Eat & Drink - Saigoneer

Chợ Bà Hoa Transports Central Vietnam's Universe of Crispy, Funky, Sugary Treats to Saigon

2026-07-15T14:00:00+07:00

My family lives in Saigon, a long distance from our hometown in Quảng Ngãi. We only visit a few times a year, but each time is a celebration of amazing food: bánh tráng nướng with sausages, bánh gói with spicy, garlicky nước chấm, crispy fried rolls, etc. Without fail, whenever I set food in the city again, I can’t help missing it dearly.

I used to wish that Saigon would have a market dedicated to all sorts of Central Vietnamese treats, and the universe has answered my prayers in the form of Bà Hoa Market. Based in an alley on Trần Mai Ninh Street in Bảy Hiền, former Tân Bình District, the market exists as a home for the most familiar, rustic, and distinctly central fares, from obscure snacks to central Vietnamese accents.

Bà Hoa Market was established by central Vietnamese immigrants who moved to Saigon during the war.

A brief history of Bà Hoa Market and Saigon’s central Vietnamese enclave

According to historical records, the Bảy Hiền area in Saigon has been the safe home for many immigrant communities from Northern and Central Vietnam for decades. Amongst them, people from the Quảng region are the most populous.

The market is crowded from the early hours of the day until midday.

During the most tumultuous times of the war, waves of immigrants left their hometown to seek solace in Saigon’s suburban areas. To make a living in the new land, they took up whatever jobs that were available, from driving a xích lô, mechanical jobs, carpentry, to selling mỳ Quảng. Most notably, central Vietnamese founded the famed Bảy Hiền Weaver Village.

At Bà Hoa Market, you can find all sorts of interesting food from central Vietnam.

Once the community grew big enough, people started longing for a common space to trade spices, produce, and regional dishes. According to some sources, around 1964–1967, a woman named Hoa decided to purchase the low-lying lot belong to the Đắc Lộ Parish in Bảy Hiền. She filled the plot and established the market that we know and love today.

To pay respect to the founder, the market was named after her: Bà Hoa. Nowadays, this historic venue is renamed Ward 11 Market on administrative maps, but in the mind of Central Vietnam migrants, Bà Hoa Market is an irreplaceable memory anchor. Its existence reminds them of a tough period in their life and the human connection those hardships helped foster.

The market nurturing migrant souls

Each marketplace in Saigon is beautiful in its own way. Some stand out thanks to their massive structural scale. Some have transcended their basic commercial functions to become historical landmarks. Bà Hoa Market, on the other hand, is not that different from a rustic countryside hangout, a place to convert homesickness into tasty, familiar treats.

Right from the opening of the alley leading into the market, you’ll bump into rows of bicycles and carts vending iconic snacks. Xu xoa is an opaque, crunchy, refreshing white jelly made from a special type of seaweed collected along the Central Vietnam coast, enjoyed with brown sugar syrup and candied ginger. A bowl of warm beancurd is also great with smooth, velvety spoonfuls of soy and ginger flavors and a touch of southern quirks with coconut milk and white chewy pearls.

Xu xoa and beancurd.

Walk a few more steps and you’ll be greeted with kiosks specialized in all sorts of rice paper and noodles. The compendium of rice paper from the region is extensive: Bình Định-style coconut rice paper, rice sheets, sesame crepes, wrapping sheets from spring rolls, and Đại Lộc-style rice paper for rolling. Right in front of their stalls, vendors set up coal fires to grill crackers until golden and alluringly toasty.

Grilled crackers are the soul of central foods.

Grilled crackers are the soul of Central Vietnam foods, being a part of a range of dishes including bánh đập mắm nêm, don xào, turmeric-braised white bait, vịt lộn, mỳ Quảng, offal porridge, and turmeric stir-fries — the crisp sounds of breaking up a cracker is iconic.

Next, the rows of confectionery kiosks house tangible reminders of a sweet childhood, quite literally. Blooming yellow bánh thuẫn remind me of previous Tết when I helped mom mix batter until my hands were exhausted. The black bánh ít lá gai and logs of sesame-covered bánh tổ bring back memories of my time with grandma. The vast range of sugar types evoke the imagery of endless sugarcane fields and the many desserts they flavored, like cakes, chè, dried sweet potatoes.

Quảng Nam-style bánh tổ is made of glutinous rice powder, sugar, ginger and sesame seeds, often eaten during festive time.

Bánh ít.

Different forms of raw sugar.

Lung sugar (đường phổi) is named after the final shape that resembles the lung.

The region’s umami-rich side is on display at mắm vendors, in many fermented condiments like anchovy mắm, mắm cái, mắm nêm, fermented baby eggplants, mắm ruốc, sardine mắm, and even flying fish mắm. Mắm cái, an assortment of fermented fish, is perhaps the favorite one in the eyes of Quảng Ngãi residents in my hometown. A few spoonfuls of mắm, some sugar, garlic, chili, and lime juice make for a tantalizing bowl of dipping sauce for fresh greens.

Of course, a stroll through Bà Hoa Market is never just for stocking the pantry, because the fragrance of readymade foods from everywhere would entice anyone to sit down for a plate of bánh đập mắm nêm. On top of a big grilled cracker lies a sheet of silky bánh ướt, smeared with chives oil and dipped in mắm.

Tasty dishes are made right in the market.

Besides, there’s always mỳ Quảng that sings of củ nén, eaten with simmered pork and shrimp, sesame crackers, roasted peanuts, fresh herbs, and chili jam. For something different, you can also seek out offal stir-fried with turmeric, lemongrass ốc ruốc, or bánh bèo served on puny plates with prawn floss and chives oil.

Wrapping bánh nậm using dong leaves.

If you have nothing going on this weekend, drop by Bà Hoa Market for a different type of hangout. You’ll not only get to feast on amazing food, but also get to know Central Vietnam’s exceptionally flavorful cuisine.

Bánh đập is a crepe-like dish combining a layer of cracker with a layer of rice sheet.

Mỳ Quảng, bánh bèo and chả Huế.

Tiny ốc lễ are stir-fried with lemongrass and chili.

Pork offal stir-fried with turmeric.

Hẻm Gems: An Alternative Cơm Tấm From Long Xuyên for Thịt Kho Trứng Fans

2026-07-13T09:00:00+07:00

When it comes to cơm tấm, most people are familiar with cơm tấm Sài Gòn, featuring grilled pork ribs as the vedette topping. But since the dish’s creation, and as it gained popularity across the Mekong delta and southern Vietnam, another cơm tấm variant emerged alongside cơm tấm Sài Gòn. This version became so cherished by the locals that it was named after its birthplace — cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

I recently tried this dish for the first time at Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh. I arrived with the expectation to have the usual cơm tấm Sài Gòn, but I saw the Long Xuyên-style listed on the menu, and curiosity got the best of me.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is hidden in a nondescript hẻm in District 3.

The shop is nestled in an alley that links Kỳ Đồng Street with the road along the Nhiêu Lộc Canal. It’s a modest spot with an open house where food is prepared and ordered, while customers sit across the house in the front yard of another neighbor that serves as both a parking area and a dining space. There’s another branch in Gò Vấp District, but I chose this location because it’s closest to my house and workplace.

To place an order, one must weave through a sea of delivery staff from food-hailing apps.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is run by a family from southwestern Vietnam. They started as a snack shop more than 10 years ago but only began serving many types of cơm tấm in 2021. Their signature dish is cơm tấm Long Xuyên, a culinary highlight of their hometown, but they also offer the more common Saigon-style cơm tấm with toppings like chicken or tender ribs.

For a cơm tấm place that’s only three years old, Tị Quỳnh is surprisingly busy during the lunch hours. But after ordering a portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên, I was fortunate enough to find a seat. About 5–10 minutes later, my dish was ready.

The standard portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên has rice, pickles, fish sauce, thinly sliced braised pork belly and eggs.

The most noticeable difference between Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm and the Saigon version is the topping. Instead of grilled pork, it features caramelized pork and eggs, both sliced into thin strips, with a drizzle of braised sauce to enhance the flavors. Upon tasting, the main topping offers a delightful mix of textures. The yolk of the boiled egg provides a creamy mouthfeel, the pork strips contain both tender lean cuts and crispy, chewy fatty cuts.

If one is looking for something more substantial, pork chops and ốp la are great add-ons.

Another unique feature of cơm tấm Long Xuyên that one can observe from eating the dish is the rice. Known as “cơm tấm nhuyễn,” it is a type of broken rice with smaller grains and a firmer texture compared to Saigon’s common broken rice. To get this cơm tấm nhuyễn, the shop has to source it from Long Xuyên. When served fresh and hot, the grains give off a gentle, comforting aroma. With each spoonful, I can feel the fluffiness of the grain.

Essential elements of cơm tấm.

Sweet fish sauce is the element that ties everything together and can make or break any cơm tấm dish. Long Xuyên’s style fish sauce is also quite distinctive, thanks to its thicker, more pronounced sweetness. After all, Long Xuyên is located in Miền Tây, where sweetness is a hallmark of the region's culinary identity. Pouring the fish sauce onto the toppings ensures that each serving is filled with rich, inviting flavors.

A lunch for champions.

Upon finishing the dish, what fascinates me about cơm tấm Long Xuyên is the culmination of contrasting aspects. On one hand, the thick sweet fish sauce, and the light, delicate grains of cơm tấm nhuyễn guide me into the essence of a local delicacy from a faraway region. On the other hand, the main topping is caramelized pork and eggs, a renowned dish that evokes memories of family meals. Almost every Lunar New Year, my mom prepares a big batch of caramelized pork and eggs to ensure we have enough food stocked up throughout the holidays. It gives me a homey feeling, even though I’m savoring cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

In conclusion, Tị Quỳnh offered me a savory introduction to a southwestern specialty, Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm. A dish that truly reflects the palates of its homeland. When tasting a regional dish like this, there are elements that are new and different from what I'm used to, yet there are also elements that remind me that, no matter where we come from, there are things that still bind us all together.

This article was originally published in 2024.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–2pm; 4pm–9pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0962359528
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh

19E Kỳ Đồng, Ward 9, D3, HCMC

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.

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

Bánh Ú Tro Wraps the Childhood Joy of Tết Đoan Ngọ Within Its Green Leaves

2026-06-19T10:00:00+07:00

Since the beginning of our festive history, Vietnam’s special occasions have always been closely associated with traditional dishes. Lunar New Year is the time to enjoy bánh chưng and bánh tét, while the arrival of Trung Thu is foretold by the appearance of moon cakes and bánh pía. In the case of Tết Đoan Ngọ, revelers eat bánh bá trạng and bánh ú tro to get a taste of festivity.

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

Tết Đoan Ngọ falls on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, marking the midway point of the lunar yearly calendar. It’s observed by not only Vietnam but many East Asian nations too, such as China, Japan, and North and South Korea. Each celebrates the occasion via different customs, but most involve warding off bad mojo and wishing for health and bountiful harvests.

In Vietnam, Tết Đoan Ngọ’s existence is rooted in ancient Vietnamese’s agrarian life. As researcher Trần Ngọc Thêm explains in the book Tìm về bản sắc văn hóa Việt Nam (Revisiting Vietnam’s Cultural Identity): “[Vietnam] lies across the Tropic of Cancer, so summers are sweltering and uncomfortable, negatively affecting human health. Luckily, as part of the routine of rice growers, farmers must always monitor the weather to minimize its harmful effects and make full use of natural advantages. That was how Tết Đoan Ngọ traditions formed.”

Bánh ú tro as part of an altar offering plate for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

Some Vietnamese refer to Tết Đoan Ngọ casually as Tết diệt sâu bọ (Pest Removal Festival). During the lunar May, the weather is often intensely hot, peppered by bouts of heavy rain, both conducive to the proliferation of bugs while weakening human immunity. To “remove pests,” at midday on the fifth day, families set up festive altar offerings to their ancestors to seek successful harvests, good health, and a peaceful life. Some other customs include picking medicinal herbs, bathing in water steeped with leaves, and dabbing lime water on young children to deworm, etc.

