On a recent ritual walk around my suburb, I was held up by the sight of a middle-aged man with his “fur kid.” I introduced myself and when he heard the word “Vietnam,” his eyes lit up and with a smile as he tumbled out the words: “The Mekong Delta. Ducks.”

“It is teeming with ducks there,” he continued. “Their quacking still echoes in my mind.”

A gaggle of feathery friends. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Ducks in the yard

With canals and tributaries meandering through endless paddy fields and shady villages, the Mekong Delta is a paradise for ducks. Almost every house has ducks in their yard. So did my maternal grandma. She raised ducks for death anniversaries, for the Tết holidays, and for every other occasion. Like Mekong people, ducks excel at improvising. Her ducks usually heaped their nest with layers of dried banana leaves beneath a thick clump of banana trees. When she was tired of eating duck eggs, either hard-boiled or as omelettes, after 28 days, she would see fluffy pastel yellow ducklings waddling behind their mom to the nearby ponds for their first swimming lesson.

My mom raised ducks too in order to cut the grocery bill and earn some extra money. But her ducks never had a chance to lay eggs. As soon as they were fat, she would take them to the market. She carried them in two tight hand-woven reed bags, three on each side. They would lie quietly on top of each other with their heads sticking out and eyes wide open, seemingly resigned to their fate of being slaughtered and plucked. Those she didn’t take would end up on our table.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

One of my chores was to feed our ducks twice a day. Watching them gobble their food and then waddle away with satisfaction was like watching a sold-out event. Their diet included duckweed or finely chopped morning glory stems and leaves mixed with rice bran powder and water. But their favorite food was rice snails which they ate so fast that snails had no time to breed in the pond where my mom rounded them up. They were not allowed to wander in the yard because they’d furiously peck at anything along their way. On occasion, my father hand-picked snails for them from the rice paddies. They gobbled up as many of the shelled gastropods as they could and even fought each other for them. Then, contented, they would lie down under the thicket of banana trees by the pond. The glowing water with the promise of shrimps and insects no longer alluring to them.

Killing ducks for meat and more

Despite not building emotional bonds with her ducks, Mom would perform a ritual when slaughtering them. She would pat its head and whisper, “Come back in another life form, my dear” and then pluck a speck of feathers from the duck’s throat, just below its head, to offer a space for her to make a small incision. She would deftly cut through that featherless spot with a well-used knife she always kept sharp between butcherings.

As she made the incision, she would direct the flow of scarlet into a white ceramic rice bowl containing a smattering of sticky rice. As the last drop plopped into the basin of blood and rice, she would carry the duck carcass to the pot of boiling water that I was responsible for. The duck’s lifeless head would flop from its body of waxy white feathers.

I was distressed to witness the slaughtering of a duck that I had fed daily for months. I could clearly remember each one when they were still bundles of yellow fluff and how they happily come waddling towards me each time I approached with food.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Silence hung in the air between Mom and me in those moments. When resources are scarce there is no waste and each part of the duck was used with respect: from its heart, gizzard, liver and intestines to its feathers, head and feet, and, of course, blood. The feathers were put aside to dry in the sun and later placed in a plastic bag to be sold to ve chai buyers. Those women would tour through houses and villages on their old rustic bicycles, seemingly always during our lunch hour when we were taking naps. As they pedaled we would hear them call out: “Any recyclables and duck feathers for sale?”

Lost in the pantheon of duck cuisine

Once a year, when yellow mai flowers bloomed, Mom cooked pork belly stew with duck eggs. We would wait the entire year to savor the Tết food. She explained, “It is worth the wait. If we eat it every day, we will not cherish it and look forward to it anymore.” She would simmer hard-boiled duck eggs and pork belly in an ocean of coconut water for hours. When cooked off, the coconut water turns into a soft golden glow which is rich and sweet and makes both eggs and pork golden brown as the eggs became crunchy and the pork tender.

But other than this once-a-year speciality, Mom had an unfixed duck menu I assumed no Michelin-starred chef could imagine. Sometimes, she would cook duck curry with a generous pinch of turmeric, chunks of carrots and sweet potatoes and a sea of coconut milk. Sometimes, she would do braised duck with caramelized coconut sauce, fish sauce and a mountain of ginger. It tastes gingery, which is very pleasant. The secret of this dish is the two cuts of ginger: the thin strips for chewy texture and spicy flavor, and the minced for faster seasoning.

Duck meat is categorized as yin (tính âm) in traditional cooking for its cold properties, so it must be cooked with ginger known as yang (tính dương) ingredients for their hot properties in order to achieve hot-and-cold equilibrium. It sounds mythical. However, both are used in every home for as long as my great-great-grandmother could remember. They complement each other perfectly like the white and the black in the yin-yang symbol. Ginger must be cut on a wooden chopping board to enhance maximum flavor. This applies to garlic too. She taught me so, and I took tremendous pride in sharing it with my husband who loves to put ginger and garlic in every dish we cook.

The duck blood spilled into the uncooked sticky rice? That mixture would be boiled into blood pudding. Mom would boil the thickened blood in the broth of any dish she cooked such as congee, curry and stew. When cooked, it is firm like a pie and has a chocolate color. Duck blood pudding is mottled white with sticky rice which provides a slightly sweet flavor and chewy texture. We ate it with duck meat and fish sauce with minced ginger.

Occasionally, Mom made duck congee for a family treat. At that time, our home was a bustling hive of activity. She chased the fattest duck, butchered it in half, and submerged it in a pot of boiling water with roasted rice. Once the duck was tender, she placed it on a plate to cool and then cleaned every speck of meat off the bones. My sister and I would dash around the garden to chop a young banana stem and pick rau răm for banana stem salad. The salad would be tossed with the meat she tore earlier. It would be served with warm duck congee and the dipping sauce of fish sauce and fresh minced ginger. I polished off duck congee like a hungry wolf and wished Mom would cook it again the next day, as did other family members.

Roast duck served at a Saigon eatery. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

The dish I liked best was the roast duck which Mom only did on my paternal grandma’s death anniversary. She brought ducks she slaughtered to a nearby roasting shop. To munch the roast duck, we first waited until the incense sticks on the ancestor altar — where my grandma always offered a tight smile in a plum red velvet áo dài she never wore in her life — burnt into ashes. It was crispy and succulent with golden brown skin and pink aromatic flesh. After chomping down one big piece, I would lick my fingers so clean that they almost disappeared. The aroma of roast duck always lingered on for hours after.

Ducks on show

At the open-air markets that bustle with a rainbow of exotic fruits and vegetables and a cacophony of noises and scooter horns, the ducks’ loud whistling guide people to their world. The choices are practically unlimited, from free-range ducks to confined ducks of all kinds. There are mottled ducks, Muscovy ducks, Grass ducks, Pekin ducks, and more. People can buy fresh naked duck carcasses with all their internal organs intact lying on big trays that look like giant water lily leaves. Or people can choose a decent live duck and come back to fetch the bird at the end of the shopping trip.

As a single person in the city, half a duck suited me fine for two days. An entire duck would take me further, but, without a refrigerator in the dripping humidity, it would become a mossy frog before I could finish it! I would ask the duck lady to dismember my half into bite-sized chunks. She did so with a deft snip of her well-used but scalpel-sharp scissors. On the days I failed to ask her to butcher the bird, I would end up hacking it to pieces with my mostly unused knife.

