Eat & Drink - Saigoneer

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

Hẻm Gems: Atop a Beef Bowl Eatery, the Hidden Cozy World of Shochu Bar Mitsuboshi

2026-03-29T12:00:00+07:00

Looking back at my days in Japan, I cherish most the moments I decided to get lost in yokochos — small and narrow alleys filled with shops, often bars — and push on a random door, not knowing what could await me behind it. It could be a wooden stall illuminated by blinding lights, its noisy customers showered with beer; or a 19^th-century-style Manhattan bar, where the only movements come from trails of smoke off the customers’ cigarettes and streams of light going through bottles of whisky behind the counter.

When I first heard of Bar Mitsuboshi in Saigon, whose menu revolves around shochu, I was not really impressed, as there are already many izakaya-style bars serving this liquor. Still, my curiosity got the better of me and, after I discovered online about its hidden aspect, limited seating, and supposedly convivial atmosphere, it piqued my interest. Reminiscing about my time in Japan, I decided to see where this adventure could lead.

To get to Bar Mitsuboshi, you need to go to “Japan Town,” Saigon’s famous neighborhood on Lê Thánh Tôn Street. Enter a beef bowl restaurant and after climbing up the stairs, you will face a wooden door that seems to have been transported from half a century ago. Mustering the courage to push it, I am sent back in time. The shop is the classic type of speakeasy you can stumble into in Japan. One long wooden counter splits the tight room in two, fronted by only six high stools for a cozy, intimate atmosphere. In the back, a cabinet filled with Japanese liquors is illuminated by a tamisé light against the darkness of the room.

The mysterious steps leading to the door of the bar.

While it might feel impersonal, Bar Mitsuboshi reflects the owner’s appreciation of authentic Japanese bars: very simple spaces that bear no resemblance to the trendy “fantasy bars to take photos” that some patrons like nowadays. This simplicity exists to encourage conversations in a comfy environment. As Chinh later told me, the cozy atmosphere and the Japanese pop music playing in the background were all designed to give room to the patrons and let them talk freely, be it with other customers or with the owner.

Chinh is the bar’s living soul. During her five years working for a Japanese travel company, she was sent to Osaka for two months to learn to better plan for her Vietnamese customers. It was there that she discovered the captivating world of Japanese bars and took the opportunity to open her own when she got laid off during the COVID-19 pandemic.

It will become obvious right away what the stars of this establishment are: the diverse range of liquor on the shelf.

In Japanese culture, tatemae (建前) is a mask or facade that people wear to conform to society’s norms. It’s a matter of social etiquette that helps contribute to what foreigners often admire in Japan: politeness, organization, and convenience. Rarely can you see a person’s true feeling; what lies behind the mask, the honne (本音) — going to bars is such an occasion when the atmosphere, alcohol, and proximity can crack the mask and let these feelings loose. It’s precisely what Chinh admired when she was taken to a bar in Shinsaibashi, Osaka’s bustling street for nightlife, by her coworkers: “Normally, Japanese are very cold, they don’t talk too much. But in that bar, they are [sic] very friendly! I was very surprised, but it’s a good place to find out [about] Japanese character [sic],” Chinh told me in English.

Simplicity in a glass.

Opportunities for banter are one of Mitsuboshi's greatest strengths. Chinh is fluent in Japanese, which helps her connect better to her clientele, who is 90% Japanese. For the other 10% — mainly Vietnamese, American or Korean — she can speak English very well.

The menu is centered around shochu. While still not as globally famous as its widely popular brother sake, shochu has consistently outsold sake and whisky in Japan for more than a decade, and is now expanding to the world at a fast pace. It’s a distilled spirit that can be made from different starches such as sweet potato, rice or barley. There are a lot of different types offered on the menu, but it’s not limited to them: you can find many liquors that are frequently consumed in Japan. Chinh told me that Japanese patrons are more keen to order whisky, whereas westerners often set their sights on sweeter drinks like sake or umeshu (plum liqueur).

There are only a few stools at the counter for a cozy experience.

The menu reflects the bar’s client-first philosophy, as Chinh admitted to me that she always pays attention to recommendations from patrons about what kind of alcohol they would like to try.

Similar to the ones in Japan, Bar Mitsuboshi has a table fee, which is a mandatory charge for your seat in exchange for an otoshi, a little appetizer that will serve as an accompaniment for your drinks.

The famous Hanshin Tigers bottles.

Among the wide variety of choices on the menu, two unusual bottles stood out to me. The first was showcased at the end of the counter: a whisky bottle branded with the Hanshin Tigers, one of Japan’s most legendary baseball teams. When I asked Chinh if a patron who was a fan of the team gave it to her, I did not expect the answer to be Tsuyoshi Shimoyanagi, a former pitcher of the team. She very proudly told me that he visited the bar. She flipped the bottle around and showed me the autograph he left as a sign of gratitude in a classic Japanese fashion.

A special homemade bottle offers a surprising local twist.

The other bottle I was intrigued about was the listed “Vietnamese shochu” on the menu with no brand name beside it. It comes from Chinh’s hometown of Bà Rịa and is made by none other than her mother. When asked about it, she told me her mother has always made this liquor at home, as it’s a common belief among Vietnamese older generations that it’s healthy to drink to a certain extent: “If you drink it once a day, it’s good for health, you can sleep well. So my mom made it for my dad. The flavor is good, so I wanted to introduce it for [sic] my customers.” It is made by mixing crystal sugar and sticky rice, and letting the mixture ferment in dried wild bananas. Captivated by the story, I ordered a glass and couldn’t believe it was a rice-based alcohol: the brown color and rich taste with subtle sweet notes kept leading my thoughts to whisky.

The unassuming entrance below.

The drinks on offer at Bar Mitsuboshi can take you down the rabbit hole of Japan’s drinking culture. The beverages here are faithful to the customs, yet the highlight of the experience lies elsewhere. Maybe it comes from the way Chinh succeeded in making me relive my own memories of Japan in her own way. Bar Mitsuboshi doesn’t mimic Japanese bars, it honors their tradition by making its own local stories, which is precisely what will resonate with anyone interested in Japan’s drinking culture.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7pm - 11pm
Parking: N/A
Contact: @bar_mitsuboshi_hcm
Average cost per person: $$$ (VND200,000–under 500,000)
Payment: Cash, Card, Transfer
Delivery App: N/A

Bar Mitsuboshi

15B/16 Lê Thánh Tôn, Bến Nghé Ward, HCMC

When Rush Hour Hits, The Straits Offers a Singaporean Alternative

2026-03-26T13:59:00+07:00

Saigon’s streets snarl with hot, sticky knots of traffic every evening. As people finish their workdays and look ahead to quality time with families at home, precious hours pursuing hobbies and meeting with friends around the city, they must first contend with horrific congestion. This rush hour period, when movement is slow and frustrating, coincides with peak skyline beauty.

Instead of tedious hours in the back of a car or clutching handlebars, wouldn’t you rather have a panoramic view of the skyline as it’s drizzled with dusk colors? Sunset should be savored, peacefully, ideally with a refreshing drink and tasty snack in reach. On the 28th floor of Saigon Centre, Sedona Suites offers just this experience in the recently redesigned The Straits Kitchen and Bar.

The Straits sprawls out in front of you as you exit the elevator, the spacious room expanding to floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Saigon River in one direction and past Landmark 81 and the seemingly endless scramble of development that constitutes central Saigon in the other. Plush couches invite you to rest, recline, and meet with friends in what could be the day’s first moment of true relaxation. In the center of the room are similarly comfortable chairs around tables with The Straits’ sleek, brightly lit bar behind.

A Singapore Sling may be the most obvious drink to order upon your arrival. The glowing orange gin-based drink with a tropical profile not only matches the sunset, but is in line with The Straits’ identity as a Singaporean restaurant. While the cocktail’s precise origins are debated and the original recipe uncertain, the namesake beverage was first enjoyed in the now-city-state more than 100 years ago.

While less directly tied to Singapore specifically, The Stratis’ signature cocktails capture the nation’s sunny disposition and abundance of fruit. The Straits Side contains vodka, Midori, lemongrass, and pomelo syrup, and the Tropical Frozen Margarita offers fresh mango and passionfruit juice, while the star ingredient of the Guava Martini is self-evident. These adventurous drinks are joined by classic cocktails as well as local beer, mocktails, smoothies, and soft drinks. If you need a refreshing pick-up and will be driving home, Saigoneer recommends the coconut coffee, which contains not just fresh coconut juice and flesh but an invigorating splash of pandan syrup for a special twist.

It's never wise to drink on an empty stomach, and after a full day in the city, whether working, shopping, or sightseeing, a snack is a welcome sundown accompaniment. Served from 10 until 10, The Straits bar bites include international standards such as charcuterie platter, spiced cashews, and crudites alongside some Singaporean items. Har cheong gai, crunchy, mid-joint chicken wings with prawn paste batter and spicy dipping sauce, is an easy favorite as is the soft shell crab gau bao.

The Straits is a perfect post-work place to gather with friends and co-workers to wait out the rush, but once you’ve sat down and smelled the wonderful dishes being served, you might decide to stay for dinner. The menu, frequently assessed and enthusiastically approved by Sedona’s Singaporean owners for its authenticity, gives diners a thoughtful introduction to some of the nation’s most cherished dishes. The char kway teow, for example, underscores how cuisine is the result of time, place, and tradition. Working-class members of immigrant communities married their traditional flat rice noodles with the abundant seafood of the region. The resulting wok-fried dish is a harmonious medley of prawns, cockles, Chinese sausage, bean sprouts, and garlic.

Singaporean cuisine’s commitment to flexible balance is evident in the laksa. Its rich, creamy coconut broth depends on which locally available spices and herbs are available, as well as the preferences of the chef. Similarly, the hor fun is a whole that's even greater than its beef or seafood, vegetables, and Peranakan sauce parts. And of course, the chicken and rice that started as a humble way to make the best use of the finest breed of chickens and now graces Michelin Guide books must be present.

If you squint, the shimmering tail of water flowing between Saigon skyscrapers resembles the strait running along Singapore. Given that and the two metropolises’ proximity, it’s rather shocking that Saigon has so few Singaporean restaurants that cater to discerning tastes in a refined atmosphere. But not only does The Straits meet those needs, offering a plate of mee siam or nasi lemak in a relaxed dining room, it also provides an elevated oasis of cool comfort. Far above the 5 pm chaos, it’s a perfect place to watch the afternoon slip into evening and a dignified serenity fill your mind.

Sedona Suite's Website

Sedona Suite's Email

The Strait's Facebook Page

090 667 79 23

Level 28, Sedona Suites, 67 Le Loi, Ben Nghe Ward, District 1, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam)

Hẻm Gems: Tokyo Moon Cafe Introduces Homey Korean Flavors to Japan Town

2026-03-21T15:00:00+07:00

Stepping into Tokyo Moon is like venturing into a world of wonders, neatly packed within a mere 35-square-meter space.

Tucked inside Saigon’s Japan Town on Lê Thánh Tôn Street, Tokyo Moon is run by an older Korean couple who has been serving tea and sweet treats for more than six years. The cozy cafe has been a time-honored Saigoneer favorite ever since we featured it back in 2018. About a year ago, a new Tokyo Moon location opened nearby, so we decided to go and check it out.

Tokyo Moon II is unfortunately closed.

Unfortunately, upon arriving at the new location, we found out that it had closed, seemingly permanently. We lingered there awkwardly for a while and captured some snapshots of the shop’s elegant pastel-pink facade. Then, we took a short walk to the original Tokyo Moon in the maze of alleys on Thái Văn Lung to see if it too had closed. Luckily, the OG cafe is open.

The tiny corner of Tokyo Moon in Japan Town.

Once inside, I immediately felt the snug and cozy atmosphere for which Tokyo Moon is renowned. Our group of three was just enough to occupy the largest table in the shop. Classical music was playing in the background, and from time to time, the owners would let out the common Korean expression “Uwaaa!” in delight whenever familiar Korean patrons entered the store.