Each region in Vietnam has a slightly different offering platter, depending on local beliefs and produce. This diversity and uniqueness can be observed in the writings of authors like Phan Kế Bính, Vũ Bằng, and Nhất Thanh: “If the platter of northerners must include red watermelons, central platters from Thanh Hóa to Huế can’t leave out duck meat. Those living in the Quảng stretch often put up sticky rice, chè, and bánh ú tro. In the south, chè trôi nước and xôi gấc are a given. People from across the South-Central, South and some locations in the North eat bánh ú tro and bánh gio. It’s common to see chè kê and grilled rice paper in Huế.” Across that eclectic range of altar treats, bánh ú tro is the rare delicacy that appears all over Vietnam.

Bánh ú tro on the altar

Bánh ú tro is made from glutinous rice and wrapped in green leaves. Despite its name, the dumpling is often just the size of a child’s fist. To make it, first, the rice must be soaked in ash water for 24 hours. The soaking liquid’s slight alkalinity helps partially hydrolyze the starch in rice, so when the rice is cooked, the result is transparent like jelly, no rice grain in sight. This soaking is believed to make bánh ú tro easier to digest than other rice dumplings. Just bite into it, one can taste the faint taste of ash, but also a refreshing feeling.

Bánh ú tro (bánh gio) is eaten with molasses in Northern Vietnam.

In each locality, the dumpling manifests in a subtly different form, taste, and eating style. Northern Vietnam calls it bánh gio, bánh nẳng, or bánh âm; this version doesn’t feature a filling and is served with molasses, hence the name bánh gio mật. Via the baskets of street vendors, bánh gio mật travels across the streets of the region, bestowing its sticky, molassy, and “ashy” goodness on eaters.

Shape-wise, makers can choose to wrap it pyramidally, squarely or cylindrically like a banana. To serve, bánh gio is placed on a plate with a drizzle of molasses. Diners section off smaller pieces using a bamboo string. Sweet, refreshing, sparkling with molasses — bánh gio is something to relish slowly, so that elegant taste lingers for longer on your tongue.

Bánh ú tro can be pyramids, squares, or even cylinders.

In Central Vietnam, bánh ú tro appears as pyramids, sold in bundles of 10. Some say the pyramid shape symbolizes a mountain’s stability, but others believe that the dumpling represents elemental harmony: fire creates earth, like how the burnt ash forms the glutinous coating, shielding the rice in the middle, which was nurtured by earth. Central Vietnamese like both bánh ú with and without a filling, but children adore the chewy outer layer, especially when dipped in molasses or rock sugar grains.

Down south, bánh ú tro is best known as bánh ú lá tre. The shape is still a pyramid, but the filling is much more diverse: apart from the traditional mung bean paste, there are also durian, coconut, candied coconut, and candied winter melon. This version is already sweet on its own, so there’s no need to dip in anything. All you need to do is peel away the leaf wrapping and then go to town on them, one by one.

How to make bánh ú tro

Bánh ú tro might seem unassuming, but its preparation is a whole tedious process that often begins every year from the end of lunar April. Bánh ú bakeries often operate around the clock during this peak season to meet orders for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

Bánh ú lá tre.

Across Vietnam, many craft villages are nationally famous for their bánh ú tro, like Đình Bảng (Bắc Giang), Đắc Sở (Hoài Đức, Hanoi), Tây Đình (Vĩnh Phúc), Phú Yên (Bình Định), Hoán Mỹ (Quảng Nam), Yên Lãng (Thanh Hóa), and even Saigon has its own bánh ú neighborhood.

In the most traditional preparation, bánh ú makers must begin the process months before the midyear period. They gather firewood, leaves, and fruit peels of ideal plants. The plant matter is dried, burnt and then sieved to produce fine ash. In each locality, the plant species might vary: dền gai, xoan, pommelo peel, and banana peel in the north; Thanh Tiên Village in Huế uses the ash from brick kilns; Quảng Nam prefers the ash from mè trees, as the oil from the ash is believed to improve the texture of the dumpling’s outer layer. Some families just use the ashes from their kitchen, which come from straw and charcoal.

How to wrap a bánh ú.

The ashes are mixed with pickling lime and water, then left alone for a few days. After the sediments have settled down, the alkaline water on top is removed and used in cooking as ash water. The concentration of the ash water plays a key role in whether the texture and taste of bánh ú would be ideal. If the alkalinity is too high, the dumpling will turn out pungent and bitter. Conversely, low alkalinity will produce dumplings that are tough and grainy. Glutinous rice, when soaked, will turn different colors, like opaque grey, sienna, or even hay yellow. Once the grains get to the desired translucence, the cook will remove them and rinse them a few times to remove the ash water.

There are many choices of leaves for the wrapping, including bamboo, dong, banana, or đót. The leaves are washed then blanched in boiling water or sun-dried to make them more pliable. A few layers of leaves are folded into a funnel and then filled with rice. The filling is added in this step too. The leaves are then pinched on top into shape and tied up using grass strings. Each bundle of bánh ú has 10 dumplings. The bundles are boiled for 4–6 hours, removed and soaked in cold water to stop the cooking. Finally, the bundles are hung on bamboo canes to dry.

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

Although not as widely celebrated and popular as other special occasions of the year, Tết Đoan Ngọ is still a nice occasion to check in with one’s family, perhaps over a bánh ú tro or two.

“The simple joy of Tết is just seeing the block of dough appear like sparkling amber. The rice grains have completely mushed together, soft and elastic to the touch.”

I still remember vividly the weight of bánh ú in my hands as I heave in a lungful of bamboo leaf scent, carefully peeling away the wrapping to reveal the dumpling inside. The simple joy of Tết is just seeing the block of dough appear like sparkling amber. The rice grains have completely mushed together, soft and elastic to the touch. The outer layer is jiggly and chewy, tastes of ashes — perfectly accompanied by the nutty and sweet mung bean filling. If that year my mother decided to go all out with a durian bánh ú, then that would be another layer of special fragrance. Vegetarian bánh ú is also good for dipping in table sugar, rock sugar grains, or even molasses.

Every time Tết Đoan Ngọ comes, I can’t help but yearn for the flavors of bánh ú tro, not just because of its inviting taste, but also because of everything that this humble dumpling encapsulates: the aroma of the leaf wrapping, the meaningful customs of our culture, and the bond linking generations of our family together.

This article was originally published in 2025.

Hẻm Gems: Om Momo Brings Stories, Tasty Dumplings From Tibet to Saigon

2026-06-14T10:00:00+07:00

Though I’ve known about momos for quite some time, it was only recently when I first visited Om Momo — a cozy little Tibetan restaurant tucked deep inside a dark nook in Thảo Điền — that I finally tried momos. Inside, one finds a world with a life of its own: at its center stands a mysterious figure, thinly veiled by a cylindrical sheath of turquoise; hung on the walls are vibrantly colored photographs and artworks; and between them sit tables of diners who gaze and converse around salt-rock lamps that warmly illuminate the room.

For those unfamiliar with the dish, the momo is a Tibetan dumpling, distinct from other dumplings in a few key ways. Importantly, the dough is thicker and thus chewier, and its meaty filling is considerably minimalist — which Om Momo’s owner Tsering Tashi Gyalthang attributes to the lack of abundance of ingredients in the mountains of Tibet. At Om Momo, one can choose between a filling of lamb, beef, or chicken, though they also serve a delicious vegetarian spinach and cheese momo. As Tsering puts it, the taste of momos are “pure” in that they emphasize and foreground the natural flavors of its ingredients.

Tsering (left) opened Om Momo in a secluded corner of a residential compound in Thảo Điền.

From producing videos to momos

The journey that brought Tsering — a man who seemingly embodies a combination of charisma and soft gentleness — to open Om Momo is a strange and fascinating one. Ever since arriving in Vietnam as a young man in the early 2000s, Tsering has worked as a filmmaker and director, mostly on boutique commercial films and advertising, though from time to time, also on artistic and documentary films. His career as an ad director took a turn two years ago, however, when he hosted some of his Tibetan friends to work on a film in the Mekong Delta as part of State of Statelessness, an anthology film exploring the Tibetan experience of statelessness that has now screened in prestigious film festivals across the world.

Prayer flags above the al fresco area at Om Momo.

During their visit, he and his friends frequently made and shared food together, including, above all, momos — as Tsering explains, momos are a dish that is communal by nature due to the incredible amount of work that goes into each stage of making them. Such an experience was not anything new, as he was used to frequently hosting Tibetans passing by the city as Tibet’s “unofficial ambassador” to Vietnam, as he jokingly calls himself. Yet, this time, the communal experience of making and sharing momos left him craving for more. “All these years making advertisements as a director, it was never mine, no matter how beautiful I made it,” he recalled reflecting afterwards. “I was feeling at the time I wanted to do something very human. I wanted to do something by hand, something I could hold.” He decided that, whatever happens, he wanted his next project to be related to food.

Mastering how to make dumplings was the owner's personal project in 2024.

The following year in 2024, he thus embarked on a project to devote the year to learning just one thing: making the perfect dumpling. He first went back to his hometown to learn from his friends and mom, frequenting old favorite places to get inspiration. When he returned to Saigon with the new knowledge and insights he gained, he started making dumplings at home every day. With the oversupply of dumplings, he offered his cooking to his friends, who tasted all versions, beginning with what Tsering describes as “really terrible” first trials all the way to the momos that one can now find at Om Momo.

The cozy interior of the restaurant.

Though his friends frequently floated the idea of selling his dumplings, Tsering had always been resistant to it. “I was still very uncomfortable about selling,” he explained. “I've been an artist my whole life… and as artists, we always have a kind of shyness about selling our work.” Yet, by the end of his year of making momos, Tsering felt like he was not only more patient, but also braver to tackle new things than ever before.

Thus, when his neighbor who ran a cafe asked if he wanted to take over their spot, he surprisingly said yes. “If somebody had asked me this a year before, I would have said hell no. But because of a year of meditating while making momos, I thought: Why not? Let’s do it. I called up Anto, my best friend back home, to come right away to give me a hand. And that’s how we started.”

A home in Saigon for momos and other Tibetan treats

The striking grace and beauty of Om Momo’s momos are perhaps a testament to the incredible amount of time and effort that Tsering put into mastering their form and taste. Traditionally, momos are had plain, often dipped into a fermented Tibetan chili sauce. Om Momo offers three different house-made condiments at three different levels of spice, all delicious with their own unique flavor profiles, the spiciest bringing with it quite the punch and tingle.

Guess which one of these chili sauces is the spiciest.

But though Om Momo offers momos plain, they also serve momos on a bed of Indian-style curry sauce with an assortment of spices — each type of momo paired with a different type of sauce. As Tsering explains, momos have become quite popular in India, where it is often served along Indian-spiced sauces as street food. Following the 1959 Tibetan Uprising, tens of thousands of Tibetans, including the 14^th Dalai Lama, fled Tibet to seek refuge in India, a country which has since become home to the largest community of Tibetan exiles. Thus, for Tsering, served this way, the dish serves as an homage to India, where he too grew up as a Tibetan refugee in the country’s Northern outskirts.

It is perhaps hard to think of a bite more perfect than a beautifully folded dumpling: a culinary Trojan horse that brings with it a burst of flavor that floods the mouth. Smothered in sauce, the momos become doubly explosive. Much as one reaches for bread to soak up a good sauce, the momo’s chewy dough works wonderfully to accompany the rich gravy and savory filling. I find that there is something extremely satisfying about eating each momo in a single, albeit not so easy to fit, bite, so as to experience its gush of flavor in a single mouthful.

Beef momo

Spinach and cheese momo in green sauce

Chicken momo in yellow sauce

Aside from the specialty momos, the restaurant serves other Tibetan dishes as well. Shapta is a stir-fry dish served with tender beef or chicken with bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes — quite spicy, though its spice works well with the tingmo served on the side, a fluffy Tibetan steamed bun. Other dishes include chicken shamdey, a chicken and potato stew served with rice that Tsering describes as Tibetan comfort food, and kewa datshi, soft potatoes in a rich chili and cheese sauce.

