Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

From TikTok to Bars, a Group of Young Artists Brings Đờn Ca Tài Tử to Unexpected Venues

2026-07-03T11:00:00+07:00

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

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

From random encounters to a borderless space for đờn ca

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

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

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

Members of Đờn Ca Đó Đây.

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

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

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

A practice session at a cafe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A contemporary language to chronicle an age-old art form

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

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

During interaction sessions, even audience members can join in.

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

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

From today, our home Vĩnh Long has been renewed
Alongside Trà Vinh and Bến Tre, land of the coconut trees,
Together we can build our hometown
Come here, take a trip around Ao Bà Om
Head to the old kilns of Mang Thít
Drop by the fruit groves of Cái Mơn
Wherever you go, don’t forget our beloved home
How lovely is Vĩnh Long, our home

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

My home is at the bottom tip of Cà Mau
Oh how I adore this land of Đất Mũi at the south of the map
In Năm Căn, an unforgettable song; In Đầm Dơi, a lovely place
Endless green mangroves in U Minh, where the love runs deep

Connecting a community of đờn ca enthusiasts

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

A performance at the “Thanh Kiều” exhibition.

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

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

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

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

Christine Ha Writes New Food Stories From Her Parents' Culinary Heritage

2026-06-30T13:00:00+07:00

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

Going on MasterChef

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

Photo via FOX

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

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

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

“I think the casting director for MasterChef was jokingly Googling ‘blind chef’ and ended up landing on my blog.”

Photo via FOX

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

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

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

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

From contestant to the other side

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

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

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

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

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

Photo via Ngoisao.net

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

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

“Now a newer generation has come up with new dishes like bánh tráng trộn and bánh tráng nướng. That’s the kind of stuff that really intrigued me.”

The Blind Goat & Xin Chao

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

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

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

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

“Going into business together is like a marriage, and we didn’t know each other that well, but you don’t know until you try.”

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

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

Xin Chao Interior.
Photo by John Suh.

“I feel like less is more and when flavoring foods, I’m disciplined in creating a delicate balance.”

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2021.

Home Is Where the Bum Gun Is

2026-06-30T10:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

A typical Vietnamese toilet in the 1990s.

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

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

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

A vintage bidet in France.

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

How Nhà Thờ Đức Bà Narrowly Escaped Being the 'Leaning Cathedral of Saigon'

2026-06-29T10:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Saigon Cathedral spires under construction in 1895.

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

Saigon Cathedral in the early 1900s.

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

Cathedral square with Saigoneers coming out of mass.

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

Hẻm Gems: CCCP Anchors Fond Memories of Soviet Cuisine for Saigoneers, Young and Old

2026-06-28T09:00:00+07:00

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

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

The cozy wallpaper and interior at CCCP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saigon's corner for Soviet nostalgia

The counter features many Soviet souvenirs.

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

“I hardly thought about the food back home [Vietnam]. I was happy that there was food here [Soviet Russia]. Rich, hearty, fatty food. I had never seen such richness before. Back then, there was nothing to eat at home, so there was not much to miss.”

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

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

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

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

Mix bread basket

Salo (salted pork fat)

Olivier salad

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

Cured fish platter

Shashlyk platter

Smetana with berry jam

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

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

A flavor to crave, in sickness and in health

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

The borscht at CCCP

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

CCCP Saigon

48A Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

Review: From Czechia, ‘Trường Hè, 2001’ Bridges Family Divides, Both Onscreen and in Real Life

2026-06-26T15:00:00+07:00

Summer School, 2001, directed by Czech-Vietnamese writer and director Dužan Duong, was first released last year and has received critical acclaim within the Czech Republic and Europe. Now, the film has come to Vietnam, where it is available in Galaxy, Cinestar, and Beta theaters across Saigon, Hanoi and Đà Nẵng.

Summer School, 2001 (Trường hè, 2001 / Letní škola, 2001) takes place in Cheb, a small town in the Czech Republic near the German border, where a family of Vietnamese immigrants sell cheap counterfeit goods at a local marketplace. It is the summer of 2001. After having spent the past ten years in Vietnam living with his grandparents, 17-year-old Kiên finally returns to unite with his family. He is no longer the child that his parents last saw, but now a grown young man with pierced ears and flashy red-dyed hair. That summer, Kiên and his ten-year-old younger brother Tài attend a local summer school to improve their Czech.

The movie poster.

What unfolds in the course of the film is a family drama, shaped by tensions and antagonisms between the male family members. Kiên despises his father for having sent him away to Vietnam alone, while his father feels increasingly self-conscious and ostracized within the Vietnamese community, not only due to rumors of his involvement in plans to demolish the marketplace, but also for his older son’s unapologetic and eccentric style and appearance — about whom he overhears friends making homophobic comments. The tensions between Kiên and his father also spill over to Kiên’s relationship with his brother, whose need for a hearing aid and its financial costs Kiên seems to blame for why he was sent to Vietnam.