Our drinks came with mismatched cutleries and glasses.

We picked an array of options from the menu, mostly tea-based beverages. After a brief wait, our order arrived. Alongside our drink was an additional ginger tea presented in an odd-looking ceramic teapot that piqued my curiosity. A Google Search informed me that the unique vessle was a “Yokode kyusu” teapot. The Japanese teapot with a distinctive cylinder-shaped handle is quite different from the usual pots I've seen.

The ssanghwacha comes with an egg yolk.

According to one of the owners, Madame Moon, the Tokyo Moon tea was steeped with various Chinese herbal medicines. The brew had a brownish hue, with tiny jujube slices and pumpkin seeds sprinkled on top. As I slowly sipped the hot tea, a warm, lightly sweet, gingery taste lingered in my throat — a comfortable feeling indeed. The cup of Tokyo Moon tea also came with a small spoon to scoop up the garnishes and have a nibble.

I also chose to try yulmucha, mainly because of its name. A type of Korean tea made from powdered adlay millets (hạt ý dĩ in Vietnamese), yulmucha fit well in Tokyo Moon’s roster of healthy beverages. What surprised me about this drink was that, while originating in Korea, yulmucha felt so familiar. As soon as the cup was brought to my table, the tea’s aroma reminded me of the of the instant nutritious cereals I used to have as a kid. After having a taste, I realized that the liquid had a thicker consistency than a regular drink; its nutty flavor and creamy texture reminded me of chè mè đen. The inclusion of jujube slices and pumpkin seeds meant this tea could be both a drink and a warm, light snack for the afternoon.

Knick-knacks and keepsakes fill the space at Tokyo Moon.

But tingling your taste buds with healthy tea beverages is not all that there is at Tokyo Moon, because you can also immerse in the cafe’s vivid decorations. We sat beside a wall-mounted shelf full of books, vintage film cameras, ceramic figurines of kittens, etc. Even on our table, there was a tray that contained colorful chocolate candies, and a notebook with the owners’ handwritten menu and adorable pencil sketches.

Mr. and Mrs. Moon behind the counter.

“Many of the decorations here are gifts from our customers, even things like the coasters and cups are handmade by the customers too,” Madame Moon shares with us. When we first walked into the cafe, we were greeted with a wall full of polaroids of the shop’s past visitors, and it seems like one of the factors that make this place look so charming is you get to see small traces of patrons who had enjoyed their stay in Tokyo Moon through the years.

The wall of Poraloid shots preserving generations of customer visits.

Other than the perceivable things that adorn the cafe, the sounds also contributed to the soothing atmosphere at Tokyo Moon. The playlist is handpicked by Mr. and Mrs. Moon, and their preference for classical music is because “back then, Mr. Moon’s dream was being a maestro in an orchestra.”

Due to the small space, Tokyo Moon discourages laptop use and limits visits to 1.5 hours.

Madame Moon let us in on some of their plans for the future, telling us they recently opened a new cafe in South Korea. And just like how Tokyo Moon was named in honor of their family name and Mr. Moon’s Japanese roots, they combined personal identities to come up with the name Ssanghwacha & Cafe Saigon. They are hoping to introduce some Vietnamese beverages to South Koreans, “something like ‘cà phê muối’ for example,” Madame Moon explained of the planned menu. We also got an explanation behind why the new Tokyo Moon was permanently closed: it was simply too overwhelming for the couple to run three cafes at the same time.

Many decorations here were gifts from past patrons.

Before going to Tokyo Moon, I came across an online review commenting that Tokyo Moon carries a very Studio Ghibli vibe, and I wholeheartedly agree. Enjoying a cup of tea in the middle of many whimsical, appealing decorations and velvety classical music makes it a calm and relaxing space to forget about the worries of the world for a few hours, just like watching a Studio Ghibli film. I got so lost in the atmosphere that when was time to leave, I forgot to take my bag with me. Luckily, Madame Moon was quick to notice and brought it to me when I was about to hop on my bike. It was a small but funny moment to cap off a day full of good tea, charming sights and memorable interactions.

This article was originally published in 2024.

Tokyo Moon opens from 10am to 10pm every day.

To sum up:

Taste: 5/5
Price: 3.5/5
Atmosphere: 5/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5

Tokyo Moon

8A/1C2 Thái Văn Lung, Bến Nghé Ward, D1, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Inside a Modernist Abode, O Phương’s Bún Bò Harks Back to Huế Flavors

2026-03-13T10:00:00+07:00

“O” is the affectionate way central Vietnamese call their sisters and aunties. For children of Central Vietnam like me, it has taken root in me like the most natural anchor of home. Sometimes when I’m out and about, glimpses of the accent of my hometown would pull me back home.

Quán O Phương found me in a similar way. In the middle of a relentlessly congested street, the familiar “O” from the shopfront drew me in. Huế foodies often tell each other that, away from home, whichever eatery is brave enough to use “O” in the name might be one with authentic flavors worth checking out.

Quán O Phương is located at a quiet corner where Điện Biên Phủ intersects with Trương Quyền streets, inside an old house designed in the southern modernist style. The dining space has a nostalgic ambiance, featuring tall steps, windy corridors, and walls covered in wash rocks. Wide window frames welcome sunlight inside, weaving through wrought iron bars in common Asian patterns like clouds, waves, and the character for “blessing” (福/Phúc). The house’s layout is typical of a courtyard residence, including a small pond in front and rows of bamboo providing a natural rustling canopy. The calm atmosphere makes it hard to believe that this is just a bún bò restaurant.

As Duy, the founder of O Phương, tells me, during his time in Saigon for work, far away from home, he greatly missed the life and tastes of Huế. In hopes of appeasing his own homesickness and other Huế migrants in the city, too, he founded this place. The “O Phương” in the name is inspired by none other than his wife, a Huế lady who was also his childhood sweetheart. The name evokes a coziness, as if this is not a restaurant but a home kitchen welcoming every visitor in for a generous meal.

Bún bò is always the standout representative whenever Huế cuisine is mentioned. It epitomizes the precision and specificity with which Huế chefs approach their culinary creations. O Phương’s menu naturally revolves around bún bò, featuring a clear broth simmered with spices and bones, moderately chewy rice noodles, tender beef slices, and chunks of crab cakes — all presented in a pretty rooster bowl. Sprinkle a little pickled shallot on top, and the essence of Huế is ready for your enjoyment.

“O Phương retains the original flavor profile of bún bò in Huế without adjustments,” Duy shares. “The broth is simmered for 14 hours alongside Huế’s distinctive mắm ruốc tép that’s pungent but not overly fishy.” Other ingredients include sa tế chili oil, pepper powder from Gio Linh, seafood from the Tam Giang Lagoon, and alliums from Lý Sơn Island. Most particularly, the food is cooked inside an aluminum pot with a belly and a small opening — a unique utensil for bún bò.

Apart from the classic bún bò soup version, the restaurant offers a southern-style bún bò “remix” version that’s eaten dry. The broth is provided on the side instead of being ladled into the noodle bowl that’s already seasoned alongside the protein toppings. Shrimp paste, chili oil, rau răm, and onion slices play the supporting role too.

If you’re in the mood for something else, other Huế specialties serve as great options for palate cleansers: bánh bột lọc wrapped in lá dong, bánh ướt tôm cháy, bánh bèo chén, etc. According to the owner, the dumplings are made using shrimp caught in the Tam Giang Lagoon (tôm sáo). This variety thrives in the brackish waters of the lagoon and thus possesses the qualities of shrimps from both freshwater and saltwater. Despite the small size, tôm sáo are chewy, sweet, and thin-shelled. Once cooked, the flesh turns an attractive shade of scarlet, which lends well to its role as the dumpling filling.

Last but not least, diners will also find a number of Huế snacks in the menu, such as roasted hyacinth bean tea and a bean-based chè that’s both fragrant and sweet.

Memories of Huế return to me in droves as I sit in the atmosphere of Quán O Phương. From faded sets of tables and chairs, bamboo furniture pieces, a vintage tea cupboard, to the paper lanterns and phoenix paintings on the walls, everything sings of the cultural heritage of Huế and Central Vietnam. While waiting for the food to arrive on our table, I heave in a whiff of incense, listen to the soft melodies in the air, and the rustles of bamboo outside the windows.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7:30am–9:30pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0933654343
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

O Phương - Món ngon sông Hương

162 Điện Biên Phủ, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

Quán Bụi Group Offers Lessons on Perseverance and Success

2026-03-09T15:50:00+07:00

The restaurant business is fickle to the point of a well-known unattributed business truism: "How do you make a small fortune in the restaurant business? Start with a large one." So when a restaurant not only survives but spawns multiple outlets and brands, it’s all the more impressive. This is the case with Quán Bụi Group, a collection of Vietnamese and Thai eateries and cafes which, like many enduring brands, started as a story of rising from failure.

In 2009, Danh Trần took notice of the popular Bobby Brewers café, an eatery with a hodgepodge Western menu, and had the opportunity to acquire it. Over the next two years, Danh studied how people gathered and used the space. But when his lease was up, the model wasn’t living up to his expectations, especially with many other similar concepts in the market and he decided to close it.

Quán Bụi always offers an inviting entrance to guests.

Reflecting on this first foray into F&B, and with the desire to stay in the industry, Danh tried to devise something that he felt Saigon needed but was lacking. His explorations led him to something familiar.

In September 2011, Danh opened a Vietnamese restaurant, Quán Bụi, on a small street in Tân Định. It was humble, serving set menus to office workers. There, he identified what would become the core elements of the many Quán Bụis to come: home cooking, Vietnamese comfort food, and a meal that imparted meaning beyond the sum of its ingredients.

Quán Bụi Restaurant on Ngô Văn Năm Street.

Two years later, Danh further refined the concept, and a refined version opened as an à la carte format on Ngô Văn Năm that remains to this day. The timing was fortuitous, as Vietnamese dining habits were evolving alongside the arrival of global chains. A customer base had emerged that wanted local flavors made with high-quality ingredients served in more sophisticated yet authentic settings.

At Quán Bụi, Danh found a way to express inherent Vietnamese culture through dining experiences. He believes that a major reason for the restaurant's success is that it provides a space for diners to find comfort in tradition as a juxtaposition to their busy city lives.

Quán Bụi expresses inherent Vietnamese culture through dining experiences.

It seems like this has resonated with Saigon’s restaurant goers as there are now nine Quán Bụi locations operating across the city. Amidst this expansion, Danh strives to ensure that each outlet maintains a continuity of concept from service to food.

Quán Bụi offers a diverse menu of over 200 dishes representing regional flavors from across Vietnam.

The methods of achieving consistency underpin Danh’s subsequent creations. Having found the ingredients for success at Quán Bụi, Danh began to explore other concepts, launching Laang Saigon in 2019 which serves modern Vietnamese and Asian dishes.

Founded in 2019, Laang Saigon serves modern Vietnamese and Asian dishes.

Laang marked a quiet shift in Danh’s journey. It proved that what he had built at Quán Bụi was not limited to one cuisine, but a broader approach to hospitality and comfort.

Laang Saigon’s contemporary Vietnamese cuisine draws diners seeking a balanced and health-conscious lifestyle.

Soon after Laang Saigon came Sticky Rice, a Thai restaurant where Danh applied the successful attributes of comfort and reliability to a neighboring cuisine.

The ambience of Sticky Rice Restaurant

Finally, Café’In focuses on restive settings to enjoy coffee, tea, juices, and freshly baked cakes, popular with remote workers and groups of friends. While serving a smaller menu than the other restaurants, consistency remains a key to its popularity.

Facade of Café In in Thảo Điền.

The common threads of clear conceptualization and commitment to meeting customers’ lofty expectations are most apparent when viewed side by side. Recently, Quán Bụi, Sicky Rice and Café’In can be found under one roof at the newly opened Quán Bụi Group Complex in An Khanh.

Facade of Café In in Thảo Điền.