Tibetan bread

Chicken shamdey

Beef shapta

Om Momo’s desserts are also worth trying. Interestingly, Tsering explains that Om Momo’s desserts are inspired by and dedicated to people in this world for whom he cares deeply. The pear poached in red wine and spices atop of the pulp of house-made Tibetan rice wine — the shape of which resembles a lama sitting in meditation — is named the “Drunken Lama,” dedicated to the Bhutanese lama and filmmaker Dzongsar Khyentse Riponche. The chocolate lava cake is dedicated to Tsering’s daughter, who loves chocolate, and the Tibetan rose panna cotta was made to satiate his girlfriend’s seemingly insatiable love for panna cotta.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s belief that “food is storytelling.”

After our meal, the Saigoneer team also tried Tibetan butter tea: a kind of fermented black tea mixed with a spoonful of butter. Almost every aspect of the tea comes as a surprise. Firstly, the tea is served in what is best described as a wooden bowl, huge in contrast to what one normally expects of a “cup” of tea. But perhaps what is more surprising is that the tea is salty — and as a result, the tea tastes somewhat like melted, salty hot ice cream. The mix of tea, salt, and butter, Tsering explains, offers Tibetans the boost they need to power through the day. While the butter used at Om Momo is cow butter, traditionally, the tea is made with yak butter, the taste of which Tsering describes as “rancid,” a word which admittedly piqued my curiosity. While butter tea may not be for everyone — myself included, somewhat shamefully — it is worth trying at least once for the experience alone.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s impassioned belief that “food is storytelling.” This manifests in the way that the dishes at Om Momo are carefully crafted as embodiments and expressions of certain stories from Tsering’s own life. But more broadly, Tsering views Om Momo as a storytelling project also in that, through it, he hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might in turn set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet: its history, culture, and people, about whom many people in Saigon know nothing about. “For many people, our food is their first introduction to Tibet,” Tsering explains. “The goal is for everything — the art, the music, the food — to make people curious.”

He hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might, in turn, set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet.

To sum up:

Opening time: 12pm–9:30 weekdays, 11:30am–10pm weekends
Parking: Cars and motorbikes
Contact: 0918 699 697
Average cost per person: $$ (around VND200,000 VND)
Payment: All forms accepted
Delivery App: N/A

Om Momo

11/2 Street No. 57, An Khánh, HCMC

Cà Rem Cây, Kem Chuối and the Frozen Tickets to Our Childhood

2026-06-01T10:00:00+07:00

Sometimes, when I hear the distant sound of a tinkling bell, fond memories of summer days from my wonder years come flooding back to me.

Like many children who grew up in the city, I greeted the summers of my childhood with a sense of dread and boredom. The relentless extension of the urban sprawl had robbed us of the joy of flying kites in a field, or splashing in a cool pond. Instead, we endured the scorching heat in our concrete cocoon, our little bodies drenched in sweat if we dared venture outside to play. When it was high noon, our alleyway fell quiet and deserted, everyone sought refuge indoors to escape the punishing sun.

Kem ốc quế (ice cream cones).

Amidst that stifling atmosphere, the only sound that could break the silence was the gentle, rhythmic ringing of a bell. My eyes, momentarily drooped due to midday drowsiness, would suddenly open wide. My ears would strain to locate the source of the sound and I would quickly slip on my flip-flops and scurry along the sizzling asphalt road to follow the fading echo. Slowing down to a complete stop at a corner of the alley, an old motorbike stood, resting on its seat was a metal freezer box.

"Ice cream...here comes ice cream!" — the driver, a man whom I would later only know as “the ice cream uncle,” belted enthusiastically, bringing out all the children in the neighborhood. In my memory, the ice cream uncle was a hot-season version of Santa Claus — he was not plump, jolly-looking, nor bearded. Rather, the uncle was a scrawny and tan-skinned figure, his complexion darkened from hustling under the sun all day long. But calling him Santa Claus wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, as every time he came, he brought with him joyful and refreshing treats to share with us.

Kem đá bào (Shaved ice with syrup).

From the icebox at the back of his carriage, the uncle scooped out small balls of ice cream, placed them on crumbly waffle cones, and sprinkled some crushed peanuts and Ông Thọ condensed milk on top. There was even a house special, where three ice cream scoops were rolled into a sweet bread roll, priced at only VND2,000–5,000. In the hot Saigon noontime, a bite into these frozen sorbets felt like being transported to a distant oasis, where gentle breezes and calm blue lakes and seas awaited us urban-bound children.

Those were the years when I was in elementary school. I would pocket every bit of loose change around the house just to experience that fleeting moment of coolness and sweetness. On days when I couldn't manage to scrape together any money, I would stand by the door, peering for a long time until the shadow of the vehicle disappeared and the tinkling sound faded away, as if summer had left me behind.

By today's standards, my childhood treat is not considered fancy or even exceptionally delicious. The texture is airy rather than creamy, and as it is mostly made of ice, it melts more quickly than one could have enjoyed. The flavors were simple — strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, and if one was really lucky, taro or coconut. Sometimes, the only difference was in appearance, as they most probably all used the same flavoring agents. Food safety was also not ideal back in the day, so unexpected bowel movements were always a likelihood, a cautionary tale that the media would often warn children about to deter consumption.

Kem ống/kem que (popsicles).

The Vietnamese word for ice cream, kem (or cà rem in the Southern dialect) originated from the French word “crème” as the dish was introduced to Vietnam during the French colonial period. Crème refers to creme fraiche or fresh cream, an essential ingredient for making a true gelato as the west would define it.

Kem ốc quế, the version that I indulged in as a child, however, only constituted powdered milk and sweetener, thus lacking the rich and creamy flavor its western counterpart possessed. It was an adaptation by Vietnamese society in a period of economic hardships after Đổi Mới. Fresh milk and pure cream were still considered luxury items, and their preservation was costly. Thanks to simple, makeshift freezer boxes, children from working or middle-class families like mine could still taste the flavors of summer.

Kem bòn bon (ice pop).

I came to realize that our subsequent summers were filled with many “ice cream-like but not actually ice cream” treats similar to this. They arrived on bicycles and motorcycles, carried by tan-skinned Santas, characterized by the tinkling sound of bells, or even accompanied by a loud pre-recorded announcement from blaring speakers.

A favorite of mine was a dessert called xi rô đá bào. The vendor, with a cloth in hand, would hold a large block of ice and scrape thin ice shavings onto a cup. Colorful syrups and condensed milk were drizzled over the ice to create a sweet and fancy flavor. To add a touch of sourness, slices of fruits like oranges or limes could be sprinkled on top. The syrup, stored in a green glass container without a label, was a good indicator that it was a reliable, authentic xi rô đá bào cart.

Frozen yogurt.

Kem ống emerged as an upgrade from kem ốc quế, featuring a wider variety of flavors like mung bean, black bean, or jackfruit. In a stainless steel container, each ice cream stick was placed in a long, pointed iron tube. The pre-mixed powdered milk was poured into the tubes, which were then shaken, rotated, and sealed. Inside the container were large trays of ice covered with salt to ensure maximum coldness. After a few minutes, the liquid had frozen, and each ice cream stick emitted a plume of smoke when placed in my hand.

Later on, as household appliances became more affordable, even the neighbors in my community could participate in the homemade ice cream industry. I no longer had to wait for the tinkling sound of bells at the end of the alley. I could simply visit the local tạp hóa whenever I craved bòn bon, ya-ua, or kem chuối.

Bòn bon was made with fruit-flavored syrup poured into plastic tubes, while ya-ua was frozen in pouches, and kem chuối was a mixture of coconut milk, condensed milk, and mashed plantains. My joy during summer days revolved around standing in front of the freezer section, feeling lightheaded from the cool air, and carefully selecting the largest ice cream bars or pouches, just like how my mother picked vegetables at the market.

Kem chuối (banana pops).

I have since grown up and ventured far from the old alley. The sound of bells rarely echoes in the city, and I don't know where to find many of the old-fashioned ice cream flavors anymore. Rapid economic development has allowed people to enjoy ice cream made from actual dairy and fruits, of various flavors and origins. On a scorching summer day, I can treat myself to an organic Italian gelato, an avocado frozen treat from Đà Lạt, or a bowl of Korean bingsu. And yet, a taste of childhood lingers in the back of my mind: that powdery, artificial sweetness that made the hot noons less oppressive, enough to make one feel instantly like a child again upon hearing the fleeting sound of bells passing by on a summer day.

This article was originally published in 2023.

Hẻm Gems: Indonesia's Ayam Penyet Is a Smashing Celebration of Spices

2026-05-25T10:00:00+07:00

The most straightforward definition by which to explain ayam penyet to the Vietnamese layperson is perhaps “cơm gà Indo.” It’s technically not wrong: the dish has rice and chicken, and originates from Indonesia. But once you've actually sunk your teeth into this special fried chicken, the translation seems unfairly reductive because ayam penyet is so much better than the sum of its parts.

Editor's note: As of March 2024, Ayam Penyet Vindo has moved to 24 Điện Biên Phủ. The interior depicted in the review features the previous location.

You can’t go 500 meters in Saigon without bumping into cơm gà. Combining the cheapest carbohydrate and the cheapest meat, permutations of chicken rice are available to people of all ages, financial situations, and walks of life. With just VND50,000 or less, Saigoneers can wolf down a portion of Hainanese-style chicken rice or crispy cơm gà xối mỡ just around the corner from their natural habitat. This poultry love is not limited to Saigon, as many other Vietnamese localities have concocted their own versions as well, such as cơm gà Hội An, Phú Yên, Nha Trang, and Phan Rang, among others.

Ayam Penyet Vindo's light box.

As a cơm gà hobbyist, I find great pleasure in its level of ubiquity, but for home cooks aspiring to break into the commercial scene with their own creations, this means there are many chickens in the market to compete against. The owner duo behind Ayam Penyet Vindo, Lizam and Ricoh, find the popularity of cơm gà in Vietnam both an opportunity and a challenge to overcome — how to convince local customers’ taste buds that ayam penyet is not just typical rice with fried chicken.

Originating from Java, ayam penyet is nothing fancy, though its accessibility means there are thousands of versions out there. “Ayam” means “chicken” and “penyet” is Javanese for “smashed.” After being fried, the chicken leg is pounded to break up the meat. Some theorize that the action is to make it easy to eat ayam penyet by hand, but Ricoh tells me that it’s to release the moisture so that once sambal is applied on top, the meat will absorb the sauce, becoming more flavorful.

According to Singaporean food blogger Tony Boey, this now-commonplace dish had its beginning in sambal tempe penyet from the East Javan city Surabaya where tempeh — fermented whole soybeans pressed into blocks — is fried and pressed into a plate of sambal. This is a favorite meal of Pak Wardoyo, the son of Puspo Wardoyo, the founder of Ayam Bakar Wong Solo restaurant chain, so he added it to their menu, and later Pak incorporated fried chicken to form a new dish called “ayam penyet” in 1992. The smashed chicken gradually grew in fame, spreading to the rest of the country, and even to nearby neighbors like Malaysia, Singapore, and now Vietnam.

From house party to restaurant

Having sampled some particularly memorable ayam penyet versions in Singapore, I often find myself daydreaming about sambal chicken and airy fried batter flakes. A spontaneous Google query during the lockdown in 2021 brought up Ayam Penyet Vindo, a casual upstart promising authentic fried chicken from their home base on Cống Quỳnh Street, which has since shuttered as the Vindo duo ventured outside the alley onto the streets of downtown District 1. As you make a turn from Điện Biên Phủ into Mạc Đĩnh Chi, it’s impossible to miss the bold red-and-yellow sign of Vindo. The restaurant’s dining area is sparse, with a small entrance furnished with a few table sets, and a cozy air-conditioned corner upstairs.

Vindo is open from 10am to 10pm.

Vindo is run by Lizam, a Malaysian, and Ricoh, an Indonesian, who had been close friends for years before they decided to dip their toes into the F&B world. Lizam, with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm demeanor, represents the cautious, measured half of the pair, while bespectacled Ricoh fills in the rest with an adventurous streak and knowledge of Indonesian cuisine.