From left to right: Dũng (Doãn Hoàng Anh), Kiên (Bùi Thế Dương), Tài (Tô Tiến Tài), and Lan (Lê Quỳnh Lan).

The film is structured in three sequences, each told from the perspective of one of the main characters: Kiên’s father Dũng, Kiên’s brother Tài, and Kiên. The film’s structure is no doubt key to its capacity to startle and stagger readers, the ways in which it continuously builds and breaks tension. Each perspective builds upon the others, bringing to light what had previously been unseen, unsaid, unfelt. Indeed, much of the family’s conflicts are fueled by miscommunication, or rather, their aversion to communication. Yet at the same time, one wonders how that could at all have been avoided following a decade of separation.

Saigoneer had the opportunity to speak with Bùi Thế Dương, the actor who play Kiên, who recounted some fascinating aspects of the coming-to-be of the film. Funnily enough, when he was cast for the role of Kiên, the director had no idea that Dương’s own story had a lot in common with Kiên’s. “I was born in Vietnam, and I lived with my parents until I was around four years old. Then they moved to the Czech Republic to work. In my real-life story, they tried to bring me there when I was five or six, but they couldn’t because it was around 2008, and there was the financial crisis and everything, so I wasn’t able to go. Then, when I was 12, they finally brought me there,” he explained. “In that way, my story is kind of similar to the main character in the movie. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as what happens in the film, especially because I arrived later, around 2015, but summer school still exists in many forms. It’s not always literally a school. It can also be a group for people who want to learn Czech. I think my life story isn’t as dramatic as the main character’s, but it’s very similar.”

Having grown up in Vietnam, Kiên finds it hard to adjust to his new life in Europe.

Dương was first cast for a teaser film meant to raise funds for the actual movie, the production of which was not guaranteed at that point. Surprisingly, before Summer School 2001, he had no acting experience, nor did he think he would pursue a career in one. Indeed, he somewhat randomly signed up for auditions after stumbling upon a Facebook post advertising auditions.

Viewers may be surprised to learn that Dương is not the only one who is new to acting in the film. With the exception of two characters — the father and his boss — all of the characters are played by individuals with no prior acting experience; according to Dương, Dužan prefers to call them “naturals” as opposed to “non-professional actors.” This is remarkable, not least of all for the fact that, speaking for myself here, at no point in the film did I ever doubt the actors’ credentials nor feel the acting to be amateurish. This is perhaps most impressive in the performance of child actor Tô Tiến Tài as Kiên’s younger brother Tài, who undertook the seemingly oxymoronic task of performing innocence — and its capacity for both anguish and jubilation.

Tài is a breakout star.

Although the film is almost entirely in Vietnamese, the original script was written entirely in Czech. Given the director’s limited Vietnamese, actors were thus given the ability to improvise and create their own lines, based on the general shape of the plot. In Dương’s case, he did not even read the script: “I saw the script, and I was like, no way.” He elaborated, “Maybe I just love being in front of the camera. I could do it somehow, and it felt natural. I don’t know. Also, Dužan helped me a lot when we were filming.”

The movie also explores Kiên's romantic connection too.

The reception of the film in the Czech Republic has been overwhelmingly positive. The film received eight nominations at the 2025 Czech Lion Awards and was nominated this year for two Czech Film Critics’ Awards. The film’s director Dužan attributes the Czech support and enthusiasm for the film to the fact that it offered an avenue for the Czech public to get a glimpse into the inner life of the Czech-Viet community, who are relied upon for mini-markets that are open all the time, as well as for delicious Vietnamese food, which has become a staple in the Czech food landscape. The beginnings of the Vietnamese population in the Czech Republic roots back to when Vietnam began sending students and workers to what was formerly Czechoslovakia as part of a framework of workforce exchange programs between communist countries. Summer School, 2001 is notable in that it is the first Czech-Vietnamese film with meaningful Vietnamese representation to have been shown in mainstream cinemas in the Czech Republic.

“When we brought the film to cinemas in the Czech Republic,” Dương remarked, “a lot of people told us, ‘This is the first time I’ve brought my parents to the cinema.’ Before, their parents didn’t speak Czech, so going to the cinema wasn’t really something they did.” And in fact, that was precisely the experience of Dương’s own family with the film. He recalled the experience: “Afterward, they were all crying. They came to me, hugged me, and I felt so grateful to have been part of the movie. Actually, I think maybe we broke through a thin wall between us. As I said, I didn’t live with them throughout my childhood, so for some periods we didn’t get along very well. The movie gave us a chance to sit down and really talk to each other.”

Childhood and family connection are two main themes of Summer School, 2001.

