a full scope of the unfurling assemblage of colorful graves. From humble plots to ornate, multi-generational mausoleums, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn, or Quy Nhơn’s Old Cemetery, is an astounding collection of monuments honoring loved ones that stretches back into the verdant hills.

Reading the names and looking at portraits etched in stone, one cannot help but think of all the stories buried here: wives that outlived their husbands by decades thanks to war buried, almost cruelly, next to couples that lived together until their 80s; untended plots falling into disrepair beside graves where fresh ash still hangs on placed incense sticks. One looks at the names below which the death date hasn’t yet been added and wonders, How much time do they have left? What will they do with it, however long?

Despite the savage sunlight and unrelenting heat on the morning we visited, not to mention the beauty of Vũng Chua mountain in the background and the nearby sea, it is impossible to not fall into such somber thoughts when visiting a cemetery.

It wasn’t until after we left that our emotional ponderings gave way to logistical ones. What is the story behind such a massive cemetery in central Quy Nhơn? How long had it been here and, considering the encroachment of the developing city, how much longer could it remain?

We went looking for answers and discovered a more interesting history and future exists for the Quy Nhơn Cemetery than we had imagined. Long the burial site of nearby Quy Nhơn residents, the cemetery is also home to the Quy Nhơn Martyrs Cemetery, Trung Cao cadre burial cemetery, and a Buddhist cemetery. Like many cemeteries in Vietnam, it started small, as exemplified by this photo from 1965.

By 1994 the space was full, and the city built two new ones approximately 20 kilometers from the city center: Bùi Thị Xuân Cemetery, which opened in 1997. Later, as that one is also filled, Bình Định An Viên was opened in 2019. Both rest well outside of the city center.

Yet, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn kept growing. In 2000, it was 137,000 square meters, and by 2018 it hit 148,000 square meters, with much of the newly occupied space encroaching on Vũng Chua mountain in the back. This prompted the city People’s Committee to issue a policy that no new or re-burials could take place in the cemetery.

That didn’t stop people, however. In 2019 people could still buy plots upon which a fake grave had been built to secure the space. Depending on the location, these plots go for VND20–40 million. Authorities claim that there are not enough resources to monitor such a large space and families are willing to perform quiet, subdued funerals to avoid detection.

Many people are upset with the policy to cease all new burials in the cemetery because, as they see it, there is available land beneath the mountain. Moreover, a trip to either of the new cemeteries can take 40 minutes each way. Such a distance may represent a mere logistical hassle or a spiritual separation from one’s ancestors, depending on your perspective. Either way, it helps explain why people continue to build in this “full” cemetery.

Ironically, many people who have family buried in Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn have moved away or are too busy to visit frequently. Given this reality and the sheer size of the cemetery, an informal system of paying people to tend to the graves has arisen at Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

Women who stand at the front gates selling fruits and flowers will also burn incense and give offerings for families unable to do so. One such woman who spoke to Người Lao Động explained her role: “Have you been busy with work? It's been a long time since I've seen you burn incense for this grave. Why do you let him lie so cold? He’s probably upset at you. If you don't have time, I'll help you. Here, I help a lot of people for only VND100,000 per grave a month.”

Quy Nhơn’s development has been remarkable in the last several decades, with the population growing from 60,000 in 1965 to 160,000 in 1986 to 280,000 in 2013 to present estimates of nearly half a million citizens. This has simultaneously increased the need for places to inter people, while also making land more valuable and in-demand. Nothing exemplifies this more than the size of and situation surrounding Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

To reach Quy Nhơn’s far-flung airport, one travels through sparsely populated farmland. The rice paddies are dotted with the small graves of those who have tended the land for generations. One wonders how long they will remain here untouched, and what is lost by not having one’s ancestors within eyesight of where one works and sleeps.

Darkroom is a Saigoneer series documenting the beauty and stories of Vietnam and beyond via photographs. If you have a compelling story you wish to share, send us an email via contribute@saigoneer.com.

