Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

A Hanoi Duo Crafts Intricate Silicone and Clay Prostheses for People With Disabilities

2026-08-14T14:00:00+07:00

“The products we make are fake arms, legs, noses, ears… from silicone. The value we create is emotional healing, giving our customers confidence in themselves and their lives — the things they lack after surgeries,” Phúc shared while introducing their products.

It wasn’t hard for me to find Phúc’s office, though his space lay deep in a twisted alley of Hoàng Mai District, where the houses seem to be numbered randomly. The enthusiastic “tour guide” I had that day was Hiệp, Phúc’s partner for the last four years.

With a floor space of 12m², the three-story house that they rent serves as an office, warehouse and showroom, as well as a workshop where they create prostheses like fingers, toes, ears and noses for people who have lost such body parts.

Phúc casting a mold for a hand.

Creating prosthetics is not a new thing in Vietnam. There are many factories with modern technology creating a diverse range of products from plastic, silicone, electronics, etc. These products can perform some basic functions like grasping or opening, but aesthetics and personalization are still not important factors.

Hiệp showed me two large plastic boxes containing sample products. At first glance, they looked quite like the costumes people buy for Halloween. He encouraged me to try on a prosthetic finger to get a feel for the material and adhesion of the product. It took me a while to find one with the same skin tone as mine, and Hiệp carefully showed me how to put them on and told me about the requirements of a prosthetic finger: “The most important thing is naturalness: looking natural and feeling natural. Most of our customers are those who have lost a small part of their bodies. The need for functionality is there, but it is not as important as aesthetics. From skin tone, shape, size, adhesion, to small details like nails, fingerprints, curls, etc., all need attention.”

Hiệp painting an ear.

I was most impressed with a jar containing 20 prosthetic noses that Hiệp and Phúc had meticulously created over three months for a girl in Lâm Đồng who was infected with the Whitmore “flesh-eating” bacteria. These noses looked similar at first, all had the fashionable L-line with a bright tone, but upon careful inspection, there were minute differences in hue and thickness.

Phúc explained: “The nose is the center of the face, so if we’re not careful, people will know it is fake. The girl also lives far away, so she only had two chances to come here for sampling and testing. We were determined to create many samples for her to try until we found a suitable shape and tone. Fortunately in the end we were able to make one that fit her well, and it is hard to recognize even without makeup covering the edge.”

Prosthetic fingers are best-sellers. Most customers lose theirs in workplace accidents.

Phúc and Hiệp’s customers are diverse, from those who suffer from accidents at work, at home, in traffic, to those with birth defects. Each has their own wound, but they share the same struggles: low self-esteem and loss of faith in life. I heard many stories that day, not only people’s names, their hometowns, their wounds and how they got them, but also their pessimistic feelings in the past.

About their special products, Phúc shared: “Our high standards for aesthetics and personalization are not just for the sake of beauty, but for the emotional needs. The pain of losing a limb will pass, but the fear and disappointment can follow them forever. Currently, the treatment process at hospitals’ orthopedic wards has barely addressed this issue. We’ve met many patients who are traumatized after their accident and treatment. Some people dare not to see their wounds for months, some run away from their family, some leave their work for fear they can’t fit in again.”

A prosthetic foot requires a natural look, as well as demanding precision to facilitate movement.

Due to the emphasis on personalization, the production process is not fixed. The basic initial steps are measuring and casting molds for the missing parts, then creating the right skin color for the customer. Hiệp explained: “The hard thing is that the skin doesn't have a fixed color, it changes with the weather, human activities, it fades overtime, etc. Furthermore, with clay and silicone, the colors when blended usually look different than the manufacturer’s instructions.” He shared an example: “One time, I was very happy with a prosthetic foot that I made. But when the person put it on, it was a cold winter day and they didn’t wear socks, the other foot was completely white. So the foot I made didn’t match at all.”

Hiệp said that the process from consultation to final product takes at least two weeks, and starting prices range VND1–3 million. But many times the cost for prototypes is five or six times higher than the price quoted to customers. After four years in this field, they have created hundreds of prototypes, a sacrifice for the most perfect product. When they first started, Vietnam did not have any private prosthetic workshops. There was no production process, and materials were rare as well. The duo had to research and experiment themselves. Prior to this project, Phúc had ample experience in silicone shaping, while Hiệp used to work as a testing technician. But when it comes to this particular field, that experience didn't help much.

A customer trying on a prosthetic ear.

Now, their production process is established and they have gained some recognition, mainly through word of mouth. Yet the duo still does everything themselves, from consultations and production to marketing and delivery. When asked why they haven’t expanded the business, Phúc explained: “It’s not that we don’t want to hire more people, it’s just that this work demands a lot of patience and fastidiousness. It is not an easy thing to find a companion who is careful and skilled.”

Talking about this field’s potential, Phúc said there is a high demand in the country: “Although we have only done some basic marketing ourselves, we are always overloaded. I trust more and more people with limb loss will find these products. Because as living standards get higher, more people will need products that can bring mental and emotional values.”