Back in Malaysia, the two met in 2014 while working for the same rubber company: Lizam in marketing and Ricoh in a technical role, a dynamic that they said carried over into the restaurant’s genesis. The friends moved to Vietnam in 2016 and 2017, following a call for a foreign partnership from a Vietnamese rubber company. Working together in Vietnam, they once shared an apartment and sometimes would cook dishes from home; this was the setting for the first spark leading to Vindo. Being an Indonesian restaurant, Vindo’s original chicken recipe naturally came from Ricoh, though once they realized that this flavorsome chicken was something special, they worked together to perfect it into an easy-to-follow recipe for the kitchen staff.

Lizam and Ricoh, the owners, came to Vietnam in 2017 and 2016, respectively.

“One day, in the evening, I fried chicken, then he [Lizam] said he loved it so much. Then I suggested ‘how about we make ayam penyet?’” Ricoh recalls. He would make ayam penyet again for a Malaysian buddy, and slowly the tasty fried chicken gained a reputation among their Malaysian and Indonesian friends in Saigon. “They love the chicken so much, so people would call and say ‘Please come to my house and eat chicken together.’ They ask me to cook the chicken. I said ‘Oh my god, I cannot cook for you every day.’”

We pooled the money, got the place, and rented it. Do first, worry later.

Nonetheless, getting from “this is some delicious chicken, we should sell it” to opening an actual business is not a simple A-to-B journey. “We didn’t agree [on the decision to open the restaurant]. We spent a month or two playing devil’s advocate. He was ‘pro,’ I was ‘con,’” Lizam explains. “After a while, Ricoh said ‘let’s just rent a place and do it.’ So we pooled the money, got the place, and rented it. Do first, worry later.” It took them about a month to test the whole dish together to reach a final product that can appeal to most Saigoneers, meaning trying to temper the heat in the sambal so as not to blow people’s heads off with Indonesia-level spiciness.

A chicken by any other name

Clockwise: ayam panggang, ayam penyet, ayam kremes, gado-gado, and nasi goreng in the middle.

At Vindo, the menu is decidedly straightforward: the main attraction is chicken leg quarters done in various ways. The headliner, of course, is ayam penyet, a fried chicken leg gently smashed and slathered in a coat of bright, pungent sambal. Ayam panggang instead subjects the leg to open flame in a grill while rendang ayam is chicken that has been braised for hours in coconut milk and a host of aromatics. If one is tired of poultry, there’s also fried rice in the form of nasi goreng, and a sweet peanut salad in the form of gado-gado, both officially recognized as Indonesian national dishes. Each chicken plate arrives with rice, fried tofu, tempeh, and a dollop of sambal.

Nasi goreng.

Gado-gado.

Differentiating their fried chicken from the corner cơm gà in the eyes of eaters is a continuous concern for the pair, though, if the addition of sambal and native accouterments like tempeh is not enough to do that, the flavor of the chicken leg would surely suffice. Having been parboiled with spices before being fried, the chicken absorbs much of its surroundings to stand on its own, but the sambal topping really equips it with a powerful punch. Notes of galangal, turmeric, chili, and garlic seep into every bite, cutting the oily side of the frying. We enjoy the sambal so much that we have to order an extra bowl to smear on everything.

The flavorful chicken is enveloped in a layer of sambal.

A slice of tempeh.

According to Ricoh, every day he has to make three batches of fresh sambal, each with a different level of heat. If this was Indonesia, we likely would need just one — at the hottest level — but alas the sweet tooth of Saigoneers necessitates palatal coddling. I am guilty as charged, and I enjoy dipping my chicken into the Level 1 sambal a lot.

Vindo’s ayam penyet is just as delectable as my memory serves, but admittedly, it’s just No. 2 in my ranking of dishes here: the first position belongs to their rendang ayam. It’s a festive treat whose main method of imbuing flavors into the meat is by cooking it for hours and hours, as Lizam aptly puts in my favorite description of anything we sampled during our visit: “Rendang is like ‘Danggg, you don’t have rendang?’” Its existence is so natural in any self-proclaimed Indonesian eatery that people will bemoan its lack thereof. With every slight maneuver of my cutlery, the meat falls off the bone, deeply infused with a coconut-rich sauce that prompts me to demolish the entire portion of rice as quickly as it arrives.

Ayam kremes.

Ayam panggang.

There used to be a time when Vindo’s following was made up of nearly all Malaysians and Indonesians, but now, they tend to book takeaway orders rather than make time to dine in. On weekends, Indonesian households living in suburban Saigon or nearby localities visit the restaurant as a stop during a family outing, but during the weekday lunch rush, Vindo’s tables host groups of Japanese office workers, curious passersby, and even gaggles of young Vietnamese eager to sample new, exciting food.

“We are a halal restaurant. People always think halal is ‘no pork,’ but it’s actually much bigger than that, it’s about the cleanliness, method of preparation, and the animals being used. We want to portray that it’s not just for Muslims,” Lizam says. “When you put in effort, when the food is good, the people are happy. The love is there.”

To sum up:

Opening time: 10am–10pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: +84 366 891 668
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab

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

Ayam Penyet Vindo

24 Điện Biên Phủ, Tân Định, HCMC

Ngõ Nooks: At Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy, a Broth That Bridges Hanoi Taste and Huế Flair

2026-05-18T13:00:00+07:00

In only three places have I enjoyed truly sumptuous bowls of bún bò giò heo: in its hometown of Huế, in Hội An and at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy in Hanoi.

I still remember how difficult it was to try and find bún bò giò heo in the capital after being spoiled by the meal’s true richness in central Vietnam. It always came down to one thing. In Huế, the broth derives its complexity from boiled bones, trotters and mắm ruốc (Huế-style shrimp paste), before being infused with lemongrass, chilies and cashew powder.

Hanoi’s version just seems watery and thin; in comparison, it was an apparition of flavor. Until I realized — that’s how Hanoians like it! It is common knowledge among Vietnamese that northerners prefer subtle tastes, while in the center and south it’s rich and well-seasoned nourishment that fits the palate.

Thankfully, Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy achieves a middle ground between the two by adapting their recipe to cater not only to Hanoians, but also those searching for a more authentic Huế style, like myself. Though their broth is clear and light and contains pineapple — something that would make my friends in Huế turn their noses up — the richness of the soup remains. Thùy, who owns the shop, is a Huế native and said she achieved the dish’s complexity through prolonged simmering of the bones. What’s more, all the shop’s condiments — mắm ruốc, chilli sauce, shallot vinegar — are shipped in directly from her hometown.

A complete bowl here is topped with thinly-sliced beef, tendon, a firm block of coagulated pig’s blood, a small pig trotter and a knob of chả cua (pork and crab ball). Thuy’s customers rave about the chả cua, to the extent that she fetches more from Huế a couple of times a week in order to keep them fresh. She’s also meticulous with her meat — the beef is always well-marbled and tender. And while I’ve munched on beef loin, brisket and meaty tendons elsewhere, I’ve actually never tried the cut served at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy: scrumptious and juicy beef cheeks.

In addition to bún bò giò heo, Thùy also serves bánh bột lọc and bánh nậm — two of the most popular dishes in Huế cuisine. Wrapped in banana leaves and then steamed, the former is pudgy, transparent and chewy, with savory shrimp pork fat inside, while the latter is flat, soft, and topped with minced meat and scallions. Although they aren't available every time I order, they are always fresh, and always my favorite.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7:30am–9:30pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 098 697 3578
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: Be

This article was originally published in 2018 on Urbanist Hanoi.

Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy

18 Đại Cồ Việt Street, Hai Bà Trưng District, Hanoi

Flash and Flimflam Won’t Earn Your Restaurant a 10 Year Legacy

2026-05-14T10:05:00+07:00

It happened when a young chef explained where he learned discipline, and when a kitchen manager recalled his first serious mentor. It happened again and again. Over the years, reporting on Saigon’s restaurant scene, Chef Sakal Phoeung’s name kept coming up. After finally sitting down with Sakal and learning more about his time in Vietnam and his approach to building teams and restaurants, I now understand why.

When Sakal first came to Vietnam more than twenty years ago, Saigon looked very different compared to today. Street food reigned and headlined Vietnam’s culinary scene while higher-end restaurants were mostly confined to hotels. The idea of building a long culinary career here was not yet obvious.

Born in Cambodia but raised in France, Sakal was hired by Sofitel Saigon shortly after it opened because of his experience at Michelin restaurants in Paris.

He arrived simply to work, without expecting to stay long – a common refrain for foreigners who have made their long-term homes in Saigon.

“Vietnam felt open,” he told me when looking back at those early days, adding that he saw room to try things, build a team, and to grow along with the city.

What impressed him most at that time was neither the available ingredients nor the techniques. It was the attitude of young Vietnamese cooks in his kitchen. Cooking was not yet an aspirational profession; most of them simply needed a job. But they learned quickly, listened carefully, and worked hard without complaining.

Building Le Corto

After ten years of working at the Sofitel, Sakal decided to go out on his own and opened Le Corto. "Le Corto today is very close to what I first imagined. The bistronomy spirit, the comfortable pricing, the Parisian-style service, and the intimate atmosphere are all still there,” he told Saigoneer.

A decade is a long time for any restaurant to endure. While many owners get stuck in a vortex of concept tweaking and trend chasing, Sakal his success to staying the course. “We never changed our core idea,” Sakal says. “We just kept improving.”

This improvement has been defined by sourcing better ingredients, expanding the wine selection, and above all, building a team through discipline and support. This all culminates in young chefs who stay longer, and guests who are confident in a consistent level of excellence.

While he may be reserved when speaking about mentorship, many chefs who worked under Sakal openly recall him fondly while emphasizing the same characteristic: discipline. In his kitchen, it all comes down to structure, precision, and only then creativity.

“I never saw my kitchen only as a place to train cooks,” Sakal told me. “It is about shaping people.”

Over the years, Le Corto’s prep stations, stoves, and ovens have become an unofficial incubator for a generation of young chefs. Some stayed a few years before opening their own restaurants, while others joined international kitchens. A few eventually stepped onto competition stages to represent Vietnam.

Despite it technically being a lost investment, Sakal knows that as part of their growth, they will eventually depart the nest. When he feels a young chef is ready to leave, he gives them one simple piece of advice: move for growth.

Bocuse d’Or

Bocuse d’Or Vietnam 2025 team comprised of chef/coach Daniel Nguyen, Sakal Phoeung, Chairman of Bocuse d’Or Vietnam, chef Vũ Xuân Trường, and chef Nguyễn Quang Tâm (from left to right).

Outside of Le Corto’s kitchen, Sakal seeks other ways to help Vietnam’s restaurant scene expand and develop. One way he does this is through Bocuse d’Or, one of the most demanding chef competitions in the world, sometimes described as the Olympics of gastronomy.

Teams from over 24 countries spend months preparing for a few intense hours of cooking once every two years. Thanks to Sakal and others, Vietnam now has a voice there.

Beyond the symbolic value of having Vietnam compete in the prestigious event, Sakal sees it as a way to build chefs who can perform with confidence, which pushes them to raise their level to that of their global peers in more developed culinary markets. “Talent is not the problem,” he says. “The challenge is preparation.”

The young chefs he mentors bring Vietnamese ingredients and stories to the stage, but these need to be supported by structure and calm, which Sakal preaches on a daily basis in the kitchen of Le Corto.

Staying in Vietnam

After more than two decades, Vietnam is no longer a temporary chapter for Sakal. Outside of the restaurant, he has become a fixture at early morning markets where he scours ingredients for his menu.

New set menu of Le Corto in 2026

I asked him what he hopes people remember about Le Corto. “Without Michelin stars or global rankings, Le Corto’s reputation has been built by diners themselves. That kind of recognition, coming directly from the public, means more to me than any award."

He wants guests to stay longer than planned, and in a city like Saigon, where people don’t often linger at restaurants unless actively engaged in an all-engrossing nhậu session, this is an achievement on its own.

