On the transient days when Hanoi’s weather morphs from winter to summer, the monsoon winds carry with them the drizzles of an in-between time. This cool climate evokes within me a yearning for some warm steam from boiling vats of soup stock, so on a rare chilly morning, I wandered around and stopped by Triệu Việt Vương Street for a distinctly morning treat in Hanoi.

Triệu Việt Vương is home to a diverse range of eateries and coffee shops, thanks to its position as a central thoroughfare of Hai Bà Trưng District. Amid the door-to-door rows of shops is a 25-year-old bún riêu store that has remained popular despite the cities’ changing times. The crowds of patrons that constantly head in and out of its doors are the best stamp of approval of its enduring liveliness in Hanoi.

The own of Bún riêu ốc bò Bình Huyền is cô Huyền, who started her noodle business in 1998 with just a mobile soup station. On one side of the bamboo yoke was a big pot of simmering soup broth and the other side housed a basket of fresh rice noodles and other toppings. Just like that, Huyền took her family flavors all over town to hungry Hanoians. After 15 years, she finally settled down at a tiny ngõ so narrow that eaters sat along all the length of the wall and even poured out into nearby coffee places.

Today, however, visitors to Triệu Việt Vương won’t be able to find that streetside bún riêu alley anymore, as Huyền has upgraded her operation to an indoor location for the past four years. Though the dining space might be more spacious with proper tables and chairs, long-term regulars will still recognize the nimble movements of Huyền beside her pots, arranging beef slices, sprinkling on snails, and ladling hot broth.

Bún Bình Huyền opens at 7am every day, the prime time when Hanoians take their kids to school and head to the workplace, and find a filling breakfast to fuel up for a busy work day. The aroma of bún riêu seeps into the nearby streets, enthralling unsuspecting pedestrians to stop by for a bowl. During peak periods like breakfast and lunch times, the narrow dining space of 10 tables is always filled with slurping diners. “Many of my customers are from the south, and for the past dozens of years, have visited every single time they’re in Hanoi without fail,” Huyền told me as she quickly filled several bowls with broth.

Even though the restaurant was packed, I didn’t have to wait for too long for my turn to enjoy this bodacious bún riêu. I order a special portion with every available topping. It landed before me like a colorful present that appealed to all the senses: fried tofu pieces hide in between chunks of snails, beef, and spring onion. The seemingly contrasting textures fit together surprisingly harmoniously. Strands of white noodles appear to sparkle beneath the broth and the room’s lighting. I slurped up a spoonful of warm and subtly sour broth. The steam coated my face and the remaining sleepiness vanished.

Cô Huyền’s place manages to attract a loyal following not just thanks to its strategic location on a central street, but also its consistency in delivering flavorful food after years of operation. Each snail, slab of beef, and cube of tofu is prepared with care by the owner. Regulars keep coming back here because they miss the hot broth, elastic noodles, chewy snails, distinctive carb paste, mắm tôm, sweet and sour stock, tender beef, and crispy tofu.

The menu hasn’t changed the entire time the place has been around: bún riêu is the only dish. Depending on craving and interest at any given moment, eaters can opt for different combinations of toppings from fried tofu, snail, pork sausage, beef slices, and more. There are around 10 different choices. To ensure eaters from all walks of life can enjoy her food, Huyền starts her price at VND25,000 for a bowl with just noodles and crab paste. The most expensive option can go up to VND80,000 with an assortment of toppings and a significant amount of beef. This price point might be deemed quite expensive for a bowl of bún riêu, but many patrons still pick it to eat to their heart’s content.

Over two decades in the trade, cô Huyền is very well aware that only the freshest ingredients can produce the highest quality of noodles to make sure eaters come back. Every day, she does the shopping herself, picking every slab of beef and cleaning the snails before preparing them for customers.

The prep work begins at 4am to get ready for a full day of bún. During the hours when the sun still hasn’t risen, a team of six people would start slicing herbs, frying tofu, blanching snails, making the master stock, etc.

Of course, bún is the heart of bún riêu. Here, the bún is soft and white, moderately thin and chewy, so it won’t easily disintegrate in the water. The accompanying greens include lettuce and other aromatic herbs. The meat and crab roe is fried with shallots until the proteins are cooked and fragrant. Fried tofu is also a must-have topping, which is fried until the outer layer is crispy enough while the interior is fluffy.

The most expensive topping on the menu is beef, 20 kilograms of which is consumed every day at Bình Huyền, including cuts like shank, top blade, and tenderloin. The meat is cleaned and trimmed carefully before being sliced into thin slices. The eatery doesn’t process all the meat in the morning, but slice and blanch depending on customer demand to ensure it stays fresh in the bowl.

Ốc, or snail, is another key ingredient in the bún riêu experience. The shop makes sure to pick those with shiny shells and feel heavy. The snail innards should come out cleanly after being cooked. Just like how the beef must be sliced as thin as paper, several kilograms of ốc are processed patiently before being served to customers.

Apart from a diverse range of toppings, cô Huyền’s broth also rounds out the bún riêu. It’s mostly translucent, made from bones, tomatoes and rice vinegar into a golden liquid. This tangy taste balances out the heavy richness of the toppings.

Every portion of bún riêu is served with a plate of fresh herbs, and those with a penchant for spiciness can garnish their bowl with some chili oil. Most importantly, there’s another polarizing condiment that, in my personal view, can’t be left out of bún riêu: mắm tôm. The funky shrimp paste pairs exceptionally well with the seafood in the bowl. This bowl of bún riêu, eaten on the cusp of a new season, will render its eater speechless.

To sum up

• Opening time: 6am–9pm
• Parking: In front of the restaurant (bike only)
• Contact: 0947401995
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

If Saigoneers often turn to sương sâm (leaf jelly) or sương sáo (grass jelly) as refreshments on hot days, the choice of residents of provinces along the central coast is xu xoa. Chunks of translucent, lightly umami jelly swim in the sweetness of a ginger-flavored sugar syrup — a perfect snack that cools the body.

Xu xoa has many different iterations in terms of name: xu xa, xa xa, xoa xoa or chu choa. Despite the numerous nicknames, xu xoa from Quảng Bình to Bình Thuận is made from the same key ingredient. It’s a species of seaweed commonly found living on wet boulders and reefs along the sea. Locals refer to it as rong câu or rau đông.

Rong câu grows in bushes that attach themselves onto the rock surface, each strand is willowy and opaque like the skeletons of small fish. Spring is the seaweed’s most robust growth period, and harvesting can begin as soon as the lunar March, stretching until the lunar July. During this time, villagers head to the beach to pluck off rong câu to sell in markets.

At low tide, usually in the early morning or early afternoon, dredgers arrive at big boulders with scrapers and bamboo baskets. Rocks of various sizes are covered in a colorful veil of seaweed, from emerald green, ochre to ivory. With rolled up pants and giant hats, harvesters work tirelessly under the searing sun and salty winds to collect the freshest seaweed possible to make a living. First, they lodge the tip of the scraper deep into the boulder grooves, then push the whole seaweed out, roots included. The baskets are full after a few hours. The work only finishes when the tide rises again and everyone has their bounty — half a kilo if you’re unlucky and up to a few kilos if you’re fortunate.

Cleaning and cooking xu xoa are no less strenuous compared to harvesting its main ingredient. The seaweed often carries lots of debris and sand, which need to be picked out, while the plant itself must be washed thoroughly to remove the fishiness and saltiness. After the wash, usually half of the rong câu is used to make xu xoa while the other half is sun-dried. The heat during noon is the best for this task, and after a few days under the sun, the seaweed shrivels up, turning a deep shade of brown like coconut husks. This dry version is kept at home to make xu xoa during off seasons or transported away to factories and markets.

The creation of the actual dessert is not as complicated. Fresh rong câu is boiled in a pot with water. Afterwards, with a squeeze of lime juice, the seaweed disintegrates more easily. The acidity in the lime helps denature the coagulant in the seaweed. When the plant has completely melted into the water, the liquid is finally strained to become xu xoa extract. Once cooled, the extract congeals again into a jiggly block of jelly.

Now that the jelly is done, the next step involves making the ginger syrup. The sweetener of choice is usually brown sugar, a refined sugar with added molasses. Quảng residents opt for cane sugar blocks. The water is heated until bubbling to add the sugar. The longer the boil, the thicker the syrup. Experienced home cooks can immediately tell if the syrup is ready by its viscosity. If precision is desired, a refractometer is required. While the sugar is bubbling away, freshly diced ginger is added. Depending on personal taste, young or old ginger bulbs are chosen.

The scent of sweet ginger always gives xu xoa away. Gaggles of kids playing in the front yard immediately drop everything upon catching a whiff to run down to the kitchen to check if mom is making xu xoa. It’s the one snack that remains close to the hearts of children of Central Vietnam, like how author Kim Em describes in the book Ăn để nhớ (Eating as Reminiscing): “My mother didn’t want us to skip out on our afternoon naps to play in the sun, so she would promise that if we took our naps, she would give us some money to buy xu xoa after we woke up. Of course, I would lie down on the settee, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep while dreaming about a bowl of gingery, sugary xu xoa from the mobile xu xoa lady.”

Street xu xoa is a distinctive feature of the Central Vietnam summer, showing up on the bamboo yokes of old ladies or the backseats of bike vendors. They call out: “Ai xu xoa hông? / Who wants xu xoa?” The vendors are often all too eager to give us a flashy knife show as they quickly eviscerate the giant pot-sized block of jelly into uniform chunks of sparkling xu xoa, before ladling on a layer of fragrant ginger syrup. Holding a bowl of xu xoa in my hands is like cradling a midsummer oasis, one that I always have to spend a few moments admiring before slowly relish every bit, as Kim Em aptly writes: “I wasn’t in a hurry to eat it because I was afraid that summer would vanish right on my tongue.”

Apart from the classic ginger syrup, there are a number of different ways to enjoy xu xoa. Chè shops in Đà Nẵng have a xu xoa version that includes xu xoa, mung bean paste, red pearls, bánh lọt, black beans, and decadent coconut milk. In Hội An, vendors often advertise xa xa and lường phảnh. Xa xa is their version of xu xoa, while lường phảnh is a black jelly made from a local herbal leaf and traditional medicinal herbs.

Xu xoa is not just an excellent protector against the heat of summer, it’s also a remedy for homesickness for Vietnamese from the central region. In Saigon, every time they miss home, they would head to Bà Hoa Market for a bowl of gingery xu xoa or a bag of dry rong câu to recreate the flavors at home. Xu xoa’s pleasant sweetness is like an embrace, abating a yearning for a distant land, if only for a moment.

I landed Friday night in Saigon just in time for the news of Anthony Bourdain’s passing lighting up my phone in a jumble of tweets, texts and news alerts. As details emerged about the chef-turned-travel show host’s apparent suicide at 61, an outpouring of grief and shock flooded the internet. I’m sure many of us will remember exactly where we were at the moment we learned of his death.

Editor's note: This article was originally published in June 2018 following the passing of Anthony Bourdain.

Over the weekend, I wasn’t surprised to see my media colleagues penning their finest words for the beloved food-world rockstar, who was considered a friend to many. “Everyone has a Bourdain story,” wrote Cassandra Leandry of Chefsfeed, nodding to the touching personal anecdotes and memories surfacing in editorial tributes from the likes of the New Yorker’s Helen Rosner, Food & Wine’s Kat Kinsman and Saigoneer’s own Mike Tatarski. Rosner recalls: “Bourdain felt like your brother, your rad uncle, your impossibly cool dad—your realest, smartest friend, who wandered outside after beers at the local one night and ended up in front of some TV cameras and decided to stay there.”

As I joined a group of locals raising a glass to Bourdain at a bar in District 1, I recognized how far he had reached beyond the often elite, inaccessible circles of food magazines and fine dining to speak to the ordinary diner and everyday cook. His particularly strong affinity for Vietnam, which he once called his “first love,” was well known to the people who live here, as well those born Vietnamese elsewhere — those of us who remember bringing “stinky” lunches to school and never seeing a face like ours on TV. For us, Bourdain’s passion for Vietnam and his desire to share that with the world made it easier for us to be Vietnamese.