About their vision, Hiệp shared: “Although there is a lot of potential, I think this is not something you can get rich from…Because the handmade process takes a lot of time and energy. I think there will be chances for collaboration in the far future, but for now, due to a lack of workers and materials, Phúc and I will just maintain the production scale as-is.”

To find out more about Phúc and Hiệp’s work, visit their Facebook page.

Photos courtesy of Phúc and Hiệp.

Hẻm Gems: Where Fish Sauce and Soy Sauce Are Not Condiments, but Gelato Flavors

2026-08-13T14:00:00+07:00

Living in central Saigon as a diehard fan of ice cream and all frozen sweets, I fondly remember the late 2010s–early 2020s as the age of abundance. Back in the day, across downtown, there was always a little something for ice cream fans of all preferences.

Stalwart supporters of the OGs might stick to the long-enduring French-styled Fanny, which settled down in a charming old villa on Tôn Thất Thiệp. Østerberg dished out Nordic clean flavors in a nook on Lê Lai, while Ralf’s Artisan Gelato on Đặng Thị Nhu performed an impressive balancing act between traditional Italian classics and inventive local flavors. My hangouts in District 1 would more often than not end in the same way during this time: at one of these old haunts for a few scoops of sweetness.

Flash forward to 2026, and the downtown gelato map has suffered some major losses: after a few shifts in location, Fanny shuttered for good, while Østerberg relocated to Thảo Điền permanently. Ralf’s also moved to District 2 a few years ago, but is currently on hiatus. With quite a number of new players in the scene, Thảo Điền is now shaping up to be a mecca for ice cream, a development I’m immensely sad about, living so far from where all the action takes place.

Sugar Daddy Eatery has moved a few doors down the hẻm since 2025.

During the years of Saigon’s constantly shifting gelato landscape, my family found comfort in the stability of one trusty hẻm gem — Sugar Daddy Gelato, which has held fast to their quaint location on Trần Hưng Đạo, just a short drive from Bến Thành Market, for half a decade until now. The gelateria is a family business, founded by husband-and-wife pair Danh and Vy, but you’ll also likely come across Danh’s mom helping guests pick their favorite flavors as well.

When I discovered its existence a few years ago, the tiny shop was serving up scoops from a narrow storefront that can fit only a handful of seats, but since 2025, Sugar Daddy Gelato has relocated a few doors down to the renovated family home and expanded to a neat dining area with more seats and ample decoration. The interior is predominantly white and brightly lit, with green and stone accents to break up the monotony.

The bright interior of the place.

Danh is the creative mind behind the eatery’s culinary aspect. And yes, he’s well aware of the name’s scandalous connotation, but he told me that it was only selected after the couple welcomed their firstborn and he became an actual “daddy” to an adorable baby boy. Working with a lot of sugar is an indispensable part of running a gelato business, so the “sugar daddy” in question here follows the term’s most literal meaning. The tongue-in-cheek meaning is a happy coincidence that adds a sprinkle of eyebrow-raising curiosity for new guests.

Danh Phan founded the eatery with his wife, Vy.

Sugar Daddy Gelato came into existence in 2020 during the pandemic, but the pair had their start in the F&B world even earlier. Danh studied hospitality management in Las Vegas, and, upon returning to Saigon, opened his first eatery at Bến Thành Food Market, a canteen-like collective featuring many food carts catering to tourists. The first stall was Got Bun, whose menu featured Taiwanese-style bánh bao with novelty fillings; business went well, so they were able to launch the second stall, Bánh Xèo Em Ơi, and the third, Stir Fry. COVID-19 and the subsequent international flight bans put an end to all that, so they went back to the drawing board again.

Mè the bird with Danh's mom. Mè is usually chilling in the cage, but she took advantage of Saigoneer's visit to supervise the operation.

In May 2020, Danh signed up for a gelato-making course, and three months later, Sugar Daddy Gelato was born, alongside the resurrection of Got Bun, at a small location near his family home. The current iteration combines both the sweetness of Sugar Daddy frozen treats and the savory creations of Got Bun into one menu to satisfy both old regulars from the Food Market days and gelato fans — I firmly belong to the latter.

There are 12 flavors at any moment during opening hours.

At any given moment at Sugar Daddy, there are 12 flavors in the gelato display, and finished ones are replaced by different flavors. When the Saigoneer team visited, we were greeted with avocado, tamarind, pumpkin and coconut, Thai milk tea, Earl Grey milk tea, Heal Your Soul (matcha and butterfly pea), strawberry, tàu hũ gừng, passion fruit and mango, vanilla and Oreo, phở, and bún bò. The latter two, in addition to fish sauce and soy sauce, are the most experimental flavors in Danh’s wheelhouse. They’re not unprecedented, if you’ve spent some time sampling enough ice cream in Vietnam, but I love watching people’s facial expressions when I take them here and introduce these unconventional flavors.

According to Danh, the essence of the noodle dishes is infused into the gelato by cooking the herbs and spices in milk — no meat involved. He went through a wide range of spice mixes available on the market to arrive at the current flavor profile. The phở gelato is gently fragrant, with notes of cinnamon, star anise, and black cardamom; while the bún bò gelato reminds me a lot of the lemongrassy oil atop bún bò broth, and the orange-yellow hue certainly evokes its sparkling shimmer as well.