Le Corto's website

Le Corto's Facebook Page

Le Corto's Email

028 3822 0671

Le Corto, 5D Nguyễn Siêu, Sài Gòn Ward, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Go Back in Time to Chợ Cũ's Golden Days via Cô Chánh's Hủ Tiếu Mì

2026-05-11T17:00:00+07:00

In the memory-scape of children growing up in the countryside like me, there always exists the familiar sight of old wet markets and the mornings we spent there, toddling behind our moms on the hunt for snacks, CDs, and lollipops. In the afternoons, I often tagged along with my grandma to buy meat and veggies, sneaking a toy or two inside her basket. Sometimes, if I was particularly sweet, she would allow us to have lunch there instead of at home.

After years of studying and working in Saigon, I once thought that these nostalgic scenes only live in my mind now, but on a trip to Tôn Thất Đạm’s chợ cũ, I was shocked to find a charming kiosk with the same retro display I remember from my childhood.

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh is located at 69 Tôn Thất Đạm, manned by the titular cô Chánh, whose real name is Huỳnh Thị Dung. She told me that the kiosk was a family heirloom from her uncle, who started selling noodles 60 years ago. When he emigrated abroad, he left the operation in her hands. At first, she kept it simple with just Guangdong-style hủ tiếu, but to cater to local demand, over time, she added more options to the menu, like hủ tiếu mì, wonton, meatballs, etc.

The flavors of cô Chánh’s noodle shop have changed across the decades too. The uncle moved away when she wasn’t a noodle master yet, so every day, she learns on the job by cooking the way she knows how while listening to customer feedback to improve her craft.

Diners have two options: large strands or small strands of noodles. Both share the same chewy texture and eye-catching golden hue. Other toppings like shrimp, fried garlic, fried pork lard, liver, heart, and pork add to the dining experience. Chunks of liver are cleaned properly so there’s no unpleasant smell with every bite. Cô Chánh has been getting her ingredients from the same trustworthy supplier over the years. The vat of bubbling broth in the corner, moderately seasoned and not too sweet, is an undeniable attraction luring curious shoppers to stop by. Each guest can modify the flavors of their bowl in whatever way they see fit with the range of Teochew vinegar and sauces on offer.

Slurping up a few spoonfuls of warm broth, I feel as if I was transported to the noodle stalls I enjoyed years ago. Cô Chánh’s noodles have that “vintage” flavor profile often seen in Hoa Vietnamese kitchens. The wontons are quite hefty with a thin wrapper and a well-season filling, keeping me hungry for more. The meat filling is a touch saltier than that of other stalls, but this balances the taste well in the context of the light broth. Apart from the taste, diners will no doubt feel delighted by the way she presents the bowls. Each slice of pork, each sprinkle of fried shallot, and each shrimp is arranged neatly on top of the noodles.

Cô Chánh shared that she wakes up every day at 4am to start prepping ingredients and usually finishes by 7pm. There used to be a time when this tiny kiosk could feed over 100 patrons in a day, mostly office workers from nearby buildings having breakfast or lunch. Post-pandemic, however, the foot traffic has dwindled. “Now, I sell about 30 bowls at most a day. Some days the revenue can’t even cover the ingredient costs,” cô Chánh sadly explained.

Whenever the kiosk is empty, cô Chánh and cô Gái, a friend who helps out with stall operation, start tidying and washing, before sitting down to chat about every topic in the universe. The chatter greatly contributes to the uniquely cordial vibes of the market, so much so that guests often feel comfortable enough to join in their conversations.

When asked about her kiosk partner, she said: “A long time ago, I was selling noodles, and she was selling sweets right next door. Business was quite bad at the market, so I asked her to hop over to sell noodles with me. Since then, we sisters have stuck together.” Perhaps it was thanks to that stroke of fate that cô Chánh’s noodle shop is always filled with laughter. They work well and play well, never one to shy away from teasing each other to ward off the exhaustion of a tough work day.

Cô Chánh is not getting any younger, so her health has declined somewhat, but she reassured me that she will continue selling noodles no matter what, as the kiosk has been a part of her life for decades — a constant source of happiness during the golden days of a Saigoneer who lives alone.

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 4.5/5

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh

69 Tôn Thất Đạm, Bến Nghé Ward, D1, HCMC

The Making of a Living Cuisine: The History of Nikkei Cuisine and its Arrival in Saigon at Nikura

2026-05-06T10:07:00+07:00

Separated by a vast ocean and home to an unrelated language, culture, and history, Japan would seemingly have minimal interaction with Peru. But a close relationship between the two nations goes back centuries.

In 1821, Peru won independence, and with the subsequent abolition of slavery, it needed plantation labor. Meanwhile, in the late 1800s, economic calamity in Japan resulted in thousands of poor farmers facing starvation. Alongside other immigrants, these Japanese arrived to work and, in doing so, set in motion a process of culinary evolution that would lead to the emergence of one of the most popular cuisines in 2026.

Japanese workers on a Peruvian plantation. Photo via Densho Digital Repository.

Upon arriving in Peru, the Japanese aimed to integrate into society, but their assimilation involved the intermingling of some culinary traditions. For example, to make ceviche, Peruvians would marinate seafood in citrus juice for hours, while the Japanese suggested just a few minutes. They also provided new ways to take advantage of the coastal nation’s abundant aquatic resources, as Peru hadn’t been accustomed to eating octopus or eel before. Over time, the Japanese left Peru’s plantations, with many entering the country’s food industry, where they introduced elements of what they had been cooking at home, including soy sauce, ginger, and tofu into local dishes, as well as preparation methods, including sashimi. Waves of Japanese businessmen towards the end of the century created demand for traditional dining from their homeland, which increased the availability of Japanese ingredients and expert chefs trained in Japan, adding another layer of interaction between Japanese and Peruvian foods.

By the beginning of the 20th Century, Nikkei, the name given to the cuisine that resulted from Japanese immigration to Peru, began expanding around the world. The famed Nobu chain of restaurants, of which several have received Michelin Stars, helped bring global interest and prestige to a cuisine defined as an intuitive merging of bold Peruvian flavors with precise Japanese preparation and presentation methods, with ample room for local adaptation. The opening of Nikura in Saigon now allows diners here to understand what makes the creative cuisine so popular.

Nikura’s Nikkei Chef De Cuisine, Ivan Casusol, was born and raised in Lima, where Nikkei’s first foundations were laid. After growing up with the cuisine, he brought it abroad via Nikkei restaurants in North America, the Middle East, and Asia. At Nikura, he not only introduces diners to its strong flavors and delicate techniques, but also its propensity for adaptation. Vietnam’s seafood and flavorful produce can be incorporated with high-end imported items to provide guests with an authentic experience that is beholden to no singular definition or dogmatic principle.

The best way to understand Nikkei cuisine, of course, is to try it. The central role of Peruvian chili peppers in bright, intense sauces is apparent in Nikura’s Concha, a dish that contains succulent seared Japanese scallops with a colorful, creamy, subtly spicy lime sauce. Meanwhile, a perfectly prepared A8 Wagyu steak reveals how Nikkei knows when to show restraint and let the inherent excellence of ingredients speak through expert technique. Finally, the Nikura rice, which contains cured ham broth, shiitake mushrooms, a poached egg, and a nutty sauce, spotlights how local ingredients can accompany novel preparations for moments never encountered before.

The interplay of Peru and Japan extends from the plate to Nikura’s space and ambiance. Patterns, textures, and visual inspiration appear on uniforms, decor, and architecture, embodying Japan’s understated elegance and Peru’s vibrance. Private dining rooms, a large patio beside an extensive organic garden that provides the restaurant with fresh ingredients, and seats in front of the open kitchen allow for a great variety of expectations.

Nikura’s ability to surprise diners through flavors and sensory details is matched by the adjacent modern cocktail bar, Pisco Hana. The room exudes upscale Japanese grace with hints of South American exuberance via live DJs who set, match, and respond to the room’s energy.

Pisco Hana’s menu adopts Nikura’s ethos of organic integration thanks to an extensive cocktail menu that features Japanese fruits, flowers, and liquors, and Peruvian spices and flavors, with an emphasis on seasonal Vietnamese products and preferences. A focus on mocktails and low-alcohol drinks further allows Pisco Hana to accommodate all varieties of visits, including gatherings before meals at Nikura, or after-dinner drinks to continue conversations long into the evening.

Nikkei exists because humans travel, migrate, trade, integrate, adapt, and share. It’s a living cuisine reflective of our creativity, flexibility, and appreciation for new experiences. When you take a bite of a dish at Nikura or a sip of a cocktail at Pisco Hana, your palate serves as a bridge spanning Japan and Peru.

Nikura's website

Phone +84 2835209999

Nikura, G Floor, JW Marriott Hotel & Suites Saigon, Saigon, Sài Gòn, Hồ Chí Minh 700000

How Soy Milk Symbolizes an Imagined Vietnam of My Childhood in France

2026-04-29T15:00:00+07:00

I still remember vividly the anticipation running through my veins, when I saw a waiter bringing me a glass of sữa đậu nành, every time my family took me to one of the many Vietnamese restaurants of the 13^th arrondissement of Paris, the city’s renowned Chinatown. It was a neighborhood I was bound to get dragged to as a French kid with a Vietnamese parent, whether I wanted to or not. For me, this glass represented the quintessence of typical Vietnamese drinks during a good meal: one of the rare glimpses into the daily customs of my ancestors’ culture.

The dishes in those restaurants were good, but I was used to eating them at home, cooked by my grandmother. They were already part of my usual experiences, and as such, didn’t evoke the special feeling of Vietnamese authenticity, not like sữa đậu nành. I can recall restaurants’ over-the-top decorations, and customers shouting, one louder than another. In the midst of it, I only focused on my drink: it tasted mild, but with a slight earthy note. More than anything, the coldness shielded me from the heat of the meal, which I couldn't wait to devour.

A Vietnamese restaurant in Paris with al fresco seats. Photo via Noodlies.

Soy milk isn't the only drink offered there, and there are versions of it everywhere. From cans at the store around the corner to homemade soy milk, the quality might differ depending on the restaurant, but it’s always on the menu. This is why I was certain that soy milk was the go-to drink for any Vietnamese person when eating out: the real taste of Vietnam.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Saigon to discover that the first restaurant I went to didn’t offer sữa đậu nành. Was there a shortage at the moment? Did I stumble upon the only restaurant without soy milk? I quickly understood the reality of the matter: the ubiquity of soy milk was an imagination of my own. Baffled by this realization, I looked to see what everybody else was really drinking when the server approached me: “Is trà đá ok?” Everywhere I went, tea was the de facto drink for Vietnamese food, and soy milk was nowhere to be found. Trà đá's role here is what I thought sữa đậu nành would be.

Hot soy milk, among other flavored milks like mung bean and corn, is a beloved beverage in Đà Lạt. Photo via Vinpearl.

Since then, I’ve had opportunities to get my hands on soy milk, be it in higher-end restaurants or special soy milk stalls in Đà Lạt style, a city I have yet to visit. However, the taste is always different from the ones I drank before setting foot in Vietnam. I was eager to find the representation of a country that only existed in my mind, only to realize what I sipped tasted like… soy milk. It was good, but the distinctive taste of getting closer to Vietnam was absent.

Maybe soy milk was just a me-fantasy, not even an experience all French kids with Vietnamese background have. What I have come to accept now is that this mythical “Vietnamese taste” I longed for is not locally present: if I go to Paris now and order one of these glasses I’ve had so many of, I know it won’t feel the same anymore. It was never about milk, nor was it about Vietnam: the Vietnamese daily life I thought I could peek at via the bottom of those sữa đậu nành glasses lit an interest in a side of my heritage that had felt far away.

Hẻm Gems: At Sara Ethiopian Restaurant, a Chicken Stew for the Soul

2026-04-28T08:00:00+07:00

Before the existence of Sara Ethiopian Restaurant in Saigon, my knowledge about the African country could fit squarely in a child’s palm: its capital, Addis Ababa; the tragic Ethiopian Airlines crash in March; and its national dish, injera.

Editor's note (April 2026): Sara Ethiopian has returned after a few years of hiatus and has moved to Thủ Thiêm. Check out their updated address at the end of the article. This review features the restaurant's original location in Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward in 2019.