To save time, I made braised duck too. Like my mom, I seasoned the meat with caramelized coconut sauce, fish sauce and, of course, two different types of ginger. Then I let it simmer with a lid on and went about my business. By the time I heard sizzling sounds, I knew my braised duck was cooked.

Trứng vịt lộn

Next to the duck ladies sit the egg ladies. Baskets of eggs in all shapes and colors full to the brim await fussy housewives. There are chicken eggs, duck eggs and quail eggs; freshly laid or fertilized. The latter are always duck eggs and quail eggs.

Trứng vịt lộn being prepared on a Saigon street. Photo by Brandon Coleman.

Fertilized duck eggs (trứng vịt lộn) are considered a healthy and nutritious treat. They are believed to be rich in iron, calcium and even Vitamin C. There is no scientific research on this, but the maxim is passed down from generation to generation. No young Vietnamese wants to miss out on the street delicacy on a night out.

As high school students, my friends and I usually conducted a trứng vịt lộn challenge. The winner was the one who ate the most trứng vịt lộn. The reward they received was simply our applause, a kind of appraisal that was of greater importance than that of our teachers and parents. By the time my friend, the winner, was able to bolt six, I had just started to peck at the second, which turned out to be my last. After the challenge, I thought I would not go near trứng vịt lộn for a year. Its richness and creaminess remained on my breath for hours. However, in a week, I found myself gnawing trứng vịt lộn again with my friends.

Here is how we enjoy trứng vịt lộn: first, we crack the larger end of the egg with a teaspoon. Next, we peel back the broken top, just enough, and suck the sauce gently. Then we continue to peel off the shell. The hardened yolk interlaced with cooked blood vessels appears. Scooping it out with a teaspoon, we dip it in a mystifying sauce of salt, black pepper, smashed red chilies and lime juice. We munch on it with some rau răm. A burst of flavors explodes in our mouth: the yolk is crunchy and chewy and creamy; the sauce is hot and salty and sour; the leaves are peppery and spicy and minty. Our mouths are on fire and our sinuses are clear. Now the eyes of a nearly developed duckling are staring at us. But it barely disconcerts us. We have another bite. Its developed bones are so soft.

Trứng vịt lộn eaten in Saigon. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Ducks talk

Ducks have become part of Vietnamese culture both in cuisine and figuratively. My mom is a walking dictionary of duck idioms. Before my brother popped out and "rescued" her from further pregnancy, she felt sorry for my dad for being surrounded by girls, while he felt left out by his friends who all had at least one son to carry on the name of their families. When we could not help our dad with labor that required a man’s strength, Mom would tease us with a giggle: “The house is full of vịt trời (wild ducks).”

When I consistently did not follow her advice, she moaned: “Talking to you is like pouring water over a duck’s head (nước đổ đầu vịt).” Interestingly, English people use a similar phrase: “Like water off a duck’s back.”

When she saw that I was confused by something she said she would complain that I listened to her stories “like a duck listening to a thunderstorm (như vịt nghe sấm).”

If I was slow in doing something she would scold me: “‘Come on! Don’t walk like a duck (Lạch bạch như vịt bầu).” And to encourage us kids to study hard for a better life, she announced: “I promise you, if you don’t study hard, you can only work as duck herders.”

Being duck herders is not easy. They have to move thousands of ducks from paddy fields to paddy fields which are bare after the harvest. The fields promise a paradise of crabs, rice snails, insects and grain for ducks. When the sun dips into the horizon, herders round-up happy ducks for a rest. Their feet are wet and painted in mud all the time. They sleep under the stars, or a rickety hut if lucky, beside the ducks to make sure that none get lost or sick. Plus they have to collect the eggs the ducks lay as they go. And for all that effort they receive a modicum of income. Understanding that, us siblings announced in unison that we did not want to be farmers, let alone duck herders.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

To return to the friendly passer-by who happened to bring me home, a home away from home. He told me, “I will visit the Mekong Delta again.” But he swore, “I won’t eat embryo eggs again. Never again.”

Sympathizing with his unpleasant foodie experience, I said, “In early December, Taste Atlas released a list of ten disgusting street food. Trứng vịt lộn was second in the list.”

“You see!” he smiled in agreement.

Out of the blue, I heard an incessant quacking aloft. Two Egyptian geese were flying above, probably on the way home as the curtains of silk darkness were about to close.

A wave of nostalgia enveloped me. I missed the happy Mekong ducks. And my mom.

The top graphic features a photo by Bill Yeaton via Smithsonian Magazine.

Across the rapidly modernizing urban landscape of Vietnam, Huế stands out as a bastion of traditions, not just in its city layout, rich historical wealth, and court cuisine, but also in the way the city has somehow managed to largely resist the power of rampant urbanization. This architectural project in Huế is a great example of a new structure that can quite seamlessly merge old and new into something mesmerizing.

Designed by Huế-based firm Cote Architects, Vương Đình Temple is based on the ancestral garden of the Vương Đình family in Thủy Biều Village, 5 kilometers from downtown Huế. Like many historical villages in Huế, the neighborhood is peppered with garden estates following the former capital’s distinctive architecture. While the temple was constructed in 2024, its design did a sterling job blending in with the surroundings.

As a family temple, the building’s main function is hosting the family altars while also providing space for gatherings and meals on special occasions. The layout on the ground floor is crafted for that precise purpose, featuring kitchen counters for food preparation and even a queen bed for resting.

The Vương Đình family altars are housed on the second floor, connecting to a gorgeous veranda decked out in wooden motifs overlooking the garden of pomelo trees below — thanh trà pomelo is Huế’s nationally renowned cultivar. At the entrance below, two stone guardian dogs are placed on the sides, in line with building traditions in Huế.

While the interior is predominantly furnished with traditional materials like bare bricks and dark wood tones, the temple is enveloped in a cubic reinforced concrete shell, lending the building its contemporary influence. The shell is balanced on two concrete beams below, making the whole structure look as if it’s “floating.”

It’s also interesting to note that many design decisions behind Vương Đình Temple were made to adapt to Huế’s unique environs, where flooding frequently occurs during the last quarter of the year. These include balancing the concrete shell on the beams and placing the important altars high up on the floor above.

Have a closer look at Vương Đình Temple below:

Photos by Hoàng Lê via ArchDaily.

After a decade writing and gathering materials, Hien recently published her debut album, “Trăng Qua.”

“Trăng Qua” is a record that was 10 years in the making. Some initial song ideas came up in 2015, while other new songs were started in 2025. The album wasn’t constructed from a fully formed concept right from the beginning. Instead, Hien wrote the tracks one by one, polished them across different times in her life, and only came to realize their common thread after a while.

During the creation of the album, there have been many changes in the life and musical artistry of Hien. Born Nguyễn Thanh Hiền in Budapest into a Vietnamese family, Hien moved to New York a few years ago. Her life experiences pass through three languages and cultures. Vietnamese is the language of family and heritage; Hungarian is closely connected to her formative years in Budapest; and English has become the language of daily life and creativity while she lives in the US.

The album cover.

To Hien, the extended period making “Trăng Qua” also gave some old compositions a chance to revisit a past version of herself.

Hien describes her songwriting process as “quite simple”: she begins with the sound, then the melody, and finally the lyrics. Still, over the decade, the person behind that process has changed.