Success for Danh and Quán Bụi Group was not linear. Like many businesses, the Covid-19 pandemic plunged his operations into disarray, and he was forced to confront uncertainty. He told Saigoneer that to endure, he drew strength from Vietnam’s long history of resilience and was able to restart operations once the pandemic subsided.

Today, after 15 years of opening the first Quán Bụi, Danh is not complacent, nor is he one to sit behind a desk and manage from afar. When Saigoneer met him in the months preceding the opening of Quán Bụi Group Complex, he periodically checked his phone, making sure the right tiles arrived for the flooring and other elements of construction were on track. The trials and tribulations of his journey stay at the forefront of his mind and he still has an active role in nearly every part of his business. The impact of such dedication is something customers will undoubtedly notice when visiting any of his locations.

Quán Bụi's website

Quán Bụi's facebook

Hẻm Gems: Bánh Canh Hẹ Is Phú Yên's Homage to Chives and the Sea

2026-03-05T11:00:00+07:00

Ever since I was a kid, I have had a general dislike towards vegetables, but green onion has always been an exception. I regard green onion as a garnish that can lighten up the whole dish, and it seems like whenever it’s absent from my cơm tấm or xôi mặn, I will instantly lose my enthusiasm to eat. But during my teenage years, my affection for scallion was challenged for the first time, when I encountered a photo of Phú Yên’s bánh canh hẹ online.

I was taken aback by the bold presentation of the dish, the dizzying amount of greenery was too much for me. From time to time, I would come across photos of bánh canh hẹ on the internet, and the weirdness of the dish made me think it was just a gimmick, so I never thought about trying it.

Chopped chives and Phú Yên-style bánh canh are two main components of bánh canh hẹ.

Fast forward many years later, bánh canh hẹ came up once again during a discussion meeting for Saigoneer’s two-week noodle content chapter, where I learned that Phú Yên’s bánh canh hẹ is a popular Central Vietnam delicacy with a humble beginning. It is made of cheap and accessible ingredients from the region. The noodle is made of Phú Yên’s local rice, the broth is stewed from fish in the province’s coastal areas. The green color of bánh canh hẹ comes from Phú Yên’s local hẹ, a thinner version of green onion that emits a lighter and distinctive aroma. According to locals, the excessive amount of chopped chives is used as an alternative for other vegetables and also to ease out the broth’s fishy smell.

The menu at Bánh Bèo Cô Mai hasn't changed even after the family relocated from the central coast to Saigon.

After learning more about the dish, I realized that I was unfairly judgmental towards it, missing out on a unique regional specialty. So I thought it would be a good idea for me to try it out to see what it’s all about. An eatery named Bánh Bèo Cô Mai Phú Yên was recommended due to its popularity among Saigoneers.

Bánh Bèo Cô Mai is located on Hoa Sứ Street near the Phan Xích Long food heaven. We arrive at lunchtime and it is already quite crowded. Luckily, we still get the chance to have a quick chat with the waiter to find out about the place’s history.

Home to chives and bánh bèo.

According to him, Cô Mai is run by a Phú Yên-born family, and it was first opened in Saigon about seven years ago, but before that, the family ran an eatery at the foot of Nhạn Mountain in Tuy Hòa, the capital city of Phú Yên. The menu at Cô Mai, identical to that of the old place, consists of three Phú Yên specialties: bánh canh hẹ, bánh bèo and bánh hỏi.

When asked about the cooking style of the dishes, he tells me about the family’s efforts to keep the tradition going. “We cook in the exact same way as we did in our hometown. There is no change at all.”

Bánh canh hẹ is an easy-to-eat but flavorful snack suitable for any time of the day.

When able to observe bánh canh hẹ at close range for the first time in my life, I was amazed by its unique visual and surprised by its simplicity. The copious amount of chopped chives creates a layer of vibrant greenery on top of the broth, below, there are fried fishcake patties, boiled quail eggs and a slice of black mackerel — all very familiar toppings. Add in some chili slices and we have a simple, yet colorful and distinctive-looking, Phú Yên specialty.

Taste-wise, the unique flavor of bánh canh hẹ is mainly due to the broth. It has a very subtle fishy aroma that doesn’t affect the overall taste. Combined with the delicate scent of Phú Yên’s local chives, the mackerel slice and the fish patties, the soup offers up a pleasantly light and sweet flavor that makes me feel like I am dining near the ocean.

Cá thu fillet is one of the toppings.

The main starch is a type of rice flour noodle that is thinner and less chewy than that in regular Saigon bánh canh dishes such as bánh canh cua. Upon tasting, I am treated with Cô Mai’s well-cooked noodles with a soft and supple texture that’s enjoyable to chew and makes you want to keep slurping.

The seafood toppings present me with two polar opposite qualities. The mackerel chunks have a tender and fatty texture. In contrast, the fried fish cake chunks are chewy with a sweet aftertaste. Dipping these toppings in the store’s provided fish sauce mixed with minced chili can enhance the overall dish's oceanic feel.

Even though we come here for bánh canh, both its bánh bèo and bánh hỏi are equally delightful.

The bánh bèo and bánh hỏi are side dishes. One order of bánh bèo is served in 10 small bowls, likely meant to be shared among many people. The starches of bánh bèo and bánh hỏi are sprinkled with chives oil, pork floss, fried bread crumbs and fried shallots. The highlight of these two courses is the accompanying sweet-and-sour fish sauce.

A surprise dessert: đậu xanh sương sáo.

Overall, my first experience with Phú Yên’s bánh canh hẹ was a success. Cô Mai’s cooking is so good that I even came back a couple more times, and what I notice from my revisits is that the store seems crowded around the clock, which is an indirect statement of the eatery's food quality. So, if you’re craving a light noodle dish that evokes the essence of the sea, you can’t go wrong with Cô Mai’s bánh canh hẹ, made just the way locals like it.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–9pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0937 638 918
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Bánh Bèo Cô Mai Phú Yên

54 Hoa Sứ, Ward 7, Phú Nhuận, HCMC

Welcome to the New Age of Mass-Produced, Enshittified Plastic Bánh Giò

2026-03-04T13:00:00+07:00

Do you always remember the first time you tried a new food? With common staples like hủ tiếu, bún riêu or cơm tấm, that might be difficult, but I can recall exactly the first time I had bánh giò: it was from a bike vendor with a very distinctive northern-accented street call of “chưng, gai, bánh giò.”

Like its siblings bánh chưng and bánh gai, bánh giò is a dish of northern descent, albeit one that has integrated seamlessly into the national snack landscape over the past decades. Today, one hankering for something simple but filling can seek it out anywhere at any time, but when I was a child in the 1990s, northern vendors on bicycles would be the most common way to get our hands on a bánh giò.

On the back of a rickety bike that had definitely seen better days rested a huge plastic rucksack that felt hot to the touch. Inside, rows of leaf-covered bánh sat waiting for their turn to explore the outside world. As he briefly unfurled the bag to pick out bánh giò with tongs, the steam turned my glasses foggy and filled my nostrils with the familiar grassy scent of banana leaves.

A classic bánh giò is made up of a rice-based dough coating a filling of pork, shallot, and mushroom.

Those neatly wrapped leaves would become a clean surface to enjoy your bánh giò, its glutinous wobbly rice dough, its peppery pork filling, and its pearly quail eggs. The best case scenario should involve a spoon, but I have, on occasions, raw-dogged a bánh giò with just my hands and trusty teeth. There is no shame, because bánh giò is not a food designed for decorum and fancy cutleries.

I think bánh giò can do no wrong. As an adult man, I have to admit one is not enough for a full lunch, so you can always eat two or three if you so wish. However, to me, it is irrevocably the perfect snack made for the moments in life when you’re peckish but don’t want a whole bowl of phở: for breakfast; as an after-school, pre-dinner ăn xế; or especially as a stomach soother after a night out drinking.

Bánh giò makers are still around today if you know where to look, but the most accessible way to get them is no longer mobile vendors, but convenience stores. Thọ Phát, Saigon’s very own bánh bao maker-turned-entrepreneur, started mass-producing a version tailored for the convenience of modern retailers, and those leaf-wrapped pyramids began appearing in steamers at FamilyMarts and Circle K’s, further consolidating its role as a convenience, hearty, filling snack.

A maximalist “full-topping” version of bánh giò in Hanoi, featuring various types of sausages and pickles.

In December 2025, the company announced that it would sunset the old leaf-wrapped bánh giò version and switch to a new plastic mold, effective immediately. The reasons given included improved hygiene, convenience, and shelf life. The plastic version retains the pyramidal silhouette, and similar food filling, with a meagre banana leaf square at the bottom that can fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I personally think the mass-produced version, leaf or plastic, has never held a candle to bánh giò by independent makers, but it has taken a turn for the worse after the removal of leaves. Their grassy aroma contributes significantly to the eating experience and their broad surface helps the content retain moisture; without leaves, the dough is stodgy, monotonous, and miserable.

It is perhaps histrionic of me to decry something as seemingly simple as the recipe change of one company. After all, traditional bánh giò are still coming to life every day from kitchens from north to south, and a plastic makeover might not spell the demise of a time-honored delicacy, but it is still very clearly yet another example of the enshittification of modern life that’s unfolding right before our eyes. Shrinkflated chocolate bars, paywalled app features, synthetic fibre replacements in clothing, and now plastic bánh giò — these are all signs of corporations making our lives worse for the sake of profits.

Thọ Phát's bánh giò with plastic packaging.

I haven’t seen our bánh giò bike vendor in 10 years and now satisfy my cravings with ones from a store specialized in northern foods on Nguyễn Thiện Thuật. He could be too old or too sick to continue the work, but I suspect the disappearance of mobile vendors is not limited to my neighborhood, but part of a much bigger shift in the country's economic pattern. It is an incredibly challenging time to operate a small business in Saigon, with stringent recently introduced tax policies, harsh sidewalk-clearing campaigns, and less disposable income from consumers in general all squeezing the profit margins dry and driving out smaller players.

I don’t know about you, but I think it is high time I seek out a nice bánh giò in this trying time. I will drive to my favorite shop, park my bike, and ask for their biggest one with the most banana leaves around it, to make up for the leafless abomination I just ate for the sake of research.

This Tết, Learn to Wrap Bánh Chưng in One of Hanoi's Oldest Villages

2026-02-09T08:00:00+07:00

Much like the peach blossom or the lucky money envelope, bánh chưng is a staple part of Tết.

It is a Vietnamese tradition for families to wrap and cook their own bánh chưng, a tradition that I have never experienced. I have no idea how to make a bánh chưng, and so this year, I want to change that.

My wife hails from làng Hồ Khẩu, one of Hanoi's oldest villages. Situated where the Tô Lịch River once met Hồ Tây, the village used to be famous for its paper. Now, the river is covered and the water is polluted, so the paper craft is lost. Lucky for me, the art of bánh chưng still survives here.

Deep in the twisting alleys of the village, I come to the house of Đinh Thị Hòa. Her family has been making bánh chưng for almost two decades now, and she was happy to have me for a lesson.

Hòa just passed her middle age, yet her spirit is as young and jovial as anyone. Every other sentence of hers is accompanied by laughter. She learned how to make bánh chưng from her parents, who used to tell her: “If you don't make it, then you won't have anything to eat.”

Now she supplies bánh chưng for the village. “I do it to serve the community,” she laughs. “Now every house is so cramped, nobody has the space to do it. I see people's need and I try to help them.” A bánh chưng operation can take a lot of space. And not only does Hòa's house has a yard, hers is big enough for two fruit trees, one rose apple and one lêkima.

Under the lêkima's shade, Hòa arranges various buckets and basins. A huge water tank stands nearby, filling two concrete barrels that were once personal bomb shelters. Here is the first workstation I see from the gate: a wet kitchen where all bánh chưng's components are prepared before wrapping.

A typical bánh chưng is made up of five components: dong leaf, rice, mung bean, pork, and bamboo strings; each component is meticulously prepared. The leaves have to be soaked for three days then scrubbed clean to prevent mold. The rice and beans are also soaked and washed with multiple waters. Hòa's motto is: “We only sell things we would eat at home.”