What Cooking Bún Chả for My Birthday Abroad Taught Me About Vietnameseness

2026-08-18T14:00:00+07:00

“Hot summer night, mid-July, when you and I were forever wild,” Lana Del Rey croons every July 15 to celebrate my birthday. Those melodramatic words consistently evoke three specific elements in my mind: Heineken or Tiger beer cans on the floor; the sweet smoky smell of bún chả and nem enlaced with the rainy air of a darkening Saigon sky; and my friends and family under the LED-lit roof of an iCool karaoke room. Such pillars uphold what I consider the quintessential Vietnamese birthday experience.

Versions of this birthday routine punctuated my summers until July 2024, when I left Vietnam for Canada. In three years of studying abroad, only my second year was unmarked by a visit home. Curious to see if I could confidently call Montreal my home, I decided to turn 20 under the Canadian sun. Being the furthest I had ever been from home, I was more determined than ever to turn 20 the right, Vietnamese way.

The idea of my friends tasting my favorite Hanoian dishes for the first time, whose recipes followed my family south to Saigon, was exciting, but it was the prospect of cooking these meals with them that I dreamt of. In Saigon, grilling bún chả and rolling nem was a family tradition that eventually grew to include my closest friends. It was a rite of passage for those with whom I envisioned a lasting friendship: only the truest bonds survived an entire day of cooking with my family.

In Montreal, I trusted that the same labor-intensive endeavor would enlarge my “family” as it did back home. I tasked friends who did not qualify for the kitchen crew with bringing either Tiger or Heineken beers — cans only. Neither Heineken nor Tiger is a Vietnamese brand, yet these names automatically recall quintessentially Vietnamese moments. Crushed tin cylinders, green and silver or blue and orange, overlay the floors of nhậu joints; the floor of my uncle’s backyard in Hanoi on the night of my grandmother’s funeral. I also knew that I would sing my way into my 21^st year on Earth, as I did every year prior. A private karaoke booth for my loved ones and I to sing songs that only we care for— that was probably what I missed most about Saigon whilst living abroad.

The beer cans that could have been

I had designed the perfect trident: Hanoian barbecue, beer cans, and karaoke would guarantee a perfectly Vietnamese birthday. But each prong of the Vietnamese fork quickly bent to the Montreal winds — the material conditions of my new city threatened, and ultimately transformed, each of my traditions. My bartenders scavenged the city for my beer cans only to return with bottles. I heard the sound of defeat — the unbearable clinking of glass — before I could see it. Such a minor substitution should not cause despair, but my heart sank anyway: bringing Saigon to Montreal might be more difficult than I thought. The absence of cans alone would not make my celebration less Vietnamese.

Bringing karaoke into the wild

But it was more than cans. Orchestrating a karaoke experience that matched my Saigoneer memory was surprisingly challenging. Whereas karaoke rooms populate every crevice of Saigon, in my area in Montreal, karaoke exists only in one bar on the main boulevard. Here, strangers gathered around a small wooden stage facing a small screen hung from above. Under the disco ball, you didn’t have to know others to sing with and to them. One did not choose their songs directly from YouTube, but from a song book. The limited set list, whose latest hits came out circa 2018, was printed in tiny font sizes that drunken customers squinted to read.

Clearly, I was a long way from iCool. In that faraway kingdom, I ruled as karaoke queen as my loved ones smoked and drank on leather couches, under the cooling AC ambience, screaming lyrics projected on a huge flatscreen. This luxury, which I took for granted in Saigon, was far beyond my reach in Montreal. The only similar options were Korean karaoke salons: a private room with mostly Korean or Japanese hits, mixed with the occasional banger from the Black Eyed Peas, would cost me more than any Vietnamese person should be willing to spend on karaoke.