Look, I’m not proud of it. Living in Asia doesn’t do wonders for one's immersion in African culture and cuisine, even to someone who sees eating as a sacred hobby, like me. My past experiences with African food, however, have always been stellar. A lady living in the suburban reaches of Gò Vấp District cooks the most divine Nigerian dishes out of her own home. These include fragrant batches of jollof, a golden rice dish that packs in tomatoes, cayenne pepper, curry powder and thyme. Still, jollof is a mainstay in West Africa, at least three countries away from the Horn of Africa along the eastern coast of the continent, where Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia huddle.

I am a firm believer in character development, so after an eye-opening meal at Sara Ethiopian, I set out to wallow obsessively in Wikipedia articles. Ethiopia is currently the most populous landlocked country in the world, though what it lacks in seafood, it more than makes up for with a range of diverse stews and vegetable-based fare, a fact that’s well-represented in Sara’s menu.

Berhanu Demissie opened the restaurant with his wife, Sara Alamerew.

When I arrived for my second visit, the restaurant's general manager, Berhanu Demissie, was casually sweeping the shopfront. Sara Ethiopian is in the basement of a tube house down an alley on Đỗ Quang Đẩu Street. Its front dining area is outfitted with a verdant plastic lawn, and the walls are embellished with a mosaic of food photography, including bowls of hearty stew and platters of salad. Demissie and his wife, Sara Alamerew, officially opened the eatery in Saigon just a month ago after more than two years in Cambodia.

Sara Ethiopian’s Phnom Penh counterpart is already a household name among the expat community there, as well as visiting tourists, thanks to its close proximity to the National Museum of Cambodia. According to Alamerew, opening a restaurant in Asia wasn’t her original plan. A friend of the couple was teaching English in Cambodia a few years ago. “He told us: ‘Why don’t you open a restaurant here, you have the experience’," Alamerew said. “Then I said. ‘okay, why not?'”

They didn’t expect the Phnom Penh joint to blow up like it did, but the success was enough to entertain requests to branch out to Saigon. Even in Cambodia, their patrons included many visitors from Vietnam, who insisted that the husband and wife pair grace Vietnam with their culinary expertise. Requests were made by everyone from travel enthusiasts to the big names at the Ethiopian Embassy in Hanoi, who were stoked to learn of the opening of Sara in Saigon. “They took a lot of injera, even the dry ones, to Hanoi,” Demissie proudly claimed. “Now they’re very happy we’re in Hồ Chí Minh [City].”

Sara Alamerew once owned a successful eatery in Addis Ababa, the Ethiopian capital.

Injera is the country’s national dish, a steamed flatbread whose humble appearance might lead the uninitiated to underestimate it, but it bears a unique taste and texture that’s impossible to forget. The most traditional version of the bread is made entirely from teff powder and water. Native to the Horn of Africa, teff is an ancient grain that’s even smaller than sesame seeds but packs ample micronutrients and fiber. Ground into a powder, teff is used as the main or partial ingredient to make injera batter, which undergoes three days of fermentation to give the bread a tangy, sourdough-like flavor and a spongy texture that’s reminiscent of Vietnamese bánh bò, a dessert also made fluffy by yeast.

It is this unique airiness that enables injera to soak up the array of sauces in Ethiopian cuisine. At Sara’s, injera is made fresh by order and served in rolls neatly arranged in a basket. When needed, tear away a small portion and use it to pinch bits of the stew and sauces to put in your mouth. For Ethiopian food novices, you can’t go wrong with the meat veggie combo — including doro wot, a chicken stew; minchet abish, a spiced beef stew; marinated beef; and accompanying vegetables (see the top photo).

A portion of doro wot with a basket full of injera rolls.

Describing doro wot as a stew is unjustly simplistic, but the complexity of the concoction is hard to transcribe in words. A portion of doro wot comes with a hard-boiled egg and chicken meat, drenched in a mahogany gravy. “That one [doro wot] is a little difficult to make,” Alamerew warned me. “Red onions, a lot of red onion.” Early in the morning every day, she wakes up, chops up the onions and sweats them down on low heat. “You do it for a long time, you have to do it with fire,” she said. Once the onions are sweated down, she sautées them with a mixture of spices and Ethiopian clarified butter. It’s also crucial to remove every bit of fat from the chicken, “even from the inside” because, according to her, the stew will spoil if the fat gets into the sauce.

Shiro wot, a chickpea stew, is also the pride of Sara Ethiopian. The velvety soup coats your tongue with a nuttiness and umami flavor so inviting it practically commandeers your hands to never stop dipping. Of course, one can request steamed rice to go with the soups, but “injera is our daily life. This is what we eat all the time,” Demissie said. He emphasized its casual presence in their cuisine, in comparison with doro wot, which is a “special occasion” feast for important days like New Year or Christmas.

Tibs, a stir-fry dish with beef.

At one point during our conversation, Alamerew excused herself and came back with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. The tall black pot is called jebena, an important part of Ethiopian coffee culture. People can drink coffee in the morning, for lunch and in the evening, she said. She likes it that Vietnamese also gather to drink coffee on the street as a bonding activity. As much as the beverage is an indispensable part of Saigon’s daily rhythm, at times Saigoneers don’t take it as seriously as Ethiopians do. While the latter do drink coffee casually, the most ceremonial form of coffee consumption in Ethiopia is a ritual involving incense, flowers and snacks like puffed rice or popcorn.

The restaurant has only been open for a month, but reaching that point required years of planning. Within the span of two years, they went back and forth between Cambodia and Vietnam numerous times to look for a suitable location. Once they found the current location, they liked it so much that they paid rent for three months while the place was still empty because they didn’t want to lose it to other tenants.

Nighttime in Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward.

When asked if she ever misses home during her years abroad, Alamerew laughed and said that she was just in Ethiopia two months ago. She is a veteran when it comes to packing up one’s life to take root elsewhere. Her family resettled in Yemen when she was young, and she once again moved to New Delhi for high school and stayed until she finished her degree in economics at university. Her mother is also a sterling chef and restauranteur, whose 35-year-old Ethiopian eatery is still open in Yemen. Growing up with a food-loving mother familiarized Alamerew with the ins-and-outs of a professional kitchen.

“I used to follow her, she used to teach, she’s a professional. And now she has many stuff going on, she’s only watching people,” Alamerew says of her mother, who stayed with them for three months when they were preparing to open Sara Ethiopian in Phnom Penh, helping to fine-tune their injera. The batter depends a lot on the weather to rise, and Cambodia’s humidity and rainy tendencies necessitated special adjustments to the family recipe. It proved to be a success that not even Saigon’s fickle weather patterns could topple.

Though Demissie occasionally misses home, the husband and wife pair are content with their new endeavor in Vietnam.

“We’re happy. One thing I like about Vietnam: the Vietnamese people, they like to try foreign food,” she said. “The neighbors come to eat, they taste our food, and they appreciate [it]. I love our neighbors. And we have the same culture. You know, Vietnamese people, they like to help others, even if you don’t have money, they will give you, like ‘okay keep it, you can give me back later.’ In that way, in Ethiopia also they do that.”

A bowl of hot shiro wot, or chickpea stew.

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

Sara Ethiopian Restaurant

Ground Floor, B-00.01 Sadora Building, Mai Chí Thọ, An Khánh Ward, Thủ Đức City

Saigon Pizza Festival Delivers for Pizza Enthusiasts and Party Lovers

2026-04-23T12:39:00+07:00

Last weekend, more than 2,500 people attended the two-day Saigon Pizza Festival hosted by Saigon Outcast at The Global City. Diverse, delicious pizza was expected, but the event delivered even more with food, activities, live music, and entertainment. And by the time it was over, a new pizza had swept the judges and was the crowd favorite for best pizza.

The activities began the moment guests arrived, received their free bottle of C2 Green tea or Ginseng and Chrysanthemum Drink and visited the brand’s 360 camera booth and games. From there, it was a maelstrom of delicious slices that revealed the true variety of pizza. Everyone had their personal favorites, but some of the standouts included a crispy naan-based Indian pizza from The Indian Curry Pizza and a Mexican pizza created by The Taco King & Cielito Lindo, while children gravitated towards Snackshack’s mini deep dish version. Purists in attendance gravitated towards the Kingcross’s traditional pizzas as well as New York-style and wood-fired Neapolitan slices, Sicilian squares, tangy Tomato Pies, crispy Grandma slices, and simple tavern bar versions.

As festival-goers waited for their digestion to work, they found plenty to keep their attention. A full lineup of DJs curated by FTWR created a raucous atmosphere whose energy was only matched by the high-flying theatrics of Vietnam Pro Wrestling.

The weekend also provided a glimpse into Saigon’s dancing scenes with Happievent, Salsa Thursday, and Xoay Studio communities each starting flashmobs that inspired movement amongst the audience. Tarot readings, pizza-making workshops, foot massages and handmade jewelry for sale, as well as backyard games, ensured the weekend was about more than beer.

It was difficult to spot people walking around with empty hands. If it wasn’t a slice of pizza, at least one fist was occupied with a drink, thanks to local breweries and outlets selling cocktails, wine, boba, and soft drinks. Sweet-tooths were particularly catered to with chocolate, gelato, and desserts.

For an event with pizza in the name, the most anticipated moment came during the announcement of the festival’s best pizza. Using an innovative Noshbox app to assemble votes throughout the weekend, and while esteemed judges tested their stomach sizes by sampling widely. When all was said and done, everyone agreed: Mila Mushrooms’ hand-tossed pizza made with dough fermented for 48 hours was the winner across the board.

Mila Mushroom's team winning pizza (left) as sampled by the judges (right).

Guests leaving the festival held by The Global City with the support of Masterise Homes were full, happy and already looking forward to next year’s fest. And in the meantime, they have a list of great pizza spots in the city to visit as proof that pizza in Saigon is alive and well.

An Homage to Mỳ Quảng and Its Branching Family Tree Across Vietnam

2026-04-16T14:00:00+07:00

Mỳ Quảng’s reputation has spread across Vietnam and even abroad, yet few are well-informed about its origin story and the land it hailed from.

Editor's note: This article uses “mỳ Quảng,” the common way Central Vietnamese refers to the beloved noodle dish.

Mỳ Quảng, the Hội An port and a link to the world’s noodle map

From the 16^th to 18^th century, Hội An was once a busy and prosperous maritime trade center in Đàng Trong, under the lordship of the Nguyễn Dynasty. At the time, ships from all over the globe commingled in Hội An to exchange goods and services. Chinese merchants brought with them techniques to make fresh noodles and dumplings, while Japanese artisans introduced udon and soba to the seaport.

Central Vietnamese during the period managed to learn how to make noodles from traveling merchants and adapted the technique to local ingredients, such as rice flour. Hội An noodles, therefore, turned out to be more supple with a gentle rice fragrance.

The result was “Quảng Nam mian” or “mỳ Quảng.” Spelling “mỳ” with a “y” instead of “i” is a Quảng Nam quirk. Locals use the difference to distinguish between noodles made of wheat (mì) and of rice (mỳ). From a mix of East Asian techniques and local produce, mỳ Quảng has turned into a Quảng Nam staple, beloved both at home and wherever Quảng Nam residents migrate to.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm

Even right at its home region of Central Vietnam, there are a number of notable variations such as Đại Lộc-style chicken mỳ Quảng, Kỳ Lý style in Tam Kỳ, Đà Nẵng style, and, of course, Hội An style. Phú Chiêm style, however, is one of the most well-known editions that has transcended the region.

It hails from Phú Chiêm Village, Điện Bàn Commune in the former Quảng Nam Province, the quaint community known for traditional noodle-making artisans. Throughout history, every day, hundreds of vendors travel on foot to sell freshly made noodles to eaters in Hội An, Tam Kỳ, and Đà Nẵng. The contrast between their petite frames and the heavy load of noodles they carry on bamboo yokes always surprises me, not to mention their unique street calls promoting mỳ Phú Chiêm.

During the unearthly hours when the sun is still deep in slumber and chilly winds tease the skin, houses in Phú Chiêm Village are already lit and steamy. Household members, efficient like parts of a machine, are busy setting up packs of noodles to be delivered when regional buses make their first trips of the day, each person taking a task: making a fire to heat up the pot of flavoring sauce, dividing the sauce in tight bottles, and prepping bags of toppings, noodles, garnishes, fresh herbs, rice crackers, lime wedges, etc.