Of course, the film will inevitably carry different meanings for audiences in Vietnam and the Czech Republic. But for Dương, at its core, the message of the film remains the same. “The film is actually about a family struggling with a lack of communication and connection, and in the end, they find their way back to each other. That was something I also talked about in the Czech Republic, because a lot of parents there don’t have enough time for their kids. I think it’s similar in Vietnam, too. Usually, parents go out to work while the kids are at school or home alone. I wouldn’t say that breaks the relationship, but it can make it harder to build a strong connection… Their love language is often, ‘I’m taking care of you.’ But kids also need emotional connection and family bonding. I hope people can become closer to each other, or maybe talk more, after watching the movie. Yeah, that’s the whole point of the film.”

Images courtesy of Spring Auteurs.

Family-Friendly Summer Vacations Made Easy at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay

2026-06-26T09:41:00+07:00

The ripening of sweet jackfruit, mangosteen and mangos; hammocks swinging gently in patches of cool shade; and evenings that stretch on with the comfort of knowing there is no alarm clock waiting the next morning: summer arrives as opportunity. When school holidays begin, families scramble to adjust schedules and secure care and activities, creating the potential to carve out some time for a vacation to savor fresh air, explore thrills, and simply bond as a family in a beautiful destination.

Intended to rejuvenate and reduce stress, if not considered carefully, vacations have the potential to be an onerous undertaking rife with planning chores and the challenges of satisfying all members of a large, diverse group. You could spend more time searching websites, creating itineraries and fretting over people’s comfort than actually relaxing. Instead, to ensure a trip where a warm and carefree atmosphere fosters wholesome togetherness, many families select a destination built for such activities.

Phú Quốc long ago shook off its sleepy fishing village and colonial turtle harvesting reputation to position itself as one of Vietnam’s leading spots for clean beaches, crystal-clear water, fresh air, and an abundance of family-friendly activities. An expanded airport, theatre, conference center and infrastructure developments ahead of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Summit next year, combined with measures to protect tourists, all underscore the nation’s commitment to establishing Phú Quốc as one of the nation’s premier vacation destinations.

First-time visitors to Phú Quốc are often surprised at its size. At 575 square kilometers, the island is large enough for different areas to have developed particular priorities, and selecting a location that best suits your family’s interests is essential. Positioned on the northwestern side of the island, famed for its sunsets, Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay, is suited to parents who want to avoid tiresome planning and the rambunctious travelers that stay closer to the town in the south. Simply pack comfortable clothes and sunscreen and then, from days at the theme parks to restaurants with a wide selection of meals for all preferences, the destination makes everything else seamless.

Staying on the northern part of the island places you just minutes away from a multitude of local attractions, including the safari, theme parks, and Grand World night market. For fresh air and a touch of nature, sim, pepper and bee farms are nearby as is the national park. Such accessibility makes vacation days particularly easy; just decide what time you want to wake up for a delicious, complimentary buffet breakfast and then head out for a day of unfettered smiles and giggles.

Of course, you don’t need to leave the resort to ensure you make the most of your vacation. Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay features many kid-friendly activities on-site, including indoor and outdoor kids clubs, workshops, outdoor games, and a cozy game room for the warmest hours of the day. While children are busy making the most of their unencumbered youths, parents can also enjoy days without meetings, tasks, and deadlines by visiting the Hoa Sim spa, 24-hour gym or library corner as well as head off to the nearby golf course.

The most enticing attraction of all at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay is obvious: the ocean. Seen from the beachfront resort’s spacious balconies and large windows, the sea is a shimmering skein of impermanence, its waves wistful reminders of the preciousness of each lifespan. But crossing the private beach’s soft sand and diving into its subtle currents transforms the sea from an imposing metaphor to a place for splashing, floating, and playing. The pleasures of cool water on hot days don’t require the ocean, however. Outdoor pools, including one designated for children, offer the joys of swimming while hearing the soft crash of waves, without the sand, salt, and undertows.

Whether you spend your day at an amusement park, lounging on the beach, or sitting at a table playing board games with your family, you are certain to work up an appetite. Another particular joy of vacation is not having to cook and wash dishes, and Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay makes it even easier via its range of dining options that satisfy different moods and preferences. To truly feel like you are at the beach, you will surely desire something caught fresh from the ocean. The Horizons Restaurant & Bar, a cozy, refined setting for intimate dining and small celebrations, offers a rotating semi-buffet dinner that showcases the flavors of Vietnam, Korea, Japan, France, and Italy, with each evening presenting a thoughtful selection of dishes inspired by each cuisine. Meanwhile, the Amber Sands Beach Club serves fresh, locally sourced Vietnamese seafood in a relaxed atmosphere with a beachfront view. A private BBQ dinner can be arranged in your villa to add another layer of specialness and inclusion to your family vacation experience.