Luckily, my pièce de résistance — a compact karaoke machine — was available on Facebook Marketplace for CA$60. Its vendor lived at the very end of the blue line, which I rarely took. Early the next morning, my roommate and I rode down to a corner of Montreal we seldom saw. After nearly an hour on the metro and another half spent battling Google Maps under the sun, we reached our destination. The vendor unboxed the brand-new device, and the three of us spent nearly another hour trying to set it up. Once that was done, my roommate and I sang Rihanna in this sweet stranger’s living room. The night of my birthday, the cool summer breeze, the dim light of the moon and candles overflowing from wine bottles, and the picnic benches of Parc La Fontaine built a world more intimate than an iCool room.

Bún chả blues began with the meat cut

Our journey to this happy evening was messy, and food was our most grueling obstacle. With the joint audacity of three 20-year-olds, we believed ourselves capable of making nem from scratch for 15 people in an evening. I underestimated the time it would take to transfer cooking skills, which took years to become instinct, to friends who had never tasted, let alone made nem. The meticulous dicing of vegetables, the delicate rolling techniques, even the hunt for jicama, exhausted us. As the sun rose, we labored around my kitchen table, inhaling every final drop of caffeine, rolling our last nem to the rhythm of French rap.

This logistical nightmare became a wholesome, albeit long, night I was lucky to share with friends who cared enough to recreate something they have never known. The traces of our collective effort — rice paper stuck to the table, puddles of spilled water, ground chicken splattered on the walls and counters — would be a pain to clean up in the morning. But that night, I contemplated that mess, which transformed my apartment into my family’s kitchen, with endearment.

With no barbecue equipment, I eventually had to replace bún chả with bún thịt nướng. This was a happy substitution: bún chả’s Saigoneer sibling was more practical but just as delicious. Shopping for the right cut of meat, however, was the most devastating hurdle. To accommodate my friends who avoid pork, I decided on beef thịt xiên. My mom theorized that thăn would be the only one cut of beef that can remain tender after being thinly sliced, skewered, and broiled. I did not recognize it, nor could I find its English equivalent. I Google-translated the word she uttered; I studied beef cuts diagrams online, naming and showing every cut to my mom. Having never cooked nor shopped in English, she couldn’t confirm my intel; having never cooked or shopped in Vietnamese, I couldn’t understand hers. Hoping live visuals would help, I called her again at the supermarket. I showed her every tray of ruby meat; I scanned every tag and read the Vietnamese translations out loud as my mom shook her head on my screen. Eventually, the 11-hour time difference between Saigon and Montreal released my mom from my panic-stricken calls, leaving me helpless in the meat aisle.

My homesickness and perfectionism willed me to prove that I could recreate Vietnam accurately anywhere. So I continued searching for a cut of beef I could not name, across five hours and three grocery stores. My last destination was the Asian supermarket by my old apartment, a 40-minute walk away. To my surprise, the butcher was Vietnamese. I ran to him, hopeful, asking for the cut in Vietnamese. In a mix of French and Vietnamese, he told me he wasn’t sure what that was: having lived in Montreal for 60 years, he had lost much of our mother tongue. Desperate, I begged for an adequate substitute — if language barriers separate us, surely we still share the same food memory? To my dismay, the butcher selected the one cut my mom instructed me against, and I began sobbing between the meat refrigerators. It was now 5pm, meaning 4am in Saigon. I could not reach my sleeping mother now, and even if I could, what would I tell her with my limited Vietnamese?

Resignation washed over me as a dual realization settled: I have failed at grocery shopping and must now surrender to a random tray of meat; and I am living in an Ocean Vuong scene from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. In a passage that I had painstakingly analyzed for my thesis, the narrator’s illiterate Vietnamese mother struggles to buy oxtail to make bún bò Huế in the US. Devoid of the right English words, she jumps from Vietnamese to broken French to body language, ultimately leaving the store empty-handed. Why academically hypothesize about the gut-wrenching relationship between home and language, when I can experience it myself?