The Saigoneer team is divided on which is better. I have to side with bún bò.

While not in the display yet, Danh was kind enough to let us try the two condiment-inspired buckets as well. The fish sauce flavor is made of kid’s fish sauce for the reduced sodium and tempered fishiness; with added caramel, the flavor tastes like a silky salted caramel gelato with a touch of umami funk towards the end. And finally, the soy sauce gelato — my personal favorite — is a rich, layered combination of Lee Kum Kee soy sauce and just a touch of miso nuttiness. I’ll have to add that there’s also a miso and burnt butter gelato in the rotation that I’ve only managed to catch once, but it was so good I had to buy a takeaway portion. My mom, who doesn’t consume alcohol, is quite into the orange and beer flavor, for some reasons; it is refreshing, but in a zesty way.

Soufflé pancakes is a new addition to the menu.

While the layperson often uses the terms “ice cream” and “gelato” interchangeably and “gelato” is actually just Italian for “ice cream,” there are some differences in technicality. As Danh shares, gelato has lower air percentages and is made from milk instead of cream; both result in a denser, more viscous mouthfeel compared to the fluffiness of ice cream. Gelato is also often kept at a slightly higher temperature, so it’s best enjoyed quickly.

Whether a certain fruit or local treat shows up in the gelato display mostly depends on the season. In the summer, longan, lychee, and durian are bound to make an appearance. Pink dragonfruit was paired with yogurt or pineapple, while a mangosteen flavor is being workshopped at the moment. According to Danh, trips to the local market in search of seasonal fresh fruits are the way he looks for inspiration on what to turn into gelato next.

Apart from the gelato, Sugar Daddy as an eatery also features savory dishes, some of which are remnants of the Got Bun days like five-spice pork bao — which I can personally vouch for. Other options for snacking include saucy chicken wings and crispy tacos. However, the true star of the new menu is the pillowy soufflé pancakes, which will take a while to arrive at the table, but are really worth the wait. Airy pancake bites are paired with caramelized bananas and cream on top.

Fruit tea and honey kumquat tea

Bò kho tacos

Crème brûlée

The ice cream and gelato scene in Saigon has really flourished in 2025–2026. It seems like every few months I would come across an ad on social media for a brand-new ice cream boutique. While I’ll be gallivanting around town to have my share of exciting new flavors, this Hẻm Gems feature seems like a fitting way to pay tribute to a Saigon staple that has been with me through thick and thin, breakups and first dates, in hopes that it will remain on the map to share the love of gelato to many others.

To sum up:

Opening time: 2pm–10pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 077 864 9404
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Sugar Daddy Eatery

345/29 Trần Hưng Đạo, Cầu Ông Lãnh Ward, HCMC

An Early View of a Barely Developed Saigon in the 1860s

2026-08-10T13:00:00+07:00

Dropping a modern Saigoneer into the 1860s version of the city would be a wildly disorienting experience.

In this day and age, photos of Saigon from the middle of the 20^th century are common. Here at Saigoneer, we've certainly played a role in the proliferation of images from decades like the 1950s and 1960s. Going further back in time, however, is more difficult, largely due to the obvious limitations of technology.

This collection of photographs taken by Émile Gsell, some of which were taken as far back as the 1860s, is therefore a valuable addition to the visual history of Saigon — albeit through a very French lens. Still, these images, collated by RedsVN, depict a city that is largely unrecognizable today, as only the core of what is now District 1 was developed in any way, while heavily urban modern areas such as District 3 and Chợ Lớn were still part of the countryside.

Take a journey in the way back machine below:

Charner Street, which is now Nguyễn Huệ, before its canal was filled in. The crossing road is Ngô Đức Kế Street.

Where the Bến Nghé Canal flows into the Saigon River, seen from contemporary Bến Nhà Rồng.

The same part of town, with the Thủ Ngữ flagpole prominently placed.

Shophouses along Bạch Đằng Wharf, between modern Nguyễn Huệ and Đồng Khởi Streets. Photo taken in 1866.

Norodom Palace in 1873. The building was largely destroyed in 1962 and replaced by what is now the Reunification Palace.

Soldiers at the Ô Mã Citadel, which no longer exists. It was located between the modern streets of Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai, Nguyễn Văn Cừ, Nguyễn Trãi and Cống Quỳnh.

A monastery that is now the Order of Saint Paul on the corner of Tôn Đức Thắng and Nguyễn Hữu Cảnh in District 1.

The Guangdong Hospital in Chợ Lớn in 1907. This is where Nguyễn Tri Phương Hospital now stands.

Life along the Tàu Hủ Canal in Chợ Lớn .

The Thị Nghè Canal looked a bit different over 100 years ago.

The outskirts of Saigon.

[Top image: Where Charner Street met the Saigon River.]