“‘Trăng Qua’ has had more time to mature,” Hien shares. She mentions “Bloom,” the EP she released in 2021, as a stepping stone before she transitioned to the full-length album. “I’ve matured — I became a mature woman and a mature artist,” she explains. “I’m very glad to have put some of these songs down for a while, as once I return to them, I could listen to them with a fresher perspective. I’m also much bolder in my creative choices. I stopped chasing perfection and let the production be more rustic and authentic.”

Hien describes her songwriting process: starting with the sound, then the melody, and finally the lyrics.

For songs that have been kept on the back burner for years, taking them out for polishing does not mean retaining how they were first created. Hien believes that letting go of one’s older versions is a natural part of growth.

“Letting go of my old selves is really not difficult, because I simply have grown out of them. It’s a part of growth, of creating a space for someone you’re becoming.”

Those changes are clearly shown in Hien's treatment of her musical materials. “Trăng Qua” swings between electronic, ambient, and pop, employing elements from different influences, specifically bolero, chèo, cải lương, Hungarian Romani folk music, Latin bolero, Bulgarian choral music, R&B, and hip-hop.

Hien wasn’t hung up on recreating traditional elements as is, but picked those that she feels a pull towards, including melody, vocal technique, arrangement, rhythm, and emotivity. She then incorporated them into her own music-making process.

‘Trăng tàn trên hè phố’ (lit: the moon wanes on the street) is Hien’s first-ever release in Vietnamese, which made over a composition by Phạm Thế Mỹ using bolero, drum and bass. In ‘next to you,’ she integrated a sample from ‘Xa mối tình đầu’ (lit: away from my first love), also known as ‘Đoạn tái bút 2’ (lit: postscript no. 2) composed by Tú Nhi and Bằng Giang. In ‘through this phase,’ another segment from ‘Tình thư hạ vị’ (a chèo classic) performed by Minh Thu and Khắc Tư becomes part of an electronic track.

At the photoshoot for “Trăng Qua.”

Hien’s own relationship with Vietnam was formed in a similar way. She grew up in Hungary in a Vietnamese family instead of spending her formative years in Vietnam. This background resulted in a certain distance that always exists in how she connects to Vietnamese culture and music.

The music video for ‘Bloom’ documents the life of young girls in the matriarchal community of M’Nông people. Stories about family, roots, culture, and nature continue to be crucial themes in Hien’s music.

“I will never experience Vietnamese culture exactly like someone who was born and grew up there, speaking Vietnamese as a native tongue,” she explains. “But that distance also gives me an alternative perspective. It lets me realize, respect, and appreciate things that someone who grew up in Vietnam might deem obvious.”

Hien doesn’t see this distance as something to hide in her music. On the contrary, it’s become a part of how she explores her heritage: “I still have many things to learn about Vietnam, and I think that constant discovery is also a part of my music.”

One aspect of this journey comes from her family, especially her grandfather Trần Tượng Tư, a cải lương performer hailing from Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. He could play đàn nguyệt, đàn nhị, guitar, and violin and worked at the Trần Hữu Trang Cải lương Theater in Saigon, and then the National Cải lương Theater in Hanoi.

In her childhood, she spent summers with her grandparents, so she can remember how he spontaneously played cải lương on the guitar. Years later, Hien hunted down some of his old recordings and added a segment of his guitar work into ‘trăng ơi,’ a track on the album. Hien sees this as a way to continue making music with her grandpa, even though they come from different musical periods.

The music video for ‘Jetplants’ is constructed from VHS footage of Hien’s family archive, spanning three locations and multiple generations.

Her family story also directly appears in ‘Jetplanes,’ the 15th track of the album. It reflects the journey to find new homes and the experiences of someone living away from home, a reference to how her family left Vietnam for Hungary and how she left Budapest for Brooklyn.

The music video is constructed from old VHS footage of her family, filmed in Vietnam and Hungary. 1992 scenes in a small town near Hải Phòng show her father’s side of the family, while those in Hanoi chronicle family meals, Tết celebrations, birthday karaoke sessions, and her maternal grandparents. The footage in Budapest shows a small family and Hien’s childhood friends.

These video snapshots not only help illustrate the song’s visual side, but also tell the story of places and people that have a role in Hien’s personal narrative, from Vietnam to Hungary and then the US.

“Trăng Qua” features lyrics in Vietnamese, Hungarian, and English, sometimes in one song. For Hien, each language is connected to a different part of her life, but they coexist in one album formed in Brooklyn.

Singing in Vietnamese was a skill she had to relearn. She used to feel self-conscious about singing in Vietnamese before deciding to bring it to her music. The track ‘Trăng tàn trên hè phố’ is the first step in that journey, followed by many other instances where Vietnamese shows up across the album.

Hien doesn’t look at Vietnam as someone who has learned everything about the place they belong. It’s a continual process of discovery via family, language, music, and inherited memories.

“Trăng Qua” pieces together songs from different periods of Hien’s life. Some had their start when she was still in Budapest; others were finished when she moved to America. In between them were many shifts in living arrangements, language, music, and even the self.

Following the album release, Hien hopes to return to Vietnam for a month during Tết to perform.

“Trăng Qua” is available on Bandcamp on major streaming platforms.

“Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” opens in Hong Kong to challenge reductive narratives and clichés about 20^th-century Vietnamese art.

“Modern Vietnamese art cannot be traced to a single origin, nor reduced to a simple story of influence,” write exhibition co-curators Trần Đình Thục Đoan and Leah Đỗ in the catalogue’s opening. Spanning 1905 to 1960 and including works by Albert Cézard, Victor Tardieu, Léa Lafugie, Joseph Inguimberty, Alix Aymé, Lê Phổ, Vũ Cao Đàm, Mai Trung Thứ, Phạm Hậu, and Nguyễn Gia Trí, the exhibition is arranged chronologically not to suggest a linear progression but rather to showcase a collection of individual artists working independently in a collaborative atmosphere of adoption and adaptation. 

Notably, the exhibition begins before the 1924 founding of the École des Beaux-Arts, the French-led school in Hanoi that produced some of Vietnam’s most well-known 20^th-century artists. In doing so, “Echoes of Tonkin” stresses that while the school precipitated a dramatic shift in the country’s artwork, there already existed a rich visual culture with talented artists across mediums. Moreover, while the school formalized training and offered resources, there had long been exchanges between French and Vietnamese artists as exemplified by Albert Cézard’s 1905 work, ‘Scène du Vietnam’ (Scene in Vietnam).

‘Scène du Vietnam’ (Scene in Vietnam) by Albert Cézard.

Adding more complexity to the established narratives of art development in Vietnam is the exhibition’s inclusion of two Chăm statues dating back to the 9^th and 10^th centuries. They serve as reminders that long before the French or even the Kinh occupied parts of Vietnam, another culture with a rich and meaningful relationship with art thrived. 

Chăm sculptures (artist unknown). 

The statue of Ganesha reveals the deviations of religious traditions amongst cultures in the region. The Buddha, meanwhile, points to overlap, as does Lê Phổ’s ‘L’illumination de Bouddha’ (Buddha's Enlightenment), which applies creative interpretation of traditional imagery. Painted on silk in 1947 in the wake of World War II and personal hardships, the curators explain that it is “not merely an illustration of religious history but a message of  hope amid the world’s escalating political turmoil.” 

Lê Phổ’s ‘L’illumination de Bouddha’ (Buddha's Enlightenment)

In addition to silk and sandstone, the exhibition includes oil paint on canvas, terracotta and lacquer. This later medium allows for particularly interesting rumination on the changes in art at the time. Nguyễn Gia Trí’s 1960 ‘Bateaux dans la baie d'Halong’ (Fishing Boats in Ha Long Bay) presents the transition of the medium from a decorative craft to one of ambitious painting. Created seven years into his exile from his home in Northern Vietnam, Nguyễn Gia Trí’s work is one of deep emotion rendered with subtlety and technical ambition.