Crushing failure reigned temporarily in the wake of my attempts at the perfect Vietnamese experience. My disgraceful shopping led me to question my knowledge of my culture, and thus my belonging to it. Out of options and out of time, my friends and I cooked our misadventures away. We made thịt xiên by cooking the wrong cut of beef the right way — adapting and tenderizing it however we could, just as my mom would have told us to. We drank the right beer from the wrong bottles, washing down our oversized nem; we bastardized the concept of iCool with our version of karaoke in the park.

Circumstances forced us to deviate from my recipes for a quintessentially Vietnamese celebration; the whole thing was a mess. But the mess was laughter, labor, music, homemade food and love. I turned 20 in that mess, and at 22 now, I realized that there are no perfect standards of Vietnameseness except the ones we imagine. Now, two summers later, I look back on this wonderful night only to see my favorite birthday party yet, one that was a loudly Vietnamese celebration in Montreal.

Into Saigon's Charming Hidden Third Spaces in the Shade of Bridges

2026-08-18T10:00:00+07:00

Third place (noun): A space outside of one's home and workplace, where people meet and interact socially.

Where do we go to find a place that feels like home, but isn’t?

Not home, not the office — a third place is a space that stands apart from daily life, where one feel comfortable enough to connect with new people and form new relationships.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg first coined the term “third place,” describing it as a cultural incubator where shared values take root. It’s a space where people can converse with others, express their individual identities, and find a sense of “belonging” through platonic and romantic bonding. The third place manifests in various forms, constantly evolving to fit the fabric of each society, whether it’s a neighborhood bar, a cozy used book store, or even a temple.

Saigon boasts more than 200 bridges.

In Vietnam’s major cities, rapid economic development and urbanization have led to the shrinking of public works and free communal spaces like parks, libraries, or playgrounds — the most natural and accessible third places for people from all walks of life. But human connection is resilient, and informal third places have emerged in the leftover cracks of urban infrastructure.

Workers resting under the Ba Son bridges.

In 2019, Russian photographer Nikolai Sokolov moved to Vietnam from Saint Petersburg. His work gradually shifted from abstract and landscape photography to street photography, drawn by “the people and the life here.” In the summer of 2024, he spent his time capturing everyday moments beneath Saigon’s many bridges.

“I’ve traveled all over Vietnam, and I often found myself sheltering under bridges to avoid the sun or rain. I started noticing that many people were sitting under these bridges, especially in the south. There was something special about them — each came with a different story. One day, a man asked me to take his picture, and from that moment, I knew I wanted to document the lives of these people. Each face, each gaze offered a story. And I wanted to share it.”

The first photo of the series.

Neglected and overlooked, bridges are far from anyone’s idea of a traditional third place, and the commuters who usually use them are passing through out of necessity. But in Nikolai Sokolov’s black-and-white photos, these anonymous bridges (though if you’re sharp, you might recognize them) come alive as tranquil yet vibrant sanctuaries. Beneath rigid concrete structures, rough patches of ground are transformed into playgrounds, gathering spots for friends and family, or simply a place to rest in the midst of the city’s constant motion.

Free-range ducklings, now available at your nearest bridge.

The sweet joy of swinging in the shade on a hot afternoon.

The first rule of cockfighting club is: you do not talk about cockfighting club.

Birds of a feather surely flock together.

“Dude, you cheating?”

Future stars of the national team?

Sisters and best friends.

Just middle-aged people casually flexing spines healthier than yours.

Dressed to impress.

“I already won. No point arguing now.”

Better safe than sorry.

Most definitely a good boy.

The bridge-side tango.

For some, this is the first place.

“What kind of school awards did you get this year?” “I barely passed, uncle!”

You can practically hear the squeak in this photo.

Cigarette smoke and dust.

Who’s coming in last this round?

Follow Nikolai Sokolov's work here.

This article was originally published in 2024.