How Colonial Steamship Transport Transformed into Casual River Cruises in Southeast Asia

2026-08-10T06:41:00+07:00

The relaxed, historic-looking river cruise ships emblazoned with the Pandaw name that you may witness meandering up rivers in Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and even India have a much stranger backstory than you’d suspect.

Historic scene on the Rangoon River.

In 1865, Scottish businessmen launched the Irrawaddy Flotilla and Burmese Steam Navigation Company to transport passengers, supplies, goods, mail, and eventually oil field equipment up and down Burma as the British colony thrived. Serving locals, regional traders, and colonial officials, the paddle steamers were crucial to the colony’s infrastructure and growth. By the 1920s, the fleet had reached more than 650 ships on the Irrawaddy and surrounding rivers and had been immortalized in a Richard Kipling poem.

The PS Mindoon, 1886, sister to the Beloo of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, as pictured in 1886.

The entire operation sank, quite literally, during WW2. As the Japanese moved through Southeast Asia, colonial officials decided it was better to lose the entire fleet than see the highly capable ships fall into enemy hands. In 1942, every ship was intentionally scuttled. After the war, river travel never returned to the previous scale and efficiency, hastening the decline of the entire colony.

An old Irrawaddy Flotilla company boat on land.

One might rightfully assume that this is where the Irrawaddy Flotilla story ends. However, Paul Strachan, a Scotsman who had spent some of his youth in Burma, returned to the country in the 1990s, hankering for adventure. While living in the country writing a novel from a local monastery, he noticed the potential for river cruises in the region and invested his life savings in a boat and took on the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company (IFC) name. Looking back on the rather risky decision he made with his wife, Rosa, he told Saigoneer, “There was no plan at all.”

Paul and Rosa in recent years aboard one of their boats.

A little luck and an adeptness at navigating political and cultural situations allowed the couple to become the first company since colonial times to offer river cruises on the Irrawaddy. In 1998, they located and restored a boat from the original Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, named Pandaw, to replace the local boats they had been chartering. The steamship’s now-classic design sat in the water differently than modern boats, allowing it to travel to unique areas on the river, stop for sandbank cocktail hours alongside locals, and even navigate the treacherous Tonle Sap Lake.

“Fun!” was how Paul described these early voyages, which always carried the potential for unexpected adventure. On the very first trip, for example, the boat got caught on a sandbar and required a nearby mining operation to use their equipment to dig it out. Rather than be frightened and take a rescue boat, the passengers found the unexpected situation thrilling and stayed on-site to watch the action and continue the journey.

The ship specially designed to travel the Kerala Backwaters beginning in Kochi, India.

During the first five years, Paul and Rosa joined each trip, offering lectures aboard the ship in the evening and overseeing the expedition. But as demand grew, they employed more professionals, including Burmese shipbuilders. Using modified plans from the original IFC vessels, the skilled craftsman created additional ships that they sent to Vietnam, where river cruises were launched in 2003 between Saigon and Cambodia on the Mekong River. Word spread of the professional operations and friendly on-board atmosphere, allowing the company to expand to tours on the Ganges River in 2008, trips in Laos and Northern Vietnam in 2015, and the Brahmaputra River in India in 2023. And just this year, they have deemed portions of the Irrawaddy River safe to return to.

Paul, Rosa and the crew and staff are eager to welcome guests and help local communities.

Amidst all the expansion, Paul and Rosa have been quietly giving back to the local communities. In 2008, for example, Cyclone Marvis devastated the region, so the renamed Pandaw Company repurposed two of their boats as floating hospitals to provide healthcare for months. They also started an NGO called Pandaw Clinics and provided funding for local schools and medical services while making systemic efforts to reduce waste and plastic.

Paul admits that these acts of generosity are not ultimately why people choose to travel with Pandaw. It’s not the history either, especially as the original fleet and its role in the region disappear from living memory. Moreover, while the ships are still novel in design, many major international companies have arrived offering similar services. But the convivial spirit and respectful appreciation for slow travel that attract mostly Western travelers who want relaxed comfort with a suggestion of adventure cannot be duplicated.

Comparatively small passenger numbers foster a togetherness amongst travelers that continues after the final docking. Paul noticed that friendships develop, and groups reunite every few years to relive the experience and try new routes. The welcoming vibes benefit from expert crews attuned with local cultures, so all aboard can experience a journey seemingly untethered from the rush of the modern age.

Staring out across the river at dusk, the setting sun dappling the water’s surface with flecks of orange and pink, if you’re lucky, you might catch a family of Irrawaddy dolphins playfully leaping. Steadying your hand on the metal railing, remind yourself that you are connected to a legacy extending back to colonial rice transport, wartime calamity, and more recent medical heroism. But beneath the boat flows the primordial currents that churned with an elemental diligence that brought you to this moment and will gracefully take you away faster than you realize. All you’ll be left with are the memories and the friends who accompanied you.

Pandaw's website

Pandaw's Facebook

+84 28 4458 2618

Pandaw's Email

All Aboard the Languorous 35-Hour Train From Hanoi to Saigon

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

The train connecting Vietnam’s largest cities takes 35 hours. Yet even after the first time I finished the trip, I was already coming up with excuses for why I needed to do it again. For me, the journey is much more than a chance for great views and time to reflect. It’s an exploration of life itself.