Around 3am, the pitch black village roads are clamoring with motorbikes heading to the national expressway. The bus careens to a stop, and everybody starts loading the goods on. This is the main means of transport for noodles vendors to travel to the city and town centers to sell mỳ Quảng.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm is rustic but memorable. It starts with a ladle of steamy broth, wafting a sweet aroma of crab paste and củ nén in the air. In the bowl rests a bundle of pearly white noodles, tender and soft from the rice grown right along the Thu Bồn River. Peanut oil, củ nén, a touch of smokiness from the rice husk kindle tablets at the noodle workshop — every smell sings of local flares. On top of the noodles are slices of caramel-colored pork belly, simmered quail eggs, and scarlet shrimps. The warm broth ties everything together with its seafood-forward essence.

The best bowls of Phú Chiêm noodles are eaten alongside greens grown at Trà Quế Village, or a smattering of wild plants picked straight from the yard, like baby chards, bean shoots, culantro, cilantro, banana blossoms, etc. Their freshness contrasts with the crunchy, nutty roast peanuts and shards of crackers. Depending on how one likes their noodles, a number of condiments are on offer to boost up the flavors, including lime, chili jam, and fish sauce.

The adventures of mỳ Quảng in distant lands

Whenever a Quảng native relocates to a new land, they carry along a strong bond with home, so it’s no surprise that mỳ Quảng will eventually show up in Quảng enclaves across major cities in Vietnam. Finding ingredients that match the classic version of mỳ Quảng is always a tough task, so cooks often incorporate whatever nature offers them at new locations to produce regional varieties of mỳ Quảng. Along the coast, seafood like prawns, crabs, fish, squids, and jellyfish are popular. Further inland, pork, beef, chicken, and duck are more prevalent. In places where paddy fields make up the main biome, you will witness the inclusion of baby clams, eels, frogs, and snakeheads. It is thanks to Vietnam’s biodiversity that has greatly contributed to the local adaptations of mỳ Quảng.

In Nha Trang, for one, mỳ Quảng is both seafood-forward and decadent thanks to the addition of coconut milk. Southerners visiting this coastal city might mistake it for hủ tiếu, as the noodles are yellow, dry, and chewy like those in hủ tiếu mì. The protein toppings include pork, quail eggs, and slices of golden fried fish cakes. The most distinctive feature, still, is the broth: apart from the usual umami from simmered bone, the main flavor is nuttiness and richness from coconut milk and egg, respectively. Moreover, Nha Trang’s mỳ Quảng is enjoyed with lots of water soup broth, instead of Hội An’s minimal but concentrated seasoning sauce. The Nha Trang version is accompanied by roasted peanuts, lettuce, bean sprouts, and herbs.

Even though Phan Thiết is also a coastal province, the mỳ Quảng that emerges from here is famous for its duck and pork usage. Most surprisingly, there are two prominent styles that are equally appreciated in the local food scene: one leans closer to the Hội An style, often eaten in the mountain areas of Đức Linh and Tánh Linh; the other has flares from the South-Central Coast, best known as mỳ Quảng Phan Thiết.

Two types of noodles are used for mỳ Quảng in Phan Thiết: a rice-based noodle akin to phở and a wheat-based noodle. It’s believed that the latter arose in the local cuisine thanks to the culinary influence of Chinese immigrants in Central Vietnam in the early decades of the 20th century.

The seasoning sauce in mỳ Quảng here is brightly vermillion from annatto oil. Phan Thiết also enjoys mỳ Quảng with a bowl that’s filled to the rim with broth. Topping-wise, there are pork knuckles, thighs, and duck legs that are braised until tender. On top, each bowl is garnished with peanuts, chili jam, lettuce, diếp cá (fish mint), and húng lủi (water mint).

Away from the sea, mỳ Quảng also follows Central Vietnam immigrants to the hilly neighborhoods of Đà Lạt. There, mỳ Quảng has also become a part of the tourist food trail.

In Đà Lạt, the broth extracts its main flavors from tubers and dry shrimps. First, the shrimps are ground finely and stir-fried with alliums, then cooked with jicama, onion, carrot, chayote, and daikon to produce the stock. On top of the noodles are pork slices, lettuce, rice crackers, and peanuts.

Hitch-hiking with Central Vietnam immigrants, mỳ Quảng spread across Vietnam and settled down with numerous adaptations depending on what nature offers regionally and the palate of local eaters. Wherever it ends up, however, doesn’t change its core identity — human connection. Central Vietnamese rarely eat mỳ Quảng alone. If they’re heading outside for mỳ Quảng, a few friends are almost always tagging along, and if someone decides to make it at home, the result will be a giant vat enough to feed a small crew.

Hẻm Gems: At Bún Thang 50, Unexpected Hanoi Flavors in a Phú Nhuận Corner

2026-04-12T15:00:00+07:00

When I was growing up in California, every couple of months, plastic containers of sliced fried egg, chicken, and chả lụa would line the kitchen counter. This medley of ingredients would usually mean bún thang for dinner — which, in turn, signaled that the dinner was a special occasion.

Back then, the chicken broth's sweet, slightly gingery scent didn’t emerge for the mundane; it only filled our household on birthdays or the last days of school. I was always excited to see those containers, and would snack on the spongey strands of egg omelet before they garnished the bowls of rice vermicelli. The sparing presence of bún thang in my mom’s meal rotation wasn’t unique to bún thang itself: every Vietnamese soup she cooked was coveted amongst our household’s meals of largely non-Vietnamese cuisine.

The family behind Bún Thang 50 migrated to Saigon in the 1970s.

My mom and dad were both born in Saigon but raised in the US. The youngest of each of their families, they left the city as toddlers and ended up in different parts of Southern California. I thus have the distinct experience of being a child of immigrant parents who, oftentimes, don’t fit the archetype of immigrant parents at all. They didn’t teach me to speak Vietnamese; they’re pretty culturally liberal. Most nights, we’d have pasta, rosemary chicken, steak and mashed potatoes.

A clear broth and a variety of diced toppings are the hallmarks of bún thang.

Bún thang was, somehow, one of the few Vietnamese dishes that subverted my preference for western food. The piping-hot chicken broth is clear and light, flavored to taste with mắm tôm, crushed ớt, and a hearty dose of black pepper; and every spoonful is perfectly composed of noodles, egg, and chả lụa. It’s something that I’ve only ever had at home. While I’ve since expanded my palate to embrace Vietnamese food of all kinds, bún thang is still perhaps my favorite — even if by virtue of comfort alone. So when I moved to Saigon for the summer, thrust into a sprawling, unfamiliar city, I knew I had to look for bún thang.

I found it at Bún Thang 50.

The simple kitchen of Bún Thang 50.

Tucked away in a quiet street of Phú Nhuận, this restaurant is one of the rare places in Saigon that specializes in bún thang — making it easy to discover through a quick Google search. The thing is Saigon residents probably aren’t searching for bún thang very often.

As a second-generation Vietnamese American, my patchwork exposure to Vietnamese food was uninformed by geographic specificity. Only recently did I realize my naivete about Vietnam’s geographically varied cuisine, and that a Hanoian dish like bún thang, for example, might not have a foothold in Saigon. I had no idea it was peculiar for it to be in the repertoire of my Saigon-born mother. When I asked her about it this past month, she said that the recipe was passed down from her mother, who is also from the south. My grandma's memory is fading, so we might never concretely know the origins of bún thang in my family, but my mom suspects that my grandma learned the recipe from my grandpa, who is from the north.

A quick blanch of the noodles and then the toppings are arranged neatly on top.

Unsurprisingly, Bún Thang 50 is operated by a northern Vietnamese family. They moved to Saigon in the 1970s and opened the restaurant in the 1990s. It has the intimate feel of a family-owned shop: the dining space borders what is presumably their living room; the small plastic cups provided for complimentary tea are cutely, childishly decorated with cartoon flowers.

I wandered into the shop at around 9am during my first few days in Saigon, eager to participate in the brilliant norm of noodles for breakfast. The tables aren’t crowded, but a few women cycle in and out, devouring their bowls before getting on with the day.

Fried omelet, mushrooms, chicken meat, and chả are the main proteins.

While the menu offers other noodle soup options, the titular bún thang is likely the primary draw. I order a bowl of bún thang Hà Nội (VND40,000). In the open kitchen, the vendor assembles it from a row of metal containers which are reminiscent of the plastic containers that materialize in my own home. She ladles in the chicken broth.

A light lunch with elegant ingredients.

Soon, the bún thang — along with a plate of fresh herbs — arrives on the metal tabletop. The toppings each occupy their own satisfying little sections of the bowl, with a bright green pile of rau răm at its center. A squirt of mắm tôm and several chili slices later, the bowl is ready to be mixed and eaten.

Mắm tôm, chili sauce and lime are available should one feel the need for more flavors.

In my mind, bún thang is a dish that’s only made by my mom; I’ve always been baselessly skeptical if any other version can taste the same. Indeed, Bún Thang 50’s bowl diverges from what I’m used to in some ways. Its toppings include wood-ear and shiitake mushrooms — traditional bún thang ingredients that eluded our family recipe. The noodles here also stand out thanks to the shop’s addition of crispy, chewy bits of pork greaves, and the unmistakably northern touch of dill in the shreds of chả lụa.

A touch of dill in the chả distinguishes this topping from others.

For me, this bún thang at once echoes the soul-soothing, celebratory dish I so anticipated seeing in my childhood kitchen, while sprucing it up with new flavor and textural deviations. The mushrooms and pork greaves are a welcome reprieve, balancing the otherwise purely soft mixture of egg, chicken, and chả lụa; the broth is a bit stronger and fattier than my mom’s. This bún thang, then, is both a taste of home and an exciting reminder that I’m somewhere else entirely.

Bún Thang 50 is open from 6am to 9pm.

Bún Thang 50

50 Hồ Biểu Chánh, Ward 12, Phú Nhuận District, HCMC

From Classic Neopolitan to Inventive Curry Versions, Saigon Celebrates its Love of Pizza

2026-04-10T16:43:00+07:00

Saigon loves pizza, a truth attested to by the variety of slices available here. From familiar global chains to small shops offering authentic varieties from cities all around the world to innovators concocting new types in response to local flavors and traditions, a staggering number of options are spread all across the metropolis. For one weekend, the thriving scene is coalescing in one location for an event celebrating pizza and all its associated joys.

The popularity of pizza in Saigon shouldn't be a great surprise. A plentitude of fresh ingredients, innovative, experienced chefs, and people eager to try new foods with a preference for meals that can be shared and treated as an occasion: all these factors exist. But rather than explaining why pizza has caught on so well, it's better to celebrate it.

Saigon Pizza Festival by Saigon Outcast is back for another year with activities, award-winning craft beer, desserts, and of course, pizza. In addition to a few transcendent slices, the event aims to give passionate foodies, families, and youths a reason to gather while providing international visitors a peek into the city’s culinary landscape.

A premier list of diverse pizza vendors is assembling for the festival. They’ll have everything from Neopolitan-style pizza baked in wood-fired ovens to more outlandish inventions, such as Indian curry pizza and beef bolognese-filled pizza pies. After sampling widely, festival-goers can help select the winners of the People’s Choice Awards for Best Pizza. Moreover, a pizza toss challenge and other family-friendly activities, and a lineup of live music and DJs curated by FTWR will keep everyone entertained while deciding which slice to try next. C2 will keep visitors cool throughout the day between slices.

While pizza is the star of the weekend, there will be plenty of other tasty items. Modern artisanal gelato and other sugary treats can be found in the dedicated dessert alley. Few drinks go with pizza like a nice cold beer, so a selection of craft beers from familiar brands and up-and-coming brewers will be served as well.

This year's event will take place at The Global City, an international-standard mixed-use township in the heart of Ho Chi Minh City created for a global community of residents. Saigon Pizza Festival is one of many events that will be held at the development that seeks to provide a space for vibrant events and community building.

Vote for your favourite pizza using the Noshbox app at the event for a chance to win fantastic gifts.

Saigon Pizza Festival takes place on Saturday, April 18 and Sunday, April 19. Tickets are available online and at the door.