Summers, like childhoods, are short and vacations are rare. Selecting a family resort in Phú Quốc ensures one makes the absolute most of the privilege. Thanks to Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay’s comfortable, spacious rooms, stunning sunset views of a private beach, easy access to kid-friendly activities, an inviting spa, and delicious food, staying at the resort is like approaching the holiday on “easy mode.” All you need to worry about is taking a lot of photos to remember the joyous occasion.

Summer in Phú Quốc awaits with Room Offers at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc

Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay's website

Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay's Email

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(+84) 297 3683 999

Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay, Bai Dai Area, Phú Quốc, An Giang, Vietnam

In Suburban Hanoi, With Summer Comes the Red-Purple Cascade of Mulberries

2026-06-24T12:30:00+07:00

In suburban Hanoi, this is the season when mulberry branches heavy with bright red fruits dangle in the summer wind.

The sunshine of April arrived with blasts of sweltering heat, dispelling the waterlogged curtain of March’s humidity. It was officially summer in Hanoi, a time for countless types of fresh fruits to showcase their vivid ripeness on the streets in town, competing with the mauve of jacaranda and the golden yellow of hoàng yến.

Ripe mulberries are a harbinger of summer.

Compared to the season’s usual players like pineapple, lychee, longan and mận hậu, mulberry’s entrance to the capital’s fruit shops and traditional markets has been quicker than most. Northern Vietnam’s mulberry season spans not even a month from the end of March to the beginning of April. Mulberry ripens fast, and falls and bruises easily, so its shelf-life is short. Each day’s mulberry harvest must be shipped off within a few hours. Mulberries are juicy, refreshing, and full of good vitamins, so families often process them into preserves and syrups to increase their life spans. Ice-cold, sweet-and-sour glasses of purple mulberry juice are a popular way for Hanoians to soothe their parched throats in the summer, dispelling the heat and stuffiness of weather changes.

Mulberry juice is a fantastic third-quencher.

Behind the flashy appearance of mulberries at mobile vendors is throngs of farmers hard at work at their plantations just 30 kilometers from central Hanoi. In patches of land by the Đáy River such as Dương Liễu Commune (Hoài Đức District) and Hiệp Thuận Commune (Phúc Thọ District), mulberry plantations pour greenness towards the horizon. The quietude of the countryside poses a stark contrast with the chaotic traffic and people of inner Hanoi. Amidst the vastness of the land, one can only hear the buzz of cicadas, the soft hum of the wind, and the occasional call of farmers on the fields.

The banks of the Đáy River are the home of Hanoi's major mulberry plantations.

Here, farmland is irrigated year-round by the placid Đáy River. The riverside delta is home to Hanoi’s sought-after mulberries, believed to be juicier and sweeter than anywhere else. As one walks farther into the plantations, the air is thick with the aroma of ripe berries, natural vegetation, and toasty summer sunlight. Rows of mulberry trees are planted neatly, though they barely exceed the average human height. Ripening fruits hug the branch in scarlet clusters. From the main trunck, small offshoots meander over the ground, interweaving like red garlands.

Pickers must hurry to race against the mulberries' delicate constitution.

Each mulberry is just a few knuckles long; the smallest is as tiny as the pinky finger, while the biggest can reach the size of the middle finger. How productive the trees are highly depends on the weather. Sunnier years will yield sweeter, juicer harvest than those when rain is the prevailing weather pattern. In between picking sessions, I can see the bright smiles of the berry pickers when they get to reap the sweet rewards of their labor.

Ripe berries cover every branch.

Mulberry is easy to grow and to care for.

Only after I managed to pay a visit to the hometown of Hanoi’s mulberries could I bear witness to the urgency in the farmers’ work in order to beat the ripening rate of the berries. Paying no mind to the searing sun, they can’t waste any moment, toiling in the plantation from 6am to 6pm to pick berries. Larger gardens might need additional workers to catch up, even with a picking speed of 20–30 kilograms per day. Their fingers nimbly maneuver in between branches to pluck out the mulberries, careful not to bruise them before they get into boxes. Every palm is painted with the intense red-purple of mulberry juice. The fruits are boxed up immediately to catch the next bus trip to the city. Each mulberry tree can provide around 80 kilograms of fruit per season. “Picking mulberries is not difficult, but you must be really delicate so they get to consumers when they’re still fresh,” Vân, a picker, told me.

Harvesting the berries is not tough but the fruits bruise easily.

“Mulberry is the only fruit that’s immediately polished off the moment we finish picking. I’m never afraid nobody would buy them. People take these home to make preserves and syrup. Some manufacturers of canned drinks and fruit wines also buy straight from the plantation,” the farmers shared as they were weighing their harvest. Thanks to suitable weather, this year’s yield is 1.5 that of last year.

Freshly picked berries are immediately bought by wholesalers.