Every time I take a train in a new country, I’m fascinated by the interactions and activities that occur within the carriages. Somehow, through all their quirks and oddities, they represent a microcosm of a nation’s wider culture.

Hanoi Central Train Station.

You see people meeting for the first time and forming friendships, long-haul passengers relishing the ride, and families reuniting or saying farewell. You see kids playing with their toys beside old people passing the time. You see men drinking beer together after lunch.

None of these things would seem out of place in any Vietnamese city. Here, they are framed by the windows and aisles of a slow-moving train, adding color to days that would otherwise be mundane.

Take a ride below:

Boarding.

Two men killing time.

Lunchtime in the restaurant carriage.

Thuốc lào time.

A staff member checks tickets.

Sleeping, resting, playing on phones in the carriage.

Kids playing together.

A child plays with his toy on a window sill.

The conductor's hat.

A young boy enjoying the view.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2021.

Short Film 'Mud Below, Sun Above' Reveals Daily Trials of Hanoi's Scrap Collectors

2026-08-06T15:00:00+07:00

Đồng nát translates to “junk; broken materials,” but it is also a term used in northern Vietnam to describe the recycling workforce, 90% of whom are elderly women, that operate in a nation that produces 68,000 tons of solid waste every day.

The short film, Mud Below, Sun Above, opens with this information displayed across moody scenes of gray, dilapidated Hanoi. It then quickly moves beyond impersonal statistics to the individual experiences of scrap collection via Bể, a 64-year-old woman who earns a living moving door to door to collect recyclables.

Viewers are given the mundane details of her trade, including the arduous effort of scraping labels from liquor bottles, alongside her reflections on changes in society as understood via trash materials produced. The intimate look at a difficult but dignified life provides essential human elements to truths of commerce, production and lifestyles that are all too frequently framed via cold statistics.

Mud Below, Sun Above comes from Hanoi-based Dutch filmmaker Kate Villevoye, who Saigoneers may remember from her previous work, Mr. Cường's Banyan Tree. After a successful run at several international film festivals, her latest work is being hosted by Aeon Video.

While the movie doesn’t directly pose questions, let alone answers, it humanizes an important issue and should inspire viewers to understand their surroundings and their impacts upon them with greater respect and appreciation.

Watch the video in full below:

Video via Aeon.

Top image via Kate Villevoye's website.

Inside the Vivid, Soothing Art Realm of Vietnamese Illustration Artist Phuongsongdep

2026-08-05T14:00:00+07:00

Using her keen observation and sensitive art intuition, Minh Phương creates a colorful realm through her brushstrokes, with dynamic human figures, animals, florals, fruits, and familiar street antics. Using striking visuals as trusty companions, she expresses a hearty affection for mankind and life itself, as well as local culture and self-compassion.

Living beautifully, dorkily

Minh Phương, best known by her social media handle Phuongsongdep, is a multimedia illustration artist from Hải Phòng but based in Saigon. Her art is distinctively colorful, and imbued with a cheekiness evident of Phương’s openness to her emotions and desire to “live beautifully.” Besides personal projects, brand collaborations and art fairs, Phương’s oeuvre also includes cover arts for popular musicians.

Artworks from Phương’s coaster collaboration with Tired City.

When asked about the meaning behind her quirky internet personality Phuongsongdep — which translates to “Phương lives beautifully” — she laughs: “Well back then I thought it was whimsical and impressive so I kept it, but now there’s a bit of pressure, because you can’t always live beautifully.” She nonetheless decided to stick with it because “I want to live beautifully, kindly, lovingly, and especially I want to live with beauty.”

Minh Phương and her artwork.

Phương often depicts her subjects with rounded edges, like cherubic girls, plump cats, or even plushy flowers. Her fantasy world seems to be in constant flux: the foliage sways in the wind, the water swirls, while dewdrops bounces. There, little school children dance with the fruit vendor, while sun-shielded commuters topple after stray dogs do drive-bys. Phương tends to anthropomorphize her subjects, giving lively expressions to fruits and vegetables, which can blush, smirk, pout, or wink. She is steadily building up a whimsical world using a sweet palette, creating a charming sense of dorkiness.

Phương’s artistic world is filled with colors and plumpness.

Beside portraying the modern society, Phương is also lending that characteristic sense of whimsy into time-honored cultural icons. When she was working on the “Manifest Money” collection, beside well-known prosperity deities like Thần Tài, Thổ Địa, Phương included the images of lesser-known mythological figures like Thiềm Thừ, a three-legged frog symbolizing stability; and Tỳ Hưu, a kirin-like creature with no anus, so it can only absorb fortune without letting it out. All four mythological characters become softened and childlike in Phương’s artistic interpretations.

Manifest Money.