Saigon Pizza Festival 2026 Event Page

SOHO – The Global City, Đỗ Xuân Hợp Street, Bình Trưng Ward, Saigon.

Ngõ Nooks: At Vietnam's Only Palestinian Eatery, Eating Maqluba and Dreaming of Peace

2026-04-05T14:00:00+07:00

“If you have a heart and you have a mind, you must support Palestine,” Saleem Hammad emphasized as we sipped sweet tea overlooking Hanoi’s Old Quarter from the balcony of his restaurant, Oliva. The dinner we had just finished was delicious, but the visit to Vietnam’s only Palestinian restaurant felt more significant than a simple meal. Learning about Saleem’s journey, his personal relationship with Vietnam, and his efforts to deepen ties between Palestine and Vietnam underscored how cuisine can foster cultural exchange and understanding towards peace.

Oliva's second floor and doors leading to the balcony. The ornate painting was completed by one of Saleem's close friends.

“I’ve brought a small piece of Palestine to the heart of Vietnam,” Saleem explained about his opening of the restaurant late last year. That dream had been a long time in the making. He first came to Hanoi in 2011 to study on a scholarship provided by Al-Istiqlal University in his home nation. During those student years, while serving as a host of various Vietnamese television shows, operating popular social media channels, and his current work at the Palestinian embassy, Saleem has been a tireless voice for Palestine, introducing its culture, history, and current political situation to Vietnamese people while sharing about Vietnamese culture with audiences around the world.

Saleem shows off his iftar: the meal he will eat to break his daily Ramadan fast.

Saigoneer arrived at Oliva during Ramadan, and while Saleem was cheerful when he greeted us at 5:30pm, once he returned from breaking fast at sundown, he was exuberant. In a sign of things to come, he became deeply thoughtful and spoke with profundity when reflecting on the value of fasting. He didn’t like it as a child, but as an adult, he understands it as an opportunity to practice appreciation. Each grain of rice, each drop of water allows him to reflect on his blessings and faith. In turn, he tries to show appreciation to the people around him, noting “getting appreciation means you are alive; you exist.”

Saleem's arrival in Hanoi “was like being slapped in the face from all sides.” He didn’t know much about the country beyond a few school lessons about Hồ Chí Minh and General Giáp when he was awarded the scholarship and had imagined a hyper-developed Tokyo-like metropolis, not the rough-around-the-edges Hanoi where he lived in a dormitory with a gaping hole in its roof and washed dishes with his roommates in the toilet.

Despite the initial shock, it didn’t take long for Saleem to fall in love with Hanoi. “Family and culture is [sic] not different from my home,” he observed after watching daily life around town. People sing together, celebrate football, share fruit from their gardens, and simply express joy to be amongst one another. “There is happiness here,” he concluded.

Saleem during one of his many appearances on VTV. Photo via Reddit.

At first, navigating the city without Vietnamese was “like moving in quicksand,” he said in a typically descriptive turn of phrase reflective of his having studied Vietnamese literature. To better understand the culture and “break the wall to see all around,” Saleem needed to learn the language. His success in this task is evidenced by the smooth Vietnamese he speaks with a crisp Hanoian accent in his popular YouTube and TikTok videos and the proverbs he dropped frequently in our conversation. When asked why he started a restaurant, for example, he switched from English to Vietnamese: “Có thực mới vực được đạo” (you’ve got to eat to think).

“I was poor,” Saleem said when asked how he learned to cook. His mother was the youngest of 12 children, and his father the youngest of eight, meaning there were always hungry mouths around. Surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles in his small village, he grew up interested in kitchen work and started helping at local restaurants from a young age.

From 7am to 2pm, the building is used by a phở shop, while Oliva operates from 2pm until 11pm.

While Saleem enjoyed learning how to make traditional dishes as well as interact with customers (anyone who spends five minutes with him will agree that he is very much a “people person”), his mom was less convinced. “I don’t need your money, I need your degree,” she scolded him once after he brought her the tips he’d earned. He indeed studied hard and achieved the education his mother expected of him, but still found his way back to the kitchen. Saleem makes the majority of the dishes at Oliva, though his wife, who is also from Palestine, helps with some items as well.

Visitors to Oliva may understandably be unfamiliar with what to expect from authentic Palestinian cuisine, though any experience with Middle Eastern food, broadly, will allow one to recognize many of the dishes, flavors, and ingredients. The region is home to thousands of years of human civilization, which featured extensive trade networks. Significant exchange, migration, and influence make it impossible to attribute many items to any singular, modern nation.

The falafel is served with tarator, a creamy tahini-based sauce.

Oliva’s hummus was smooth and rich, the blended chickpeas containing a bright dose of lemon that balanced the beef in the version we ordered. Meanwhile, the falafel was crisp on the outside with a welcome softness inside, which allowed the flavor to stand apart from the texture. Both the hummus and falafel were perfect accompaniments to the fresh and airy flatbread. The most unexpected delight of the meal was the pickled vegetables: crisp, colorful, briny bursts of sour bliss!

Hummus (left) and pickles (right).

Having sampled various Middle Eastern cuisines around the world, I was particularly excited to discover a dish I’d never seen before: maqluba. Arriving at the table with a ceremonial upturning of the pot to tumble a heap of rice, vegetables, and chicken onto the table, the maqluba was the star of the meal. Dating back at least 700 years, the Palestinian dish is assembled in the pot before cooking, with layers of eggplant, carrots, potatoes, and rice absorbing the chicken and eight spices, which need to be sent from Palestine.

The maqluba's pot is overturned at guests' tables and served with chopped nuts.

For conservative Vietnamese palates, Palestinian food should be quite approachable. The maqluba has even welcomed comparisons to cơm gà. One notable difference might be a lack of raw vegetables in the dishes. The situation is easily addressed with a Palestinian salad. In addition to the lettuce, tomato, and cucumber, the pieces of fresh apples contributed a pleasant vegetal element.

Significantly, Oliva is a halal restaurant, meaning that all food is clean, ethically obtained, and free from forbidden (haram) substances, including pork and its derivatives, according to Islamic dietary laws. But even non-Muslims should appreciate halal items because the distinction typically connotes carefully selected and stored items of a higher standard, which results in fresher, more delicious flavors. Considering the nation’s talented cultivators along with the soil and weather conditions, Saleem posits that if Vietnam followed halal rules, it would certainly have the healthiest, most delicious cuisine in the world.

Halal items are a matter of tourism in addition to business. Anyone with a social media account understands that of all Vietnam’s many virtues, it is often food that makes the largest impression on international tourists. This doesn’t apply to Muslims, however, of whom there are approximately two billion in the world. Saleem explained that for them, travel to Vietnam can be a chore of squinting at store packaging and having to forgo the majority of restaurants, from street stalls to Michelin dining experiences, because they do not adhere to or even know about halal restrictions.

Saleem provides explanations of what makes a food halal on his social media channels in Vietnamese to help the country better cater to Muslim visitors, a vast and relatively untapped market for a nation so keen on attracting tourists. When you consider that nearby Indonesia has the largest Muslim population in the world, it's a bit shocking that one doesn’t see more halal restaurants here already. Moreover, learning how to follow halal rules will also open up vast export markets for Vietnamese farmers, producers, and distributors, significantly helping the economy. “Uống nước nhớ nguồn,” (drink the water, remember the source), Saleem said when explaining his motivation to share ideas and information in Vietnam.

Oliva's political message is clear in the restaurant's artwork.

The bridges between Vietnam and Palestine that Saleem builds via Oliva, his social media, and his job at the embassy go both ways, and he wants to transmit important messages home: “As a Palestinian, I miss peace; I find peace here… If Vietnam can do it, so can Palestine.” He seeks support for this peace by explaining the ongoing genocide in his homeland in Vietnamese. Moreover, as an informal spokesperson, his warm and helpful presence helps to humanize their plight. He once again uses a Vietnamese proverb to explain his work: “Ngòi bút có thể thắng vạn quân” (one pen can beat 10,000 soldiers).

Refreshing mint tea to end the meal.

Saleem sat with us for a long time after dinner, pouring tea and sharing stories about his homeland and his people’s simple desires to eat, send students to school, care for their own land, and not fear slaughter every day. Not once did he check his phone, answer a call, or run down to the kitchen. His attention and energy were singular. It’s difficult to comprehend how he could be so generous with his time, considering his many roles at the restaurant, at his job, managing his social media presence, and translating several political works from Vietnamese into Arabic, all while being a devoted husband and member of a large family abroad that relies on him. I asked if he ever gets tired, metaphorically or literally, from speaking so much in support of Palestine. “Never,” he says while admitting that at night he often takes medicine for his throat, “Because words are strong.” I would add that a meal can also be strong, whether its a means of introducing people to a new culture or showing one’s support.

To sum up:

Opening time: 2pm–11pm
Parking: Motorbike out front
Contact: @olivapalestinianhalalfood
Average cost per person: $$ (VND150,000–under 500,000)
Payment: Cash, Card, Transfer
Delivery App: N/A

Oliva

7 Hàng Buồm, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

60 Days Collection Features Chocolate Made With Garlic, Jackfruit, Salted Lemon, and More

2026-04-04T13:22:54+07:00

From harvest to finished product, how long does it take to make a bar of chocolate?

Typically, the process lasts one and a half to two years, but Saigon-based The Cocoa Project's chocolate has shortened it to just 60 days and is celebrating the achievement with a collection of six unique chocolate bars.

To make a bar of chocolate, cocoa pods must be harvested and their contained beans fermented, dried, and roasted before tempering and molding. These processes, along with the soil in which the cocoa plants were grown, are the main determinants of a chocolate's flavor. By executing the steps with precision and strict control in only 60 days, The Cocoa Project's chocolate collection preserves the distinct flavor notes of Vietnamese cocoa beans.

Such faithful capturing of the bean’s flavors makes pairing with other ingredients difficult, because the bold taste can overwhelm more subtle fruits, herbs, and spices. Committed to showcasing the quality of Vietnamese chocolate to instill pride in local producers and consumers alike, The Cocoa Project’s dogged R&D department was undeterred. They spent nearly a year testing new recipes and flavors. Amongst the countless experiments were loveable failures and divisive concoctions along with appealing results that simply could not be consistently produced when scaled for mass production.

Six flavors all passed the rigorous testing and challenge of creating “a chocolate bar inspired by happiness.” Amongst them is milk chocolate with osmanthus tea and peach that invites consumers of all ages to return to youthful lightness; dark chocolate with oranges and lemons that calls to mind memories of sundrenched moments in family gardens; dark chocolate with salted lemon with roselle jam, a bright and tart product of the highlands; and a milk chocolate with mint tea and jackfruit that is as relaxing and familiar as a childhood afternoon. Meanwhile, a 74% dark chocolate underscores how sometimes chocolate in and of itself is all one needs.

The most interesting of the approved group, the milk chocolate spices bar, proved to be the most contentious choice. Inspired by a home-cooked meal and made with onion, pepper, garlic, and chilli, it drew mixed reactions for both taste and sales potential. Ultimately, one particularly passionate member of the marketing team half-jokingly promised to “take responsibility” for it, and the chocolate spices bar was added to the inaugural 60 Days chocolate lineup.

The availability of Vietnamese chocolate made with intriguing local ingredients has experienced a boom in recent years, which The Cocoa Project considers a cause for celebration. Achieving sustainable, local chocolate that everyone can enjoy makes it easier to reach their goal of supporting appreciation for and integration of Vietnamese agricultural products while providing “chocolate for the people.” People are taking notice as well, with four flavors from The 60 Days lineup winning medals at the world's largest competition this month. The entire collection can be found at The Cocoa Project’s first store and the recently-opened Cocoa Kitchen, their website, and familiar online retailers, are a great place to experience this delicious aim.

The Cocoa Project's Website

The Cocoa Project

The Cocoa Project's Facebook Page

+84 918 800 435

The Cocoa Project: 143 Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, Phường 6, Xuân Hòa, Hồ Chí Minh

Cocoa Kitchen :1A Công trường Mê Linh, phường, Sài Gòn, Hồ Chí Minh