As a Vietnamese American, this moment always stuck out to me. Growing up and bringing Viet food to school for lunch, I was always bullied. But whenever Viet cuisine was featured on an Anthony Bourdain episode, it made me so so proud to be who I was. https://t.co/pBOqjZ4TQS

— Vivian Nguyen (@VivianNguyenPR) June 8, 2018

Growing up, I often struggled to explain what it meant to be Vietnamese-American to my friends — many of them knew nothing about Vietnam other than what we learned in history class during a chapter on the Vietnam War. So when Bourdain’s No Reservations aired on the Travel Channel in 2005 with three episodes in Vietnam, he inspired new conversations about the country.

“It’s mysterious, it’s beautiful, it’s unknowable. It’s one of my favorite places on earth,” he said of Vietnam in an early episode. “It’s a crossroads where nearly every aspect of the culture—religion, government, and cuisine—has at some point in history been influenced by a foreign power. Yet it remains something uniquely more than a sum of its parts: a place of few culinary inhibitions and endless hospitality, with a stronger inner identity. There’s no other place like it.”

A rare footage of an interview with Anthony Bourdain in which he explained his connection with Vietnam. Video via YouTube user myviewz.

Bourdain would return many times, eventually to film episodes of his second series, Parts Unknown, which he hosted on CNN from 2013. The most famous of these visits involved Bourdain sharing what would become a legendary bowl of bún chả with none other than then President Barack Obama in 2016. And the more Bourdain featured Vietnam, the more his fans traveled and grew to share his excitement. No longer were people scrunching their faces when we talked about cooking with fish sauce — in fact, I think I have Bourdain to thank, in part, for all the assignments I get on the Vietnamese food beat these days.

But beyond making people want to buy a plane ticket to try a magical bowl of bún bò Huế, Bourdain’s earnest, expressive enthusiasm for the little details of a place inspired us to seek out deeper, more nuanced experiences of other cultures, and in some cases, reconnect with our own. His colorful musings on Vietnamese soup (“any country that can produce this is a superpower, as far as I'm concerned"), smells (“motorbike exhaust, fish sauce, incense, the faraway smell of something—is that pork grilling over charcoal?”), and even scooter traffic (a “mysterious, thrilling, beautiful choreography”) made me appreciate the essence of Vietnam in an entirely new light.

That table where @obamahitsback and Bourdain ate bun cha in #Hanoi was encased like a museum piece at the restaurant. @bourdain did much for overlooked causes and cuisines, including that of Vietnam. RIP anh Tony. https://t.co/e3flhwAzOR

— Andrea Nguyen (@aqnguyen) June 8, 2018

I can’t and won’t speak for all Vietnamese-Americans, but as far as I can tell, Bourdain was a much-loved figure in our community — someone who could simultaneously reignite the older generation’s passion for a country they left behind and speak to the younger first generation who never felt like they belonged.

When the Vietnam episodes of Parts Unknown aired, we excitedly shared and passed around clips from the show. Even my older relatives, aunts and uncles, for whom the memories of Vietnam are much more painful and complex, embraced the growing excitement around the home they fled. When I got my first gig in food writing, they’d congratulate me by saying: “I hope you become the next Anthony Bourdain!” And after the news broke of his death, I saw countless Instagram posts and Facebook statuses from Vietnamese-American friends and family, describing how Bourdain had helped them find pride in their cuisine and culture.

Bourdain was aware of this effect he had on people, specifically those who’d never had their time in the media spotlight, telling Roads & Kingdoms in a 2017 interview about the way Hanoians responded to his dinner with Obama:

“They would literally point and say, ‘Mr. Bún Chả! Mr. Bún Chả!’ and would sob, would burst into tears, in halting English, trying to explain how they couldn’t believe that the president of the United States didn’t choose to eat pho or spring rolls or go to a hot-shot upscale fusion restaurant,” he said. “That the president of the United States went to this particular restaurant in the Old Quarter and ate bún chả, their thing, their local food, which they really see as theirs and nobody else’s, drank a Hanoi beer out of the bottle—they were so proud and so stunned that he would do this.”

I remember watching this episode of @BarackObama & Bourdain eating noodles in Vietnam w/ my young sons who are half-Vietnamese & who hadn’t yet been to Vietnam. They were so excited to see their worlds come together. Reeling from Bourdain’s death but grateful for all he showed us https://t.co/U6aQBB66CJ

— Vanita Gupta (@vanitaguptaCR) June 9, 2018

Many visible minority groups found an ally in Bourdain: prominent African-American food writer Michael Twitty tweeted that Bourdain “called Africa the cradle of civilization, took his cameras to Haiti, honored the hood with Snoop, broke bread with Obama like a human being.” Gustavo Arellano of the Los Angeles Times called Bourdain “the eternal compadre of overlooked Latinos.” And the Houston episode of Parts Unknown again spoke to the Vietnamese diasporic community, highlighting the Vietnamese-Cajun crawfish boils we grew up with in the Gulf Coast. But what consistently made Bourdain’s coverage of global, immigrant, and minority foodways special was the respect and empathy he displayed. You never saw him discovering “exotic” cuisines, but rather you’d see him having honest conversations with people about their food.

We often credit Bourdain with telling us where to travel, but he did much more than that. He left us with wisdom that changed how we travel: traveling isn’t always glamorous; some of the best friendships are born over a cheap meal on a plastic stool; the places you’ll never forget are sometimes the places you never thought to go. He inspired us to discover the world — and in doing so, embrace our place in it — with no reservations.

Dan Q. Dao is a Vietnamese-American food and travel writer based in New York City.

[Top photo by David Scott Holloway via Travel + Leisure]

Tree-lined Lò Đúc street is home to Phở Chay: a restaurant so small it could fit in the palm of your hand. 

The establishment's vegan phở is served out of a rectangular slice of a building in Hai Bà Trưng District that is very small, very yellow and very cute. 

Though compact, its presence packs a punch. The interior and exterior of the restaurant have been painted a neon lemon-yellow, including the restaurant's name and signature dish, marking its territory in bold capital letters set against a green backdrop. Lest you be confused about what the restaurant has to offer, there's also a smaller poster advertising the phở chay as well as the name of the dish written on the food cart at the entrance to the restaurant. 

Suffice it to say, some phở chay-slurping was in order for this lunch excursion. 

Although the menu out front offers a variety of dishes, only the basic bowls were available as we arrived close to the restaurant's closing at 2pm. The soup is available in two sizes, baby or big bowl. We went for two big bowls at VND25,000 each, some crunchy quẩy sticks for dipping, an order of nem rán, finishing with lime juice and soy milk to drink.

Cute is a fitting word to describe this petite little respite. Despite it “stealthy aesthetic” designation, it's undeniable that smallness is a key feature of what we consider cute. Whether it be a baby panda, a miniature bottle of Tabasco, or a teeny-tiny soup establishment, there is something about smallness that makes our brains go “awwwww, so smoll,” and this restaurant is no exception.

At our seats in the nook, I noticed the pink lotus paintings on the wall and green plastic vines snaking across the ceiling. Maybe, it was these “natural” elements that enticed a buzzing honey bee into the eatery during our visit. It searched aimlessly for nectar in the painted flowers and, less amusingly, my hair.  

Along with charming encounters with insects, a small speaker plugged into the wall lulled us by playing Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật softly, music that you are likely to have heard if you spend much time in vegetarian restaurants.  

The smell of food frying, the promise of soup, the calming tune on repeat, the cozy environs, and the warm afternoon all made for a soothing precursor to a lovely meal.  

Thùy, who operates the restaurant, prepared the dishes from the food cart, which sits at the front of the space, as well as from a fryer perched on a plastic table just to the left of the entry. 

Soon, the phở arrived, featuring plenty of “beef,” seitan, cilantro, and quite importantly, piping hot broth. I am of the opinion that any food or drink that is meant to be served hot should be close to burning my mouth off and that, as it cools down, each degree has a negative impact on its tastiness. Luckily, this soup met my temperature test and the flaky bánh quẩy was great for soaking up the flavors and adding nice textural variety.

It's not a flavor-dense broth, but the wide assortment of seasonings makes it a blank canvas for each individual to satisfy their palate with just the right amount of zhuzhing. A squeeze of lime here, some chilis there, a dash of nước mắm chay, a dribble of rice vinegar and a sprinkle of pepper — the dish proved a great base for the real joy of my life: condiments of the spicy, sour and salty variety. 

Aside from the noodles, the nem rán was a real standout, arriving at our table still crackling from the fryer. Each bite was delightfully greasy and chewy, especially when paired with basil leaves and dunked in “fish” sauce — chef's kiss! It's a good day when you get something fried, fresh, tangy, and herby all in one chomp. 

Puttering around Hanoi immersed in various endeavors, we found that a bowl of soup and some fried tid-bits were a welcome comfort. No matter what you're hungry for, a trip to Phở Chay is always a solid choice.

This article was originally published in 2020 on Urbanist Hanoi.

To sum up:

Opening time: 9am–2pm
Parking: Limited
Contact: 01698206678
Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash
Delivery App: None

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

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

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh ú tro on the altar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to make bánh ú tro

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

Bánh ú lá tre.

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

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

How to wrap a bánh ú.

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

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

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

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

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

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

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

As of 2024, Saigon remains Vietnam’s most densely populated metropolis, playing host to 9.5 million residents. In the quality of life discourse, this crowdedness is often singled out as a weakness deterring many from living their best life in the city. While this is absolutely a valid concern, as someone who grew up in Saigon and has adapted to urban denseness, I would be the first to point out that this population is also a strength, for without it and a sense of southern generosity, Saigon’s cultural diversity would not be the same.

Apart from attracting migrant workers from every other province in the country, Saigon is also an inviting land for people from outside our borders to visit, fall in love, and maybe settle down if they feel welcome and safe enough. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they happen to be excellent cooks as well, blessing Saigon and our tastebuds with a smorgasbord of novel and exciting food from their homes. Over the years of running our food series Hẻm Gems, we’ve encountered so many incredible eateries and dishes in the city that started out this way, including Ethiopian doro wot, Japanese curry, or even Nigerian jollof rice.

Cleopatra is located on Trương Quyền Street between residential tube houses.

Ammar, the owner of Egyptian restaurant Cleopatra, also shares this affection for Saigon, which prompted him to eventually settle down in town after having visited numerous times before. At first, he had another job, but his journey with food was kick-started by nothing other than the COVID-19 lockdown, he shared in an interview. Stuck at home without a job, Ammar began cooking, initially as a way to save money. He also sent meals to friends, who instantly recognized his talent in the kitchen.

These friendship meals introduced him to the first catering gig, and one thing led to another; he was soon renting a small kitchen space in District 1 just to cater food for Saigon’s Middle Eastern communities and anyone else who had a hankering for home-cooked meals. After saving enough money from catering, Ammar became an official restaurateur with the opening of Cleopatra Restaurant last year, this week’s Hẻm Gems feature.

Hummus and pita

It’s hard to imagine that a quiet street like Trương Quyền exists right in central Saigon. Just a short stretch that links Điện Biên Phủ and Võ Thị Sáu streets, this quaint street that could pass for a hẻm is where Cleopatra lives — not the Ptolemaic Egyptian queen, but the restaurant. And if you’re too busy basking in the serene neighborhood vibes here, there’s a high chance you’ll miss the entrance altogether, just like I did both times I was here. 

The place’s dining area is rather small and sparsely decorated. At one corner, a TV plays soothing spa music on loop while here and there on the wall, some artworks depicting Cleopatra and quotes in Arabic hang in between ornate tiles. There are two tables that can fit a couple each, and one four-seat table for bigger groups. All told, everything is clean and comfy, and matters much less when the food more than makes up for any shortcomings in terms of interior design.