Mulberry likes humidity, sun, and heat, so trees are often cultivated next to rivers. It’s also easy to care for with relatively low costs involved. The delta by the Đáy River has been the most major birthing ground of Hanoi’s mulberries. Here, traditionally, farmers merely grew mulberries to collect their leaves to feed silkworms; planting them for fruits has only been around for the past 15 years. This experiment has been fruitful in both meanings of the word. Since then, Dương Liễu and Hiệp Thuận berries have traveled all over Hanoi and even southwards. Mulberries emerging from the Đáy River delta not only lend their sweet taste to the northern summer, but also contribute greatly to the local economy.

Each plant yields about 80 kilograms per season.

After a fruiting season, heritage mulberry trees are pruned to help them preserve energy for next year’s summer. The cycle continues every year: with summer comes the verdant green of mulberry plantations, and then the striking red shade of ripening berries. Mulberry season goes away as quickly as it comes, leaving fans yearning for a taste for the rest of the year.

This article was originally published in 2024.

This Wedding Is Too Boring to Nhậu, Let's Put on Some Miền Tây Remix

2026-06-24T11:55:47+07:00

While phasing in and out of sleep on a coach in the Mekong Delta, have you ever been jolted awake by the bouncing beats of a Vinahouse version of ‘Quê em mùa nước lũ’ (Flooding Season in My Hometown)? Or, a mindless TikTok scroll would bring up the catchy tune of ‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ (Pass Me the Sewing Needle) that’s trending nationwide.

As an emerging genre, miền Tây remix has seeped everywhere in our daily life, from nhậu spots to wedding receptions, from street karaoke to social media charts. The thunderous bass is accompanied by a dulcet vocalist crooning about the colorful life along the Mekong Delta and making everyone curious about the southern way of life. How has miền Tây remix managed to charm even segments of the society that are usually indifferent to it?

Image via YouTube channel Miền Tây Remix.

Miền Tây, but not remixed, yet

Đờn ca tài tử is perhaps the most recognized art form to come out of the rich musical landscape of the Mekong Delta through history. The genre attracts listeners thanks to its layered instrumentation and distinctive singing style. Musical instruments like đàn kìm, đàn cò, đàn tranh and đàn bầu often accompany đờn ca tài tử performances using the pentatonic scale (hò xự xang xê cống).

It’s also important to note that, right from its early days, đờn ca tài tử has never been confined to stuffy amphitheaters, but was born right at drinking sessions and fields huts after fieldwork was done. The fundamentals of southern music have always been rooted in the community, its core principles forged on kinship and human connection. This festive spirit helps propel the traditional sounds of the south right into today’s entertainment sensibilities.

Đờn ca tài tử is a major part of music culture in the south. Photo via TTX Vietnam.

Remix never dies

Southern Vietnamese are notoriously convivial, and this conviviality means that they often do not care for the distinction between old and new. Music in the south is born for the party table, so when the time requires it to evolve to be more energetic, đờn ca and its traditional peers will rise to the occasion via different evolutions. The miền Tây remix trend stems from this need to electronify southern tunes.

Riding the wave of electronic music, countryside DJs started to reshape folk melodies into upbeat remixes that are familiar yet livelier to satisfy the need for club bangers. A melodramatic and tragic cải lương classic like Võ Đông Sơ - Bạch Thu Hà even got remixed three times.

Miền Tây remix is specifically created for festive, rambunctious occasions, especially wedding parties or Tết gatherings. In the Mekong region, weddings are major milestones that can stretch for two or three days of revelry, feasting, dancing, and singing by the newlyweds, their families and guests. Unsuspecting visitors during these periods might be easily swept up by the “tornado of hospitality” distinctive to miền Tây. Southerners are welcoming by nature, but with a little alcohol in their system, everybody becomes family in their eyes. Anyone who’s been to a Mekong wedding, be it Vietnamese from other regions or foreign travelers, would leave with perhaps some of the strangest memories of their life, ones that are filled with miền Tây remix earworms that are both folksy and high-energy.

Most remix songs are characterized by a fast-paced, repetitive beat and straightforward lyrics that are easy to learn, guess and follow along — especially engineered so the crowd can get into the mood and sing along as quickly as possible. The climax is the most anticipated moment, when everyone holds their breaths for a few seconds before exploding in cheer when the beat drops, despite not knowing how the music will transform. Critics are usually leery of miền Tây remix because of its formulaic recipe, which is not an unfair assessment, but that is by design.

Miền Tây remixes are often criticized as lacking creativity due to their repetitive beats, overused melodies, and cliched themes, but those attributes help the songs stay simple and easy to memorize so they can appeal to the narrow common denominator of the mass. If one can put aside the need for artistic merits, it might be easier to accept that these musical formulae are very effective tools to connect people, thereby helping the songs achieve their human-centered mission.

A musical identity rooted in marrying and drinking

Knowing the music taste of miền Tây listeners, songwriters often focus on the theme of relationships in the lyrics, such as weddings, watching an old flame marry a new lover, or pulling an all-nighter boozing with the squad. Regardless of the topic, the melody must be catchy, lest the remixer steal one’s thunder by attracting more attention with a banger makeover.’