Nguyễn Gia Trí’s 1960 ‘Bateaux dans la baie d'Halong’ (Fishing Boats in Ha Long Bay)

Similar technical skill is forefronted by Vũ Cao Đàm’s ‘Tête de femme’ (Head of a Woman). Uniquely talented in both sculpture and painting, Vũ Cao Đàm produced works that introduce the familiar theme of idealized female figures. The sculpture was created while in exile, and the act of idealizing a female face with pristine features and headdress represents “not an aesthetic choice but memory made visual,” as described in the illuminating catalogue, which relies on significant research to describe, date, and situate the pieces in the artist’s individual lives as well as the cultural and political developments of the time.  

Vũ Cao Đàm’s ‘Tête de femme’ (Head of a Woman)

While limited in number of pieces, “Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” is expansive in its aims to reconsider and redefine people’s understanding of the nature of influence and advancement at the time, alongside interests. When asked to elaborate on what “familiar assumptions” the exhibition challenges, Pascal de Sarthe, who founded the gallery in Paris in 1977, explains, “The idea that Vietnamese modern art is essentially decorative: graceful young women in áo dài on silk, made to please a French and later an international clientele. The market has encouraged this image, because those works sell well. But it hides the ambition, the variety and the intellectual seriousness of these artists. A second assumption, closely related, is that the story belongs to a handful of painters who settled in France. The reality is much richer, and much of it happened in Vietnam.”

Photos courtesy of e Sarthe Gallery.

“Echoes of Tonkin: Vietnamese Modern Art” is open from now until November 21 at de Sarthe Gallery in Hong Kong.

It was early in the day. I opened my window to let in the very first rays of the morning sun, just to catch a waft of that distinctive floral aroma lingering in the cold air. This year, autumn came early, and hoa sữa has started blooming where I live.

People often refer to hoa sữa as the “muse” of the Hanoian autumn, coating city streets in a layer of pristine white blossoms. Its fragrance is the most pungent element capital residents' collective memory. Every autumn, there are two ways Hanoians would talk about hoa sữa: one shrouded in eager anticipation and dreamy romanticism, and the other is pretty much “I can’t stand it, it’s so annoying.”

Hoa sữa appears frequently in evocations of autumn, in between romanticisms and laments about its concurrently sweet and dizzying smell. No matter how one feels about that, it’s impossible to deny that the flower has become a unique harbinger of the season — an aroma that reminds locals of nostalgia, something that many hold dear.

Hoa sữa, the unofficial muse of the Hanoian autumn. Photo via Tiền Phong.

A familiar flower

Milkwood’s scientific name is Alstonia scholaris, known in some regions as mò cua, but it’s perhaps nationally famous by the name hoa sữa. The name arose because the plant emits an abundant white sap just like milk. It possesses a distinctively powerful fragrance that fills the air every time the northern autumn arrives.

Hoa sữa is an evergreen tropical tree belonging to the dogbane family, with a lifespan averaging a few hundred years old. The tree has a sizable trunk growing upright, reaching a height of 10–20 meters, though a few have grown to 50 meters. Trees produce wide canopies so the species is often planted along streets, in parks and residential enclaves to provide shade. Milkwood likes tropical climates and ample sunlight, and grows fast, so it has been widely planted across Vietnam, especially in Nha Trang, Quy Nhơn and Hà Nội, where hoa sữa is the most densely distributed.

Milkwood has wide canopies, fan-shaped leaf arrangements, and a strong smell. Photo via Wikimedia.

Hoa sữa bloom in clusters with each tube-shaped flower consisting of five petals and five sepals. Flowers are arranged in circular formations that, from afar, look like bouquets  standing out on the green bed of leathery leaves. The sight of these white bouquets swaying in the soft sunlight of an autumn morning is something especially poetic to me. Just one look and I can immediately feel the tender embrace of a new season that’s weaving itself in between the pulses of the city.

Maybe it is that unique, unmistakable scent that has entered the collective memory of the people. It’s formidably strong, reminiscent of lily, but also quite different as it spreads in the cold air of autumn. It can be pleasant to occasionally detect when one’s not paying attention but is suffocating when living right next to it, especially at night.

Hoa sữa bloom in clusters in the Hanoian autumn. Photo via Dân Trí.

Those who grew up in Hanoi and even those who’ve fallen in love with the capital have probably experienced periods of yearning for a moment of relaxing quietude when you sit on the sidewalk sipping milk coffee, munching on green cốm, and sniffing hoa sữa in the atmosphere. Because of this yearning, everytime I hear ‘Nhớ mùa thu Hà Nội’ (On missing Hanoi’s autumns), an unnamed emotion swells within me:

Since when has hoa sữa taken root in Vietnam?

This question was answered by journalist and writer Nguyễn Ngọc Tiến in an essay: “The French planted the first milkwood tree on Quán Thánh Street. They noticed its tall trunk and luxuriant canopies, great to help shade local streets from the searing sun of northern Vietnam. The following years, more hoa sữa were planted along streets like Nguyễn Du. As the trunks often spawn tough protrusions, people used to call it vú trâu [buffalo boob] tree. In the beginning of the 20^th century, hoa sữa were planted sparingly with a gap of 10–15 meters between trees, so when the flowers bloomed at the end of September to October, the fragrance was only gentle, not pungent.”

Since then, hoa sữa has spread across Hanoi’s major streets; Nguyễn Du Street became the unofficial “hoa sữa street,” to the point that many believe that only by being on Nguyễn Du can one grasp how breathtaking (literally) the flowers are. In recent years, the municipal government has cultivated hoa sữa all over town and Nguyễn Du is no longer the sole owner of that title. On Thụy Khuê, Quán Thanh, Cửa Bắc or Đào Tấn streets, one can easily recognize that scent every fall. For a crop of young Hanoians, taking a stroll on the bank of Hoàn Kiếm Lake to catch a touch of monsoon wind mixed with hoa sữa aroma is a yearly ritual.

Rows of milkwood trees in Thái Bình City. Photo via Sài Gòn Tiếp Thị.

Departing from Hanoi, hoa sữa embarked on a cross-country trail to pepper alongside streets in the south. Around October, a stretch of Nguyễn Lương Bằng Street in District 7 of Saigon where it cuts Trần Văn Trà Street is perfumed with the sweet smell of hoa sữa. There are around 20 milkwood trees here, all planted in 1997. Hoa sữa might not be as prevalent in the city as in Hanoi, but if you know where to look, there are spots to relish its distinctive scent. There are a few hoa sữa trees on Hoàng Sa and Trường Sa streets, one in Vĩnh Lộc Industrial Park, and some individual trees in residential areas across town.

Outside of Vietnam’s colder regions or metropolises, I also bumped into hoa sữa during my trips to the Mekong Delta in autumn, like in An Giang. A friend once told me that to get from Ngã Ba Lộ Tẻ in Châu Thành District to Ngã Tư Đèn 4 Ngọn in Long Xuyên City, there are six hoa sữa “checkpoints.” The aroma is most intense around the area of Hoàng Diệu Bridge and Nguyễn Trãi Street. Though the tree and blossoms still look the same, somehow in my mind, it doesn’t have the same grace like those people often rave about in Hanoi. Perhaps it’s because you can take an icon out of its homeland, but you can’t separate the land from the icon.