“Dorkiness is also a form of coolness”

This declaration is not something that came natural to Phương. Coolness is an attribute often associated with edginess and aloofness. As someone fond of sweet palettes, she couldn’t identify with the quality, but as she gradually became more aware of her own personal style, that definition shifted: “Perhaps the patriarchy led me to believe that cuteness is not cute, but I really think that how bubblegum pink I am could be a form of coolness too.”

Phương also experienced periods when doubts made her reluctant, and a tendency to overthink overwhelmed her rest. So she drew, as way to communicate with her inner self and a form of meditation. The mind is a garden for different varieties of flowers. Stressful flowers are sharp and monotonous, but flowers of contentment are fluffy and vivid. When the garden started taking shape, she felt at peace lying there to observe and understand it.

Phương’s garden of the mind.

Loving the self, the people, and sharing that love

Having been through bouts of self-doubts, Phương wants her art to become a rest stop for the mind, welcoming kindred friends. It is often said that the arts have the power to connect, and artworks can help not only their creators but the audience members. Case in point, Phương’s pieces were once been used in an art therapy project, spreading the joy of creating art to the public.

“Friendly Reminder” is a collection of postcards she created with the initial purpose to remind herself of her self-worth, but it has touched many other like-minded souls. According to Phương, a number of buyers use them to decorate their rooms as little encouragement, while others use them as gifts. Every time somebody writes her a message recounting how they felt consoled by the artworks during melancholic times, she loves what she’s doing a bit more: “The artwork is more meaningful if it can reach more people instead of existing alone.”

Friendly Reminder, a collection of postcards.

Nurturing moments of stillness

To an artist, a eureka moment can come quite spontaneously, and forcing something out can worsen the artist’s block. Even though Phương agrees that creativity can’t be rushed, she also doesn’t encourage procrastinating a piece for too long, as it can extinguish the creative fire. She observes that some young artists don’t feel comfortable with showcasing their work. Even though they have artworks, they’re still waiting for a higher level of perfection. To Phương, this is a vicious circle because our standards and skills are continuously improving. The longer one waits, the longer the art stays shelved, and the growth is not acknowledged. Therefore, Phương encourages anyone who does art, or any trade, to set a timeline for their work, publish it, close the page, and embark on the next endeavor. The next one is almost always gonna be better.

To get to the deadline in a timely manner, Phương often tries to create an environment conducive to idea formation. She goes on walks, observes, and records images that appear in her mind. Perhaps that’s merely to satisfy her artistic whim and might not be rigorous enough, but it is still a form of practice.

Phương used to treat each artwork as a brainchild, always striving to push it to perfection. Right now, however, she allows them to live their own life out there, while she focuses on herself. They exist as milestones in an artist’s journey, but can’t expand anymore. The artist, however, is an ever-changing entity, capable of producing those milestones. “I need to know how to accept that my ability is always reaching forward to feel comfortable creating,” she shares.

Phuongsongdep’s artworks can be found at art stores like Tired City and OHQUAO. Visit her Instagram @minhphuong.work for to view more.

Vietnam's 1969 Street Fashion Story as Told Through Honda Cubs

2026-08-03T10:00:00+07:00

The very definition of cool was established decades ago in Vietnam, and it was badass women in áo dài dashing on the street in slick sunglasses.

In this set of old Nha Trang photos, the author, who’s only known by their Flickr handle ElectroSpark, completely ignored clichéd images of the coastal city and decided to turn attention to its commuters instead. For visitors from elsewhere, it’s hard to resist the pristine beaches, luxuriant coconut trees and curvy coastal line, but these photos show that holidaymakers also make a fascinating photo subject.

1960s Vietnam was the prime era for motorbikes, especially petite Honda Cubs which have, by today’s standards, achieved “iconic” status. Though the model was released with a rainbow of color options, judging by the photos, the young fathers taking their children around on a red Honda Cub was a sight to behold. The slick hairdo also contributed significantly to the sleekness of families too.

In a few shots, models from Yamaha’s V series were also present. The company released their V series to compete with Honda Cubs, and it seemed like Yamaha’s light blue model also held its own in the market. The odd Vespa and Lambro 550 appeared too, with the latter acting as an affordable option to travel long distance in Vietnam before buses arrived.

Have a look at Vietnam’s street fashion in 1969 through the photo collection below:

Photos via Flickr user manhhai.

Listen to the Unique 'Dialects' Found in Regional Vietnamese Modernist Architecture

2026-07-31T14:00:00+07:00

“It was my uncle who came up with the design. There are no drawings left; everything was improvised back then,” the owner of a modernist homestay in Ninh Thuận told me. No architect, just an idea and a craftsman to pour it into concrete.

Modernism is usually a language spoken only by architects. But in Vietnam, ordinary people picked it up too. It became the routine way to build a shophouse or a villa across the south. And like any language spoken that widely, it started to develop accents.

Independence in 1954 gave modernism its opening. Years of war had made rebuilding a priority, and for the first time Vietnam's own architects were in charge. They chose modernism as a statement: forward-looking and nothing like the neo-classical buildings the French had left behind.