Nhậu, romance, and weddings are the content pillars of miền Tây remix. Image via YouTube channel AC Media and G5R Remix.

Some examples of romance-forward narratives include ‘Muốn cua anh làm bồ’ (I want to woo you) by Dương Ái Vy: “Nè gật đầu cho suôn, sang năm mình làm đám cưới luôn / Hey just give me a nod upfront, next year we’ll wed at once.” In ‘Rồi tới luôn’ (Take the next step) by Nal, the courting is even bolder: “Em ơi em ở đâu anh mang trầu cau qua anh rước dâu luôn / Baby where are you, I’ll bring the trầu cau over to ask for your hand.” Phát Hồ is even more eager to get hitched in ‘Yêu là cưới’ (To love is to marry): “Yêu là cưới trên dưới hai là làm sui, rượu bia chơi láng chín tháng mười ngày có cục cưng nuôi / To love is to marry. Our parents will be in-laws. When the drinks flow freely, nine months are all it takes for a baby.”

In a different context, the genre shifts to fully celebrate booze and nhậu culture, like in ‘Hết sảy miền Tây’ (Miền Tây the GOAT) by Tracy Thảo My: “Anh cứ nhậu thoải mái, có xỉn em vào thay / Baby just drink to your heart’s content, once you’re down I’ll take your place.” This track’s bright spot is how it incorporates traditional cải lương tunes to accompany tongue-in-cheek lyrics that stay true to the youthful spirits of today. ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk again) by Võ Lê Mi, on the other hand, playfully features “hic” sounds in the production to emulate the comical hiccups of drunkenness.

Each of the above-mentioned hits amasses anything from several to dozens of millions of views on YouTube, proof of their catchiness and virality. For sure, these impressive figures are impossible to achieve without the contributions of the constant streaming of barber shops, lunchtime meals beside a mug of sweet tea, boisterous feasts, and the playlist of children of the Mekong bringing their hometowns’ favorite tunes to Saigon.

Reinforcing the southern identity visually

Besides employing familiar southern folk music and lyrical narratives, miền Tây-style electronic also lionizes the region’s cultural identity via visual language, especially in the music videos accompanying the songs.

While the original video usually tells the story via a skit, such as ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk Again), the remixed version will opt for a different direction.

In the remix, Võ Lê Mi decided to take her music as close as possible to its real-life application by re-enacting an entire Mekong-style wedding. The bride wears a festive gown and gold bracelets all across her arms while dancing her heart out on stage with a mug of beer. This would not be a foreign sight if you’ve been to any wedding party in miền Tây.

If a wedding scene is not the first choice, then it would definitely be a countryside landscape, complete with elements often seen in rural Mekong, such as straw mounds and bamboo thickets. In Tracy Thảo My’s music video, such tranquil scenes play background to her hip sways and hand gestures.

In conclusion, both the music and visual sides of miền Tây remix closely follow the people’s everyday culture, be it well-recognized landscapes or energetic wedding parties — with the added dance moves from clubs and discos.

From the southwest to the world

Miền Tây electronic doesn’t need a coat of glamorizing paint to exist today. The genre finds inspiration in the familiar sounds from the past and reshapes them into simple, straightforward remixes so accessible that anybody can vibe to them, even if it is their first listen. Over time, these tunes have transcended the boundaries of matrimonies or family feasts to infect streaming services and the general public.

When a female DJ known for her hip-hop work wants to fire up a set especially curated to spotlight Mekong wedding culture, she would proudly invest in a bà ba pajamas set, checkered scarves, and golden bracelets, just to complete the visuals often associated with a southern party.

The rising popularity of miền Tây remix is best demonstrated in TikTok’s trendy dance challenges, where new music can spread at the speed of sound. Once a 15-second chorus goes viral thanks to a famous creator’s video, countless others would join in. Thanks to its inherently catchy melodies, miền Tây remix is welcoming to everyone. From edgy rappers to showbiz darlings, I’ve seen many instances where social media users dance to songs that seemingly do not match their vibes.

@thuanzilo Lấy cây kim may đồ ???????????? #thuận_zilo ♬ nhạc nền - Thuận Zilo ????

‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ is a miền Tây remix track that went viral on TikTok. Video via TikTok user @thuanzilo.

The most interesting phenomenon for me when it comes to the social impacts of miền Tây remix is how a friend once admitted to me that she really needs miền Tây electronic to… focus on her homework. “I can only focus with this upbeat kind of music. It hits hard but also is kind of monotonous, making me feel awake,” she said. Perhaps this could be an untapped potential for miền Tây music, a brand-new kind of white noise to help young Vietnamese focus?