Hoa sữa and an indictment: guilty or not?

Hoa sữa only does what it evolved to do in nature, but its existence has become victim to much censure by the public.

Fascinatingly, there were quite a number of legal suits involving hoa sữa in history, as those living near flowering trees cannot stand its head-splittingly intense scent. In 2004, locals in Tam Kỳ City, Quảng Nam filed a complaint against the flower, alleging that its pungent smell caused constant bouts of allergy, asthma, and migraine. Residents of Trà Vinh City in the Mekong Delta also once threatened to sue the local people’s committee as the city’s illogical hoa sữa density caused much inconvenience to their livelihood.

Following the uproars in many cities across Vietnam, localities started removing milkwood trees and replacing the plots with other non-flowering trees to reduce the concentration of hoa sữa. Via these incidences, I learned that this is not just a problem unique to Vietnam, but also in a number of other Asian countries where the plant is endemic.

As an evergreen tropical species, hoa sữa shows up in other Southeast Asian nations as well. The newspaper Bangkok Post once wrote a piece suggesting the use of hoa sữa to combat unpleasant smells in the neighborhood. In Indian, local opinions about the tree are also just as polarizing: some think that it’s so aromatic that “no matter how busy one is, they must stop to enjoy it,” but others believe that its intense smell causes a lot of troubles in their daily lives.

Hoa sữa lining local streets. Photo via ivivu.

A government directive from Noida, a city in northern India, reads: “If asthma sufferers stand under a milkwood tree for too long, they can have respiratory problems.” The city has since replaced hoa sữa with purple jarul trees. In Taiwan, over two-thirds of milkwood trees at Chihcheng Secondary School were axed as their scent negatively affected students.

Preserving the fragrance of the Hanoian autumn

Above all, whether they love, hate, or threaten to chop all the trees down, I know that deep inside their hearts, Hanoians still value their role in the city landscape and the memories they’ve built with hoa sữa. In the collective subconscious, there’s always a sense of anticipation before the first blossoms show up, signaling an impending autumn.

To conserve that elegance and ease the people’s discomfort, I think there needs to be deliberate efforts to space out hoa sữa trees to a manageable distance like 50 meters. In reality, some localities went too hard on the planting with just 2–3 meters between trees. By relocating or removing some trees in central areas, the city can still protect one of Hanoi’s most iconic autumn features while ensuring the health of its people.

Released in 1971, Vietnam Inc. by Philip Jones Griffiths was a career-defining work for the Welsh photographer, whose candid, sympathetic images of Vietnam during the American War showed a much different side of the country to a global audience.

Griffiths didn’t have formal photography training, as he studied pharmacy. His part-time job as a photographer for the Manchester Guardian introduced him to the craft, which became his life-long passion. In 1961, Griffiths freelanced for the London-based Observer, covering the Algerian War and then the conflict in Vietnam from 1966 to 1971.

This selection of pictures, however, took place nearly a decade after the publishing of the book, in 1980. Five years after the war ended, life in Vietnam was returning to some semblance of normalcy, though the ramifications of violence were pronounced, from physical deformities on veterans to villages devoid of adults.

Have a look at some standout shots below:

Inside a general store in central Hanoi.

A rural school in northern Vietnam, whose yard is still filled with drenches once used as shelters during bombings.

Farmers dig irrigation canals together in a field.

Residents in Huế section off an area of the moat surrounding the Imperial Palace to rear fish.

Youths in Saigon during an illegal bike race at night.

Homeless people outside Hanoi's St. Joseph's Cathedral.

A public tenement in Hải Phòng.

The Mekong Delta.

Young queer people in Saigon on a night out.

Visitors listen to a presentation at the Vietnam Military History Museum in Hanoi.

Children in Sơn Mỹ Village, where the Mỹ Lai Massacre took place.

Xuân Lộc, Đồng Nai Province.

A street vendor selling magazines and novels.

Knick-knacks for sale on the streets of Saigon after local families escaped overseas.

A class in rural Vietnam in a half-open classroom after the school was bombed.

A rare drinks stall.

Inside a kindergarten.

War veterans watch a football match at a rehabilitation center in Hanoi.

An arts and crafts class inside a center for former sex workers.

[Photos by Philip Jones Griffiths via Redsvn]

My favorite genre of Saigon food places is most definitely address-less street vendors. With no name, no fixed location, no menu, no contact information, before Google Maps and smartphones, whether you can satisfy your craving for their food purely depended on the strength of your memory (to find them again) and the level of luck the universe bestowed on you that day.

While Gỏi khô bò Lê Văn Tám’s schedule is a little more dependable than the average street vendor, a tiny jolt of delight still swells in me whenever I turn the corner at Hai Bà Trưng Street to find their usual glass display filled with shredded papaya there. Also known as xắp xắp or xấp xấp — an onomatopoeia for the clanking of scissors cutting pieces of beef jerky — gỏi khô bò is one of Saigon’s oldest street snacks.

According to dì Sáu, the main proprietor of this cart, she started working here as a young lass about half a century ago, when it was run by her aunt and a plate was 50 xu (VND0.5) — this currency denomination doesn’t even exist anymore, just to show how historic the place is. After the aunt retired, she took over and has been serving countless papaya salad portions since, right at the same spot on Hai Bà Trưng Street overlooking the lush foliage of Lê Văn Tám Park.

The cart’s longevity has turned it into a rare culinary intersection of generations of Saigoneers: my Gen X dentist knows it, my Gen Y friends know it, and my Gen Z coworkers have also shared plates with her classmates. Everybody went through the exact same experience: settle down on the park sidewalk across the street, yell out your orders, and someone will cross the traffic to deliver your food.

Today, the operation has been upgraded to include a park-side satellite serving station run by her relatives for dine-in guests, and dì Sáu’s original cart is only for takeaways. The “dining area,” however, is still the raised cement edges of the street trees, and the “seats” are cut-out pieces of linoleum. Less than five minutes after we order, the gỏi khô bò arrives on iconic aluminum plates, as timeless as the operation itself.

Gỏi khô bò comprises finely shredded young papaya, chunks of black five-spiced marinated beef, a heap of golden shrimp crackers, a sweet-and-sour soy dressing, and optional chili sauce. At VND28,000 a plate in 2026, it’s not meant to be a full meal, but a refreshing snack to quell the summer heat. Here, the papaya is shredded more thoroughly, allowing it to soak up the sauce wonderfully — an excuse to consume a somewhat excessive amount of lip-smackingly umami dressing.

We finish our plates just in time for a bout of drizzle to sweep through the area. The street is suddenly filled with a rainbow of raincoats. Metallic plates of leftover sauces clank under the trees. This is the quintessential Saigon street food scene unfolding right before our eyes, like a carefully reconstructed museum diorama.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 12pm–8pm
• Parking: Use the park's parking lot
• Contact: N/A
• Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery app: ShopeeFood

Vé số ticket number 984430 yields a magenta fish contorting atop a ghostly image of an apartment high-rise in Tân Phú in “The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen,” an art project by photographer Christian Berg. The experimental project, available to view in full online, employs computer technology to combine photography, numerology, and mythology and playfully reimagine how one visualizes Saigon.