Beef shawarma

Arabic salad

Cleopatra’s menu has fewer than 10 items, and depending on your luck on any given visit, some might run out. Ammar acknowledged that he didn’t come from a professional culinary background, so whatever’s on offer are signature dishes that he’s confident in doing justice. One should not arrive here expecting an expertly curated Egyptian food experience, just home-cooked meals done exceptionally well. Even though Egypt is technically an African country, its unique position as the geographical meeting point of the Mediterranean Sea, North Africa, and the Middle East means that the cuisine is influenced by many other cultures, not just African.

Anyone looking for a halal meal in Saigon will be happy here, and those who have sampled Middle Eastern food in the past will feel right at home with Cleopatra’s offers like hummus, falafel, and shawarma. The chicken and beef shawarmas are quite tasty and convenient for a quick lunch, and the hummus is fresh and creamy. I especially enjoyed the soft and fluffy pita given to scoop up hummus. Still, the falafels here are a standout treat: light, nutty, golden brown on the outside and verdant green on the inside. It’s hard to imagine that something as humble and readily available as beans could turn into something this addicting.

Falafel

The must-order item on the menu, to me, is the rice with chicken plate, which pleases me to no end as a chicken rice connoisseur. Have you realized that, across Asia, nearly every culture has at least one chicken and rice dish that is a well-loved comfort food? In Vietnam, it’s cơm gà xối mỡ; it’s Hainanese chicken rice for Singapore; India has chicken biryani; and Thailand has kao mok gai. The yellow flavored rice and juicy chicken combo has really conquered our hearts.

A plate of mandi chicken (VND150,000) with salsa and toum sauce.

At Cleopatra, this combo manifests in the form of a whole leg of mandi chicken, served on a big bed of rich basmati rice, and eaten with a zesty tomato salsa. The chicken is grilled to produce crispy skin, though the meat is fall-off-the-bone tender, retaining an envious level of juiciness. Even though forks are provided, you probably don't need them. The rice has absorbed all of the stock, spices and chicken fat, becoming plump separate grains of decadence, which is why the acid in the tomato salsa is such a thoughtful addition to the dish that I had to ask for a second helping. All in all, at VND75,000, this chicken rice is generous, well-cooked, and altogether a harmonious meal that balances aspects of texture and flavors well.

Every dish in the menu comes out with a generous portion, pushing us dangerously close to a food coma.

I had added Cleopatra to my to-visit list on Google Maps for a few months and completely forgot about it until another Saigoneer writer suggested that we should pay it a visit. Having now sampled the food here, I regret not visiting it sooner. This was also the story between me and The Lunch Lady’s eatery; and now that she’s passed away, it’s made it all the more bittersweet. If I’ve learnt one thing about Saigon’s dynamic food scene after years of writing about it, it’s that everything is impermanent. So even if, in most cases, your next favorite food vendor probably won’t pass away before you’ve had a chance to visit them, people move, people have a change of career, a landlord might turn evil, or a pandemic might hit the globe. Visit that place you’ve been saving for a special occasion now, before it’s too late.

To sum up

Opening time: 11am–10pm
Parking: Across the restaurant (bike only)
Contact: 0372618581
Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: None

Bánh canh is a quintessential Vietnamese dish. Its chewy rice noodle strands and light broth full of umami thanks to simmered pork, beef, chicken and seafood have stolen the hearts of generations of Vietnamese.

Rustic and cozy, one can feast on bánh canh at any corner of Vietnam, from sleek eateries to casual plastic tables on the sidewalk. It can be a warming soup on windy days, a quick breakfast before work, a nostalgic anchor for Vietnamese abroad, or simply something different on days when rice seems too tiring. In each province, bánh canh tend to take on a different personality, flavor profile, and even name, telling stories about its hometown’s culture and regional flair.

Regarding the name “bánh canh,” some believe that it came from the preparation method: a dish of bánh cooked like a soup (canh). Unlike phở, bún or miến — the making of which involves soaking or blanching noodles in hot water — strands of bánh canh are added straight into the broth to cook further after the initial blanching. Bánh canh noodles are often thicker and tougher than others, so a quick dunk won’t be enough to fully incorporate the flavors of the broth. Leaving them simmering away in the pot amidst the spices and stock allows them to sufficiently soften to a tender but not soggy texture.

Bánh canh Nam Phổ, a staple of the imperial city

Huế is home to a fairly diverse family of bánh canh, but the most famous is bánh canh Nam Phổ, named after a village in Phú Vang District, 6 kilometers from central Huế. According to village elders, the local version of bánh canh was so famous that even court mandarins flocked to the village in the late afternoon to have a taste.

The main ingredients in a bowl of bánh canh Nam Phổ.

Bánh canh Nam Phổ stands out thanks to a thick, viscous broth in a shade of bright orange due to the addition of roes from crabs caught in the nearby Tam Giang Lagoon. Traditionally, the dish is only made from wild-caught crabs, which are highly valued for their juicy and chewy meat. Crab shells are stewed to imbue a deeply umami taste in the stock, while crab meat is the topping. Additionally, shrimps are pulverized with pork knuckle meat and seasonings, then shaped into chunks of bite-sized chả tôm. Flavorful seafood and stock are eaten with handmade bánh canh noodles. In Huế, two types of bánh canh noodles are always available: pure rice flour (bột gạo) and a mix of tapioca and rice flours (bột lọc). The latter’s texture is more elastic for those who enjoy noodles with a bite.

Huế residents often say that bánh canh Nam Phổ is their light comfort food that eaters of any age can appreciate in any season of the year. Huế toddlers can ease into the dish with a bowl of only short noodle strands and the stock. Bánh canh is also an easily digestible meal for seniors. Those of the working class often bring a portion of bánh canh Nam Phổ home to eat with rice to make the meal more substantial.

Bánh canh cá lóc, a cooling treat in the heat of Bình-Trị-Thiên

Bình-Trị-Thiên was once a heated battleground during the fight against French colonizers. In 1989, the block was divided into three provinces: Quảng Bình, Quảng Trị, and Thừa Thiên-Huế. Though they’re now considered separate administrative units, they still share many similar cultural threads, including culinary staples like bánh canh cá lóc (catfish). Locals refer to it as cá tràu, a light-flavored fish popular in many arid central Vietnam’s delicacies.

Ingredients in a bowl of bánh canh cá lóc Bình-Trị-Thiên.

There are various ways to make bánh canh cá lóc. The most common one is as follows: catfish flesh is extracted, seasoned with spices, and then fried in oil; and the bones are ground to make a stock. To make the noodles, rice flour is worked into a dough, flattened, cut into strands, and then cooked in the fish stock. The Bình-Trị-Thiên version is characterized by the inclusion of củ nén, a type of allium bulb often seen in central Vietnam. Củ nén is fragrant but tiny, like a lychee seed. Its leaves are pointy and thinner than scallion leaves. Tasting this bánh canh the local way means readying your mouth for a formidable level of heat coming from chili powder, fish sauce-pickled chillies, and even green peppercorns.

Maritime central Vietnam’s seafood trove

Provinces along the central coast of Vietnam, from Đà Nẵng to Bình Thuận, are blessed with long stretches of the East Sea and its abundance of seafood. Fish types are prepared in a variety of dishes: boiled, grilled, salted, and pulverized into cakes. Ocean fish cakes, or chả cá, are tender, chewy, and rich with sea flavors. Slices of golden-brown fried fish cakes are an iconic topping in bánh canh from the coast.

A visit to Đà Nẵng is incomplete without dropping by “bánh canh ruộng,” a rustic local eatery that’s based right next to a rice paddy field — hence the name. Here, chewy rice bánh canh is served in a fish broth, with chunks of fried fish cake, bits of crispy tuna, quail eggs, fried shallots, and garnished with chopped herbs and chilies. It’s impossible to stop at just one bowl.

Ingredients in bánh canh chả cá.

Every locality along the sea has its own version of bánh canh chả cá, albeit with slightly different cooking methods, seasoning, and creative extrapolation — including but not limited to bánh canh hẹ Phú Yên, bánh canh chả cá nhồng Nha Trang, bánh canh chả cá Phan Rang, etc.

Bánh canh bột xắt, the Mekong specialty

In the Mekong Delta, bánh canh bột xắt is handmade using the highest-quality rice grains. First, the grains are soaked and ground. The excess water is removed, then the dough is kneaded, flattened using glass bottles. Noodle makers then place the dough sheets onto bottles and slice into strands. The resulting noodles are often thick and irregular.

According to Mekong elders, back in their days, noodle shops weren’t a thing, so one needed to be patient if they wanted to satisfy their bánh canh craving. In the late afternoon, mobile vendors would carry big vats of bánh canh on bamboo yokes into every corner, every village. Diners would surround the vendors to eat right in place or get takeaways. A bowl of bánh canh bột xắt is like a refreshing snack during that awkward time of the day when lunch is long finished, but it’s not quite time for dinner yet.

Bánh canh bột xắt ingredients.

Bánh canh bột xắt encapsulates the unique flairs of southwestern cuisine. The broth’s richness comes from both river ingredients and decadent coconut milk. Protein-wise, the toppings can vary depending on the province, including shrimp, crab, baby clam, or pork, but the most iconic meat is probably duck. The meat often comes from house-raised ducks with a balance between taste, texture, and fat content. Duck legs are chopped into small chunks, seasoned, and stir-fried.

Vats of bánh canh vịt xiêm are always bubbling with a layer of duck fat on top while the meat simmers away beneath. Before serving, par-cooked bánh canh noodles are dropped right in the vat and boiled until the broth has had enough time to seep in. Coconut milk is stirred in as the last step of cooking. A few ladles of noodles, duck, and broth go in a bowl with a squeeze of lime on top — a harmony of saltiness, sweetness, sourness, heat, and fat.

Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung, a cultural import from the Khmer community

Vĩnh Trung is a commune of Tịnh Biên, a mountainous township in An Giang Province, right on the border with Cambodia. One of the most famous local products is Nàng Nhen (Neang Nhen), a cultivar of high-yield rice that’s lightly fragrant and moderately glutinous. According to local history, a Khmer cook used this variety to craft bánh canh.

The strand of bánh canh Nàng Nhen is not cylindrical or thick like bánh canh bột xắt, but flat and thin like phở. Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung is often eaten with pork, beef, chicken, shrimp or fish. Traditionally, catfish is the protein of choice, but over time, local vendors have added a range of other toppings to accommodate diners’ demand.

Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung.

The family of bánh canh in Vietnam still features many other lesser-known versions that one article can’t possibly list out. Which one is your favorite?

Nguyễn Thị Thành, one of Saigon’s rare internationally renowned food icons known as the “Lunch Lady,” passed away earlier this week.

Thành had just arrived in Toronto on May 19 in preparation of her latest restaurant opening in the Canadian city when she came down with cardiac arrest, the Lunch Lady Toronto team shared in an Instagram post. Local medical officers tried to resuscitate her for over an hour but were unable to revive her. Thus, she passed away at 59 years old, surrounded by loved ones.

“Cô Thanh wasn’t just the heart and soul of The Lunch Lady,” the post reads. “She was a mother figure, a mentor, a quiet master of her craft. Her food told stories. Her presence made people feel seen. Her legacy lives in every bowl, every herb, every careful moment in the kitchen.”

Nguyễn Thị Thành relocated with her family to the apartment complex at 1A-1B Nguyễn Đình Chiểu Street in Hồ Chí Minh City many decades ago. To make a living, Thành and her sister share a small cart serving lunch to local residents and workers six days a week, featuring a rotating menu where each day has a single special dish, from bún mắm and mì Quảng to bánh canh.

Their cart had been a well-loved lunch spot, albeit only frequented by Saigoneers living in the area for years, until 2009, when a visit by a certain American food personality catapulted Thành’s humble dishes to international fame. The spot was highlighted in the Vietnam-centric episode of the late Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations travel food show, in which he showered her with praise for her tasty bún bò. The episode also spawned the nickname “Lunch Lady” that thousands of tourists to Saigon know her by.

Apart from putting the cart on the global food map, Bourdain’s introduction also manifested other connections for Thành and the family. Vietnamese Canadian Michael Tran had lunch at the cart during his Saigon trip in 2012 and fell in love with the earnest, friendly southern lady’s food. They formed a friendship over the years, and in 2020, decided to collaborate to bring The Lunch Lady abroad, starting with a Lunch Lady restaurant in Vancouver.