Review: Horror Game 'Tai Ương' Exposes the Good, the Bad and the Ugly of Our Culture

2026-06-23T16:00:00+07:00

Natural disasters, illnesses, accidents, breakages, or even deaths: when a series of consecutive tragedies engulf a family, it’s often said that tai ương has befallen the unfornate victims. The term is also the name of a recently published Vietnamese horror game that has been making waves amongst gaming communities both nationwide and internationally, thanks to its layered narrative, chilling atmosphere, and meticulously crafted game environment.

Tai Ương is an especially fitting title considering the mysterious deaths that plague the family of young Lê Đặng Nhật Huy. Upon starting the game, new players are immediately transported into the first-person perspective of Huy, amid the funeral of both his parents, Nhật and Loan. On the side is a smaller shrine to his younger sister, Huyên, whose passing preceded theirs not by much. Even though the window is wide open, letting in a stream of bright sunlight, the room feels oppressively claustrophobic, compressed by the caskets and altars.

A double funeral is the first thing players experience in game.

You take a few steps to arrive in front of their framed photos and kneel down to bow. On the last bow, you open your eyes just to catch a glimpse, in the peripheral of your vision, of the bloody body of Huyên where her altar sits. You start to suspect something is amiss about her death. Later, you move away from home to a rental and embark on a journey into lucid dreaming at the behest of an eccentric medium, in hopes of unraveling the enigma behind your family’s tragedies.

When everyday norms become corrupted

The first chapter of Tai Ương (The Scourge) begins in a fashion entirely familiar to fans of horror cinema and games: a supernatural encounter compels a main character to find answers, just to learn that some curiosities are perhaps best left unsatiated. Nonetheless, Rare Reversee Gaming and Beaztek Studio, the indie teams behind the production, chose to execute this common hook in an exciting, unprecedentedly Vietnamese setting.

The setting is inspired by old apartment blocks in Saigon from the 1990s.

Tai Ương is without a doubt the most impressive portrayal of Vietnam we have been blessed with in a game to date. Some standout set designs include the 1990s home where the family lived when Huy was first born, the gritty Saigon tenement that acts as the story’s setting, and the hellish dreamscapes that Huy wades through in the last chapter. In other creative mediums, like cinema or literature, faithful recreations of our everyday realities in Vietnam are a great cause for delight and perhaps even pride, but in a horror role-playing game, the more that the character is going through parallels with real life, the more heightened the sense of uncanny dread.

A Honda Cub was a signifier of wealth when Vietnam first became open again.

The environment of Tai Ương is familiar in the most frightening way: Vietnamese players will immediately connect with the little decorations and design of the game. Here is the dimly lit corridor you might have played hide-and-seek with friends. There, a mid-century bookshelf that once housed your school certificates and childhood toys. Over there, on the altar, a platter of bananas sits amid photo frames. But wait, did the eyes in the photos just move?

How many things do you recognize from this image?

The puzzles in Tai Ương are overall not too complicated, but for the majority of the game, there is little to no instruction, leaving players to figure out what to do by painstakingly ransacking every nook and cranny of the setting to look for clues and hints, and by dying repeatedly at the hands of the villain.

This process of exploration, however, is not tedious and can be quite intriguing for those patient enough to do a little homework while playing: the game setting is enriched with a motherlode of lore-building fragments that come in a variety of shapes and forms, such as newspaper cutouts, handwritten letters, torn photographs, and even a radio program telling ghostly stories. As Huy progresses through the stages, players will discover alongside him in real time the bits and pieces that reveal the darker sides of his family dynamics.

There's a lot (quite literally) to learn about this dysfunctional family.

My first run at the game was peppered with these little moments of recognition. For one, Saigoneers who grew up in the 1990s will eventually realize that the squalid apartment block in game is inspired by the former President Hotel at 727 Trần Hưng Đạo Street, one that was demolished a few years ago. Just by reading the letters that are scattered across the game levels, there’s also a lot one can learn about Huy’s family history, such as his true parentage or his father’s infidelity, and more.

Ultimately, narrative and lore are two of Tai Ương’s shining strengths that make the role-playing experience rewarding and immersive. Control, physics, and animation, on the other hand, are at times quite underwhelming. The animation is robotic, and the control can be aggravatingly clunky for a game that requires you to sneak around monsters and undertake life-or-death time challenges.

In this nightmare, here is Vietnamese culture, both good and bad

At Saigoneer, we often feel compelled, in everything we do, to showcase Vietnamese culture in its brightest, richest, and most worthy of celebration. It is not a hard job. Vietnam has a rich spiritual life and harbors deep respect for higher beings, as evidenced in our ancestral worship, Đạo Mẫu traditions, and extensive network of temples and pagodas. From young to elderly, members of Vietnamese families are close-knit and highly dependent on one another during hardships. Vietnamese society has a strong sense of community where neighbors, passersby, and even complete strangers can rise to the occasion to care for those in need.