The image produced by lottery ticket No. 984430

The process to achieve the surreal images is relatively straightforward. Berg purchased 100 vé số tickets from local vendors and created an algorithm to randomly assign a fixed and repeatable number to coordinates on a map of Saigon, the city he has called home for nearly 20 years. He then traveled to the locations and took photos with the rule that he wasn’t to get off his motorbike. The last two digits of each lottery ticket would determine an AI-generated creature inspired by Albrecht Dürer's famous 16^th-century works.

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” online interface.

Selecting Dürer, a fellow German, was meaningful to Berg for several reasons. While he first considered using Đông Hồ paintings, he said being mindful of cultural appropriation and his positioning as an outsider was important. Moreover, Dürer was one of the first artists to produce and sell prints of his work, providing a fruitful entry point for the discussions of art, commerce, technology, and ownership that exist at the forefront of current-day discussions of creative production. In addition to selecting an animal, the algorithm Berg designed uses the vé số number to select a color and 3D spatial orientation after pixilation. The resulting images aim to offer aesthetic intrigue while suggesting the overlap of the spiritual world and the tangible one via vé số's relationship with numerology and cosmic beliefs. 

Images corresponding to lottery numbers 359927, 521951, 233240 and 485496 (from left to right).

“Once you make the game, you can make your own house rules,” Berg told Saigoneer of the two-year project. He thus skipped tickets that yielded coordinates that would send him into the middle of the ocean. Similarly, he weighted certain locations to ensure that the visually diverse center of the city would receive more attention than the somewhat homogeneous outskirts. 

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams” comes as a logical next step after Berg’s “All the Places I have Lived” project. For that one, he trained AI on photographs he had taken of all the Saigon neighborhoods he has called home and then had the computer generate images for each. The glitches and errors, including impossible shadows, nonsense signage, and illogical physics, speak to the fallibility of memories as well as falsehood’s place in feelings of nostalgia. 

Two photographs from “All the Places I have Lived.”

“Stop playing it safe,” Berg’s supervisor advised as he was formulating the project as part of his PhD coursework at RMIT Melbourne’s School of Art. For the majority of Berg’s time in Saigon, he has practiced conventional photography as a documentary photographer, commercial photographer, and lecturer at RMIT Vietnam. This PhD program allowed him to go beyond his comfort zone and discover what he could learn via experimentation and adoption of new, sometimes radical techniques and schemes. Particularly, the system he devised forced him to act counterintuitively and put together ideas and images that he normally wouldn’t, and in the process discover new means of creative convergence. 

In its application of AI, the project reflects Berg’s larger approach to technology. While an ardent supporter of human creativity and credit, he says one cannot just shut themselves off from the existence of new technologies. He explains to his students that “The hardest and most important lesson is to be curious about the world,” and that “saying no outright is not the approach of a curious mind.”

“The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” as featured at the RMIT's Vietnam Festival of Creativity & Design.

The place of AI in art is and will continue to be the subject of intense debates. Projects like “The Lottery of Forgotten Dreams – Topographies of the Unseen” serve as not only examples of what can be done, but also how curiosity is driving artists to play with it. 

While Saigoneer’s Natural Selection series has already covered a number of iconic species and types of animals, including the tiger, Asian elephant, dogs and cats, there’s a good chance most of the people reading this haven’t heard of today’s critter. 

Cầy vằn bắc (Chrotogale owstoni), or Owston’s civet, is a member of the civet family, which spans over a dozen species across tropical Africa and Asia, with Southeast Asia accounting for most of this diversity. This particular civet is named after Alan Owston, a British wildlife collector who lived from 1853 to 1915. The cầy is identified by four black-and-white stripes on its back, and they feed on earthworms, sweet fruits, small animals and insects. 

Civets are small, omnivorous mammals that are largely nocturnal, and in Southeast Asia they are best-known for their link to civet coffee, which is largely produced in Indonesia as kopi luwak, the Philippines under different regional names, and here in Vietnam as cà phê chồn — sometimes you may see it sold simply as “weasel coffee.”

To create this coffee, an Asian palm civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus) is fed coffee cherries, which they partially digest and then poop out. The cherries are fermented during this process, and then turned into coffee. This practice — which raises serious ethical questions in its modern form — began in the 19th century amongst locals who resorted to them after not being able to afford the beans they harvested for the Dutch.

But we’ll return to that later, as the Owston’s civet isn’t actually used for cà phê chồn.

To create cà phê chồn, an Asian palm civet is fed coffee cherries, which they partially digest and then poop out. The cherries are fermented during this process, and then turned into coffee.

According to a report titled “Conservation Strategy for Owston’s Civet 2019-2029” compiled by five major conservation organizations, this species was listed as Endangered on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species in 2016, and has among the smallest distribution area of any omnivore in Asia. Vietnam accounts for most of its natural range, though Laos and a section of southern China also host Owston’s civets. 

Trinh Thi Mai, Owston's Civet Programme Coordinator at Save Vietnam’s Wildlife (SVW), tells Saigoneer in a call that there is discussion of whether the species should be upgraded to Critically Endangered, as experts estimate that their population has declined by 50% over the last 15 years thanks to habitat loss and indiscriminate hunting and poaching. 

“In 2020, we set camera traps in four national parks, and we only found Owston’s civets in Pù Mát [in Nghệ An Province], though there is recorded history in Cúc Phương,” she says. “We got seven pictures in Pù Mát, but this is an elusive species that is hard to capture by image.”

An Owston’s civet (Chrotogale owstoni) photographed in captivity at Cúc Phương National Park, a major partner in the international cầy vằn bắc breeding program. Photos by Robert Marc Lehmann.

Mai adds that there have been recent reports of cầy vằn bắc in Kon Plong, a district in Kon Tum Province that is an emerging biodiversity hotspot, which is a positive sign, but more research is needed as a population in the area has not been confirmed yet. 

“This means there are still some surviving habitats we don’t know about, and we haven’t estimated their population, but it seems there are some animals there,” she says. 

Sadly, the species is a victim of extremely bad luck. Unlike the pangolin, it is not specifically targeted for meat or medicinal practices with zero scientific backing; and unlike the Asian palm civet, it is not targeted for coffee production: but it is caught in the deadly crossfire of these trades.

The coffee threat

“Because civet farming operations depend on wild civets to restock, and because the most common hunting method is snaring, we can assume that this supply chain will impact all ground-dwelling civet species, including species which are not used in civet coffee production,” explained Daniel Wilcox, Chair of the IUCN Small Carnivore Specialist Group, in an email.

Snares are cheap traps that close around an animal’s leg and either hold it in place until it dies from dehydration or starvation, or leave it mortally wounded even after escaping. They are a huge driver of wildlife loss in Southeast Asia.

According to Wilcox, most endangered wildlife species in Vietnam have almost no presence outside of protected areas, so hunters largely focus on these spaces, and there is no precise targeting when it comes to a snare: if one was set in order to supply palm civets to a civet coffee farm, it will still close around the leg of an unwitting Owston’s civet. Civet coffee farms don’t need the Owston’s since they are difficult to raise, but there is still a connection.

“Civet meat is another commodity in the country, so it is easy to imagine hunters illegally snaring inside protected areas and then selling civets that produce civet coffee, with all the other non-coffee eating species being sold for their to meat to restaurants, or possibly to civet farms,” Wilcox says. 

“In 2020, we conducted research focusing on coffee farms in order to search for the Owston’s, and we found that among 57 farms in Lam Dong and Dak Lak, none had this species, but people from at least two farms said they had seen them in other provinces,” Mai recalls. 