The Vietnamese restaurant proved to be a success, earning it a spot in the Michelin food guide’s Bib Gourmand list from 2022 to 2024 and leading to the opening of another branch in Toronto. Thành just landed in town to prepare for its opening day on June 3 when she passed away.

For some Saigoneers, Thành might just be another noodle vendor amongst myriad others in the city, but her story is a testament to the connecting power of food, one that transcends geographical boundaries and language barriers. 

[Photo by Niko Myyrav via Canada's 100 Best]

In the soft morning light, three teenagers once stood before the Temple of Literature, whispering hopes for exam success into clasped hands. A decade later, that same trio — Triết Nguyễn, Tùng Nguyễn and Dương Nguyễn — have channeled their youthful aspirations into MÀU, a gastro wine bar directly opposite their old place of pilgrimage.

MÀU, meaning “color,” is more than a name; it's a manifesto. The space glows with translucent orange panels, and the walls are adorned with vibrant art, setting the stage for a dining experience that is both familiar and refreshingly novel. Dương, the brain behind MÀU’s marketing, has applied her knowledge and skill picked up from years studying and working in Canada to the website and branding of this new project much closer to home.

MÀU is just a stone's throw from the Temple of Literature. Photos courtesy of MÀU.

Finding it, though, isn’t entirely straightforward. The address won’t help much, and a quick Google Maps search is just as likely to send you to a completely different restaurant. (The team has apparently been hacked — twice.) In a way, it’s kind of fitting. But perseverance is rewarded with a seat at a bar where the city's past and future coalesce over plates of inventive cuisine.

We are sat at the bar, and this is what we discover. Quán Bánh Cuốn Nóng Gia Truyền 50 Đội Cấn is the best place to get bánh cuốn. Phở Khôi Hói is Triết’s favorite spot for noodle soup, and Phạm is the name of his friend’s cocktail bar, which apparently is pretty much a converted front room. We don’t make it to the latter sadly as it’s closed on the day we’re in town, but the other two spots prove excellent recommendations. These new restaurateurs sure know their stuff and are very well-connected to the food that they’re taking their inspiration from. And the service, led by Tùng, shows the warm and deft touch of a seasoned professional, someone able to transform a dining room into a second home for those on their first visit or their fiftieth.

Having grown up in Hanoi, the team behind MÀU is appreciative of the capital's diverse street food wealth. Photo courtesy of MÀU.

And just to clear up any confusion: this isn’t Mau restaurant in the Old Quarter. That one serves a solid lineup of northern Vietnamese staples: bún chả, bánh xèo, gỏi cuốn. At MÀU, you’ll find echoes of that tradition, but the execution is something else entirely.

Vietnamese fare with little touches of unexpected novelty

Serving a plate of pickles at the start of a meal is all the rage in the UK right now, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in Vietnam. Vietnamese cuisine has long known how to balance crunch and tang. A quick glance inside any bánh mì is proof enough. But here, pickling gets the spotlight, and a few unexpected guests. Watermelon rind, carrot, baby cucumber, garlic stem and banana — yes, banana — just go to show that you can pickle almost anything, swoop it through a pile of lightly curried mayonnaise and it will be delicious.

Photos courtesy of MÀU.

There’s less of a Vietnamese touch in the pillowy, crisp slices of sourdough focaccia, but it’s no great loss as the bread — whether it’s Vietnamese, Italian, French or Egyptian — is excellent. The bacon butter, however, is lacking in salinity and tastes almost completely devoid of pig. But the team welcomes the feedback; it’s only the third week and the menu is still in its nascent stages.

Pickle platter. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Focaccia with bacon butter. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

The gut-wrenching admission that they have run out of crab bao with sea urchin is softened only by several more sips of a very smooth glass of muscadet from one of my favourite wine regions, the Loire Valley. Further pacification comes in the form of thinly sliced scallop, lightly torched, sat atop fresh mango, pomelo and mint and carefully balanced on a rice cracker. It’s a one-bite wonder, but no less a wonder for it.

My favourite dish of the night, stir-fried corn with shrimp, embodies the meaning behind the name further. The vibrant yellow hue is a bowl of sunshine, so warm and cheerful it surely must have been the inspiration behind the Natasha Bedingfield hit, though this silky purée is probably not something you’d want in your pocket. Having just returned from the Hà Giang loop, where whole hillsides are striped with rows of cornfields, I enjoy seeing this everyday ingredient getting some love.

Stir-fried corn with shrimps. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Veal carpaccio. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Scallop on rice crackers. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

The dry-aged duck with tamarind and the veal carpaccio are more muted in color but no less in flavor, certainly in the case of the duck. Head chef Hưng Nguyễn has clearly treated this duck with care, mastering the art of rendering the generous layer of fat under the skin while leaving the centre rosy-pink. Though I’d always opt for meat on the bone if possible, the hunks of tender breast paired with the fruity and sharp tamarind make it one of the best renditions of duck I’ve had in the whole of Vietnam.

Dry-aged duck with tamarind. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Sweet potato cheesecake. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

There are few things I love more than sitting at an open kitchen. The clatter of pans, the small rituals of service, the chance to eavesdrop on your dinner being made — it’s part theatre, part therapy. Not only can you pick up some top-tier cooking tips from watching chefs go about their work, but you often can badger them into giving you restaurant recommendations too.

We finish with a sweet potato cheesecake: a big, wobbly block platforming a quenelle of molasses ice cream. They’ve cut off the best bit, the nose, to make it a rectangle, but it’s exquisite all the same. This dessert is a lesson in balance: sweet, creamy, humming with the umami of potato and the gentle tang of sticky molasses.

A newcomer with great potential

Because of an early trip to Cát Bà the next morning, we don’t make much of a dent in the wine list, but it’s worth noting: this is one of the few places in Hanoi where you’ll find orange wine. The Gerard Bertrand blend is punchy and wild on the nose, and drinks beautifully. There’s plenty more where that came from: five champagnes, plus bottles from Europe, Japan, Morocco, and Australia. I’d love to see some Southeast Asian representation on there eventually — a funky pet-nat from Đà Lạt, perhaps? — but it’s a great start, and no surprise given the third co-founder Triết’s years as a sommelier.

Photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

As we step back into the quiet night, the warm glow of MÀU fades behind us, tucked away across from the Temple of Literature like a secret only the city’s most curious souls stumble upon. In a capital that can sometimes feel caught between tradition and trend, this little wine bar hums with possibility, unafraid to reinterpret, to experiment, to pickle banana and pair it with Loire Valley muscadet.

Chef Hưng Nguyễn (middle) and the team. Photo courtesy of MÀU.

It’s still early days, so the team is tweaking recipes, fighting Google glitches, and pouring drinks over open counters where conversations flow as freely as the natural wine. But if this is MÀU in its infancy, it’s a beautiful beginning. MÀU is a testament to long-standing friendships and what can be achieved when a group of people combine their skills and experience to build something great.

A toast, then, to color — and to a new chapter in Hanoi’s ever-surprising culinary map. It seems the prayers worked after all.

MÀU is open 6pm–11pm, Tue–Sun. Visit their Instagram page for more information.

There are certain activities that are best not undertaken alone: karaoke, barbeque, watching football and feasting on ốc. The consensus, however, is still out on bò nướng lá lốt mỡ chài, so I decided to take one for the team and venture into Saigon’s thriving bò lá lốt scene as a lone wolf.

Vietnam has an unwritten rule about grilled dishes: these smoky dishes are wonderful nhậu snacks and no drinking session is fun without a friend or two. The rising popularity of grill-it-yourself joints further drives home this association between grilled food and group hangouts, as few bonds are stronger than those made while putting morsels of meat on a bed of charcoal together. As deliciously charred meat sausages, bò nướng lá lốt falls under this purview. While most grilled beef places spare you the ordeal of grilling them yourself, the interactive art of making bò lá lốt rolls still serves as wonderful ice-breaker for all participants; which begs the question: eating bò lá lốt alone, genius or sad?

As a proud introvert, I’ve long made peace with my propensity for solitary enjoyment. The introversion movement has made great strides in recent years in making going to the cinema alone socially acceptable. In fact, in my personal experience, this is even preferable. The theater is not designed for casual banter or dishing out witticisms; films should be a personal journey to allow ample room for undisturbed reflection. Elsewhere in the culinary world, solo-dining ramen eateries are popping up everywhere from Tokyo to New York, featuring “dining cubicles” that curtail human interactions. Yum. Vietnam is not immune to the movement either: a simple Google search for “lẩu một người” — one-person hotpot — yields a staggering 14.8 million hits, though I resent headlines that juxtapose this revolutionary invention with the derogatory term FA, short for “forever alone,” as if there’s anything shameful about slurping on hot broth without company.

The cutlery and crockery at Bò Lá Lốt Phương have seen better times.

Empowered by the trend, I make a beeline for Bò Lá Lốt Phương Cô Giang, regarded by many as the best spot in town, to wolf down some grilled beef sausages by myself. As the name suggests, Bò Lá Lốt Phương used to stand on Cô Giang Street in District 1, but resettled in District 4 not long ago, right in a neighborhood teeming with street food places. Xóm Chiếu lives up to its name as the district’s food enclave, but calling it a street is a rather generous statement. The narrow and cluttered thoroughfare has no pavement whatsoever and can barely fit two small cars on a good day. It doesn’t help that an army of stores selling everything from grilled seafood, noodles, phá lấu to bánh tráng nướng line its sides with stalls, tables and other crazy cooking contraptions.

My nose recognizes the presence of bò lá lốt even before my eyes could locate the restaurant, which features a cart and a grill in the shopfront. The dining area is modest, fitting three rows of plastic tables and stools. It’s clear that Bò Lá Lốt Phương is a family business, with members of the household staying right above the dining space. The grill is small, manned by a young staff who falls into a nimble rhythm of brushing, flipping, fanning and collecting the skewers of beef sausages. Despite the exhaust hood directly above, the wonderful fragrance of freshly cooked bò lá lốt still fills me with a palpable sense of anticipation.

Grilling bò lá lốt is an art.

It’s 4:30pm in the afternoon and drizzling, so I am the only customer at Bò Lá Lốt Phương, though every now and then, a deliveryman shows up to ferry away orders. My bò lá lốt and bò mỡ chài arrive quickly, neatly arranged on a tray complete with all the accouterments one needs for a fulfilling solo session of feasting. The set of bò lá lốt is extremely cheap at VND25,000 and includes a handful of bò lá lốt sausages, a plate of bánh hỏi (a form of rice noodle sheet), a stack of bánh tráng, a small bowl of water for dabbing on rice paper and heaps of herbs. Rolling your own bò lá lốt is an art that few get right, but luckily, it’s a skill one can get the hang of in one sitting — the secret lies in moderation: not too much water and not too much filling.

To start, put a bánh tráng in your palm. It’s also important to choose one that’s intact so it will not tear during rolling. Add one piece of lettuce, then a piece of bánh hỏi while making sure that they lie flatly on the rice paper sheet. A single roll of bò lá lốt or bò mỡ chài rests on the bánh hỏi, surrounded by other herbs and sliced vegetables, such as bean sprouts, cucumber, green banana, starfruit, húng quế and diếp cá. Wet the tips of your fingers in the provided bowl and dab the further end of the sheet. Finally, slowly roll the bundle away from you on the palm, ending with the wet edge, which should be sticky enough by now to seal the filling into a neat roll.

A tray of bò lá lốt comes with a wide array of fresh herbs and vegetables.

You now cradle in your hand one of the most magical tools to soak up as much dipping sauce as possible. It may hold itself together with grace and uniform weight. It may be slightly clumsy, bursting at the seams from the generous sprinkling of bean sprouts inside. It might be perfect, or not. But the point is: it is your creation, and because you made the decision to plunge into this new endeavor alone, there’s no one around to critique your work. Now, proudly dip that baby into the bowl of mắm nêm, and take the first bite into a world of umami, spiciness and herbaceous freshness.