Spirituality is a major part of Vietnamese culture, past or present.

These three qualities are all positive traits, but at times, amid our extolment of their virtues, it’s easy to forget that they too possess a darker side that can take over, causing grievous harm, trauma, or even death. Overindulgence in spirituality breeds superstitions that detach humans from reality. Tight family bonds mean that generational trauma and abuse are just that much harder to escape from. And a society all too eager to involve and pass judgments makes keeping up appearances a desperate and exhausting struggle.

A demonic ritual in the game with architectural elements inspired by Chùa Thầy in Hanoi.

The tragedies in Tai Ương serve as bone-chilling examples of how these ugly sides of Vietnamese culture can drive a family to their gruesome demise. Certainly, the in-game consequences are much more dire, amplified by the manipulations of a demonic supernatural being, but many of Huy’s toxic family dynamics are immediately recognizable in our daily life, sometimes right within the very walls of our home.

Desperate for a son after over a decade of infertility, Nhật and Loan asked a local shaman to perform a perverse dark ritual that resulted in Loan being pregnant with Huy; it’s implied that the shaman sexually abused her. She kept her trauma a secret for fear of public opinions and Nhật’s abusive tendencies. They eventually conceived Huyên naturally, but showed obvious gender bias to Huy. His needs and whims were met without question, sometimes to the detriment of Huyên — like how Loan sold Huyên’s long hair to buy Huy a new pair of shoes, or how Huyên had to quit school during the family’s tough times so they could focus on Huy’s education.

Water puppets are a recurring imagery as stand-ins for human in the dream sequences.

With every memory, family misfortune, and loss that Huy and the player discover in game scenarios, Tai Ương slowly unveils an imperfect family trapped in the confines of societal expectations and their socioeconomic caste. One particular creative decision from the production team that struck a chord with me is how each family member is portrayed in the dreamworld as a water puppet. It demonstrates the team’s conscious effort to keep the setting rooted in our cultural heritage, but also strategically links to the game’s overarching social commentary about their actions — controlled by an unknown force, unable to escape the entrapment of outside expectations.

Even though the story behind Tai Ương is a familiar one, it doesn’t make it easier to live through firsthand. The fast-paced, at times mortally urgent rhythm of the game might make it hard to take a moment to fully appreciate and digest its rich narrative and robust gaming setting, but Tai Ương’s acclaim really comes from the feelings it leaves behind after the fright has faded and the adrenaline has subsided: contemplation, hope, bittersweetness, relief, wistfulness, perhaps a tinge of regret too.

Indie Short Film 'Saigon Kiss' Is a Quintessential Saigon Queer Love Story

2026-06-22T14:00:00+07:00

Is there a meet-cute more characteristically Saigon than a motorbike breakdown and subsequent friendly assist from a stranger?

Such is the premise of how Mơ and Vicky, the romantic interests in the indie short film Saigon Kiss, encountered each other amidst this bustling city of 10 million souls. Saigon Kiss is the brainchild of writer and director Nguyễn Hồng Anh, and producers Nguyễn Thị Xuân Trang and Andrew Lee.

Director Nguyễn Hồng Anh (right) on set.

The film chronicles a chance encounter between martial arts instructor Mơ (Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như) and dancer Vicky (Thương Lê) right on the street of Saigon — hawk-eyed Saigoneers would immediately recognize Thị Nghè Bridge as the venue for this budding romance to bloom. When Vicky’s scooter malfunctions, she is noticed by Mơ and receives the latter’s help to push the bike to a corner repair shop. While waiting for the fix, they get to talking and bonding over their life passions for martial arts and dance.

Nominating bridges as the most romantic venue in Saigon to meet new people.

Edited with a crisp, cozy palette that can pass for a Honda commercial, Saigon Kiss is a quintessential Saigon romance, from the setting, title, to how our queer leads meet. One could also argue that the fact that it’s a same-sex story is also very Saigon, the unofficial queer capital of Vietnam. A “Saigon kiss,” as the production team defines, is a small burn on the inner right calf, typically caused by accidentally bumping into the sizzling exhaust pipe of a motorbike.

Bonding over getting your bike fixed is way better than Tinder.

Saigon Kiss had its international premiere at the 46^th Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival 2024, where it clinched a Special Mention by the Queer Jury. The short was also screened at the BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival in the UK.

Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như plays Mơ and Thương Lê plays Vicky.

“Saigon Kiss is an attempt to take a snapshot of a rapidly changing modern metropolis,” director Hồng Anh writes in the director’s statement. “Like the city, both protagonists, Mơ and Vicky, currently find themselves in a transitional period. Both struggle to find room for themselves to reflect. However, despite the ever-changing landscape and fast pace of this place, they find solace and tenderness in each other's company.”

Watch the short film's trailer below:

Photos courtesy of Saigon Kiss.