Once the rice is cleaned, it is mixed with salt to add flavor. Mung beans are steamed then set before a fan to cool. “The beans must be cooled before wrapping,” Hòa explains, “otherwise they will sour everything.”

The beans fresh out of the steam pot are darker (left) than the cooled ones (right).

The wrapping station is inside the house, where Hoàng Thanh Thái, Hòa's sister-in-law, is in charge. Thái has also been making bánh chưng since she was a kid, she is so adroit that each bánh only takes a few moments to be wrapped. I have to ask her to slow down so I can take a picture of each step of the process.

First she lays down two leaves as the outer layer, on top of which goes a square mold. Then she lines the sides and the bottom of the square with leaves, the greener side facing inward. Then she puts in one bowl of rice as the first layer, next is a scoop of beans, then a piece of pork, another scoop of beans to cover the meat, and one more bowl of rice on top. Afterward she folds the inner leaves to a tight square, then the outer layer is wrapped and tied with the bamboo strings.

Afterward, fold the inner leaves to a tight square, then wrap the outer layer and tie it with bamboo strings.

Thái is gracious to let me try. I'm surprised to learn how much force it takes to wrap everything tightly, I also fumble with the strings and have to ask Thái for help. She ties the knots with one hand.

I ask Thái what is the secret to a good bánh chưng. “Oh that's hard,” she laughs. “I think there's no secret. We just choose good rice, good beans, and good meat.” For rice, her family uses the famous nếp cái hoa vàng cultivar. The beans must be crumbly after steaming, and the ideal pork for bánh chưng comes from the pig's belly, which has both lean and fatty parts.

The leaves are important, too. Thái's family uses leaves from dong, a plant similar to banana but is found mostly in the forest. The leaves must be of the right age, not too old and not too young, in order to give the bánh chưng its signature color. Her family is making 400 bánh chưng this year, which need 2,000 leaves.

“Every other year I make a lot more, but my husband just passed away this year so I make fewer now,” Thái shares. Her husband, Hòa's little brother, was in charge of the third station — boiling — and without him the family can't handle the usual 800–1000 orders.

The family boils bánh chưng with firewood, the good old-fashioned way to make bánh chưng dền, which means “supple and delicious.” Under the rose apple tree, Thái's son lays down some bricks for a makeshift fire pit, then he puts a huge pot on top. The pot can hold 60–70 bánh chưng at a time. After stacking the bánh, he fills it with water then his aunt, Hòa, lights the fire.

There are three phases to the boiling process. First, the fire must be roaring to bring the pot to a boil. Then, a stable and constant flame is needed for the pot to simmer for 12 hours. Finally, toward the 10^th or 11^th hour, the fire is reduced to a smolder.

While the fire crackles merrily, I ask Hòa about Thắng, her little brother. Before, each person in the family was in charge of a part of the process: Hòa prepared the ingredients, Thái wrapped, and Thắng boiled. But this year, Thắng had a stroke and spent two weeks in the hospital before he was gone. “It's very sad,” Hòa says, her cheerfulness dampens. “This year we keep making bánh chưng for some comfort, otherwise it's just too sad.”

Thái is determined to keep the tradition, too. “I will do this for as long as I can,” she says, “if it's only me then I'd only make one pot.” To fulfill the orders, this year, her family will need to boil seven pots, it is 4pm when the first one begins. I leave the house and return at 6am the following morning to see the final part of the process.

After 12 hours of simmering, the bánh absorbed a lot of water. When they are taken out, they must be cleaned then pressed to force the excess water out. Thái arranges the bánh chưng on a table then sets three water jugs on top; they would remain like that for another six hours before delivery. Thái leaves the house to buy more meat for the next batch, another pot is already on the fire.

The family has only three days to finish all the orders before the new year; everybody is catching a moment of rest before continuing this marathon. The sky is still dark, all is quiet, the sweet aroma that is distinctive of bánh chưng fills the air. As I sit there watching the fire, a thought — a feeling — swirls in me: Tết is here.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2022.

Hẻm Gems: In Đà Nẵng, Góc Nhà Tụi Mình Is Where Tea Time Feels Like Home

2026-02-06T10:00:00+07:00

As a Đà Nẵng native, I often get asked where and what to eat and drink by friends who are in town. The tried-and-true list of places in my mind always includes Góc Nhà Tụi Mình, which I’ve frequented nearly constantly for the past six years.

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình, which translates to “our home nook,” is right by Phan Châu Trinh, Đà Nẵng’s largest high school, and my alma mater. It’s always been a crucial anchor centering my formative years spent at school and in the quaint tea shop.

I found Góc Nhà Tụi Mình the natural way that kindred spirits gravitate towards one another. Here, there’s a tree-filled deck awash in green hues, the fragrance of freshly brewed tea, and nostalgic tunes by Trịnh Công Sơn or Ngô Thụy Miên. Amid the invasion of bubble tea in 2017 Đà Nẵng, discovering Góc Nhà Tụi Mình was a personal achievement.

Góc Nhà shares many wistful traits with other drink hangouts in the city, but what draws people here is not interior design, its list of lovingly curated drinks and an intimate, familiar ambiance true to its name. The shop’s signature selling point is over 10 types of Vietnamese tea, such as milk oolong from Bảo Lộc, Shan Show tea from Hà Giang, and peppermint tea from Sapa. Besides, the menu also offers local liqueurs like Điện Biên wild apricot wine, or housemade mulberry wine; and other mainstays like coffee and fruit teas.

Setting foot into the place, guests are greeted by a trà nương — a tea hostess with knowledge of tea and the menu — who will help them find the flavor profiles and, consequently, the types of tea that fit their palate. She will also provide a crash course on tea ceremony and how to treat different kinds of tea leaves, like how jujube goji berry tea will not cause insomnia and has mood-calming effects, or how certain types of oolong will “burn” when in contact with boiling-hot water, so one needs to be careful with temperatures.

I used to believe that tea is just a bitter liquid that only old people drink, and that tea leaves everywhere come from the same Thái Nguyên tea packets one can buy at supermarkets. But thanks to Góc Nhà’s teachings, I realized that the universe of tea is much more diverse and multi-faceted. My favorite order is milk oolong, a surprisingly milky brew thanks to the teahouse’s painstaking scenting techniques. There’s no actual milk in the drink, but it has a richness that evokes dairy.

I think I’m not the only one in Vietnam who harbors such notions about our tea, like how it’s an old people’s beverage or how it’s too fancy for our taste buds. Often when I broach the subject of going out for a tea together with my peers, they would immediately chime in with: “Yes, milk tea! Which location?” More often than not, we prefer the sweet and easy-to-drink tastes of milk teas and fruit teas over tea in its purest form, so when actual tea comes into the conversation, we become confused and hesitant.

Thankfully, today, tea culture has grown in popularity and is no longer unfamiliar to Vietnamese youths. To think that just a few years ago, I had overheard on a few different occasions newcomers expressing shock at the fact that a teahouse sells other tea drinks apart from milk teas.

Knowing the context behind this welcoming development in the appreciation for Vietnamese tea, I gradually fell in love with the tea culture that Góc Nhà has always tried to cultivate with every cup. Huy Hùng and Ái Tầm, the founders behind Góc Nhà, once shared with me:

“When we first built this teahouse, everybody thought we were out of our minds,” they reminisced. “We barely had any guests in the first six months, to the point that our friends felt bad for us and camped out at the shop when they had a chance, just to convince us not to close it. It was really a risky and crazy move, because loving tea is one thing, selling tea successfully is a whole other story. In the F&B field, everybody wants more patrons, so a good turnover rate is key. But with tea, we want to get customers to visit and sit down for as long as they can. How to be profitable like that?”

Tầm added: “Still, the more we travel, the more we discover that our local teas are so distinct and valuable. When you ask 10 people about tea, eight or nine responders are not aware of these values. So I really hope to spread our tea culture to young people. Any time I have a moment, I make a point to talk to our guests about tea, introduce its origin, and teach them how to best enjoy it — this is something foreign tourists appreciate, but in Vietnam, it’s not there yet.”

After six years of constantly seeing my face in their teahouse, Hùng and Tầm started to actively teach me so many cool things about tea, not that much different from how they train their own tea hostess. In the local tea hierarchy, each variety and its price are classified based on altitude, the higher the altitude of cultivation, the more valuable the leaves are — from lowest to highest in Thái Nguyên Province’s local names: trà móc câu, trà nõn tôm, and trà đinh.

When we first built this teahouse, everybody thought we were out of our minds. We barely had any guests in the first six months, to the point that our friends felt bad for us and camped out at the shop when they had a chance, just to convince us not to close it.

At the moment, Góc Nhà mainly serves trà nõn tôm and trà đinh to promote the flavors of these signature Thái Nguyên varieties. Trà đinh means that only the terminal buds of tea bushes were collected while trà nõn tôm includes both the buds and one to two unfurled young leaves. Some types of tea require the caretaker to climb up a heritage tea tree before sunrise to pluck out buds, but it’s so rare that even a large tree only yields up to 2 kilograms of harvest. Then, farmers bring the buds back home to dry and hand-roast to ensure the quality of the product.

“Once I got to see this level of effort, I stopped wasting tea, not even a strand,” Tầm told me. Therefore, Góc Nhà always encourages customers to refill at least three times before finishing a pot to not waste precious tea.

I feel that this is as good a time as any to admit that Góc Nhà is always the hangout of choice during days when money is tight for me and my friends. A two-person teapot costs VND60,000–70,000 with complimentary mung bean snacks. An additional person only incurs a surcharge of VND10,000. So, my three-person friend group can enjoy as much tea as our stomach can contain for just VND25,000. During my travels from north to south, I’ve never encountered a place with such a hospitable policy to get its guests to stay.

Most trà nương at Góc Nhà are college students, but the training process involves more tea knowledge than a typical milk tea or neighborhood cafe. Staff members must learn the names of every tea on offer, as well as how to brew and keep tea to produce the best quality. Hùng told me that it often takes newcomers from 1.5 to 2 months to get used to the position. Once they eventually depart the teahouse to follow other life endeavors, they also carry with them a deep appreciation for tea and Góc Nhà.

Tầm told me the stories of her past employees who went on to study abroad, but still brought along tea leaves to drink, to the amazement of foreign friends. Some incorporate tea time as a daily routine and thus bringing Vietnamese tea culture to every nation they set foot in. Gradually, the common notion that tea is just confined to the free beverage on offer at food stalls has become less common, replaced by the confident and impassioned orders of young Vietnamese who are well-versed in their own tea heritage. Perhaps, this is the sanguine change that Hùng and Tầm have been chasing since their humble beginning.

During the first few visits here, I honestly didn’t pay too much attention to what I was drinking, because I was occupied by my own problems. I made an attempt later to approach tea drinking as an exercise in honing patience and leaving behind daily struggles, because “tea can be both fast and slow,” as Hùng shared with me. To get the most out of tea leaves, one needs to learn the virtue of temperance. If one tries to rush the process, the tea won’t have time to cool off, and the drinker ends up with burns and breakages. If left out too long, the tea gets stale and no longer tastes the best. One day, maybe I’ll learn to apply temperance to my own life too, the way I’ve always done with tea.

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình is open from 7am to 10pm every day.

This article was originally published in 2023.

To sum up:

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

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình

36 Lê Duẩn, Hải Châu 1, Hải Châu, Đà Nẵng

Bánh Thuẫn Anchors Central Vietnam Kids' Tết Anticipation and Childhood Joy

2026-02-05T14:00:00+07:00

Bánh chưng and bánh tét are the two reigning monarchs of Tết food, representing the north and south of Vietnam. Still, not many know that in Central Vietnam, there are a plethora of Tết treats that are just as iconic, such as bánh thuẫn. To celebrate the new year, central families display a plate of bánh thuẫn in the living room to honor ancestors, entice visitors, and reward kids for their good behaviors.

It’s the last month of the lunar calendar, the most joyous time of the year. Everywhere in Central Vietnam, kitchens are constantly baking. The neighborhood smells of burning charcoal, gingery caramel, sticky rice paste, and mung beans; the air is filled with the sounds of excited banters, clinking pots and pans, sizzling batter, and the pops of firewood stoves — everything becomes a harmonious background in a timeless Tết musical special.

Bánh thuẫn somewhat mirrors the shape of an apricot blossom. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Bánh thuẫn takes the form of a golden five-petal apricot blossom, so our ancestors saw it as a symbol of good fortune, luck, and prosperity in a new year. Central Vietnam tends to call things for what they are: the molds to make this pastry is oval-shaped, also known as “thuẫn-shaped” in Vietnamese, so the thing that comes out of them is called bánh thuẫn.

Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

The typical ingredients include arrowroot flour (bột bình tinh), chicken or duck eggs, sugar, and ginger. People often call it “the pastry that comes straight from the garden” because a shopping trip is not necessary to procure the key components to make it.

You get the flour from pulverizing the bình tinh tuber (Maranta arundinacea). The plant grows in thick clumps, producing white elongated rhizomes. Arrowroot flour is not just a baking ingredient, but also a coating powder for deep-frying, and a thickening agent in desserts. It is the heart of bánh thuẫn and the deciding factor whether the resulting product can fluff up or not.

Bánh thuẫn “rises” into petals. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Preparing the batter is both fun and time-consuming. Before, every step required human labor instead of appliances like today, so the process consumed more time and effort. But being there from start to finish also created fond memories for everyone involved, no matter how old they get or how far they’ve traveled from home. First, whip the eggs until the mixture turns spongy and as light as cotton. During whisk-less times, people had a secret homemade “weapon”: bundles of chopsticks. Ten in each hand, they form a powerful tool to aerate the eggs. Once the texture is ideal, add the flour, sugar and ginger. More whipping is needed until the batter comes out viscous, golden, and uniform.

Bánh thuẫn is baked on firewood stoves. Photo via Pexel.

Finally, the baking begins. I think the tastiest bánh thuẫn hails from firewood stoves. Bánh thuẫn molds are often made of cast iron, with a thick bottom and 8 or 16 hollow segments on top. Grease the surface with a thin layer of peanut oil and then ladle the batter into the holes. Put the lid back on and then weigh the entire thing down with hot coals.

The dual heat from below and above makes quick work of the eggy batter. A special feeling swelled in me whenever it was time to take the lid off. The kids gather around the stove, whispering to one another: “Why do I feel so nervous? I don’t know if mom’s batter will fluff or become deflated like Aunt Sáu’s.”

Bánh thuẫn encapsulates the Tết joy of Central Vietnam kids. Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

Children in Central Vietnam have a unique hobby that takes place during the last month of the lunar calendar: going door-to-door to watch bánh thuẫn baking — The Great Miền Trung Bake Off, if you will. Which family's batter is lumpy, which family's pastry is half-baked, which family produces the prettiest dough, the kids have the receipts.

Naturally, the unlidding is a moment that rouses them the most. One would cover her eyes, one can’t stop giving commentary, one has to hold his breath, and, once the lid’s off, they burst into cheers and hugs like football fanatics celebrating a goal. “It’s risen! It’s risen,” they chant. They watch the batter rise with the same anticipation of a plant lover waiting for the first mai blossom to unfurl on the first day of Tết.

Bánh thuẫn is inherently a dry pastry. Photo via Người Lao Động.

A freshly baked bánh thuẫn is called a wet bánh thuẫn, with a texture as soft as sponge cake. Alas, the wet version will spoil easily, so it’s often dehydrated to increase the shelf life. Fresh pastries are arranged on a large bamboo tray and put on top of a low charcoal fire. They slowly dry out and become desiccated — dry bánh thuẫn. I remember my first encounter with them, a gift from my grandma. I thought this batch was spoiled. They look like little sponge cakes, but also arid. The first bite was crumbly and dry, but tasted magical.

The pastry melted in my mouth, alerting every taste bud of the flavor of egg, sugar, and a little zesty ginger. The aroma stayed at the tip of the tongue as the sweetness traveled down my throat. I devoured one, then a second one, and then a fourth and a fifth in the blink of an eye. Adults often enjoy dry bánh thuẫn with hot tea, but for children, washing them down with just tap water is enough.

Bánh thuẫn on sale at Bà Hoa Market in Tân Bình, HCMC. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Living far away from home, I think of the bags of bánh thuẫn as emotional triggers for my homesickness. I miss my grandma and my mom, who work all day to make the batter and bake the bánh. I miss the memories of my childhood, when I too was part of its making, an experience both tiring and exciting. Our Tết joys were simpler back then: wearing pretty clothes, going out of the house, and eating tasty pastry.

Sometimes when I have a sudden craving for bánh thuẫn, I would drive to Bà Hoa Market, Saigon’s famous corner of Central Vietnam treats. It might not taste exactly like my hometown’s version, but it helps abate the missing.

Hẻm Gems: Beloved in Korea, Dwaeji-Gukbap Is a Hearty Soup for Saigon's Cold Days

2026-02-01T17:00:00+07:00

When the owner of a popular restaurant in South Korea specializing in dwaeji-gukbap, a dish widely beloved in Korea but little known outside, visited Vietnam for vacation for the first time around a decade ago, he saw a real possibility of bringing and introducing this special Korean dish to Vietnam. Fast forward to today, his vision has materialized into the quite remarkable scene of a restaurant in Thảo Điền bustling with Vietnamese customers who come to enjoy the humble dish.

Dwaeji-gukbap (돼지국밥), which can be literally translated as pork soup-rice, is a dish served boiling in earthenware bowls, consisting of rich and delicious pork bone broth, various cuts of pork, spring onion, alongside a bowl of rice.

A humble wartime creation

What makes the rustic dish so beloved? Aside from its great taste, dwaeji-gukbap is relatively cheap, especially for how nutritious and filling it can be. Although different forms of gukbap — the genre of Korean food that, again, literally means soup-rice — have existed for a long time, it is said that the origins of dwaeji-gukbap date back to the Korean War, when locals and refugees used to take pork meat and bones from US military bases to make soup during times of food scarcity.

The milky appearance of the soup comes from simmered pork bones.

Besides, dwaeji-gukbap is extremely convenient. Though the actual preparation of the soup itself is no easy task, once it is prepared, serving the dish merely requires transferring the huge batch of soup to individual bowls, requiring very little waiting time for hungry and busy customers. It is for such reasons that dwaeji-gukbap has become somewhat of an iconic dish of Korea’s working class.

As for whether dwaeji-gukbap should be eaten for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, the answer is all three, but especially after a night out, as it makes for a great hangover breakfast meal. But the dish is also popular as dinner, where it is often consumed with some cold soju that serves as an excellent palate cleanser and contrast to the rich, hot soup. Some joke that they can drink continuously if bowls of dwaeji-gukbap are consumed in between sessions as a hangover remedy.

The Thảo Điền branch is one of Subyeon's five in Vietnam.

As you may have already guessed, this beloved staple is the centerpiece of this Hẻm Gem, Subyeon-Choego Dwaeji-Gukbap (or “Subyeon” for short) in Thảo Điền.

A do-it-yourself soup

For those who may be intimidated to try dwaeji-gukbap for the first time, it may help to know that there is no “right” way of enjoying it; over time, each person develops their preference for how they like to enjoy the dish best. Subyeon, though, does offer a useful guide to enjoying this dish, with recommended steps posted on its wall:

Step 1: Add salt or seau-jeot — salted and fermented tiny shrimp —to the soup according to your liking of saltiness.
Step 2: Add some dadaegi, or chili paste, to the soup.
Step 3: Add chives.
Step 4: Mix and enjoy!

Of course, these steps are by no means mandatory, but are simply recommendations. Personally, I like to add a bit of the saeujeot to the broth, a lot of the chili paste, and a healthy portion of chives. Depending on the day, I also like to put a spoonful of deulkkae-garu, or ground up perilla seeds (the same perilla that is often found in Korean BBQ restaurants, except in leaf form), which makes the soup more earthy.

A standard portion comes with the soup, banchan, condiments, and rice.

Subyeon offers several variations of the same dish, depending on what cuts of pork one may prefer. The version of dwaeji-gukbap perhaps most palatable for the general public is the version that contains only slices of pork neck and pork belly. But there are also other variations of the dish available, including ones with pork offal and sundae, a kind of Korean sausage stuffed with meat, veggies, and glass noodles.

Some perilla seeds to accentuate the soup.

Although one could theoretically eat the rice separately from the soup, that would defeat the whole purpose, or name, of the dish. I therefore recommend dumping the rice into the soup and eating it together, though make sure to try the broth by itself first. You may notice that adding the rice significantly changes the flavor profile of the soup, making it thicker from the starch in the rice and slightly sweeter — in a rice kind of way.

Diners can adjust their bowl using a range of different accoutrements.

Personally, I also like to dip my meat in the saeu-jeot for added flavor, and eat each spoonful of rice and soup with some tangy radish kimchi. Others may dip the meat in salt or ssamjang, and some even like to add a bit of kimchi juice to the soup itself. The customizability of dwaeji-gukbap is part of what makes the dish so great.

From Busan to Saigon

Originally based in Busan, Korea, one of two cities best known for the dish, Subyeon has enjoyed widespread success in Korea, with numerous branches across the country. Ten years ago, Subyeon opened its first restaurant in Vietnam in Hanoi. Fast forward to now, there are now five Subyeon branches across Vietnam, the latest of which opened around a year and a half ago in Thảo Điền, where Saigoneer went for this Hẻm Gem. The remaining three Subeyon restaurants in Vietnam are in District 7 in Saigon, and in Vĩnh Phúc and Bắc Ninh in the north.

The interior uses mainly wood accents.

Subyeon’s ambience has a distinctly modern Korean feel, from its wood-toned interior and shiny wooden tables, to the earthenware bowls used to keep meals hot throughout — hallmarks of a certain Korean restaurant aesthetic. The atmosphere is fitting for the comfort food that it serves: rustic, reliable, and warming to the heart.

After my most recent meal, I spoke to Jeon Sin-ho, the manager of the Thảo Điền restaurant. He explained that the stone pot in which the pork broth is made remains on and boiling at all times of the day, as evidenced by the meaty richness of the broth. Dwaeji-gukbap may be a quick and convenient meal, sure, but the amount of time and effort that goes into making it is simply astounding.

Sin-ho also explained that, while the restaurant’s customer base was mostly Korean when he first opened Subyeon in Thảo Điền, the customer base has shifted significantly since then and is now mostly Vietnamese. For Sin-ho, the growing popularity of dwaeji-gukbap is not a huge surprise, given that the dish shares many of the same characteristics as many of the most beloved Vietnamese dishes: hot, soupy, with a hearty mix of veggies, meats, and carbs.

I visited the restaurant for a late lunch on a weekday when the restaurant was not too busy, but Sin-ho explained that, during weekends, there will often be a line of people waiting to eat. Apparently, several TikTok influencers and Vietnamese celebrities posted about the restaurant and popularized it for a broader audience.

Subyeon is often packed during the weekend.

Dwaeji-gukbap is Subyeon’s star dish; it is, after all, in the name of the restaurant. There are other dishes at Subyeon that are worth trying too, however. The milmyeon, or Korean cold noodles, for instance, is perfect for hot days in Saigon. It should be noted, though, that the milmyeon is only available at the Thảo Điền branch. Another dish that is also quite popular is the spicy pork udon, a spicy noodle version of the dwaeji-gukbap. It is, in fact, what Subyeon is best known for in its restaurants in Korea. Subyeon’s banchan, or side dishes, though quite simple, are also delicious and not to be overlooked. Its two kinds of kimchi — a fresher cabbage kimchi and a more fermented radish kimchi — serve as excellent accoutrements to its main dishes.

Korea’s culinary landscape is vast and endless. The dishes that Korea is famous for to foreigners — Korean fried chicken, Korean barbeque, tteokbokki — are all great, no doubt, but none of them come as close to the heart of ordinary working people of South Korea as dwaeji-gukbap. For those looking to diversify their horizon of Korean food, I cannot recommend enough giving Subyeon-Choego Dwaeji-Gukbap a try.

To sum up:

Opening time: 10am–2pm, 4–9:30pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: +84865200060
Average cost per person: $$ (VND100,000–under 200,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: N/A

Đệ Nhất Cơm Canh Thịt Lợn

16 Street No. 9, Thảo Điền Ward, Thủ Đức City

5 Cozy Saigon Coffee Shops With Outstanding Cat Residents to Befriend

2026-01-24T20:00:00+07:00

I almost never remember the faces of the employees at cafes that I’ve been to, but I am strangely attuned to the existence of their cats. I remember the textures of their fur when I gave them pets, the little squeaks when they jumped up and down the furniture, and the subtle ways they expressed their personality during our fleeting but memorable encounters.

This is not a list about pet cafes, but rather conventional cafes that just happen to host a feline resident or two. While the animals are a commonality of the two, I distinguish them by whether the animals are the main attraction or just a part of the coffee shop ambiance that you’ll get to bask in during your stay.

Having a cat, or any animal in general, at one’s cafe is a courageous and strategic, but also risky decision. A comfortable, well-mannered kitty will add much personality and life to any space. Cats can’t mask comfort, so a cafe that they deem safe is likely to be a welcoming space for your overstimulated nervous system as well. On the contrary, as a long-time cat owner, I can always detect signs of a cafe cat in distress or of ill health. Alter all, a team is only as strong as its most vulnerable member, and a coffee shop that doesn’t care for their cat properly is unlikely to be one that pays attention to your needs.

Here are five cafes in Saigon with outstanding feline inhabitants that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting (and petting).

1. Auvery Cafe

14 Lê Ngô Cát, Xuân Hòa Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

An offshoot of the first location on Ký Con, Auvery Cafe is a welcoming corner on quaint Lê Ngô Cát Street to hide from traffic. Its spacious sheltered and tree-lined courtyard is a well-ventilated seating choice on early Saigon mornings when the temperature is still cool. Auvery’s resident feline is half-ginger, half-cream Em, who might be grumpy-looking at first but will happily nuzzle your leg after a few visits — that is, if you’re lucky enough to visit during Em’s non-nap hours.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

2. Phường Cà Phê

115/102 Lê Văn Sỹ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Phường Cà Phê is located on a peculiar stretch of Phú Nhuận where what seems like one street on the map is actually two parallel paths in real life, separated by the train track. Unlike Hanoi’s train street, the track is slightly elevated and sectioned off, but sitting inside Phường, once in a while, you’ll be greeted with the blaring horns of a passing locomotive. There are two feline residents here, one of which is a gorgeous long-haired heterochromatic white cat whose presence will shower your day with regal energy.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

3. Haru Craft

15/10 Nguyễn Huy Tưởng, Gia Định Ward

Photos by Cao Nhân.

Despite the numerous cute videos showing cat-pottery wheel interactions that I’ve watched on Instagram, I still think that pottery and cats are a dangerous combination — one ever so fragile while the other is chaos embodied. Haru Craft doesn’t seem to share this belief, judging by the presence of Gona, their energetic creamsicle ginger cat named after the famous Dalgona coffee from South Korea. This spacious cafe has a dedicated studio space for recurring ceramic workshops you can take alone, on a date, or even with a group of friends. Watch out for the cat while handling pottery!

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Read Saigoneer's review of Haru Craft Ceramic Studio here.

4. Kalery

172/9 Đặng Văn Ngữ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

As a cafe, Kalery is structured around working and studying instead of boisterous chats: the lighting is bright, there are many power sockets, and the quietude is lovely. There is a wide assortment of snacks, sweets, stationery, and even cat treats on sale at the counter. The cat snacks are obviously there for fans of Mỹ to befriend him. In spite of the feminine name, Mỹ is a boy, and an exceedingly handsome grey tabby boy at that. He can be spotted inspecting the cleanliness under the tables or rolling lazily on the floor.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

5. Passengers

46/9 Trần Quang Diệu, Nhiêu Lộc Ward

Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

The vine-covered wooden doors of Passengers might appear mysterious at first glance, but they open into a secluded world of rustic furniture, eclectic knick-knacks, and lots of cats and dogs — the most of any on this list. I have never done an official count, but there are at least three cats and a dog at any given moment, napping, maneuvering in between your legs, sniffing your backpack. Most of the pets are rescues, and you wouldn’t believe that some of these fluffy friends were once on the street, because they look happy and healthy. It’s clear that this is their world, and you’re just existing in it.

Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Read Saigoneer's review of Passengers here.

Cooking Without Cover: What VỊ Battle Reveals About Saigon’s Next Chefs

2026-01-16T10:28:14+07:00

A kitchen usually protects its cooks. Walls soften mistakes. Noise hides hesitation. If something goes wrong, the rhythm of service absorbs it.

At VỊ Battle®, there was no such cover.

The stage was open. The lights were unforgiving. A clock counted down from 30 minutes, not quietly, but insistently. Every movement was exposed: the pause before seasoning, the hand hovering too long over a garnish, the glance exchanged when time begins to compress.

Chef Dương from Little Bear serves his creation to a judge of VỊ Battle®.

This was VỊ Battle®, the most exposed module of MÊ VỊ, a contemporary culinary program conceived and organized by The Purpose Group, staged during HOZO City Tết Fest 2025. Created as a live culinary challenge for young chefs, VỊ Battle® was designed to explore how tradition evolves, how memory transforms, and how Tết ingredients, including tôm khô and củ kiệu, can be reinterpreted through modern craft and personal expression. Four teams, each representing a MICHELIN Guide 2025 restaurant, stepped forward to reveal how they behave when refinement collides with pressure.

Chef Thục Linh from The Monkey Gallery Dining, born in 2000, was the sole female chef in the VỊ Battle®.

The Format That Refuses to Be Gentle

Each team had 30 minutes to cook and present a dish built around a single ingredient. Midway through that sprint, they were interrupted for a rapid-fire Q&A to earn extra points.

The interview task was an intentional fracture of focus. Stocks continued to decline. Congee thickened. Final textures depended on seconds. And suddenly, the chef had to speak, perform clarity, and then return to the stove without losing rhythm. Under this format, composure became the clearest marker of skill and attitude readiness.

Chef Tâm from Quince Saigon stands to the left of Chef Hoà from Nephele during the rapid-fire Q&A (left) while Chef Sang from The Monkey Gallery Dining stands to the left of Chef Duy from Little Bear (right).

Battle One: Tôm Khô and Two Ways of Carrying Pressure

The first assignment focused on tôm khô, a Tết ingredient closely tied to prosperity, sharing, and togetherness. From festive mâm cơm to casual gatherings, dried shrimp carries both umami depth and emotional familiarity. At VỊ Battle®, the challenge was not simply to cook it well, but to rethink its texture, balance, and emotional resonance in a contemporary way.

The first battle paired Quince Saigon with Nephele, both working from the same ingredient, but arriving at very different interpretations.

Quince Saigon moved with speed and decisiveness. Their dish transformed the familiar beer-table pairing of dried shrimp and pickled scallion into a tapioca congee, built on shrimp stock and finished with a shrimp-forward sa tế and crisp shrimp bits. The idea, comfort sharpened by technique, landed immediately with the judges.

The duo from Quince Saigon: Chef Tâm (left) and Chef Duy (right).

Nephele’s approach was more radical in its choice of raw material. Their cháo tôm ruộng, built on ST25 rice and giant freshwater prawn (tôm càng) rather than the more familiar small dried shrimp, made a deliberate shift in scale. By choosing a prawn more often associated with freshness and prominence, the team challenged expectations of what tôm khô could represent. The decision was bold, not decorative, reframing a Tết ingredient through weight, clarity, and presence rather than nostalgia. The rice was lightly toasted and cooked in prawn stock to preserve sweetness and structure, allowing the prawn itself to remain the central voice rather than a supporting accent.

Chef Hoà (left) and Chef Long (right) from Nephele.

After the challenge, Chef Hòa of Nephele described pressure not as a single spike, but as a sequence. Each step brought its own tension, and the time limit became a constant presence, amplifying every doubt.

Cháo tôm ruộng from Nephele.

Chef Duy of Quince Saigon spoke of a different kind of pressure. Time did not rattle him. Neither did the crowd. What pressed hardest was self-expectation, and the realization that this was his first competition. For him, the real test was not the dish, but how far he could push himself without intervention.

The Tôm khô tapioca congee from Quince Saigon.

Two teams. One ingredient. Two very different ways of carrying pressure.

Watching from the sidelines, Julien Perraudin, chef patron of Quince Saigon, felt a rare loss of control. The immediate emotion was nervousness, and the restless urge to step in without being able to do so. For a chef accustomed to steering every detail, VỊ Battle® redrew the limits of mentorship. On that stage, responsibility shifted decisively toward the young chefs themselves, supported by their teams yet required to make judgment calls without correction. When they performed well, it was not triumph, but confirmation that guidance has done its work.

Chef Patron Jullien Perraudin poses for photos with his winning team of VỊ Battle® Day 1.

Meanwhile, Francis Thuận Trần, whose influence at Nephele extends beyond technique, believes that experiences like VỊ Battle® reshape how young chefs understand the profession, not simply as people who cook, but as creative voices with leadership and professional backbone. The pressure of the stage becomes formative, shaping how they grow into the role long after the noise fades.

Chef patron Francis Thuận Trần (in white) and the Nephele team on VỊ Battle® Day 1.

Battle Two: Củ Kiệu and the Final Minute

The second battle turned to củ kiệu, a Tết staple defined by contrasting acidity against richness and sharpness balanced by fat. Traditionally served as an accompaniment, củ kiệu rarely takes center stage. VỊ Battle® asked what happens when this supporting ingredient becomes the narrative itself.

This round brought The Monkey Gallery Dining face-to-face with Little Bear.

The Monkey Gallery Dining anchored their dish in memory with thịt kho củ kiệu served alongside rice. Pork jowl was marinated, slow-cooked for hours, then finished over charcoal on stage. A sauce reduced from pork bones and pickled củ kiệu, a bright chimichurri-style condiment, and rice cooked with pork fat using Séng Cù rice completed the plate. The result was dense, restrained, and deliberate.

Chef Linh (left) and Chef Sang (right) from The Monkey Gallery Dining.

Pressure followed closely. Chef Sang spoke of the audience, the clock, and the demands of representation. Chef Linh admitted she arrived with high expectations. When asked what she would change, she did not mention flavor or technique.

She said she would be calmer.

The final minutes fractured her focus, subtly but decisively. Later, she revealed how compressed preparation had been, owing to a busy restaurant schedule and limited testing; even the rice had been finalized just a day before the battle.

Thịt kho củ kiệu served with rice by The Monkey Gallery Dining.

Across the stage, Little Bear presented a cooler counterpoint. Their chilled củ kiệu salad layered pickled củ kiệu with lotus root, daikon pickling liquid, smoked bacon, toasted nuts, a smooth củ kiệu purée, and a delicate củ kiệu sorbet. Most elements were prepared in advance, shifting pressure from cooking to composition.

Chef Duy (left) and Chef Dương (right) from Little Bear.

Chef Bảo Duy of Little Bear described his anxiety as stemming from the need to execute his colleague Chef Dương Đặng’s idea correctly. The concept belonged to Dương and his role was support. Their nerves peaked only at the end, when a layer refused to sit as planned. It was the kind of imperfection that feels minor until it unfolds under lights.

Chilled củ kiệu salad by Little Bear.

Asked what he would change, Dương, born 2004 and thus the youngest chef in the finale, answered simply, "nothing." Preparation had been complete. The stage was about execution.

Watching from nearby, Nhật Duy, executive chef of Little Bear, felt a mix of pride and unease that bordered on familial. Seeing young chefs step into VỊ Battle® sharpened his sense of responsibility, the understanding that mentorship does not stop at training. The value of the stage lies in forcing young chefs out of their safety zones and into a space where growth begins precisely because comfort ends.

The Little Bear team with Executive Chef Nhật Duy (far right) on VỊ Battle® Day 2.

Meanwhile, The Monkey Gallery Dining’s Executive Chef Hậu Trần saw the competition as more than a technical test. Standing in front of a crowd exposes gaps no kitchen can hide, not only in cooking, but in communication, posture, and confidence. What matters is not the absence of pressure, but the ability to carry it with grace, and to remain composed when skill alone is no longer enough.

The Monkey Gallery Dining team celebrates their win with Executive Chef Hậu Trần (approaching the stage on the right) on VỊ Battle® Day 2.

Beyond the Battle

Winning VỊ Battle® did not end the journeys.

The two victorious teams, Quince Saigon and The Monkey Gallery Dining, earned a place at MÊ VỊ Battle®Banquet on December 30, where they cooked alongside Chef Vương and the 1-star Michelin CoCo Dining team. The shift was deliberate, from competition to collaboration, from isolation to shared authorship.

VỊctory poses for Quince Saigon (left) and The Monkey Gallery Dining (right).

Most of all, VỊ Battle® revealed a generation of chefs learning to cook without cover, no kitchen walls, no head chef stepping in, and no safety net beyond preparation, teamwork, and judgment. In Saigon’s fast-evolving dining scene, that exposure matters.

Before young chefs can redefine Vietnamese cuisine, they must first learn how to handle pressure in public and still cook with intention.

Chef Võ Thành Vương (center) and his team from the Michelin 1-star Coco Dining restaurant pose for photos with the winners from The Monkey Gallery Dining and Quince Saigon.

At VỊ Battle®, the clock does not just measure time; it also measures readiness.

The MÊ VỊ Battle® Banquet.

Hẻm Gems: Woko Brings the Comfort of American Chinese Food to Saigon

2026-01-07T16:00:00+07:00

When a dish travels far from its homeland to take root somewhere else, one common yardstick for judging it is “authenticity.” Is the seasoning true to form? How closely do the ingredients match the original? Has the cook stuck to tradition, or wandered too far into improvisation? But what if an entire cuisine was born and shaped in defiance of that very idea?

Tucked in a small corner on Phạm Viết Chánh Street, WOKO at first looks like just another fixture of Saigon’s Chinese food scene, grabbing attention with its red shopfront and vivid wall covered in Hong Kong movie posters. The heart of the operation, though, is American Chinese, a branch of Chinese cooking with an American identity created within very particular historical context.

What is American Chinese cuisine?

In the 19^th and 20^th centuries, the first waves of Chinese immigrants arrived in the United States and took on punishing work in mines and on railroad crews. As those projects dwindled and discrimination narrowed their options, many trades shut them out altogether. Chinese migrants retreated into Chinatowns, where laundries and small restaurants became a way to make a living. With familiar spices and ingredients hard to come by, they had to cook around what was available. Stir-fries were remade with North American vegetables like carrot and broccoli; meat leaned toward leaner cuts, and sauces were rendered more assertively, meant to be eaten with plenty of rice or noodles to keep one's belly full.

Before long, words spread. More diners began seeking out Chinese restaurants for meals that were tasty, (relatively) nourishing, and affordable. Over the decades, these places multiplied and became a fixture of American popular culture, and of the west, more broadly.

Like many international students in the US, I used to subsist on more than a few of these “charity meals” from Chinese restaurants. They stayed open regardless of the hour, so even on a freezing Christmas night, when everything nearby had closed for the holiday, I could still wander over for a box of orange chicken or beef and broccoli, bring it back to the dorm, and steady myself with a good meal in the middle of winter. Even now that I am back in Saigon, I still get sudden cravings for the comfort food that fed me during those years away from home.

From Australia to Saigon

Duyên, one of the two founders of WOKO, was also a student abroad and shared a similar experience that inspired her to start the shop. “I studied in Australia for three years,” she said. “On my first day there, I ate chow mein and honey chicken, and I didn’t even know it was American Chinese. Late,r it was my go-to after class. The food court sold it so cheaply, around 3 or 4 dollars for a small portion, that I’d stop by almost every day. I ate it so often I ended up loving it.”

After finishing her studies and returning to Vietnam, Duyên found her way into the local F&B scene. She worked at several restaurants, including one that specialized in American Chinese dishes. There, she not only deepened her understanding of the cuisine, she also met people who would later help her build WOKO: Sơn, now the head chef; and Huy, her co-founder.

When the restaurant shut down because of the pandemic, they kept working in different kitchens but stayed in touch. After saving for some time, each of them had managed to put aside a bit of capital. One night, over drinks and talk about the future, Duyên and Huy began to discuss starting a business more seriously. “At the time I was thinking of opening a café,” Duyên said. “Then Huy was like, ‘Why don’t we open a place like that American-Chinese spot we used to work at? Everybody misses that flavor.’”

In fact, Saigon already has a few restaurants pursuing this model, but none truly met Duyên’s personal criteria. The food did not always suit her taste. Portions felt too large. Prices still ran high compared with the general baseline. “I wanted to fix those small issues,” she said. “I wanted a portion people could share, so they could order more dishes. I wanted smaller servings, more suitable for Vietnamese diners. I wanted prices to be a bit steadier. A person can come in and order a combo with rice and a main dish, starting from VND65,000.”

WOKO’s menu is built from the founders’ own experience and presents the best-known staples of Chinese-American restaurants across the Pacific, including sweet & sour pork, orange chicken, chow mein, and more.

Even after significant tailoring, these dishes still follow many techniques rooted in Chinese cooking. Ingredients are stir-fried quickly in a large wok so they stay fresh and vibrant in color. Sauces are lightly thickened with cornstarch, which gives them viscosity and helps them cling to the other components. The clearest departures show up in the finishing. Fried chicken, for instance, is coated in a fairly thick batter and cooked twice. Seasoning is also pushed in a bolder direction, with sweetness and sourness often more pronounced than in the original dishes.

Among WOKO’s many offerings, honey chicken and fried rice are the two I love most, and I order them almost every time I stop by. If Vietnamese fried rice is typically on the drier side, sometimes with slightly browned edges, American Chinese fried rice tends toward a looser, fluffier texture. WOKO’s version, mixed with egg, peas, and scallions, is deeply seasoned with soy sauce and a glossy dark brown that is pleasingly theatrical — “the Uncle Roger's standard,” as Duyên described.

Whatever the version, good rice is often what determines whether an Asian meal hits the mark. WOKO’s team, accordingly, tested their way through multiple options before landing on the right grain. “Honestly, we tried like 10 bags of rice,” Duyên said. “Vietnam is famous for exporting rice, so there’s so much variety. We had to find the exact kind we needed.”

The fried rice is a perfect counterpart to the honey chicken: crisp fried pieces glazed in a gently sweet honey sauce, fragrant with toasted sesame, served alongside hot rice and tender broccoli. Sweetness, salt, and richness weave into one another in a combination that is deeply comforting. Beyond the honey sauce, WOKO offers orange, black bean, Kung Pao, and more. Diners can mix and match these sauces with chicken, beef, or tofu, then pair them with rice or hot noodles to make the most satisfying portion for themselves.

American Chinese food tends to be seasoned generously, so those accustomed to Saigon’s more traditional Chinese fare might find it unfamiliar at first bite. Yet that difference creates a separate lane for WOKO. The shop does not try to please everyone, but it is always open to changes when the changes are reasonable.

“Some people say the sweet-and-sour sauce is really good now, don’t change it,” Duyên said. “But someone else might think it’s too sour, too salty. Instead of changing the recipe back and forth, I’ll remember that customer’s feedback, so the next time they come in, we’ll adjust it to fit their taste.”

For Duyên, WOKO may not be the only American-Chinese restaurant in Saigon, or even the most outstanding one, but it should be the one with the best service standards. Flavor matters, of course, but what she is most intent on building is a friendly, personalized experience where customers feel consistently welcomed.

With American Chinese food, “authenticity” has never been the most important criterion. Alongside recipes learned from books and from their previous kitchen, Duyên and Sơn have also experimented with distinctly Vietnamese ingredients, including a “secret sauce” (which I am not allowed to reveal) to create a one-of-a-kind flavor for their chow mein, a creation Duyên described playfully: “It’s Chinese, it's Vietnamese and it’s American!”

Ultimately, it's that spirit of adaptability that allowed Chinese cuisine to survive and flourish in an unfamiliar land. Today, that legacy lives on in a modest kitchen in Saigon, and in the soul-warming plates that I keep finding myself returning to whenever I can’t decide what to eat.

To sum up:

Opening time: 12pm–2:30pm; 3:30pm–9pm
Parking: Bike parking in front of shop
Average cost per person: $$ (VND60,000–150,000)
Payment: Cash, bank transfer, credit card, Apple Pay
Delivery app: Grab

WOKO Saigon - Chinese Takeout

74B Phạm Viết Chánh, Thạnh Mỹ Tây, HCMC

From Abroad to My Favorite Bún Riêu: A Brief History of Trứng Vịt Lộn

2026-01-04T09:00:00+07:00

I pride myself on being a child of Hanoi, but only after nearly 20 years, did I realize that trứng vịt lộn is not exactly an authentic topping in Hanoi-style bún riêu.

With 2024 coming to an end, many apps are urging me to reflect on my year and Top 10 this and Top 10 that. If I were to make a list of the most surprising discoveries I've made this year, finding out that traditional “authentic” bún riêu doesn’t include trứng vịt lộn would definitely comes out on top. Turns out, my regular bún riêu order, one I’m always chanting like a mantra of a Hanoian craving — “riêu sụn giò tóp mỡ trứng vịt lộn, bỏ cùng nước” (bún riêu with pork cartilage, giò, with fried pork fat and balut egg) — is a modernized, non-traditional version of bún riêu. The diversity of toppings today is a far cry compared to the original simplicity of Hanoian bún riêu, which is a simple noodle dish that only highlights riêu cua (crab paste), an easy-to-find ingredient in the subsidy period in the early 1980s. Since then, I have always wondered: how could trứng vịt lộn become such an iconic dish of Hanoian cuisine?

Illlustration by Ngọc Tạ.

From a rustic beginning

Trứng vịt lộn, or balut, is a fertilized duck embryo that can be enjoyed in numerous ways depending on the region and country. The English term “balut” originates from the Tagalog phrase “balut sa puti,” which means “wrapped in white.” This came from the traditional preparation method where the egg is “wrapped” during incubation. There are many ways the Vietnamese culture has attempted to make sense of its Vietnamese name.

Does vịt lộn lộn? Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

Trứng vịt — or hột vịt, as it's commonly called in southern Vietnam — can be directly translated to duck eggs, but “lộn” has many interpretations, from official dictionary definitions to folk stories. According to the Vietnamese-Portuguese-Latin dictionary by Alexandre de Rhodes, “lộn” is a Nôm word of Vietnamese origin, meaning reincarnation. However, according to the writer Minh Lê, a folk tale references “lộn” as “mistake,” as in “This already half-hatched egg is mistakenly cooked!” Another version suggests that “lộn” can mean “mixed” due to duck eggs being incubated by hens, resulting in a mix-up. These myths all partially illustrate the prevalence of trứng vịt lộn in Vietnam folk life. However, its exact origins are somewhat unclear. Still, according to historical texts, the tradition of consuming fertilized eggs is believed to have originated in China and was imported into the Philippines through Chinese traders.

Before electricity, Vietnamese were used to trứng vịt lộn vendors lit up with oil lamps. Photo via Phụ Nữ.

According to an article in the Journal of Ethnic Foods, fertilized duck eggs are a shared delicacy of numerous Asian countries, including the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. This practice began as a way to extend the shelf life of eggs before refrigeration was available, creating 毛鸡蛋, or “feathered egg,” which still have visible feathers once cooked. The fundamental difference between these regional baluts lies in the incubation duration: in Cambodia, the incubation lasts from 18 to 20 days, while Vietnamese eggs are usually incubated for 19–21 days to ensure the embryo is firm when cooked.

Fertilized duck eggs are a shared delicacy of numerous Asian countries, including the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. This practice began as a way to extend the shelf life of eggs before refrigeration was available.

In Vietnam, the earliest historical mention of trứng vịt lộn can be traced back to the imperial eras of the Nguyễn Dynasty. In 1822, the Minh Mạng court hosted John Crawfurd, a British ambassador, at a banquet that featured three bowls of balut. If true, this shows that trứng lộn has been eaten in Huế since at least the 1820s, though there are no records indicating whether they were chicken or duck eggs. In his journal, Crawfurd described the balut as “the highlight of every grand feast.”

John Crawfurd’s Journal of an Embassy from the Governor-General of India to the Courts of Siam and Cochin China, a classic reference text of 19^th-century Vietnam. Photo via Biblioasia.

According to writer Nguyễn Gia Việt, trứng vịt lộn was brought to southern Vietnam by the Ma Ní people (Manileños), which refers to Filipino soldiers who served as mercenaries for the French. Then, it was commercialized by the Chinese as the first seller in Saigon's Chợ Lớn. While the exact year is unclear, this was the first place to trade trứng vịt lộn, with Bến Bình Đông being a hub for duck egg incubation. The selection of duck eggs over chicken eggs is due to the former's stronger shell and membrane, with a smoother shell texture. This gives the egg stronger resistance during the demanding incubation process.

In the 1950s, Pateros was the “Balut capital” of the Philippines with around 400,000 ducks dedicated to balut egg production. Photo via History Oasis.

Vietnamese mostly enjoy trứng vịt lộn già, or old balut, which is incubated for 20–21 days. At this time, the embryos are small but most of the parts of the ducklings’ bodies have been developed, giving the otherwise soft albumen a more textured filling. Apart from trứng vịt lộn, trứng cút lộn (fertilized quail egg) is also a well-beloved street food often sold at nhậu restaurants, either stir-fried in tamarind sauce or fried with butter.

To a familiar daily presence

Trứng vịt lộn has many “faces” as it can be featured in numerous dishes. While any Hanoian child is familiar with the simple boiled egg, served with rau răm, the traditional Saigon way to eat vịt lộn is slightly more refined. The egg is put on a tiny ceramic cup, with the bigger end facing upward; the diner uses a teaspoon to crack a hole just big enough to slowly scoop the insides out to eat — similar to the way the French eat soft-boiled eggs (œufs à la coque). In southwestern provinces, trứng vịt lộn can be boiled in coconut water, infusing the signature sweetness of this distinctly southern flavor. Trứng vịt lộn can also lend itself brilliantly to other dishes, including hotpot, porridge, and soup.

Trứng vịt lộn and porridge and in trứng vịt lộn om bầu. Photo via Kênh 14 and Kenvin Travel.

In my daily life, I encounter trứng vịt lộn quite often: on my way home from work, I can count over 15 trứng vịt lộn spots only from fleeting observation. On any street, from cities to the countryside, right beside the foot of a skyscraper, or deep inside small alleys — you can always find a little vendor selling trứng vịt lộn, with tiny chairs here and there filled with diners wearing all types of outfit. White-collar workers in formal shirts? Grandmas wearing their signature patterned pajamas? Dressed-up ladies preparing for a girl’s night? Little kids still wearing school bags? Trứng vịt lộn is literally everywhere, every time, for everyone.

On any street, from cities to the countryside, right beside the foot of a skyscraper, or deep inside small alleys — you can always find a little vendor selling trứng vịt lộn. Trứng vịt lộn is literally everywhere, every time, for everyone.

Therefore, if you love trứng vịt lộn, it will take only 5 minutes to find the nearest trứng vịt lộn, be it in a supermarket or at a vendor on the street. Boil for around 15 minutes and be creative with how you eat it: dipped in salt, pepper, and lime; with pickles; or with accompanying porridge. In my opinion, trứng vịt lộn contains the essence of Vietnamese cuisine: flexible adaptations, on-the-go convenience, and, of course, booming bursts of flavors packed in little vessels.

The nutritious trứng vịt lộn stew with mugwort and Chinese medicines, the best friend of all sick northern children. Photo via Check in Vietnam.

There are different reasons for eating trứng vịt lộn. For me, it is simply a sudden craving for it, often in the middle of meetings, work, and brain freezes. For my mom and grandmother, it is reserved for when younger members of the family catch a cold, as northerners often treat trứng vịt lộn as a nutritious comfort food. In fact, trứng vịt lộn is often deemed to be too nutritious, so my mom and granny tame this finicky treat by stewing it with ngải cứu (mugwort) and herbal ingredients like wolfberry, jujube, and longan.

According to common folk beliefs, eating trứng vịt lộn is also a way to dispel bad luck as “lộn” can also mean reverse. Just remember to eat an odd number of eggs only, then crush the eggshell after eating. Psychologist Nguyễn Thị Đào Lưu explained that this is due to spiritual reasons. In challenging times, people look for something to rely on, making eating trứng vịt lộn a comforting cultural practice that provides not just nourishment, but also a sense of hope.

And to a symbol of Vietnam's ever-evolving cuisine and identity

Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

I pride myself as a connoisseur of Hanoian food, having spent my childhood inside the Old Quarter, and then growing up in Đống Đa — which arguably has the second-most vibrant food scene in the city, after Hoàn Kiếm. It has always been the norm for me to have bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn; the colorfully marbled egg elevates an already-perfect dish. Its saltiness blends harmoniously with the crab-infused broth, golden fried tofu, chili vinegar, raw vegetables, and shrimp paste. While some prefer having trứng vịt lộn in a separate bowl, carving out a piece to accompany spoonfuls of bún here and there, I reckon dropping the egg fully in the bowl gives the trứng vịt lộn broth a chance to shine. It brings out the full flavor profile of the egg: umami, gamy, and savory — exactly why Vietnamese all fall in love with it.

The vibrant full-topping bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn. Photo via Dân Trí.

Thus, when I learned that the authentic Hanoian bún riêu doesn’t feature trứng vịt lộn, I was in denial. Sure, there are “minimalistic” spots that do not serve the egg, but I have always assumed that this was merely a matter of topping preferences, similar to fried doughnuts in phở, which my family doesn’t fancy but are staples for many. Upon further reflection, it makes sense that the favorite bún riêu vendor of my dad, a true Hanoian, doesn’t serve trứng vịt lộn. Nestled deep inside a tiny alley that can barely fit my dad’s cruiser bike, the little vendor offers minimal toppings of just tofu and crab. One time, the owner grimaced at my request for trứng vịt lộn, exclaiming that her place, which has been passed down through generations, has never, and will not, serve that topping. It is obvious that the owner certainly did not approve of the modern version of bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn.

Nonetheless, to me, the modern bún riêu remains quintessentially Hanoian. Whether served with vibrant toppings or in its original minimalist style, each bowl still tells stories of Hanoi and its people, albeit, slightly different for each era. It doesn't matter whether it comes with vịt lộn or not, bún riêu is still enjoyed with friends, sharing stories, and keeping the heart of Hanoian culture alive. Hanoi's tradition of enjoying bún riêu during Tết as a refreshment from repetitive Tết dishes was continued even with the new addition of trứng vịt lộn. Sidewalks are lined with numerous vendors, serving people of all generations and even foreign visitors. It perfectly demonstrates how the non-traditional trứng vịt lộn is becoming a part of Hanoi’s gastronomic traditions, continuing and evolving the heritage.

Bún riêu for Tết is modern Hanoian tradition. Photos via Kênh 14.

Trứng vịt lộn, as non-traditional as it is in bún riêu, has become a part of the collective memories of the present generation, or even the older Hanoians who are willing to embrace changes. My dad was introduced to trứng vịt lộn in bún riêu by me, and sometimes — when hunger strikes — he will go for an “energized” bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn. Somehow, trứng vịt lộn not only brought a new flavor profile to a timeless dish but also renewed a culinary experience savored across generations. On my days of wandering around Saigon, I still miss my trứng vịt lộn–bún riêu, my mind filled with homesickness and nostalgia, longing to be back to my beloved city and its streetside vendors.

Hẻm Gems: The Spectacular Stink of Bún Mắm Nêm Is My Childhood Aroma

2025-12-27T10:30:00+07:00

Every time I depart from Vietnam to study abroad or travel, on the way to Tân Sơn Nhất International Airport, I stop by the Bàu Cát area in Tân Bình to stuff myself with at least two bowls of bún mắm nêm heo quay.

I indulge because I know it will be hard to find mắm nêm, or at least the good kind, abroad. Mắm nêm is a type of Vietnamese fermented anchovy sauce, whose smell and taste are much more pungent than typical fish sauce. When served in dishes, the sauce is mixed with other ingredients such as pineapple, lime juice, garlic, sugar, and fresh chili. This seasoning concoction elevates mắm nêm’s flavor and aroma, making it a better compliment to the dishes it's served with.

While most of my foreign friends think I ate phở or bánh mì growing up, the truth is that I barely consume such food in Saigon. As someone who was born into a Quảng Nam-Đà Nẵng family, my palate for Vietnamese cuisine is quite different from what the media commonly features. My staples are central Vietnamese food, and among them, one of my most favorite dishes is bún mắm nêm heo quay.

A glorious portion of bún mắm nêm with crispy roast pork, pig's ears and cashew oil and mắm nêm on the side.

This dish is neither frequently promoted in international press nor found in overseas Vietnamese restaurants since its reeking smell turns many foreign diners away. However, the stinking aroma in bún mắm nêm is what arrests me. Not only does it whet my appetite, but the flavor also transports me to childhood memories and my identity as a child of migrants. Bún mắm nêm is more than my mere favorite food; it is a cultural piece of me whenever I leave Vietnam. I eat it a lot to both satisfy myself and cherish my beautiful heritage.

I grew up trying many bún mắm nêm heo quay eateries in the Tan Binh area, a central Vietnamese ethnic enclave in Saigon. Among them, I am a loyal diner at Dì Bảy. One of the main reasons why I favor this place is because of its mắm nêm, the decisive factor that makes or breaks a bún bowl. As a connoisseur of mắm, my first rule for a good mắm nêm is that its smell has to be stimulating enough to awaken one’s taste buds. Dì Bảy’s sauce meets this standard. When I pour the sauce into a small cup, its provocative smell completely captivates my heart and excites all of my senses. The sauce is perfectly seasoned, finely balanced between the tart flavor of pineapple, slight sweetness of sugar, and savoriness of mắm nêm.

Roast pork and chả bò (beef sausage) are the main proteins in bún mắm nêm.

Besides the aromatic sauce, Dì Bảy’s bowl of bún mắm nêm is a piece of culinary art that is delicious in taste, visually gratifying and nutritiously balanced. Layers of ingredients are neatly presented and placed in the bowl. At the bottom rest chopped lettuce, herbs and shredded young papaya. On top of the greens is a layer of fresh bún. Finally, the bowl is filled with juicy roasted pork whose skin is still crunchy, tender boiled pork, succulent pig’s ears, chewy chả bò (Đà Nẵng‘s specialty), and garnished with fried onions, roasted peanuts and cashew oil. My advice is to ask for extra cashew oil and add it to the bowl to better mix the ingredients together.

In order to eat bún mắm nêm well, one needs to deftly mix these ingredients together. One has to make sure the cashew oil and mắm nêm are distributed evenly among all parts of the dish, and that all ingredients are visible and interwoven with each other at the top. These signs suggest the taste and flavor are well blended, and that you are ready to enjoy this bowl of central Vietnamese delight.

Bún Mắm Nêm Dì Bảy Đà Nẵng is open from 7am to 9pm.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–9pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: Facebook/0903929936
Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: Grab, ShopeeFood, Xanh SM

Nhi brings her own lassi to nhậu eateries.

Bún Mắm Nêm Dì Bảy

199 Bàu Cát, Ward 14, Tân Bình, HCMC