Inside the puny sausages, each no longer than a child’s thumb, is a mixture of minced beef, tendon, lemongrass and spices. Of course, there’s a reason behind the two types of wrappings: bò lá lốt is covered by lá lốt, a type of betel leaf; bò mỡ chài is instead enveloped in a decadent layer of caul fat. Both are there by design to help the meat inside retain its juiciness. I’ve always believed that this ingenuity was yet another proof of Vietnamese’s resourcefulness, but the more I delve into the history behind the dish, the more evidence emerges to suggest that bò nướng lá lốt was instead our ancestors’ way to adapt foreign techniques to local taste and ingredient availability.

Mỡ chài refers to a thin layer of caul fat lining the guts of cows, pigs and sheep. Its elasticity makes it desirable as the wrapping for sausages, roulades and other meat dishes. The technique is popular in many European dishes, such as French crépinette (pan-fried sausages) or the unfortunately named British faggot (meatballs baked in the oven). Most remarkably, sheftalia, a popular skewer dish in Greece and Cyprus, involves seasoned minced meat wrapped in caul fat and grilled on charcoal. Sound familiar? The most probable, but rather lazy, theory speculates that Vietnam’s bò nướng mỡ chài might be an adaptation of French crépinette, arising during colonial time.

A roll with bò mỡ chài inside.

If bò mỡ chài may have originated in Europe, bò lá lốt descends from a long line of Asian leaf-wrapped delicacies. According to The Oxford Companion to Food, Vietnam learned how to use leaf wrap from Indians, specifically Bengalis, who adapted the technique from Middle Eastern traders. Middle Eastern cuisines employ grape leaves in stuffed dishes called dolma — minced meat, rice, spices, potato and other veggies wrapped in a grape leaf and then steamed or boiled.

Nestled at the apex of the Bay of Bengal, Bengal is the easternmost region of India and has been an important trading link between the Middle East and Southeast Asia for centuries. It was here where the Pala Empire was founded in 750 CE and became the dominant power by the 9^th century, with a focus on trade and cultural exchange, which brought in new ideas and techniques like Islam and dolma. The latter became a unique creation of Bengali cuisine.

From Bengal, the art of making dolma traveled further eastwards with merchants to mainland Southeast Asia, particularly Vietnam. However, the tropical climate in the country proved inhospitable to grape vines, so locals improvised by replacing grape leaves with lá lốt, a leaf indigenous to Southeast Asia that shares the same heart shape — perfect for wrapping. Though lá lốt is commonly translated as "betel leaf," they are in fact two different species in the same family, which also comprises black pepper and kava. Lá lốt (Piper sarmentosum), has a much milder taste than betel leaf (Piper betle), making it more suitable for use in cooking.

The use of leaves in wrapping food is not unique to Vietnam.

Half an hour after sitting down, I finish my tray of bò lá lốt, taking my own sweet time to perfect every roll as much as I can and scraping the bowl of dipping sauce clean. The owner's family has set up their own dinner on a plastic table nearby are happily munching away on a feast of fried fish and rice. I feel dumb for expecting them to hunker over trays of bò lá lốt; they must be sick of the dish by now. All told, Bò Lá Lốt Phương Cô Giang’s food was excellent, albeit nothing unique that could justify making a trek all the way to District 4 for more. I suspect the eatery’s reputation was built entirely on its extremely affordable price rather than the morsels of perfectly charred but forgettable bò lá lốt. Still, if you happen to be in the neighborhood or live nearby, it's a perfect destination for a casual dinner with friends, or alone.

Bò Lá Lốt Phương Cô Giang is open from 3pm to 11pm.

This article was originally published in 2019.

To sum up

Taste: 3.5/5
Price: 6/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 3/5

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

I used to be an international student living in Minnesota, where winter comes early and overstays its welcome. In those long months of snow and silence, I relied heavily on coffee, my go-to companion during late-night study sessions and early morning lectures. This changed one day when my host mom introduced me to something unexpected: Indian chai.

The first sip of masala chai was a revelation: warm, spicy, earthy, and somehow deeply comforting. It quickly became a ritual: every time the heating failed or the snow piled too high, she would brew a fresh pot for the whole family. Chai, for me, became more than a drink. It was home away from home.

Perched atop the fourth floor of an old apartment building in District 1, Mão A Chai has great views of downtown Saigon.

Years later, back in Vietnam, I tried to find that taste again. But every cup I encountered felt off: too sweet, too trendy, too far removed from the chai that once warmed my hands in a Midwestern kitchen. I had nearly given up the search when a college friend mentioned a little tea shop hidden on the fourth floor of an old building in Saigon: Mão A Chai.

The store is filled with earthy materials and colors.

From the moment I stepped through the wooden door, something felt different. The scent of spices hit me first — cinnamon, clove, cardamom, and more — followed by the gentle hum of a quiet room filled with natural textures: bamboo lamps, wooden stools, clay cups. There were no neon signs, no crowds posing for photos. Just calmness.

Many items were brought here from the travels of the owners.

The drink I ordered that day, cinnamon chai, brought me back immediately. It tasted exactly like what I remembered: balanced, warm, and tender.

Hiếu, one of Mão A Chai's co-founders. Photo by Tô Thụy Hoàng Mai.

On a return visit, I met Hiếu, one of the co-founders of Mão A Chai. He used to study and work in IT, but left the field after realizing he wasn’t suited for the corporate lifestyle typical of the industry. “I didn’t enjoy the corporate life in IT, but I had already committed,” he told me. “So I feared where it would lead, that made me anxious.”

During university, Hiếu discovered a passion for creative work while working at a design-focused company. That passion eventually led him to meet Hà — his business partner and now life partner — and together, they created Mão A Chai not as a business, but as an extension of who they are.

Hà has lived and worked in over 50 countries, including India. But this wasn’t backpacking or tourism. She lived like a local, learning to make masala chai from friends, neighbors, and even her Indian housekeeper. That lived experience shows.

Guests will share the space with two resident felines.

“We only serve what we truly understand,” Hiếu said. That includes not only Indian chai but also Vietnamese green tea, especially Thái Nguyên green tea, a simple, unpretentious tea deeply rooted in northern Vietnamese culture.

Their approach extends beyond the menu. Every item in the shop is carefully chosen: bamboo lamps from craft villages near Hanoi, reclaimed furniture from homes in the Central Highlands, even a small ceramic bird named Thật Thà (Honesty) perched by the window.

“We didn’t just buy things from a catalog,” Hiếu explained. “We gathered them through journeys, knowing where to get what. Like how you collect herbs for a good pot of tea.”

Thật Thà the ceramic bird in its natural habitat.

It shows. The space doesn’t feel curated, it feels lived in, like a home that was slowly built over time, not styled for a photoshoot. There’s no loud branding, no Wi-Fi password on the wall, no call to action. Just quiet and warmth.

Watching the barista make chai, I realized how much care goes into each cup. First, spices are gently roasted until fragrant. Then comes black tea, brewed low and slow to soften the bitterness. Plant-based milk is added, not because of trends, but for health. A bit of sugar rounds it out. The entire process is deliberate, like a rhythm.

Making masala chai is not a quick process, it takes a certain level of attention and care.

“Chai,” Hiếu said, “is not a recipe. It’s a conversation between ingredients, between heat and time.” Toward the end of our conversation, I asked him, “What would you recommend to someone visiting Mão for the first time?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Always two drinks,” he said. “Thái Nguyên green tea is a must-try if you’re curious about traditional Vietnamese tea. It’s our cultural heritage. And Indian chai — freshly brewed, gently spiced — hits the sweet spot for young people.”

Masala chai and a cookie.

I now return to Mão whenever I need a pause, not just from work, but from the weight of noise, of deadlines, of the need to always be doing something. I sit by the window, sip my chai, and breathe.

We all need a third place: not home, not work, but somewhere in between. A place to return to without explanation. For me, Mão A Chai is that place. And perhaps, if you let it, it could be that place for you too.

Mão A Chai is open from 7:30am to 9:30pm.

As a little boy, there were nights when I would burst into tears upon waking up suddenly and not seeing mom around, because I missed her and needed her. One night, I even crawled under the bed and threw a tantrum, demanding her to be by my side immediately. My dad and brother told me that she was off selling bún riêu and would be back later. In the mind of a four-year-old, it didn’t matter what kind of noodles and where she was selling them, he only cared about when she would return. At the time, I don’t recall ever trying her bún riêu.

Among the myriads of noodle dishes that she fed me during the 17 years I spent at home, I always refused bún riêu. I thought that the anemic orange hue of the broth and the gargantuan pork knuckle smack-dab in the bowl were too much, so my appetite was often gone when face with bún riêu.

I left my hometown for Saigon to attend university. Only by exploring the tiny streets near campus did I come across a humble cart named Thắm — after the owner, no doubt — on Nguyễn Thị Thập Street, District 7. It reminds me of the Mekong Delta, of the quaint neighborhood where I was born and grew up in, of the hometown flavors that I now struggle to find again.

In the Saigon twilight every day, from 5pm to 7pm, the bún riêu cart was nestled in a nearby hẻm, wedged into one side to leave enough room for bikes to drive past. Eaters, too, enjoy their noodles alongside the length of the alley. Then, from around 7pm to 8pm, when the household appliance store next door shuttered, leaving its spacious frontyard empty, the cart took over the space, unfurling its tables and stools and forming an open-air dining area for anyone hankering for a steaming bowl of bún.

After 1–2 months since my last bún riêu, I paid the noodle cart a visit. It was 7pm so the store was still open, and thus the cart was supposedly chilling “backstage.” Yet, I discovered that Bún riêu Thắm was no longer hidden in the hẻm, but now serving meals out of their own storefront, albeit a small and humble one. During the afternoon, the cart serves out of this location, less than 100 meters from its night habitat. This was where we enjoyed our bona fide bowls of bún riêu.

I ordered a full-topping portion except for the pork knuckle, though anyone who relishes this addition can still ask for it. Guests will be able to detect the harmony and moderation in how the food presents itself right way. Strands of white noodles peak out under the layers of generous toppings that leave little space for the orangey broth.

Across the bowl, slices of pork, chả gân, crab cake, and fried tofu pile up, awash in the distinctive reddish shade of the bún riêu stock. The greenness of morning glory stands out as an accent. Last but not least, it’s impossible to miss the big hunk of crab meatloaf in a corner, the pièce de résistance for many bún riêu lovers. Diners can mix some shrimp paste, sugar or kumquat juice to make a dipping sauce for their toppings.

It seems that Mekong dwellers are often quite generous in their flavorings, as evidenced by the range and amount of seasonings used on a daily basis. It creates complex, soothing flavor combinations that are unique to local cuisines, from braised and fried dishes to soups. Thắm’s bún riêu version no doubt was influenced by the same flavoring philosophy, crafting her own flavor profile compared to northern-style bún riêu.

One can sense the umami in the broth, be it from bones or additional MSG. You’ll enjoy the suppleness of the rice noodles, the texture of the pork, the crunch of crab cakes, and the tender cubes of tofu soaking up all that flavorful broth. Above all, biting into the crab meatloaf, you’ll immediately sense the richness and meaty flavor from field crabs and eggs, blended into a soft block. In a bowl of Mekong-style bún riêu, the standout flavors are sweetness and saltiness, though one can squeeze in their own citrusy sourness should they feel enticed by the kumquats.

Thắm’s version of bún riêu resonates strongly with the Mekong region’s flavor palates, so even though I’ve never eaten bún riêu throughout my 17 years at home, I could still feel a sense of familiarity in my first bowl of bún riêu in Saigon. It feels a little bit like sitting on a coach in a whole different country, heading to a far-flung corner, yet suddenly hearing a Vietnamese voice from a fellow passenger with the same accent as your hometown’s. It’s so familiar I almost shed a tear.

District 7 is both foreign and familiar to me after five years studying and working here, but stopping by a sidewalk to have a southwestern bowl of bún riêu is not the only thing that makes me miss home. Here and there, I can sense fragments of my hometown in the accent of the servers, in the way they call out orders, in how they banter with regulars, how they joke around during downtime, the stainless steel tables, the plastic stools, and the giant plastic mugs filled with iced tea. It’s as if my tiny street at home is materializing around me. I see my mom’s figure carrying a bowl of bún from the market home to my dad in the way the server carries orders to our tables.