The style quickly outgrew its architects. In Vietnam, most people build their own homes, and the improvisation the Ninh Thuận homestay owner described to me is probably how the style spread: a homeowner likes his neighbor's brise-soleil, and the house down the street takes it up too. A shape passed from door to door, until it became vernacular: the language of ordinary people.

The whole of southern Vietnam speaks this concrete language, but if you travel from the Mekong Delta up along the South-Central coast, you'll notice each area has its own quirks. Maybe it comes from local folk aesthetics, or the way each town answers its own sun and wind. Either way, communities developed their own dialects. Sometimes it's just an accent: the straight vertical slat of a Saigon brise-soleil can end in a small curve in Quy Nhơn. Sometimes it's whole new slang: a shading device that curls back on itself, which I've only found in Ninh Thuận.

Southern Vietnamese vernacular modernism is a language from the streets, twisted a little by every hand that built it, full of odd wordings too joyful for the polished modernism they teach in textbooks. Like any language, it rewards you slowly: it’s the small thrill of someone learning French who finally hears that everyday conversations in Paris and Brussels don't sound the same. See enough of Vietnam's modernist houses, across enough towns, and you'll start to hear the dialects too: Quy Nhơn doesn't sound like Mỹ Tho.

Clouds of Quy Nhơn

Where a Saigon brise-soleil stays straight, in Quy Nhơn, the concrete lines loosen into intersecting swirls, perhaps an abstraction of clouds. This distinctive brise-soleil shape can also be found in surrounding towns such as An Nhơn.

Pastel-blue painted shophouse in Quy Nhơn city center.

Shophouse with đá rửa finishing in Quy Nhơn city center.

Villa in the outskirts of An Nhơn built in 1987.

Shophouse on Trần Hưng Đạo street in Quy Nhơn city center.

Holes of Phú Yên

An hour south, in Phú Yên, façades are riddled with ventilation holes: triangles, hearts, arrows, more triangles, and in one house, against all odds, a helicopter. This perforation habit reached Quy Nhơn too, but never with the same intensity.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with a perforated red beam.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with blue-contoured motifs and holes scattered across the façade.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, where a helicopter hides among the geometric motifs.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, white-contoured motifs running along the whole house.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with walls tiled in yellow and white.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with purple contours tracing the holes.

Curls of Ninh Thuận

In Vĩnh Hải, concrete shading devices that frame porches and balconies are curled, often finishing in a hook. Each one is outlined with a raised contour, painted in the blue or white typical of seaside towns everywhere.

Villa in Mỹ Tân, its façade engraved with plants and flowers.

Villa in Mỹ Tường built in 1990, the date set in relief on the porch.

Villa in Mỹ Tân built in 1989, with details painted in blue.

Villa in Mỹ Phong with a street restaurant in front.

Porches of the Mekong Delta

In the Mekong Delta, the modernist dialect is less a motif than a structure: villas set behind a porch, almost always resting on four columns creating a kind of triptych, the beam above held by pairs or trios of concrete fins. Not an accent this time, but a different grammar.

Villa in Vĩnh Long, its frieze alternating diamond shapes with pierced patterns.

Villa in Mỹ Nhơn, Bến Tre, layering different decorative elements: engravings, pierced friezes, fins and unusual vase-shaped bases.

Villa in Bến Tre, with compass-rose motifs along the beam.

Abandoned villa in Sa Đéc, now for sale.

Villa in An Thạnh Thủy, Đồng Tháp, its façade entirely resurfaced in tile.

Learning to Ngồi Chồm Hổm Is a Simple Way for Anybody to Feel More Vietnamese

2026-07-30T15:00:00+07:00

What is culture? For someone who writes for an arts and culture publication, you’d think I’d have a quick and clean answer, but the more I ruminate, the more I realize it comes down to a sloppy assemblage of habits, ephemera, and minutiae: eating preferences, holiday attire, styles of sneezes, methods for counting on one’s fingers, variety of fruits to gift and an endless string of social norms. Pile enough of these choices together, and you end up with a distinct culture.

If one were to thus try and compile the many disparate points that comprise Vietnamese culture, one must make space for ngồi chồm hổm. As its oft-used English equivalent, “Asian squat,” attests to, the style of crouching low to the ground, perfectly balanced without a chair, is common across Asia broadly. Still, it is such a frequent sight in Vietnam, evidenced by the many social media posts foreigners make about it, that we should consider it an element of Vietnamese culture.

For illustrative purposes only and not guaranteed anatomical accuracy.

In these online discussions, westerners often admit to being wholly unable to chồm hổm. If you take a poll of your foreign friends and co-workers, you’ll likely find this to be true. But why? While there are plenty of theories as to why foreigners rarely can, it has less to do with the minor differences in body types and anatomies across ethnicities, and more to do with practice. To squat, one must have flexible ankles. Kids have these and thus are observed across cultures to be rather good at squatting. But unless one practices regularly, the body, like the mind, naturally becomes less flexible, and the ability is lost. This might explain why many Vietnamese of all ages can squat: they have plenty of practice when washing vegetables, fixing a motorbike, waiting for the bus or simply playing games on the floor when they don’t want to get the seat of their pants dirty.