In 2019, SVW rescued three Owston’s civets from a farm in Lâm Đồng. This incidental link between the civet coffee industry and the Owston’s civet is deadly for the latter, but it’s worth taking a moment to highlight the sector’s impact on the civets it does use as well. According to Mai, the conditions at civet coffee farms are generally poor, with the animals kept together in very small enclosures.

“These are solitary animals, except during mating season, so it’s very stressful for them and they can attack each other,” she warns. “They are also fed industrial food, and are force-fed coffee fruit during coffee harvesting season, which can be poisonous when they are fed continually.” A common palm civet may naturally eat some coffee fruit in the wild, but only as a nutritional supplement to its normal diet: “When they are force-fed coffee, it’s not good for their health at all,” Mai adds.

Experts’ message for anyone considering civet coffee, either in Vietnam or elsewhere, is simple: “Don’t buy it!”

Given this, Wilcox’s message for anyone considering civet coffee, either in Vietnam or elsewhere, is simple: “Don’t buy it! We know it impacts wild civets, and the conditions that civets are kept in are horrendous…Even if one can close their eyes to the conservation and animal welfare impacts, then the public health risks that this industry poses are enormous.” 

Mai notes this last aspect as well, explaining that a virus at one civet farm in southern Vietnam killed every civet there, and viruses can easily jump to other species — including humans, as we have all been made well-aware of over the last two years. 

The future of the Owston’s

Given the complex nature of the threats facing this species, conservationists are pushing for a concerted effort largely within Vietnam to prevent it from extinction.

The most prominent angle of this is the creation of a sustainable breeding program. In fact, an ex-situ program does exist through cooperation between Cúc Phương National Park and several zoos in Europe, including the Newquay Zoo in the United Kingdom, but the involved population is too small.

As the 2019 conservation strategy report notes, reducing demand for wild meat and strengthening protection from hunting would greatly benefit the Owston’s civet, in addition to countless other species, but these are incredibly difficult tasks that will take decades to accomplish.

Mai explains that breeding is a major focal point of SVW moving forward, and they are already working with the Saigon Zoo — which has seven cầy vằn bắc — to eventually move the individuals to Cúc Phương for breeding. “We are planning to work with other zoos across Vietnam so that when they receive an Owston’s, they contact us and work on the breeding program,” she says. “We’re also working with wildlife farms to raise awareness.”

A cầy vằn bắc at the Saigon Zoo. Photos by Michael Tatarski.

This includes a website called NoCivetCoffee.com and a Facebook page called "No Civet coffee - Không sử dụng Cà phê chồn" that “raise awareness of civet coffee consumers on civet conservation problems, as well as civet welfare and zoonotic diseases that might associate with civet (coffee) farms in Vietnam.”   

SVW has also come across some evidence of Owston’s civets being sold online as pets, though the extent of this — as with so many aspects of the wildlife trade, both legal and illegal — is unknown. 

Breeding is seen as the most viable path forward, with Mai explaining that conservationists want to start now, instead of waiting until the species nears extinction — an outcome that is plausible given ongoing levels of hunting in its range and the fact that we don’t know how many cầy vằn bắc remain in the wild. 

While the conservation report features a number of specific goals for the next decade that will require intense work from both the public and private sectors, there are two simple steps to help the Owston’s civet, and other species, that anyone reading this can take: don’t buy cà phê chồn, and tell other people why they shouldn’t consume it either.

Unless you visit the Saigon Zoo, you may never see a cầy vằn bắc in person, but know that the small, uniquely striped-and-spotted animals will thank you for doing so.

Graphics by Hannah Hoàng, Phan Nhi and Simona Nguyễn.
Photos by Matthew Maran, Newquay Zoo, Shaldon Wildlife Trust, Curriculum Nacional, Michael Tatarski, Zoochat.com, iucnredlist.org.

When I used to live in Hanoi, I always knew that if an eatery only opens for half a day, the food is probably certified, at least by the locals, to be not only good, but excellent. There is something written in the local traditions that specific dishes should be served at particular times of the day.

Editor's note (2026): Hủ tiếu cá Anh Mai has relocated to 153 Lê Thị Riêng, the photos in this article depict the eatery's previous location.

For example, in every Hanoian’s consciousness, cháo sườn is strictly quà chiều, a cozy snack for the afternoon, although guests still come at any time of the day whenever their hearts desire. In some cases, perhaps the restaurant's reputation has built up so well over the years that the turnout is so consistently immense that they simply run out of stock in half a day. Therefore, you always have to put a certain amount of effort into scheduling, almost as if the meal itself is a special occasion.

Waking up late runs the risk of having no fish for your noodle bowl at Anh Mai.

Now, to a person whose concept of hủ tiếu cá was completely foreign until last Sunday, I do not know if this is a dish for which certain temporal rules apply. I have only discovered recently that a hundred ingredients could be combined with the chewy noodles — pork, shrimp, squid, satay, beef meatballs, even bones, and the list goes on including either with-broth or dry variations. However, there was something about a plain and earthy bowl of fish hủ tiếu that piqued my interest. Hủ Tiếu Cá Anh Mai, which served this dish specifically, came highly recommended online.

The Sunday breakfast crowd.

Online reviews specify that the store would close at around 12pm, so I was determined to pick myself out of bed and get there by 10am, hoping it would not be unbearably crowded. Anh Mai is located on Lê Thị Riêng, one of those rare streets in District 1 that is neither riddled with traffic nor high-rise buildings. Every table was filled, but the great thing was that the owners never seemed particularly frazzled during our visit. Like every good restaurant that has been in operation for over ten years, Anh Mai has their regulars. The woman in Table 4, for example, briefly mentioned to the smiling owner how she was running late that morning and did not have the time to drop by earlier. It was a familiar sight: families with small kids, office workers, and teenagers came in and out every 40 minutes or so.

A big portion (VND75,000) gets you a substantial amount of fish fillet.

After a short wait, our order of three hủ tiếu cá with broth and one dry hủ tiếu were served to Table 0 where we sat. With a generous amount of flaky white snakehead meat, garnished with scallion, pickled radish chopped into minuscule speckles, some bean sprouts, and a splash of soy sauce, my hủ tiếu bowl held the piping-hot soup within like a secret. Upon the very first bite, the fish let me know that it was the star of the dish — firm and moderately sweet in a tenderly seasoned broth.

Dry versus broth versions.

I learned from locals that this snakehead’s freshness was almost unparalleled across Saigon. As my chopsticks sank beneath, ample noodle layers were unveiled. The chewy texture of hủ tiếu seemed to take a step back to let other ingredients shine. No sooner had I thought that was the extent of the experience than a jolt of saltiness touched my palate in the most pleasant way imaginable. Was it from the pepper? I am still not quite sure, but the hide-and-seek game of flavor persisted until the last bite.

For your slurping pleasures.

We finished our meal at 11am and nodded our heads in contentment, even with the VND75,000 per person bill. It was simply worth it. As new customers started to flood in, we quickly parted ways so as not to overstay our welcome. Like every good meal, hủ tiếu at Anh Mai requires one to take their time — waiting, enjoying, and collecting themselves from that enjoyment. It's thus a good thing we waited until Sunday instead of going on Friday like the original plan. While there’s more for me to learn about the customs of eating hủ tiếu from Saigoneers, hú tiếu cá is now for me, perpetually, without debate, a Sunday dish.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 6am–11:30am
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: 0906783242
• Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab Food

The joy of reading, for most of my life, had been primarily grounded in the joy of learning, feeling, and thinking through words, independent of medium. That is, until college, when I found myself repeatedly longing for Thursday mornings, when the week’s freshly printed student newspaper would arrive neatly folded and stacked, ready to be spread over the dining-hall table like wrapping paper. I came to realize then that the joy of reading was not simply about words; it was also about the tactile touch of paper and of the inexplicable satisfaction of flipping through pages bigger than my hands could reasonably manage.

When it comes to the pleasures of the tactile, material dimensions of reading, nothing, in my opinion, surpasses print magazines. Reading a print book offers the soft touch and the wafting scent of paper that digital versions cannot replicate, but even books with the most beautiful covers are inevitably too wordy (or most often, exclusively so) on the inside. Magazines, however, swirl ideas, illustrations, and images alongside the words, all brought together to life by the beat of color. As we become ever more subsumed by a digital world increasingly cannibalized by AI, print mediums like magazines can only become more precious.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

For such reasons, I was elated to recently find out about the existence of MARG1N, a print-only Southeast Asian film magazine based in Cambodia — the discovery of novel magazines in the region is always a delight! For cinephiles in Vietnam and across Southeast Asia in particular, MARG1N will surely be a treasured find, for there exists nothing quite like it for devoted filmheads. Supported by the Cambodian film production company Anti-Archive, the project is envisioned to consist of five issues, with each issue focused on a pairing of two or three countries in the region under a particular theme. The upcoming third issue, titled “Cosmos,” is set to release later this year, exploring the titular theme across the regions of Brunei, Thailand, and Timor-Leste.

The core team behind the magazine consists of three members: filmmaker and editor-in-chief Savunthara Seng (Thara), based in Cambodia; Alyssandra Maxine (Max), based in the Philippines; and graphic designer Sonich Touch, who was previously based in Cambodia but has recently relocated to Spain. As Max recounts in an interview with Minh Nguyen on Public Parking, the origins of the project trace back to when Max and Thara first connected on Letterboxd, where Max corresponded with Thara about how to pirate Filipino filmmaker Lav Diaz’s eleven-hour film Evolution of a Filipino Family (2004).

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

Given this history, it was perhaps natural that the theme of the first issue, published in 2024, would be piracy, focused on Cambodia and the Philippines. Titled “pirate.lov3r.2024.mkv,” Issue 1 brings together a cacophony of voices and perspectives, from filmmakers, artists, critics, and mourners of DVD stores, presenting piracy as something more than simply “an open secret” — tabooed, given its unlawfulness and illegitimacy; yet open, given its ubiquity. “Name me one Filipino filmmaker whose film education did not involve piracy,” writes Khavn De La Cruz in the opening piece, who describes piracy as “a form of film preservation.” The theme of piracy highlights well MARG1N's general approach to engaging with film not simply as a form of art that exists in the abstract, but as one lives and breathes through dynamic social formations, like piracy markets and DVD stores for instance, for which Phnom Penh, as with the Philippines, is a “notorious haven,” as Thara writes in the introduction.

Issue 2, titled “Traces,” focuses on Vietnam and Singapore. The subjects covered in the second issue are diverse, but all possess qualities shared with that of the trace: spectral, fleeting, fragmentary. In “Regarding Latent Cinema,” Daryl Chong reflects upon unfinished films within the context of Singapore. In “Minor Observations of Trần Anh Hùng’s Trilogy,” Lanah Chu offers fragmentary, bullet-pointed reflections of Hùng’s widely celebrated films, perhaps more aptly described as poetry than prose. In “Cinemas Are Battlefields,” TN Đan goes through public archives in Singapore to present the history of cinema bombings in Vietnam from the 1940s through the 1970s. In “Microbecinema,” Grace Song writes of the parallels between microscopy and cinema as a means to reflect more broadly on microcinemas and independent film screenings. The issue also contains a visual script, a letter, and a comic strip.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

Readers may find the specific combinations presented in each issue as surprising. But as the editors described in their interview with Saigoneer, the pairings are an intentional choice. Rather than pursuing what might be clichéd pairings — such as Thailand and Cambodia, for instance, given the geopolitical context — the MARG1N team tries to bring together countries without significant shared histories in order to “force” histories together in surprisingly productive ways. “When the countries are unified under a theme, we expose how similar we all are, despite very different forms of government and culture,” Thara remarked.

The idea of marginality behind the name of the magazine is core to the identity of the magazine. I sometimes find the notion of marginality to be somewhat tricky. If what is considered marginal cannot but be relational — namely, marginal to some other center or core — who is to say what constitutes such a core or center? To what and to whom, to be concrete, is Southeast Asian film marginal? As the MARG1N team points out, certainly to the “West” — especially given the sheer difference in available resources for the film industry and culture across geographies — but also to the “Asian” canon. As Thara explains, “When the West refers to Asian cinema, it’s only a couple of countries talked about as if representative of the whole of Asia.”

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

But even within Southeast Asia and within specific countries, there exist internal dynamics of centers and peripheries, given Thailand, Vietnam, and the Philippines’ status as the “powerhouses” of the film industry within their region. But zooming in even further, Thara explained: “Even in the festival circuit, when the art house crowd refers to Thai cinema, for example, they think of only one name or representative… but it’s not just Apitchapong. The margin is spread throughout.” 

Importantly, the magazine also conceptualizes marginality as a mode within film criticism as well. “When we imagine film criticism, we think of a kind of serious academia. We try not to do that because film criticism is also an amalgamation of other things, like poetry, visual essays, photography, collages,” Thara commented. “When combined together, they create dissonances and discourses that make a film magazine a film magazine. What is film criticism? It’s not just The New Yorker or MUBI. It can be more.” Remarkably, in reading the magazine, marginality does not feel as though it merely exists on the margins, but rather as permeating and dispersed across multiple layers, through and through, like dense rings of trees. Key to this quality is the magazine’s sustained attention to marginality in its various forms without, necessarily, the kind of self-marginalization often found in discourses on the subject.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

During our chat, Max described MARG1N also as a project to produce “cinematic memorabilia.” As one might expect from this vision, MARG1N’s magazines are gorgeous, with a distinctive style that I would characterize as simultaneously eclectic and dreamy. The MARG1N team emphasized that the visuality and materiality of their magazines are a huge part of their identity and the reading experience they try to emulate, via unconventional formatting of texts, play with fonts, as well as the scattering of images, textured and granular. Indeed, some of my favorite pieces were those that were heavily visual, including Nguyên Lê’s “Season of Changes” in Issue 2, in which he writes about re-tracing scenes from Tony Bui’s Three Seasons (Ba mùa, 1999) in present-day Saigon. Accompanying his commentary are pairs of photographs for each location re-traced: a still shot from the film alongside a photograph of the same place in the present day, taken at a similar angle. 

I read MARG1N’s issues in the form of digital review copies, and I can only imagine what it must be like to hold and read the magazines in print, a feeling I dearly miss living in a city where English-language print magazines are difficult to come by. The element of print “completely changes what is written,” Thara remarked, reflecting upon the place of print in the age of AI. As he astutely put it, “the digital almost becomes dated when you really touch the pages.”

Images courtesy of MARG1N.

The MARG1N team have told Saigoneer that a limited number of copies of Issues 1 & 2 will be available at Dogma Collection in Saigon, beginning mid-October. One can find more detailed information about the availability of copies in other parts of Southeast Asia on their website.