A bún riêu in Mekong Delta style is prepared with care and attention to details to produce a complete and flavorful eating experience. To me, it’s not merely a meal. It’s a seashell where my spirits can take solace in during particularly tough days; it’s a bridge linking me to that special place 300 kilometers from where I’m sitting, and linking me to the shards of memories that have been supporting me on my life’s journey forward.

Bún riêu canh bún Thắm is open from 5pm to 12am.

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5 — VND35,000 per bowl.
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5

“We want to be artists; we want to be free. Now we are free,” says Nguyễn Hoàng Anh, co-founder of A Thăng Eatery.

Hoàng met the restaurant’s other co-founder and head chef Bùi Gia Huy when they were both hospitality students in Saigon. The pair quickly bonded over a shared love of music. Huy is a singer while Hoàng plays guitar. Both in their early twenties, they found the drudgery of working in restaurants after graduation to be harmful to their mental health, so this past December, they decided to free themselves by opening A Thăng. The name, translating to the musical note A sharp, is a nod to their friendship and common interests. 

Hoàng (left) and Huy (right) founded A Thăng at the end of 2024.

Established in a humble building down a District 1 hẻm that was most recently a homestay, A Thăng is a testament to youthful ambition, creativity, and friendship. A DIY aesthetic and pride in one’s hometown permeates the space, with a repurposed door serving as the bar counter shelf, behind which rests a jar of Quy Nhơn chili sauce. Knick-knacks, including tiny bears added by core team member Khoa Diệp and adorable bear doodles by Nghi Diệp, further give it a charming personality and establish a warm and welcoming vibe.  

Born and raised in Quy Nhơn, Huy credits his father’s cooking with helping put him on a culinary path. He would watch his dad prepare traditional Bình Định family meals and soon did the same, adding western techniques and flavors when he came to Saigon to study. An appreciation for these hometown lessons and ingredients explains why he was quick to recommend the #Q Fish Rice made with sea bass and the aforementioned Quy Nhơn chilli sauce. A stand-out dish, the fish is supple and meaty while the perfectly cooked rice offers complex notes of cinnamon, pepper and chili. 

Another favorite item we ordered on our most recent visit was the pumpkin soup with grilled cheese. I’m a sucker for soup, particularly during Saigon’s perpetual soup season and A Thăng’s rendition is fantastically thick and rich. Dipping the crisp sandwich bread filled with gooey cheese is the perfect melody of textures with crunchy meeting melty. But even more than the mouthfeel, the quality of ingredients shines through. Every morning the team travels to nearby Tân Định market to purchase the ingredients. Such a habit might cost a bit more, but its worth it for the resultant fresh and clean dishes. This emphasis on healthy meats and produce reflects the team's own habits and the eatery’s motto: “We sell what we eat.” Thus, other than occasional pop-ups, the menu only features seafood, pork and chicken alongside vegetarian items. 

When it first opened, A Thăng Eatery consisted of just the front room and a small interior dining space with a few tables. This quickly changed thanks to a random video that went viral on TikTok. A friend of the co-founders had ordered flowers for the restaurant to celebrate its grand opening. The florist who delivered them was impressed with the spot and returned for dinner. She uploaded a video of her visit to her rather unanimous account and netizens took notice; it amassed hundreds of thousands of views. Perhaps it was the comfy interior that reminded one of the cozy home of close friends. Maybe it was the clips of young people diligently attending to their passion. Or it could be that the colorful dishes simply looked irresistible. But for whatever reason, the video resonated and guests arrived in droves. This early success allowed the restaurant to furnish a large, bright anterior space. Huy and Hoàng had been sleeping in the small room behind the kitchen but they were able to move to a nearby apartment and use the makeshift sleeping quarters as ingredient storage.

In a clear reflection of the restaurant’s grasp on food trends and the particular flavors in vogue with the city’s young diners, the drink menu has a detailed matcha section in addition to a homemade soda that reimagines Hội An viral Mót herbal tea. As Hoàng meticulously whisked the green tea and layered a “Mt. Fuji” of foam on top, he discussed the co-founder’s background. At one point, he gestured with pride to the restaurant’s license hanging on the wall. Hailing from Cần Thơ, Hoàng’s family is involved in the region’s rice trade which has given him familiarity with and appreciation for the legalities of commerce. 

While A Thăng Eatery is certainly a business and everyone involved wants to make enough money to continue, getting rich is not the priority. Rather, they want to have a space that allows them to explore their collective creativity and passion. This helps explain the recent pop-up menu with Saigoneer favorite Trần Pizza. In what came as no surprise, the street pizza’s proprietor Hiếu is a long-time friend of the A Thăng crew, and the collaboration seemed obvious when Hiếu found himself in between venues (he has since found a permanent location). But the pop-up was more than simply giving Hiếu space in the kitchen and on the menu; it was an opportunity for everyone involved to have fun while learning from one another. Huy and Hoàng learned about making pizza while Hiếu benefited from having A Thăng craft the toppings. It culminated in Kurty Wurty, a phở-inspired pizza named for an influential Singaporean chef that proved to be the week’s favorite item.

The sense of community fostered at A Thăng goes well beyond the specific Trần Pizza pop-up. The team has plans to host music performances that can give space to themselves and their circle of artist friends, in addition to future culinary collaborations. In the meantime, they have space to promote the undertakings of friends, such as The Hồ Tiêu, a company run by the friend of one of their sisters that sells a remarkably unique and flavorful craft pepper from Phú Quốc. Even during regular meal service and downtime, one understands how the restuarant serves as a source of community connection as evidenced by the Playstation 2 hooked up outside the kitchen. “Go ahead and play,” Hoàng said with a laugh.

Of course, many diners do not select a restaurant just because the team behind it is cool and its mission reflects an admirably earnest embrace of youthful passion. They understandably want great food. A Thăng certainly excels in this regard with a small but exemplary menu of Vietnamese-inspired western dishes. In addition to the #A Rice and pumpkin soup, we had the A# Salad made with kale, hydroponic lettuce and a variety of other vibrant produce;and the A# Pasta featuring pan-seared shrimp and a signature shrimp sauce. This later dish’s perfectly cooked pasta and shrimp underscore how the chefs can deftly execute basic techniques. This talent allows them to proceed according to the adage that only when you know the rules are you free to break them. A mastery of blurring the lines between western and Vietnamese cooking is on display in the Pasta Agilo Olio which features Nduja (an herbal pork sausage) with local spices and chili, as well as the A# Chicken Rice that reimagines the familiar central dish with egg and kimchi. 

Fitting to the restaurant’s ethos, Saigoneer became aware of A Thăng because of a mutual friend with the cofounders. That first trip was on a Saturday afternoon and the venue was absolutely packed with mostly young people enjoying relaxed weekend meals. When we made our most recent visit to A Thăng on a Wednesday afternoon, other than a pair of young women snapping careful photos of their food before digging in, we were the only ones there. It’s a bit surprising because the prices (VND90,000–120,000 per dish) make for great casual lunches in the middle of a workday. But regardless of when you come, you’ll be sure to have a great meal in a wonderful atmosphere. You’ll leave inspired by the passion and talent of the team and perhaps even optimism for the future of the city’s entire dining scene. 

A Thăng Eatery is opening every day except Monday and Thursday. Check out their Instagram account for opening times and dates.

To sum up:

Taste: 5/5
Price: 5/5
Atmosphere: 6/5
Friendliness: 7/5
Location: 4/5

Every time my extended family took a trip, it looked more like a mass exodus than a holiday — bags teetering, arms overstuffed, and enough supplies to survive a small apocalypse.

It always felt like the night before Tết with the kids still half-asleep, while the grown-ups bustled back and forth with brisk, practiced urgency. Not until every bag was wedged in, and every seat was claimed did the family finally let out a collective breath, the unspoken cue that, the journey had officially begun.

The first bolero song didn’t even make it to the second verse when my mom, designated commander-in-chief, would already be reaching under the seat, pulling out her trusty travel kit: plastic bags, a few headache pills, a crate of bottled water, a bottle of medicated oil. And most importantly, the bánh mì chả lụa she wrapped at the crack of dawn, each one swaddled neatly in paper. Hungry or not, everyone from front to back got their share. “Eat a bit, love, keep your strength up,” the grown-ups would say.

As a kid, I couldn’t figure out why bánh mì chả lụa showed up on every trip. Wasn’t the whole point of going somewhere new, well, to eat something new? Seafood in Vũng Tàu, mountain fare in Đà Lạt, and certainly not the same sandwich you could grab any day at the end of the street? But to the grown-ups, that was exactly the point. Before going anywhere new, you should ground yourself in a familiar taste from home. Whether the road was long or short, that first bite of bánh mì chả lụa was the mental confirmation that, “We’re really doing this.”

To be very frank, bánh mì chả lụa isn’t exactly the poster child of its family. It doesn’t have the star power of the cold cuts version that’s now world-famous, nor did it ever leave Anthony Bourdain swooning and reaching for a third the way Dì Phượng’s bánh mì gà xé did.

It took me a while to realize that it was bánh mì chả lụa’s simplicity that made it the perfect travel companion. Just a few quick slices of pork chả, evenly cut cucumber, and a dash of salt and pepper could provide enough starch, protein, and fiber to stand in for a proper home-cooked meal. Sure, butter, pâté, xíu mại, grilled pork — those are culinary treasures in their own right. But in the cramped, jostling, sun-baked space of a long-distance coach, they had all the makings of a minor tragedy. Bánh mì chả lụa, on the other hand, was practical, a built-in insurance policy against price-gouging or worse, a game of bathroom roulette at some sketchy roadside stop.

I can still remember that familiar ache — the one that crept in as I passed rows of tempting roadside stalls, only to look down at the bland, squished bánh mì chả lụa in my hand. 

“Yes, I’m eating,” I’d mumble when the adults checked in, letting out a quiet sigh before dutifully nibbling away. The bread sagged in my lap, right along with my face. I dragged it out so long, we were nearly in Đồng Nai before I took the last bite. It's strange how something so plain could end up being the hardest to come by.

The years reshaped everything. Children left home, siblings drifted, and the once-lively household grew still. As our family’s finances grew more comfortable, our vacations stretched farther — to places only reachable by air. And planes, with their sterilized, orderly routines, didn’t really leave room for anything homemade, so we settled into the new rhythm: slurping overpriced airport phở in silence. Still as bland, but somehow far more expensive.

These days, traveling on my own means grabbing a few quick, convenient rice balls to keep the hunger quiet. I’m an adult now, and no one’s left to nudge a warm bánh mì chả lụa into my hands before the coach pulls away. It takes a special kind of love to rise before dawn, to find the freshest loaf, thaw the chả, slice the cucumber just so — the way my mother once used to.

Maybe it's not so much the bánh mì I longed for, but the tenderness that helped prepare it.

I know a little place. 

Saigon’s cafe scene is so developed that finding and embracing cafes constitutes a hobby, if not a full-blown personality for certain residents. For some, the pastime is all about the drinks. Bean sourcing and roasting; preparation techniques and technologies; and pouring and presentation methods can all be meticulously assessed. Others care about the vibes and aesthetics, with particular attention paid to Instagram photo potential. Within this cafe culture world, bringing a date to the perfect coffee shop for stupendous drinks can be an unrivaled aphrodisiac.

No beverage better proves this than the cà phê truyền thống sold at the Star Cafe inside Tân Sơn Nhất’s Domestic Departure Terminal. Squeaking luggage trolly wheels; one-half of conversations shouted into cellphones; cranky kids crying to parents stressed by travel plans; and a pungent blend of body odor, perfume and distant jet fuel collects like soap scum and tangled hair around a clogged shower drain: the atmosphere in the domestic terminal is the ideal setting for a romantic date. Star Cafe even provides for the social media-minded as plenty of bystanders are present to snap the perfect photo for you to upload and inspire jealousy about your whereabouts while providing a valuable keepsake of the day you met the person you’ll one day marry.

But you cannot sit without purchasing something, of course. And we all know the adage “You get what you pay for.” The astronomical prices (US$6.50 for a large regular Vietnamese coffee) must mean that you’re getting something of exceptional quality. The fact that it's only listed in foreign currency lends a dose of international exoticism to the experience. The drink, coupled with the price of the tickets needed to get through security constitutes spending so extravagant your date will have no choice but to be impressed. And the coffee itself, tasting like the crass feedback emitted on a karaoke machine when two microphones are brought too close together, invites trauma bonding.

Photo via Tripadvisor

But if you’re not convinced, remember McBeth speaking to the night sky: “Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.” If you want to make your deep desires known, surely you must bring them to the Star Cafe. You don’t even need to board the plane you bought the ticket for.

Editor's note: Happy April Fools' Day! This article is part of Saigoneer's 2025 April Fools' Day celebration. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the writer’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Cháo, or congee in English, is a diverse genre of Vietnamese dishes in both executions and flavor profiles — from humble versions like pandan congee, red bean congee to more substantial and complex meals like offal congee, chicken congee and catfish congee. Each dish is a different variation, but they all share a reputation for being nourishing and a richness of regional culinary characteristics.

Once upon a bowl of cháo

During the shortages of wartime decades, our ancestors made cháo as an economical way to stretch a meal. It was often eaten with a sprinkle of salt or readily available plants in the yard, like jackfruit, rice paddy herb, morning glory, banana blossom, pea shoot, or bamboo shoot. According to historical accounts from Văn minh vật chất của người Việt (The Material Civilization of the Vietnamese People): “During famines, Vietnamese would start reducing the number of meals, first from three to two, and then to one meal a day, trying to retain lunches while switching from cooking rice to congee. It takes less rice to cook congee than rice, just about a quarter the amount, but the body can absorb nearly everything, and this also helps prevent dehydration very effectively.” After a day in the field, they often sipped on watered down congee, as it’s better for the stomach while replenishing energy.

The theory of yin-yang balance that Vietnam follows stipulates that the human body is a “mini-universe” where elements of yin and yang are equal and harmonious. If either of the two overwhelms the other, illnesses will appear. As a soft, light, and oil-less food type, cháo is considered an easily digestible meal that one can freely pair with other ingredients to rebalance the missing yin or yang in the body. Doctor Ngô Quang Hải from the Vietnam Acupuncture Association explained: “If the illness arose from too much yin, one needs to eat yang-rich food, and vice versa. For instance, if you have a cold (yin), you should eat yang food types like congee with ginger or tía tô leaves. If you have a heatstroke (yang), you should eat congee with spring onion (yin).”

Cháo is a dish that promotes the yin-yang balance.

Exploring the many cháo of Vietnam

Albeit simple, cháo can be a banner dish for any region in the country. From north to south, congee shapeshifts depending on the local produce and palates, resulting in myriads of varieties. In the north, Hải Phòng has cháo khoái; Bắc Ninh serves up cháo thái Đình Tổ, a congee novelty that’s eaten using chopsticks; the H’Mông community in Hà Giang eats cháo ấu tẩu, prepared using a potentially poisonous tuber; and of course, Hanoi’s thick cháo sườn is a treat as well.

I, unfortunately, haven’t had a chance to fly to the north to try out all these unique delicacies, but as someone whose family has roots in the northern region, I fell in love with the version of cháo sườn sold by the mobile vendors of Phạm Văn Hai Market — one of Saigon’s many enclaves of northern immigrants from 1954. Unlike standard congee, which is cooked using rice grains, cháo sườn is often made with rice flour, producing a glutinous texture, accompanied by fork-tender chunks of rib cartilage, crispy shallot, chopped coriander and spring onion, and deep-fried quẩy. Cháo sườn is a favorite snack of us kids as it’s easy to eat, so one full bowl in the afternoon might help us avoid dinner.

Cháo sườn on chilly days.

In the central region, Nghệ An has eel congee; Tam Kỳ is famous for chicken congee; Bình Định pairs pork offal congee with sheets of bánh hỏi; Quảng Nam adds black beans to beef offal congee; and congee with củ nén, a type of allium, is a staple of the “Quảng realm.” Despite the differences, they share a similarity in bánh tráng mè nướng, a sesame cracker, as an accouterment. During a visit in Quảng Nam, I was shown the correct way to eat their congee: snap off a morsel of bánh tráng nướng, drop it in the bowl, wait for it to soften, and then eat it to enjoy the slightly chewy texture.

Eel congee in Nghệ An.

In Saigon, I’ve always found street cháo stalls to be weirdly inviting. No fuss or flair, just a big umbrella and a dozen of low plastic stools — everyone is eager to sit down for a feast. A classic Saigon-style bowl of cháo often features three elements: toasted rice, fried dồi, and a handful of beansprouts at the bottom. The toasted rice helps add a nutty flavor to the congee. The raw beansprouts are immediately blanched by the hot congee while still retaining their refreshing crunch. Before diners dive in, a squeeze of lime and a tiny dollop of crushed chili pepper are must-haves in the bowl of dipping fish sauce. At this point, the bowl of cháo lòng is complete with every facet of saltiness, sweetness, sourness and spiciness. Slurp on hot congee, bite into a hunk of chewy offal and remember this feeling forever.

A bowl of cháo lòng.

Head to the Mekong Delta, one is bound to encounter cháo ám, a specialty from Trà Vinh. The origins behind the name might come from how the dish is usually a test of a new daughter-in-law’s cooking prowess. On the first day after she enters the husband’s family, she would cook a pot of catfish congee for the family and relatives. This level of pressure is why preparing a tasty cháo áo is constantly on the mind of young brides — the word “ám” is short for “ám ảnh” (haunted).

Cháo ám is made with freshly caught catfish from the field. To enrich the broth with more layers of umami, Trà Vinh adds roasted dry shallot, dry squid, and dry shrimp. Going alongside the congee is a plate of various herbs, including but not limited to banana blossom, crown daisy, and cải trời. Still, the most commonly used greens are rau đắng (knotgrass) and beansprouts. The subtle bitter notes of knotgrass are perfectly tempered by the nuttiness of the congee, the sweetness of the fish, the kick of black pepper, the aroma of alliums, and the crispy richness of fried shallot.

Cháo ám is Trà Vinh’s famous congee.

Teochew is amongst four big branches of Chợ Lớn, Saigon’s Hoa community, alongside Hakka, Guangdong, and Fujian. One of the most distinctive dishes of Teochew culture is cơm cháo, or rice-congee. The dish is served as a rather peculiar platter: a pot of white rice is placed next to a steaming hot pot of congee. The carbohydrates are eaten with bitesize chunks of braised offal and pickled cabbages, the same tart ingredient that Vietnamese usually used to braise with leftover feast meats like roast pork and duck. The sourness from the cabbage increases the shelf life of the dish while making the rich animal proteins more palatable.

Though cháo lòng might be a popular dish across Vietnam, the Teochew version of cháo lòng is perhaps a slightly different cousin in the family of congees. The congee is on the white side as the broth and rice are simmered together with pork bones, squids, and straw mushrooms. Pork offal, including heart, kidney, intestines, and liver, is boiled in a different pot. When served, they are eaten separately with a dipping sauce that comprises soy sauce and red vinegar. The congee is lightly aromatic and tastes of ginger, pepper, and green onion, accompanied by crown daisy. On top, slices of offal and century egg present an inviting pick-your-favorite-protein-feast.

Cơm cháo Triều Châu.

Eating cháo is perhaps the best way to slow down and focus on the flavors of life. Congee is always served steaming hot, so impatient slurpers are almost guaranteed to burn their mouth. It’s best enjoyed at a languid pace to savor all the delicious elements of cháo. On days when the temperature turns cold, what’s better than sipping through your most favorite cháo?

Saigoneers are spoilt for choice when it comes to Japanese eateries in the city. Dozens, if not hundreds, of sushi, ramen and izakaya spots dot its districts. And if you're in the mood for something special, more obscure delicacies like tsukemen, Tokyo abura soba and Okinawa taco rice are readily available. Over the years, the epicenter of such eateries, especially those run by Japanese owners, has been slowly shifting from the upper stretches of Lê Thánh Tôn to Bình Thạnh District’s Phạm Viết Chánh neighborhood.

This is where an even rarer branch of Japan’s culinary heritage can be enjoyed. Just off the main drag is 蔵 KURA, a dedicated sake bar — pronounced “SAH-keh” in Japanese — helmed by Sana, who originally hails from Nara Prefecture in southeastern Japan. Known colloquially as “the cradle of the Japanese civilization,” it is home to more UNESCO World Heritage sites than any other prefecture in the country. With such a pedigree, it may come as no surprise that it’s also rich in sake traditions.

KURA is hidden in a hẻm just off Nguyễn Hữu Cảnh Avenue.

KURA is a one-woman show, with Sana curating both the sake selections and appetizer-sized dishes in her narrow standing bar establishment, which attracts all types of patrons including Japanese, Vietnamese and westerners who all have their unique sake preferences.

Japanese are generally the most distinguished consumers when it comes to their national alcohol. They are often knowledgeable about sake, having opinions and tastes that were formed over their lifetimes. “Japanese sake lovers who come to my bar know their own favorite taste of sake from different areas in Japan, so they tend to order by flavor,” Sana told Saigoneer. Sometimes this is based on flavor profile, or even simply in line with their home prefecture. For Japanese guests, it’s clear that the comfort and nostalgia of home brings them to KURA.

Sana is deeply proud of her Nara heritage.

Vietnamese who visit are also often familiar with Japan and sake, with many having lived in or visited the country, according to Sana. Similar to Japanese guests, they also make their selections based on personal experience.

Westerners are comparatively visual when it comes to their sake choices. “I see westerners tend to choose by a label or look of a bottle on the first visit — like pointing to a bottle and saying “I like to try that red bottle” or “I will pick this [beautifully labeled] one.” After sampling the inventory, this group starts to get their bearings and narrow down their preferences. “I see they are humbly confident and proud of their own taste buds and senses,” shared Sana.

Have you ever seen this many types of sake in one place?

If guests need a bit of help navigating the extensive offerings, Sana assists by asking questions that help to determine what would be suitable for their palates. “I usually ask them if they prefer “karakuchi” (dry) or “amakuchi” (sweet) taste. If they don’t know what they want, I [would] recommend they try the ones that I select from my favorite sake lines and seasonal ones. When they like it, I am happy too. For beginners, I usually refrain from serving peculiar and strong-tasting sakes.”

Sake is just as diverse as wine or other spirits.

Sana also offers a limited but important food menu that she feels can elevate the overall experience when paired correctly: “At my bar, I usually serve aged foods such as fermented and smoked dishes, because sake is also aged, they create an amazing chemistry in a mouth together.”

A platter of aged snacks accompanies sake sipping.

When at KURA, it feels like Sana has been doing this forever. But like many who follow their passions to build their business, her sake journey was filled with serendipity.

In 2010, Sana was working as a stage photographer in Tokyo, mainly shooting dance, ballets and musicals. This was also the year that Nara was commemorating the 1,300^th anniversary of its ascension as the capital of Japan during the Nara Period from 710 to 740, and again from 745 to 784. At the event, sake breweries from around the region held a small tasting event, where she felt a sense of pride for her prefecture’s historic products.

Four years had passed when a business feng shui expert told Sana to go to Vietnam. “Although Vietnam was not on my list of countries I was interested in, she pinpointed it and told me to go to Hồ Chí Minh City. A week later, I met a company that was helping me start a business in Vietnam. After that, good connections continued to draw me smoothly to Hồ Chí Minh City, and before I knew it, I had opened my shop a year later, in 2015, in Lê Thánh Tôn,” she recounted. “At that time Vietnam still didn't have much understanding of sake. I remember I was disappointed that the even proper way to store and preserve sake was completely unknown. I would keep passionately spreading correct ways to have sake in the best condition and the greatness of sake; Japanese masterpieces.”

Since she arrived, much has changed in the scene. Sake is now a more common offering across the city and there's more consumer demand for it than ever. While the robust range of offerings alone makes KURA worth a visit, it’s Sana’s knowledge and passion that have solidified its status as a Hẻm Gem.

KURA is open from 6pm to 11pm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

It was 13 years ago when Christine Ha auditioned for and eventually won the third season of MasterChef US. Christine was a grad student from Texas then, and her victory was a watershed moment in the history of reality TV in the US and even globally. She’s visually impaired, a daughter of Vietnamese immigrants, and has a palate that even established chefs would envy. Back then, everything about Christine’s MasterChef run left an indelible mark on me, a budding food enthusiast from Vietnam, but as I grew older and embarked on my own cooking journey, there’s something about her audition that has always tugged on my heartstrings.

She auditioned for MasterChef with cá kho tộ, a rustic, homely dish where a fatty fish is braised in a claypot with fish sauce and simple spices, often eaten with steamed white rice and blanched vegetables. I have no shame about introducing cá kho tộ to a western audience because to me cá kho tộ is one perfect example of a simple but balanced meal, in which a salty, rich, umami-laden sauce is smartly tempered by plain carb and fibrous sides. Everything about Christine’s cá kho tộ screams Vietnam, from the choice of catfish to the use of the claypot, but nothing does it better than the way she cuts the fish: crosswise.

Christine Ha's original audition in 2012.

This cut is often called cá cắt khúc in Vietnamese or fish steak in English, producing rhomboid fish slices that retain a segment of the spine and a handful of ribs. Fillets, however, are the result of lengthwise cuts that carefully separate the fish flesh from the backbone. One thing I learned about cooking from western media is how much importance is placed on deboning. On MasterChef itself, there are challenges where contestants are required to segment an entire salmon by themselves, producing Instagram-ready squares of fish fillets whose every sliver of bone is picked clean by the chef. The cá cắt khúc–fillet dichotomy might seem trivial, but to me, it speaks volumes about the way Asian cooking traditions at large and Vietnamese cuisine in particular distinguish themselves from the gastronomical conventions of the west.

Fish fillets, freed of bones and skin, are primed to be grilled, pan-seared, battered and deep-fried, or baked; therefore, it’s perfect for meatier, leaner fish types that populate the northern seas like cod, halibut, seabass or red snapper. Cá cắt khúc, meanwhile, epitomizes the economical and resourceful way Vietnam approaches cooking. Bones always mean more flavor, so leaving the bones in fish steaks is an ideal way to amplify the tastiness of the braise and keep the fish from drying out. The freshwater fish species — from cá trê, Christine’s pick for her dish, to cá dứa and cá rô đồng — that often end up in cá kho tộ have flaky flesh and rather petite bodies, so the act of filleting can risk mangling the fish and leaving behind specks of fish meat — a wasteful crime that would alarm any Asian cook, who tend to greatly value using every part of the ingredients. And the concept behind cá kho tộ in itself is a way for Vietnamese families from less privileged backgrounds to stretch a small amount of protein to an entire meal for the family. During the braising process, the fish fat seeps into the liquid, making it more hearty, while the high salt content from soy or fish sauce promotes more consumption of carbs so the family will get full faster with less protein.

I am admittedly quite terrified of cá cắt khúc, due to a childhood incident involving a stuck fish bone in my throat, but I firmly believe that one must always go with slices of perfectly chopped fish in cá kho tộ. Of course, fish steaks exist in western cuisines too, especially in the case of salmon; and supermarkets in Saigon now carry a range of filleted fish for the convenience of busy homemakers. Today, representations of Vietnamese cuisine are not that rare on international media anymore and even TikTokers are making bánh tráng nướng at home, but you will never forget your firsts. I will never forget that special feeling, seeing Christine Ha’s cá cắt khúc for the first time on television — bubbling inside a claypot, coated in a layer of saucy, salty fish sauce caramel that appears like from a dream.

“So what makes Emme House different?” the head bartender Dũng asked during our earlier conversation with Trực, the bar’s owner. “Emme House is not a bar,” he explained. I further inquired then about the layers of storytelling embedded into every detail, to which he replied with a smile, “I’ll tell you the whole story.”

I’m merely the messenger now retelling what I saw and felt, and the first thing to note is that the best part of writing about a bar is the on-the-ground research. Thus, I ventured into the unknown and traveled up the dimly lit flight of stairs underneath the discreet red and yellow street sign that reads: 70 Hàm Nghi.

Some time after 10pm:

The black-and-white palette inside Emme.

I had arranged to arrive late at night and was greeted at the door with a warm handshake within seconds by Đức, the head chef of the adjacent a.dau Kitchen. We stroll past its chipped tables and cracked plates conceptually representing the love of yesterday and are transported to the love of tomorrow with earthly green and brown hues within Emme House.

Đức recommends my first drink, a personal and fan favorite: Love Is a Game. The glowing glass featuring Tito’s vodka, mango, chili syrup, kombucha vinegar, and a heart-shaped lime leaf is placed in front of me a few moments later. The ingredients of the current concoction, as well as the rest of the menu, originate from less than 20 kilometers away at Chợ Đầu Mối Bình Điền. I take my first few sips; good thing I like spicy.

A glass of Love Is a Game to start.

Roughly 11pm:

“We only said goodbye with words. I died a hundred times,” Amy Winehouse’s words come via the musical cover duo and dance off the walls while light chatter fills the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blue flame set ablaze a cloudy ball of steel wool. There, lingering at the margins to my right in front of the flame is Tín, along with another repeat customer, Thư. They’re sharing a pair of cocktails and a shrinking stack of forest-green So Much Closer drinking cards. Tín is the resident poet at Emme and the founder of the branding studio ChoChoi Creative. He writes anywhere from one to four or more poems a week, which he DM’s biweekly to his brother, Trực, the owner of Emme House, d.dau Kitchen, and the interior design firm Red 5 Studio.

Poetry is scattered in small corners of the bar.

By the time his friend found this location four years ago, Trực already had a habit of hosting friends and family in his own home, which meant he didn’t need to market Emme when it opened — he just had to tell his friends about it. That said, launching Emme and utilizing his design firm to fill the interior with original, handmade pieces were a lot of work. But, as Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, “Work is love made visible.” Point in case, the bar equipment is hidden beneath the counter so customers focus on staff who doubles as in-house raconteurs. This subconsciously highlights Emme’s story of love and its love of story. After all, how many places discuss a topic as deep as love during the interview process?

Love is a common theme in both the founding and running of Emme.

Furthermore, on any given night, roughly 10 of Tín’s poems are featured on the covers of menus throughout each table of Emme. Thư says that in two and half years of consistent attendance, she has yet to see the same poem twice. Again, just like his brother, that’s love made visible. Tín shares more about his journey as a poet and studio founder as well as Emme’s details, like the chairs’ backrests designed specifically for men and women, plus the spades, hearts, cloves, and diamonds on the window that reference card games. Meanwhile, the bartender whips around the kitchen counter presenting my second drink of the night: Something’s Burning. After he holsters his blow torch and the embers of the steel wool cool, the aroma of grilled pineapple arrives, and some additional questioning helps peel back a few more layers of the story.

Something's Burning, literally.

Half past 11pm or so:

The fundamental ethos of Emme is inspired by 50% of Trực’s life and 50% by his friend’s with whom he studied in primary school years ago. At its core is a love story about an architect and a freelancer who live together but because of their opposite schedules, they wake and work at different times, constantly missing each other. As a result, each leaves short handwritten notes at the kitchen counter for their partner to read while they are away. Hence, the poems scattered everywhere.

Emme has ample cozy corners to fit any patron's preferences.

However, the storytelling goes deeper than that. The first drink I had, Love Is a Game, comes from the “Legendary Menu.” Now featured on the menu’s right side, it contains the drinks from when they first opened. It calls to mind a mature, adult-like, action-oriented love. My second drink, however, comes from the new half of the menu which took roughly an entire year to create.

The tall, broad capital E at the top left corner of Emme’s notebook paper menu represents the onset of a high school love story starting with Something’s Burning. It symbolizes the unforgettable moment, for better or for worse, when two high school lovers locked eyes, peering through the flickering flames for the first time at an end of the year bonfire often held on the outskirts of Đà Lạt’s rolling hills. The rest of the drink trio belonging to the E stanza of the menu includes the jasmine gin-based I Can’t Take My Eyes Off You and Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now with whiskey, Malibu rum, banana, coconut, and Milo.

Preparing snacks.

It’s time for a snack so I follow Tin’s recommendation for a plate of Squid Game. Hint: it’s not squid, but you can find out for yourself what it is, and just a note: available snacks change every four months. The second letter on the menu is a large capital M, which is italicized, leaning to the right, as if one is now leaning into the relationship and the characters in the story are growing closer. Drinks include Make You Feel My Love with cognac, Thai tea, dark choco, and menthe; plus It’s Now or Never with Flor De Cana Rum, salted pineapple sparkling, and strawberry shrub — it's like strawberry lipstick, or an ode to the taste stored in one’s memory of a first kiss.

Nearing midnight in Saigon:

I’m closing in on the final stretch, the music has finished, but I’m now warm from the spiciness of Love Is a Game and the mezcal of Something’s Burning. We now move to the next part of the story represented on the menu by a flower separating the Em and the Me, or You and Me. The flower is a lưu ly flower meaning “forget me not.” This part of the story is where the two are now dating but don’t have money for expensive activities, so they express their love by buying each other what they can afford at that age: cheap drinks and snacks. For example, Up Where We Belong has some Red Bull, the go-to drink sold in front of schools. Love Me Tender features some elevated mango fermented with salt, a reference to bánh tráng trộn. And finally Isn’t She Lovely, a personal favorite of Trực’s, contains sassafras wood tinctures, which is similar to the cola-like flavor of sarsaparilla, or otherwise more commonly known as sarsi.

Small groups of friends start to fill up the bar's tables.

I motion to the bartender who flies towards me and finds my index finger pointing to my third drink: Isn’t She Lovely. Yes, plus she’s sweet, sour, fizzy, and refreshing — a winning combination. Atop the glass is a green grape coated in white chocolate. I’m instructed and happily comply as follows: eat and sip and eat and sip…

The rest of the menu contains the latter half of Emme. First, a chipped M, resembling the likes of arguments with self-explanatory drink names like Raining on a Sunday, All Out of Love, and the poignant If. Finally, a lowercase ‘e’ at the bottom personifies the “thương” type of love and the accompanying innocence the two lovers share as they disregard the all-too-real possibility of their paths no longer intertwining. They choose to bask in the naivete of the joyous here and now while they snack on rice with watermelon together. There’s only one drink title that can encapsulate the sentiment felt at such a juncture: Just The Two of Us — a medley of Vietnamese sake, some watermelon and raspberry, and a dash of mắc khén tincture.

The witching hour has commenced:

A few guests linger, the crew is beginning to clean up, and it’s time for last call. I return to where we started on the “Legendary” right side of the menu and take Dũng’s recommendation for my final final: Cheers Darlin’ — a drink, a torched cord of cinnamon, and a rich treat. Already plenty buzzed thanks to the fusion of vodka, mezcal, chardonnay, and now cinnamon tequila, I practice a small act of restraint and refuse the temptation of exploring the whole menu by abstaining from a fourth or fifth drink.

Cheers Darlin'.

I mentioned earlier Gibran’s wisdom that work is love made visible. He also wrote that your home is your larger body, an extension of self that acts not as an anchor holding you down, but as a mast guiding you forward, and that your body is the harp of your soul, an instrument of giving. Emme House embodies the late Lebanese poet down to the studs. This place is more than a bar. It’s a body. It’s an instrument. It’s an extension of its owner and staff — it’s a home.

Home is where the heart is.

Anytime you’re invited to someone’s home, the best way to be invited back is to leave with grace and not overstay your welcome. As I see the staff wiping down the back table, stacking clean glasses, and taking last last calls, it’s time I am on my way. However, knowing I would be back for another round or two and knowing there will be new poems on the tables and walls, new drinks and snacks on the menu, and plenty of new and repeat guests seated and suited, I realized: this is merely cheers for now Emme, cheers for now…