Squatting used to be a popular way to enjoy noodles in Vietnam (left). Photo via kevintruong.vn.

Sugarcane vendors are seen squatting on a street in Saigon in 1950 (right). Photo via LiveJournal user Foto-history.

Of course, not all Vietnamese can chồm hổm, because of habits or physical shape. And perhaps, as the nation continues to develop away from the actions typically associated with squatting, even fewer will be able to. This shift would coincide with some local perception that chồm hổm is an inherently uncouth or rural activity best left back in the nation’s poorer eras, despite its potential positive health effects. This view may be exacerbated by the pose's resemblance to the posture one takes to defecate when no western toilet is present.

Proof of my squatting prowess from an early age.

I would consider the disappearance of the squat to be a great cultural loss. But I am biased. For inexplicable reasons, growing up very much white in America, I would chồm hổm at all times: while playing videos games, while studying in my school desk, even seated at the family dinner table. While this caused much consternation amongst my teachers and parents — “Knees off the able,” my Dad would repeat several times per meal — I never grew out of it. And now, at least until my Vietnamese advances beyond that of an uncoordinated middle-schooler, chồm hổm is what most allows me to feel like I can fit in within Vietnamese culture. Not to mention, it’s far more comfortable and convenient than any chair I’ve yet to find.

Hẻm Gems: At Phở Chay Như, a Banquet of Vegetarian Versions of Iconic Viet Dishes

2026-07-30T13:00:00+07:00

A bowl full of noodles is one of the things that make me feel lucky to be alive, and alive in Saigon in particular.

There are a plethora of noodle soups to fall in love with in Vietnam, and Phở Chay Như offers a wide variety, meat excluded.

After discussing featuring Phở Chay Như as a Hẻm Gem, I went back to the restaurant on a quiet afternoon after leaving the Saigoneer office. This was my fourth time going, but somehow I still managed to drive past it. I don't know if this says more about my derpish sensibility or the obscurity of its entrance. Likely a melange of the two.

Phở Chay Như is easy to miss if you drive too fast.

The restaurant is located along Trương Quyền Street, sandwiched between Điện Biên Phủ on one side and Võ Thị Sáu on the other; a quick walk from Lê Văn Tám Park. I entered and took a seat to the left of the owner. He sat, leaned back with arms crossed, watching what sounded like an action movie on a laptop set on one of the establishment's aluminum fold-up tables.

After receiving my bowl of the signature phở, I squeezed in as many limes as I could get my hands on, added a few pieces of red chili, and a healthy portion of basil from the plate of herbs and greens provided. Then, my favorite addition to the soup, a fried wonton, a plate of which is provided for customers to add as they please for a small fee. Because I am exceedingly horny for condiments, I added quite a bit of vegan nước mắm and the lemongrass-heavy sa tế sauce.

There are many vegetarian noodles here, all inspired by normal Vietnamese dishes.

My bowl was now ready to go. The circle of noodles was surrounded by floating mushrooms and rolled bean curd skin, which added a nice touch of umami to the clear broth. The freshness of the basil, the tartness of the lime, the kick of chili and the salty sweetness of the nước mắm were all nice compliments to the earthy flavors. Adding the oily wonton added a delightful touch of gluttony to the otherwise simple offering.

A bowl of phở chay

My one quibble with the dish is that the temperature of the broth wasn't as hot as I would like it to be. If a food is supposed to be served hot, I want it to basically burn my mouth. But, like I said, a quibble.

I returned a couple of days later with some of the Saigoneer crew to try some more dishes. We ordered the cơm tấm, bò kho, mì Quảng, and another bowl of phở. The cơm tấm was quite satisfying. The chewy and oily mock meats sat on a bed of rice and made the perfect bite when covered in the chili-infused nước mắm. The bò kho is a real standout dish. The vegan version of the beef stew is fragrant with a variety of sweet spices, lemongrass and chili.

Mỳ Quảng chay

Bò kho chay

Cơm tấm chay

Along with eating more food, I was able to satisfy a few curiosities on this return with co-workers. I learned that the restaurant has been open for over 40 years and that the staff begins their day at 5am, preparing the food and starting to serve customers at 6am. I was also curious about the presence of beer, as most chay places do not serve alcohol. The question as to why Phở Chay Như's refrigerator is stocked with Tigers and Heineken was answered mainly with laughter. In addition to the beer, the fact that the restaurant stays open until 9pm makes it a good option for those looking for both a good late-night meal and a few beers.

The kitchen has a common vegetable stock, and whenever a bò kho or mì Quảng is ordered, the cook will mix in the appropriate sauce to add flavor to the common broth.

Phở Chay Như has what made me so obsessed with Vietnam to begin with: delicious vegetarian food delivered in a laid-back atmosphere that manages to delight with little details that stick in my consciousness more subtly than the flavors that linger on my palate.

This article was originally published in 2020.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–8pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: N/A
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

Govi is enthusiastic about the golden hour, clouds, bodies of water, trees, breezes, faces, cappuccinos and thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking.

Phở Chay Như

54 Trương Quyền, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC