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

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

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

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

1. Auvery Cafe

14 Lê Ngô Cát, Xuân Hòa Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

2. Phường Cà Phê

115/102 Lê Văn Sỹ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

3. Haru Craft

15/10 Nguyễn Huy Tưởng, Gia Định Ward

Photos by Cao Nhân.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

4. Kalery

172/9 Đặng Văn Ngữ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

5. Passengers

46/9 Trần Quang Diệu, Nhiêu Lộc Ward

Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

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

Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Read Saigoneer's review of Passengers here.

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

At VỊ Battle®, there was no such cover.

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

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

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

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

The Format That Refuses to Be Gentle

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

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

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

Battle One: Tôm Khô and Two Ways of Carrying Pressure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cháo tôm ruộng from Nephele.

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

The Tôm khô tapioca congee from Quince Saigon.

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

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

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

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

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

Battle Two: Củ Kiệu and the Final Minute

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

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

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

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

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

She said she would be calmer.

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

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

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

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

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

Chilled củ kiệu salad by Little Bear.

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond the Battle

Winning VỊ Battle® did not end the journeys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The MÊ VỊ Battle® Banquet.

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

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

What is American Chinese cuisine?

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

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

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

From Australia to Saigon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

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

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

Illlustration by Ngọc Tạ.

From a rustic beginning

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

Does vịt lộn lộn? Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To a familiar daily presence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Nhi brings her own lassi to nhậu eateries.

As Saigon’s eastern area continues to take on a rhythm of its own, shaped by new residential communities, international schools, and a younger, more settled urban crowd, Quán Bụi Group Complex emerges as a quietly intriguing addition to Thủ Đức’s evolving landscape.

Soft-launched in early November on Võ Trường Toản Street in An Khánh Ward, the complex proposes thinking about food and social space in a slower, layered, and deeply connected way. Here, the question is not what to eat, but how we eat together. From that perspective, a seemingly simple idea takes shape, a Vietnamese–Thai table; why not?

One Destination, Multiple Rhythms 

Neither a food court nor a collection of isolated restaurants, Quán Bụi Group Complex is conceived as a continuous dining journey. Within a single compound, Quán Bụi Garden 3, Sticky Rice, and Café’In coexist side by side, each with its own character, yet sharing a sense of flow.

Guests can move naturally from a comforting Vietnamese meal to the bold, spicy flavors of Thai cuisine, before settling in with coffee in an open, relaxed setting. The experience unfolds without choreography, mirroring a familiar Saigon habit: lunch stretching into coffee, conversation extending into unplanned hours.

As founder Danh Trần of Quán Bụi Group noted, a restaurant may serve food, but a cultural space tells stories. At the complex, those stories reveal themselves through the way spaces sit next to one another, allowing diners to shape their own pace and path.

Space as Emotional Guide

One of the most immediate impressions of Quán Bụi Group Complex is its sense of openness. In contrast to many urban restaurants that favor enclosed, visually dense interiors, this space prioritizes natural light, greenery, and breathing room. These elements gently slow the tempo the moment one steps inside.

Quán Bụi Garden 3 carries a contemporary Indochine spirit, evoking the familiarity of a Vietnamese family meal without slipping into nostalgia. With a menu spanning more than 200 dishes from across Vietnam, the experience feels rooted yet unforced, a reminder of everyday comfort rather than curated memory.

Next to it, Sticky Rice brings a different energy. Inspired by the cuisine of Thailand’s Isan region, the flavors are direct, vibrant, and unapologetically bold. The contrast does not create tension, but dialogue, two distinct rhythms sharing the same table.

Danh Trần has said that Quán Bụi does not aim to create “wow” dishes. Instead, the goal is food that feels right. That same sensibility carries through the spatial design wich is familiar enough to be welcoming and fresh enough to remain engaging without ever overwhelming.

Flavor as Storytelling

The Vietnamese–Thai pairing at Quán Bụi Group Complex is not a calculated experiment, but a reflection of Saigon’s everyday dining culture. In this city, meals rarely adhere to a single culinary identity. Tables are shared, flavors overlap, and boundaries blur naturally.

Here, a Vietnamese spread may sit comfortably alongside a spicy Thai dish, a meal may linger on through coffee and dessert. The transitions are soft and unmarked, much like Saigon itself, where cultural intersections are lived rather than announced.

In this context, food does not stand alone. It becomes part of a larger sensory experience shaped by light, sound, movement, and mood. Eating is not treated as a performance, but as a continuation of daily life.

A Place to Stay a Little Longer

Quán Bụi Group Complex resists the familiar “arrive, eat, leave” rhythm. From circulation and seating to shared green spaces, the design encourages guests to linger. It is a place suited to long family lunches, extended catch-ups with friends, or quiet afternoons spent between commitments.

At a time when Saigon’s central districts grow increasingly compressed and frenetic, the decision to prioritize ease, accessibility, and calm feels deliberate and quietly radical.

A Slice of Contemporary Saigon

Quán Bụi Group Complex does not attempt to redefine Vietnamese cuisine, nor does it chase fleeting trends. Instead, it places familiar values into a new context, one where tradition and modernity are not opposing forces, but parallel currents.

Founder Danh Trần.

As Danh Trần has expressed, through food, what matters is not only taste, but the way people gather, share, and connect. At the complex, that spirit extends beyond the kitchen, shaping an entire environment designed for togetherness.

In that sense, the complex is not an endpoint, but a beginning. Conceived as an experiment in scale, flow, and cultural dialogue, it signals Quán Bụi Group’s intention to push beyond familiar formats. More projects are already on the horizon, promising new ways of thinking about food, space, and how people gather in the city.

In his essay collection Miếng ngon Hà Nội (Hanoi Delicacies), Vũ Bằng raves about one of his favorite snacks: “Though they’re all inside the pig, each organ is tasty in a completely different way: the liver is both savory and bitter, even aromatic when enjoyed with basil; the heart is soft and supply in the mouth; the stomach is clamorously crunchy; the uterus has an incredible bite; while the intestine is just fantastic, chewy at first bite, but then turns tender.”

Vietnam’s eclectic appreciation for lòng (organ meat) means that ever since animal husbandry became a thing, butchers have never let any part go to waste. From the common lean meat to the entire inside anatomy of the pig, any portion can transform into a prized meal thanks to the expertise of local cooks. Organ meat is naturally nutrient-dense, but can decay quickly, so our ancestors have devised numerous ways to disinfect and deodorize organ harvests, using vinegar, mẻ (fermented rice), lime juice, salt, pickling liquid, and a plethora of aromatics. The practice gave rise to a wide variety of organ-based dishes in every region: poached lòng dipped in shrimp paste, lòng porridge, phá lấu using pork or beef offals, etc.

Ancient Vietnamesee use of animal organs to create many dishes.

Phá lấu, a southern street treat

Phá lấu was originally a Teochew (Tiều) dish that followed Chinese immigrants to southern Vietnam and, over time, was embraced by Saigon’s foodies wholeheartedly. Before 1975, one corner of Lê Lợi Boulevard used to be a snack food mecca, featuring dishes like Viễn Đông sugarcane juice, gỏi khô bò, and phá lấu Tiều sold on bamboo skewers. Vendors carried around gray aluminum trays containing heaps of golden pig offals, like ear, stomach, tongue, wafting the aroma of five-spice in the air.

When they felt peckish, Saigoneers at the time would seek out the distinctive street calls “phá lấu ơ” of cycling vendors with trays perched atop their heads. The seller would slice off bits of each organ into a plate and poke a toothpick through for ease of dipping.

Bamboo stick Teochew-style phá lấu was a famous snack of Saigon-Chợ Lớn back then. Photo via Dân Trí.

Today, the term “phá lấu” might refer to three different styles of cooked organ meats: coconut-braised phá lấu, beef phá lấu, or Teochew-style braised phá lấu with pickled cabbage.

The first style is known for deep brown pieces of lòng that taste slightly sweet thanks to the coconut water, and smell of five-spice powder. A variety of pig organs are simmered in coconut water until the meat is tender and the sauce caramelizes. Then, the protein is cut into thin strips to be eaten with rice or bánh mì, garnished with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and cilantro.

Beef phá lấu. Photo via Tạp chí Du lịch TP. HCM.

Beef phá lấu is a street specialty that can be found all over the city, but most famously in District 4’s Xóm Chiếu neighborhood. It is served in a small bowl comprising two components: morsels of beef tripe and a savory, sweet, rich broth made of coconut milk. The use of coconut milk reflects the presence of Khmer influence on southern Vietnamese cooking. There is also a “dry” version in which the organ meat is stir-fried with morning glory and instant noodles and enjoyed with a tamarind or kumquat dipping sauce.

Phá lấu stew with pickled cabbage is a mainstay of Teochew eateries. Photo via AFamily.

In Chợ Lớn, there’s another rendition of phá lấu eaten as a tangy braised dish, most commonly seen in Teochew-style rice-congee eateries. Proudly presented in the glass display in front of the shop are dangling strings of pork intestine cooked to perfection, as well as plump heads of pickled cabbage. The braising liquid smells faintly of cinnamon, clove, star anise, and goji berry. The taste is not too salty or sour. The organ meat is braised until soft, not too tender. Each serving features thinly sliced lòng submerged in a ladle of broth and garnished with pickled cabbage. Diners can dip the meat in a simple soy sauce while enjoying it with rice or congee.

Offal porridge across Vietnam’s three regions

If you happen to be in Bình Định or Phú Yên, there’s a good chance you would begin your day with bánh hỏi cháo lòng, a surprisingly delightful combination of two familiar dishes: porridge and the thin lattices of bánh hỏi. A portion comes with blanched pig offal, hot porridge, a plate of bánh hỏi topped with chives oil, in additional to local greens. Other accoutrements include crispy sesame crackers and pure fish sauce with fresh slices of chili.

Bánh hỏi cháo lòng Quy Nhơn. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

This hearty breakfast is both filling and open to any manner of enjoyment. One can go the rolling route by using bánh hỏi sheets to wrap the meat and veggies into a roll, which can be dipped into the spicy fish sauce. Another person can opt for a less labor-intensive way: mix everything into the hot bowl of porridge for a no-frills quick slurp.

In the south, however, cháo lòng is perhaps the most common dish featuring lòng. Saigon’s porridge is almost always cooked with toasted rice and can be spotted across town in mobile carts hauling giant vats of steaming cháo alongside plastic stools and glass displays chock-full of cooked lòng.

A typical bowl of Saigon-style cháo lòng comprises three layers: at the bottom lies a nest of fresh beansprouts; then, hot porridge is added as the middle layer, par-cooking the beanspouts; lastly, a smorgasbord of cooked pig organ slices are arranged on top. Heart, esophagus, blood pudding, liver, skin, and slices of fragrant fried lemongrass pork sausage sit beneath ginger strips, spring onion, and a generous sprinkle of black pepper. The embellishments don’t stop there; before diving in, one is encouraged to further adjust the bowl to their taste with a giò cháo quẩy, a squeeze of lime, a spoon of dish sauce, or a dollop of freshly pulverized chili.

Hanoi-style cháo lòng. Photo via VnExpress.

Hanoians sometimes eat porridge with lòng too, albeit with some local quirks. For one, intestine sausages are stuffed with blood pudding, lard, rau răm and Thai basil and boiled or steamed instead of fried like in the south. The porridge is cooked down to a finer texture and takes on a darker hue due to the addition of pig blood. The organ meat’s gameyness pairs incredible well with ngò gai and basil.

Lòng in noodles dishes

From the sidewalk to fancy storefronts, the glass displays of hủ tiếu vendors are always particularly inviting due to their range of cooked organ meats. On days when lean meat takes too much effort to chew and pork knuckles are too much of a hassle, people tend to go for a hủ tiếu lòng.

Dry hủ tiếu with pork kidney. Photo via Báo Tuổi Trẻ.

Each slice in the bowl encompasses many tastes and textures: savory, aromatic, rich, nutty, spongy, elastic, tender, etc. With a sharp knife, cooks make diagonal cuts to produce thin slices. They are then arranged atop a bundle of white rice noodles, under a sprinkle of spring onion, black pepper, and fried garlic. You can dip the organ meat in fish sauce or soy sauce, but most people opt to mix for themselves a classic plate of soy, red vinegar, chili oil, and several slices of fresh chili.

Hủ tiếu hồ. Photo via Lao Động.

If hủ tiếu lòng usually features a simple broth with chewy strands of rehydrated dry noodles, hủ tiếu hồ is a more complex noodles hailing from Teochew communities. Noodle leaves are big and irregular while the broth falls on the herbaceous and spice-forward range. The toppings include braised pig offal, skin, blood pudding, and pickled cabbage. The most popular parts are pig stomach, heart, and ear. They are cleaned thoroughly before being simmered with five-spice powder until tender. A standard bowl of hủ tiếu hồ must have the savoriness of phá lấu, tanginess of the pickles, spice-rich broth, decadence from crispy shallot and pork fat, and salty umami from the soy sauce-chili oil dipping plate.

Sóc Trăng-style bún nước lèo. Photo via Pháp Luật.

Apart from mammal organs, Vietnamese also don’t leave behind the guts of other animals, such as fish. This crunchy, rich fish part is the star ingredient of quite a number of Mekong Delta noodle dishes, like Sóc Trăng-style bún nước lèo or Kiêng Giang-style bún cá. Fish heads are often cooked and set aside with fish guts as the most prized noodle topping. Many diners are fond of their cartilaginous texture and fishy tastes — to be dipped in sweet-and-sour tamarind dipping sauce or just a bowl of really high-quality fish sauce.

Rice dishes and lòng

In addition to dining out, Vietnamese families incorporate organ meat into daily meals in a number of ways. Pig organs tend to receive simple treatments like blanching with aromatics, slicing thinly, and then dipping in fish sauce or shrimp paste alongside fresh greens and cà pháo (pickled white eggplants). Northern cooking might also include stir-fried lòng with pickled cabbage.

Turmeric stir-fry. Photo via bepxua.vn.

In the case of chicken and duck guts, a seasonal stir-fry employing local ingredients is the way to go — whichever vegetable is available and cheap will accompany them into the pan, such as gourds, chives, beansprouts, bell peppers, onions, vines, etc. Central Vietnam is famous for its intensely yellow turmeric lòng. Organ meat from chicken or duck is cut into bite-sized pieces, marinated with fish sauce and turmeric powder, then quickly stir-fried with alliums. 

Mướp hương (sponge gourd) is another frequent collaborator with chicken gizzards in stir-fries. In the mood for something else? Lòng chưng is a savory, salty, and eggy treat. Pieces of chicken or duck gizzards are mixed with eggs and spices and then steamed in small bowls. Before removing them from the steamer, cooks will brush a light layer of egg yolk to impart a shade of golden orange.

Chicken gizzard and gourd stir-fry. Photo via VnExpress.

Dishes that revolve around lòng have that special draw in the eyes of Vietnamese eaters — they’re delicious in a rustic, cozy, no-frills way. The accompanying spices could be colorful or simple, but it is of utmost importance to retain the original tastes of the star ingredient. Phá lấu, steaming, blanching, stir-fries, porridge — lòng not only fills our stomach and satiates our plates, it is a reminder of home and old-fashioned street vendors.

If there is a restaurant that is the antithesis of the biting cold of Hanoi, it is Okachan Shokudo.

The interior of Okachan Shokudo is cozy with yellow light.

I came here on an evening in December, and the first order of business was to take off the many layers of winter clothing. The cozy place with its amber light and yellow furniture seemed to radiate warmth. There was space just enough for five tables, and the hulking presence of Oka-chan made the room feel even snugger.

Oka-chan is as warm and friendly as his smile.

Takumi Okazaki, or Oka-chan, was twice my size, so he can seem a little intimidating at first. But when he smiled, he turned into a fluffy teddy bear; and he did smile, a lot. He speaks little English or Vietnamese, and I speak no Japanese at all, so communication between us was difficult. However, I did gather that he had learned to cook at a restaurant in Tokyo for 10 years before he came to Hanoi and opened this shokudo, or eatery, in 2016.

When thinking of Japanese food, my uninitiated mind always goes directly to sushi, which this shokudo doesn’t serve at all. Oka-chan told me that sushi is like a fancy dish that people eat in upscale restaurants. “Here is like cơm bình dân,” he said. Okachan Shokudo offers home-cooked Japanese meals with fresh seasonal ingredients.

Oka-chan honed his craft at a Tokyo restaurant for 10 years.

“So what is a good dish for a winter night like this?” I asked. “Nabe,” he responded with no hesitation. “Sake kasu nabe.”

Nabe means hotpot, while sake kasu is a cooking ingredient made from the residual yeast left over in sake production. I came here with a party of four, so a hotpot seemed ideal. I also liked the idea of getting a buzz from a hotpot, but Oka-chan broke that dream when he informed me that there was no alcohol in sake kasu. However, he did recommend a sake, out of the 50 brands that they carried, that was ideal when served hot, perfect for a cold night. 

Kampai!

When the nabe came out, we saw that, unlike its Vietnamese counterpart, all the ingredients were already in the pot. It smelled amazing, but we had to wait for the pot to boil. The wait made us kinda hangry, so our eyes got bigger than our stomachs, and we ended up ordering the set menu, which had seven courses that are changed weekly.

The nabe with silky tofu blocks.

The pot started boiling even before the first course came out. One taste and we were sold. The broth was so rich with umami; it warmed us from the inside out. My wife called it the best hotpot she had ever had in Hanoi, which was quite high praise since she loves hotpot. The beef was tender, the mushroom flavorful. And though I am a meat lover at heart, the real star of the hotpot, in my opinion, was the tofu. Never before had I eaten such silky-soft tofu. I was told that the Japanese are quite proud of their tofu.

Our platter of appetizers.

While we were slurping away at the hotpot, the first course arrived. It was an appetizer with four dishes: cheese on a cracker, cold noodles, raw squid, and mantis shrimp. Next came a salad with the same tofu that I loved. As we were happily eating, a waitress came to our table. “Excuse me,” she said, “the next dish on the set menu is raw beef liver. Are you able to eat that or would you like to change to something else?”

Some items on the set.

We looked at each other. Did she really just say "raw liver"? In any other setting, the answer would have been a no. But this was Oka-chan. We trusted him and we loved everything so far, so why not give it a try? The waitress returned with a small plate and four pieces of liver, and I enjoyed it way more than I thought I would. It was fresh and tasted better than most sashimi I had eaten.

Nothing is as perfect for the Hanoi winter as hotpots.

Periodically, Oka-chan came to our table to check how we were doing. And every time we just looked up, said "Oishi!" with full mouths, then went back to our bowls. Oka-chan would then smile happily and go to other customers. The eatery was getting full, too. Aside from us, all other guests were Japanese, who looked like they came straight from the office to find comfort food.

Turning the leftover broth into a porridge.

At this point, we all but finished with the hotpot. Oka-chan took the pot away, only to return it later filled with porridge. Instead of eating the leftover broth with noodles, the Japanese put in rice to soak up all that flavor, which I thought was such a smart way to end a hotpot.

"Hmm what should we get?"

I was getting so full, but could not stop eating. And yet more food came: juicy fried chicken, savory fish soup, steamy rice and miso soup, and a piece of mango for dessert. It was a struggle, but we did manage to eat everything. It would have been a great crime to waste such delicious food.

Once a sake bottle is finished, its label ends up here.

The set menu was priced at VND500,000 per person, which was way more expensive than a typical cơm bình dân. But the quality and freshness of the food made it more than worth it. We left the place full and happy, knowing full well that we would come back, just to see what surprises Oka-chan had in store next time.

It's really easy to miss Okachan Shokudo's humble signage.

Okachan Shokudo is open from 11:30am to 1:30pm and 6pm to 10pm every day except Sunday.

This article was first published in 2022.

To sum up:

• Taste: 5/5
• Price: 4/5
• Atmosphere: 5/5
• Friendliness: 5/5
• Location: 5/5 — The place is kinda hidden. When you enter alley 20A off of Núi Trúc Street, look for the place on your right. The wooden sign may be easily missed, but you’ll see soft yellow light coming from within.

Over the past decade, An Khánh Ward (formerly Thảo Điền) has developed its own F&B ecosystem, becoming one of Saigon’s most diverse culinary landscapes. A relative newcomer, Thirty 59, opened its doors in April 2025 and, despite its slightly hidden location, has become a vibrant intersection of not only food and drinks, but also music, art and culture.

Self-described as “somewhere between a wine bar and your friend’s house,” Thirty 59 offers the feel of a hi-fi bar blended with the casual, wine-first spirit of a Northern Spain bodega. The kitchen puts out shareable Asian neo-bistrot dishes influenced by Spain and Asia—an intentional approach that avoids the formality of calling themselves a restaurant, yet delivers an unexpectedly strong selection of plates meant for the table to share. The bar reinforces this identity with a mix of classics and curated wine-based cocktails that stay true to their wine-forward vision. All of it comes together in a Japanese-designed space where Indochine meets Japan, shaped further by the expertise and instincts of their Vietnamese cofounder in the local F&B scene

On December 13th, these two strengths will combine in full force for a one-off collaboration between Yes, Chef! And Kitchen Sessions, a global pop-up standing-only kitchen party, have graced New York, Los Angeles, Ibiza and Panama City under one banner - “The best parties happen in the kitchen.” The result will be an epic party with music and food as the core ingredients.

The night will feature 9 chefs who call Vietnam home but hail from around the globe, brought together by Kitchen Sessions founder, Kike Gallardo, including Ian (Mexico) - Sol Kitchen; Thao (Vietnam) - Saigonese Eatery; Jamie (USA) - Okra; Imelda and Hielda (Indonesia) - Mam’s Kitchen; Manu (Spain) - Thirty 59; Lan Vo (Vietnam) - Apéro; Trụ (USA) - Mùa.

Kike Gallardo, the founder of Kitchen Sessions keeps the events active.

Guests will sample food from all the chefs as part of a tapas flight that will be plated directly front and center as everyone enjoys beats from some of Saigon’s favorite DJs. From 7:00-9:00 pm the first set will feature Perrillo Perro from Spain, while local Mayson will carry the party into the later hours in the 9:00-11:00 pm block.

Local DJ Mayson on the digital wheels of steel

"We wanted to create an event that breaks down the barriers between the chef and the guest," said Manu, owner and chef at Thirty59. "This isn't about rigid fine dining; it's about fire, food, and community coming together in a festive, unpretentious way. Having nine incredible chefs collaborate on a bite tasting menu in a standing-party environment is truly a unique offering for Ho Chi Minh City."

The event, sponsored by Jose Cuervo & Cointreau, is part of Thirty 59’s broader goal of bringing unique international and local concepts to Saigon in an effort to build community around shared values that reach beyond the An Khánh bubble.

Tickets include access to the party, the Tapas Flight (served from 7-9pm) and are VND750,000 for early birds (first 50 tickets) and regularly priced at VND900,000.

Tickets are limited and can be booked by calling 0987 655 771 or visiting Thirty 59’s Facebook or Instagram pages.

Just before reaching the sand, the sky awash in soft, late afternoon pastels, you’ll arrive at the Pink Pearl, which now bears a sign announcing it as the Pink Pearl by Olivier E. But who is Olivier E.?

Saigoneer first met Olivier Elzer via his food. A special tasting menu had been prepared as an introduction to his culinary style and the new gastronomic ethos that has arrived at JW Marriott Phú Quốc’s flagship restaurant.

Japanese Wagyu A5 Tenderloin with Pomerol Jus.

The meal began with a succulent lobster complemented by tandoori sauce and caviar, and transitioned to courses featuring premier ingredients, including Hokkaido scallops and Japanese A5 wagyu. Precise portions of carefully balanced sauces, as is a hallmark of French cuisine, combined with imaginative seasoning to embellish the flavors of the exceptional proteins, which were plated with an understated panache. Notably, Vietnam made its presence known in the final dish, a decadent Maraou chocolate dessert. The courses surpassed expectations of offering moments of surprise tucked within stupendous flavors. 

Who was the man behind the extravagant meal?

The Origins of Olivier

“I was super driven very early on and I was very ruthless,” Olivier told Saigoneer when we sat down for a series of conversations the next day. He shared how he first entered the kitchen of the restaurant his mom owned in France because the sous chef had called in sick that day.  That shift was the first step on a path that has involved decades of hard work. “For 15, 20 years, I was like a sponge. I had to learn, I had to get my craft. I had to work very hard to gain knowledge … I was 14 when I started work in the kitchen, and I understood that there was a level in any sport: you can play in the Champions League with the best, and you can play in the local leagues where no one knows you. With kitchens, it is the same.” 

Olivier in his early days with mentor Pierre Gagnaire. Photo courtesy of Olivier.

With this philosophy in mind, Olivier learned from many of France’s most accomplished and acclaimed chefs, including Pierre Gagnaire and Joël Robuchon, who was named Chef of the Century by Gault Millau. During these years in some of the world’s most prestigious kitchens, he experienced the oft-glorified rockstar-like atmosphere of the ‘90s and ‘00s culinary scene. “I saw some chefs throwing hot caramel pans in the face of people. I saw people taking a fish fillet and smashing it in a face,” he said. “I saw thousands of things in those days that now would never happen anymore because we have too much access with phones that can record, and it will be in the newspaper or whatever right away. But that's where I come from.”

While Olivier holds some nostalgia for the raucous era he came up in and the trials by fire he endured, he is proud to lead kitchens that are healthier and more supportive of their teams. He admitted that “When I took my first head chef position in Burgundy, I was a tyrant, too. I was screaming at people, I was throwing plates, and one night I had stomach pain, you know? I asked myself, ‘Is this what you want to become? You want to continue on this road for 20 years, screaming at everyone and being nuts because of a few sauce dots that aren’t right?’ And I thought, no, that's not the life I want to live. Lifting people up is the way; it's way more genuine than screaming at them.”

Olivier and the team at L'éclat 19, a Michelin-star restaurant in the Vallie Hotel in Hangzhou. Photo courtesy of Olivier.

This belief in lifting his culinary team up and mentoring their growth helped fuel Olivier’s success as he moved to Asia and transitioned from being the head chef at the Pierre Restaurant by Pierre Gagnaire in the Mandarin Oriental and L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon Hong Kong to founding his own namesake restaurants that include Seasons by Olivier E. in Hong Kong and a collaboration with Louis Vuitton on their first restaurant in Chengdu, China. In the process, Olivier has garnered numerous accolades, including Knight in the Order of Agricultural Merit of the French Republic, while a total of 30 Michelin Stars have been awarded to restaurants he has helmed. His newest venue, JW Marriott Phu Quoc’s Pink Pearl, reflects the totality of his skills as both a chef and a leader who nurtures the next generation of great chefs, as we would witness when meeting Danny Đỗ, Pink Pearl’s Chef de Cuisine.

The Pink Pearl Restaurant at JW Marriott Phu Quoc.

French Food Suitable for Asian Tastes

“The French – we are very ego-centered; we think we are the best. We think we have the best cuisine,” Olivier said when asked what he has learned about food during his years cooking in Asia. “It humbles me a lot because you see some beautiful cuisine based on texture … which is super flavorful, super tasty, but much more humble in terms of the approach of sourcing products. You get humbled, and you realize French food is amazing, but there's some other amazing cooking [out there] too.”

Olivier’s appreciation for Asia’s dishes and ingredients has allowed him to widen his scope of understanding and, in the process, develop meals that he describes as “French food that Asians like.” This involves points of commonly appreciated flavors and textures, as well as an embrace of local ingredients. “The DNA of French cuisine is always to try to find the best ingredients. Most of the time, we really always want to bring it from France ... But buying fish in France or finding vegetables from France would be stupid, because we are in Vietnam.”

Relying on ingredients from Vietnam generally and Phú Quốc specifically involves searching for ethically-sourced, sustainable items. This mission is made possible, in part, because of JW Marriott's on-site garden. Having a garden just steps from the kitchen not only ensures maximum freshness and full oversight of growing techniques and methods, but allows Olivier to better acquaint himself with local varieties and flavors. We joined him in the garden as he pointed out items that he had only recently learned about and the creative ideas they unlocked for his approach to French cooking with local diners in mind.

Danny Đỗ, Pink Pearl’s Chef de Cuisine.

To succeed in using local ingredients requires the talents of an experienced local team led by Danny. The Hanoi native who studied marketing and worked in food sales before following his passion to create food has been at Pink Pearl since 2022. His years on the island and his previous stint at Saigon’s prestigious Noir allow him to provide Olivier with insights into how to discern locally available produce, meat, seafood, and spices. For example, during our visit, Danny had shown the chef a local variety of jumbo clams. Believing the true test of a chef is his or her ability to work with anything, however unfamiliar, it provided the Pink Pearl with a great challenge. “By slicing them differently, by seasoning them differently, all of a sudden they became an outstanding dish. That's my approach for everything. There's a solution for everything, for every ingredient,” said Olivier.

More than a mere source of ingredient knowledge, Danny also leaves an impression on the dinner. For example, our dinner featured a pan-seared toothfish with bouillabaisse sauce, and fennel orange sauce was his own concoction that offers a winking nod to Phú Quốc’s gỏi cá trích. While imparting his creativity, Danny is tasked with maintaining the lofty reputation of Olivier, who notes that whether he is physically present at Pink Pearl on any given night should have no impact on the dining experience, as the teamwork ensures standards are maintained. In service of that philosophy, members of Olivier’s team make frequent visits for training and oversight. For example, the week after our visit, Olivier’s head sommelier would be present, followed by his head pastry chef, and later the lead for service.

On our last morning at Pink Pearl, we had an opportunity to watch Olivier and Danny work together in the kitchen. Easy communication flowed as Olivier would request certain items or ask for support in creating dishes that were being photographed. While focused on achieving the task at hand, there was a clear comfort between the two as well as a conscious effort to make the time together resonate long after Olivier departed. Olivier would occasionally pause to hear what Danny was sharing about an item and its reception. As Danny once noted, “I’ve learned that leadership isn’t just about giving orders — it’s about listening, mentoring, and constantly learning.”

Danny Đỗ and Gin Nguyễn, Pink Pearl's Restaurant Manager cum Hotel Sommelier.

Exciting Times Ahead

Pink Pearl has only been an official Olivier E. restaurant since this past spring, and it is already earning an elevated reputation thanks to the concerted efforts of the entire team. Guests have been planning vacations to Phú Quốc for the sole purpose of enjoying a meal there, and such destination dining will only increase as more special menus and meals are announced. For example, Olivier described the newly launched brunch that pairs his cuisine with the casual atmosphere of a leisure hotel for a meal that makes people feel relaxed and comfortable. Meanwhile, he is working with Danny on a menu for Christmas that will map Vietnam, incorporating the best available items from all regions. 

While Olivier played coy when asked if Pink Pearl would receive a Michelin Star in the future, noting the guide has not arrived in Phú Quốc yet, he certainly is establishing the reputation of one such restaurant for when the time comes. Moreover, as he has matured, his views on awards have evolved. Fueled less by ego and fame, he admits that now “I don’t cook for myself, I cook for guests.” This is a blessing for all of us guests at the Pink Pearl. 

I visit Tiệm Lẩu A Ngưu on a rare wintry Saturday evening in Saigon, the perfect occasion to fill one’s stomach with warm broth, noodles, and a host of other tasty accouterments.

According to the hotpot place’s self-description, Tiệm Lẩu A Ngưu is decorated based on 1970s and 1980s Hong Kong aesthetics. I have neither been to the city nor lived through the decades, but A Ngưu’s tiny 40-square-meter dining room really helps to create that very particular poetic atmosphere.

The first thing that I take notice of is how the interior is set up. As someone who follows a rather minimalist style, I can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by the cluttered space — no patch of wall is left unembellished. Red lanterns, a Chinese calendar, and vintage movie posters intermingle with Christmas garlands and a Santa Claus with an enigmatic smirk.

The overarching color scheme inside is green, red and yellow. I wonder if they encapsulate any hidden meaning in Chinese culture or were purposely selected to evoke the tint of Wong Kar-wai movies. I choose to believe in the latter, as every trinket — from the gaudy shop banner to the peculiar tight space inside — reminds me of Chungking Express.

The seating arrangement here also differs from typical street nhậu spots: plastic stools and short tables are non-existent. Instead, guests sit around family tables and separate booths like those at The Goldfinch from In the Mood for Love. Is this a deliberate choice by the owner to conjure up that cinematic wistfulness? And would it still be romantic if Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung relished hotpot together instead of steak?

We pick a round table for our party of eight, who are all ravenous and have no desire for Instagram showboating. A Ngưu offers two types of broth of eaters’ choice with every hotpot. There are six to pick from and dozens of toppings. We opt for spicy and non-spicy options to sample a wide range of tastes. The spicy soup is Mala, named after the sauce from Chongqing, and is rich with Sichuan peppercorns and chillies. The owner tells me that the name makes up of two characters meaning "numbing" (麻) and "spicy (piquant)" (辣) in Chinese. One can guess the condition of their mouth after tasting just by the name.

Nonetheless, the level of heat has probably been adjusted to take pity on some demographics of local eaters — our team included — that can’t endure too much chili. The non-spicy broth is named Longevity, whose major taste profile includes milk and bone stock.

I, for one, am a fan of spiciness, so my attention is firmly docked at the half of the pot with simmering Mala broth, almost always dipping my toppings into its peppery, oily water. Still, my colleagues do review the Longevity half favorably. When the water recedes, the owner is happy to refill the sections with additional broth so the fun can continue.

A Ngưu’s offering of toppings, like vegetables, mushrooms or seafood, is not unique to such eateries but we still order nearly everything on the menu, just because we can. My favorite is something I’ve never had before: century egg-filled fish balls. The richness of the egg goes unexpectedly well with the heat of Mala soup, but alas I could only try the last fish ball. Of course, despite not being an authentic Chinese hotpot component, Hai Con Tôm noodles are a prominent star of our banquet.

Flavor-wise, Tiệm Lẩu A Ngưu is admittedly neither an outstanding nor accurate reflection of Hong Kong cuisine. Nevertheless, the sense of warmth and comfort here — emanating from the bubbling broth and the cozy interior — is enough to warrant A Ngưu a place in my to-revisit list. Does it matter whether the food is wholly authentic if it’s able to make me yearn for an unlived lifetime?

To sum up:

• Opening time:5pm–11pm
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: Facebook/0902002835
• Average cost per person: $$ (VND100,000–under 200,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: N/A

There are dishes that arrive at the table softly, like a whisper from the ocean. They do not seek attention yet draw it in through restraint and balance. At LAVA, InterContinental Phu Quoc’s signature restaurant, beneath an intricate bamboo structure designed by architect Võ Trọng Nghĩa, Chef Dương Quốc Dũng presents his Slipper Lobster Bisque, a dish that mirrors both his journey and his philosophy.

Raised in a farming family in Central Vietnam, chef Dũng’s upbringing resulted in a deep respect for the innate characteristics of local ingredients, which extends to those not only from the land but also from the sea.

His skills and approach, honed working in international kitchens with chefs from diverse backgrounds, are reflected in his interpretation of the French bisque. The slipper lobster (tôm mũ ni), native to Phú Quốc, is chosen for its fresh sweetness and firm texture. Instead of boiling or steaming, the meat is cooked sous vide at 55–58°C to preserve flavour and moisture. Crustacean shells are roasted and slow-simmered, then a portion of the broth is reduced and combined with local sim wine to form a delicate jelly, introducing a gentle, tannic finish. A touch of dill purée brings herbal freshness.

When guests taste the bisque, they encounter a velvety structure with layered depth, softened by Asian sensibility. Pieces of lobster remain intact, offering contrast within the smoothness. It is a dish of precision, but also one of warmth. “I wanted to show that daily seafood from the local market can enter an international fine dining space if we know how to honour it through modern craftsmanship,” Chef Dũng shared.

At LAVA, where the sea is never far from view, the bisque finds its most natural expression. Here, where the rhythm of the waves meets the quiet precision of the kitchen, the ocean speaks gently through the hands of the chef.

A restaurant where vegetables speak of home.

“Home” is a word that resists definition. It doesn’t simply refer to a house or a city or a place on a map. It’s a feeling, elusive yet deeply familiar, that lingers in the smell of steaming broth, the weight of chopsticks in hand, the taste of something your grandmother once made. At Hum Signature, that sentiment becomes the foundation of an entire culinary philosophy. There, home is not something you return to. It’s something rediscovered, one dish at a time.

This rediscovery begins with a journey, not a linear path, but a sensorial voyage across the varied landscapes of Vietnam. The restaurant’s new tasting menu, Từ Đồng bằng đến Non cao (From Fields to Peaks), is designed as a pilgrimage through terroir. It is a sequence of flavors that carries diners from the silt-rich banks of the Mekong to the windswept peaks of northern mountains. Each course acts as a chapter in that journey, with ingredients speaking in their own quiet dialects of place and memory. “We want to let the land tell its story,” says Culinary Director  Bảo Trần. “Our role is simply to listen and to translate it onto the plate.”

Dổi leaves paired with Sóc Trăng sprouted brown rice germ (left) and kolrabi from the far north (right).

Listening, in this case, means understanding ingredients not as mere components of a recipe, but as living storytellers. The kitchen treats local produce with reverence by exploring their textures, rhythms, and histories rather than subduing them under layers of technique. When a humble fig, abundant on the trees of Central Vietnam, is braised and wrapped gently in aromatic dổi leaf, its earthy sweetness and deep, smoky perfume evoke a sense of community and abundance, the way fruits once collected in a courtyard might have tasted decades ago. “We don’t try to force vegetables into something they’re not,” Bảo Trần explains. “Instead, we let their natural character lead the way. Technique should follow ingredient, not the other way around.”

That philosophy runs through every course at the restaurant, which is one of the pioneer plant-based fine dining names in Saigon. A dish of An Giang soybeans and Tien Giang watermelon pays homage to the simple comfort of tào phớ, silken tofu pudding, while imparting it with delicate playfulness: ginger-scented coconut blossom soy, crisp fried tofu, and sweet green peas swirl together into something familiar yet startlingly new.

Lotus wine (left) and Đà Lạt Fermented Passion Fruit Wine (right). 

Elsewhere, a pairing of spring shoots and mashed ginkgo from Lào Cai conjures the purity of mountain forests, crowned with a whisper of cardamom broth and ruby goji berries. Even kohlrabi from the far north, roasted beneath a golden crust, finds new life in a light, earthy broth, followed by the refreshing crispness of chilled lặc lè, a journey within a journey, from warmth to coolness, from lowland to highland.

An Giang soybeans and Tiền Giang watermelon (left) and spring shoots and ginkgo from Lào Cai (right).

 Yet Hum Signature’s ambitions stretch far beyond reimagining Vietnamese landscapes on a plate. The restaurant is also quietly rewriting the language of plant-based cuisine itself. In a country where vegetables have often been cast as supporting players rather than protagonists, Bảo Trần and his team want to prove they can carry the entire story. “Plant-based cooking is often misunderstood as limited or simple,” he reflects. “But to us, it’s a language, one that can be as expressive, complex, and luxurious as any other.”

This belief gives rise to what the team calls ẩm thực thanh lành or mindful cuisine. It’s a way of cooking that considers every part of the plant, from leaf to root, and honors every stage of its journey from soil to plate. Ingredients are sourced seasonally and responsibly, often from small farms that practice traditional cultivation methods. Nothing is wasted: skins, stems, and seeds are repurposed into broths, ferments, or powders, adding a narrative of sustainability to the creative process. In this context, a meal becomes more than nourishment; it’s a gesture of balance, a quiet act of reciprocity with nature.

Hum Signature’s ethos extends beyond its kitchen walls. The dining room, a century-old villa bathed in soft light and the scent of warm ceramics, blurs the line between meal and memory. Each course is plated like a chapter in a book, unfolding at its own rhythm, inviting guests not just to eat, but to listen. In the subtle pacing of the service and the delicate choreography of flavor and form, one begins to feel the deeper intention behind it all: to remind us that food, at its best, is about connection to land, to people, to something that once felt familiar and perhaps forgotten.

At Hum Signature, architecture and plant-based cuisine converge into a seamless experience. The space itself becomes part of the meal, allowing craftsmanship and flavor to converse. Meanwhile, sustainability is felt in small, tactile ways, including the warmth of pandan-wrapped chopsticks and the fragrance of dried vegetable peels. Old mooncake molds are turned into door handles while buffalo bells and weaving shuttles are reborn as décor, allowing an element of heritage into the present. These gestures remind guests that sustainability isn’t an abstract ideal, but a living expression of respect for nature, tradition, and the quiet beauty of mindful living.

By the time the final course arrives, the journey has become something deeply personal. The dishes may have spoken of mountains and rivers, farms and forests, but they have also spoken of childhood kitchens and communal tables, of things that root us to who we are. In that sense, From Delta to Highlands is more than a tasting menu. It is an invitation to return, to remember, and to find home in places we never thought to look for it.

During my journey to explore the culinary specialties of Khánh Hòa, I was delighted to discover the nem chua and chả lụa from Diên Khánh, a centuries-old ancient town that’s just 10 kilometers from downtown Nha Trang.

About 10 kilometers west from Nha Trang, there lies a historic citadel constructed by Nguyễn-era emperors during the early days of southward expansion to form the Bình Khang Prefecture under the control Hiền Lord (Nguyễn Phúc Tần). It’s called Diên Khánh Citadel, one of southern Vietnam’s oldest, and often referred to by locals as “the Citadel,” comprising the township in Diên Khánh Province today. Apart from historic structures, this is also the hometown of many traditional artisan villages, including nem chả — two rustic delicacies known simply as nem chả Thành (citadel nem chả).

Nem chả Diên Khánh is Khánh Hòa’s most notable treat.

Though both are processed meat sausages made of pork, nem is lightly fermented while chả is created by pulverizing the meat into a paste and then boiled. The first time I tasted this citadel nem chả, I could immediately detect the slight differences compared to similar versions from Huế or Đà Nẵng. This delightful personal experience, along with the affection both locals and tourists shower on this treat, compelled me to dig deeper into the making and culture behind nem chả.

The most crucial ingredient contributing to the quality of chả is, of course, freshly butchered pork. Contributing to the seasoning are flavorful locally made fish sauce made on the coast, and a little sweetness from sugar. With just a bite, one will immediately sense a savory mix of saltiness and sweetness, a faint tingliness from black pepper, and that special touch of banana leaves.

The corner where leaf-wrapped nem is boiled.

Compared to chả, nem is a much more complicated product involving more steps requiring a higher level of precision that not all manufacturers can attain to create that perfect bite of nem Thành. Only families who have been in the craft for decades could produce sausages with the right texture and that highly sought-after subtly sour taste.

Shredded pork skin, one of nem’s typical ingredients, must be cleaned properly to retain its bouncy texture without too much chew or odor. This is still a step that many nem makers do by hand to ensure it turns out up to the standard.

Nem chua Thành is first coated in a chùm ruột leaf before the final banana wrapping to promote fermentation.

The meat mixture is first coated in the leaves of chùm ruột, a berry native to Vietnam, to encourage natural fermentation and impart the subtle fragrance of the leaves. Then, each nugget is wrapped in banana leaves before being cooked. Some foodies enjoy eating the nem with the chùm ruột leaves, relishing the peppery notes of the leaves. Within the old citadel area, there's an entire village dedicated to making these sausages, each household has its own family recipe, but overall, a good nem should be lightly tangy in taste and a little leafy in smell without any off-putting smell. Some prefer their nem to be a little “young” — meaning freshly made and fermented for only 2–3 days, lightly chewy and meaty. Others wait until after the fifth day to enjoy nem, when the sourness reaches its prime and the pork skin is still bouncy. Older nem pieces might be too sour or start to go bad.

Wrapping chả from the meat paste.

Among the two dishes, perhaps chả Thành is more famous and respected as a local delicacy. The nem here might have its own fans that value the nuances in flavor, but most eaters might not be discerning enough to distinguish it from similar versions from nearby like Nha Trang and Ninh Hòa.

In contrast, chà Thành is a firmly established mainstay in the regional food landscape — not just as a savory snack to eat on its own, but also as a silent contributor to many other dishes like bánh căn, bánh xèo, bánh bèo, bún thịt nướng, etc. Step into an eatery in Diên Khánh or Nha Trang and you will immediately spot bundles of wrapped chả dangling in the display, their presence a sign of implicit trust by the vendors in the quality of their hometown’s special creation.

Freshly cooked chả is wrapped and tied into bundles, each comprising 14 pieces.

To enjoy the full-bodied flavors of chả, try slices of it with steaming bánh ướt. For nem, I would recommend grilling them on charcoal fire to bring out those vibrant notes of savoriness amid a chilly evening. A tip that I learned from locals involves biting a tiny bit of green chili and fresh garlic with nem chả — a stylish way to eat these Diên Khánh treats.

Nem chả from Diên Khánh remains rather obscure still; perhaps it can’t shine too brightly in the heart of Khánh Hòa’s already sparkling culinary sky. For me, both nem and chả carry the spirits of this coastal region.

Sweet chả and tangy nem.

If you happen to set foot in Khánh Hòa one day, the land where placid natural scenery harmonizes with historic cultural traditions, don’t hesitate to drop by Diên Khánh. Not only can you learn more about the history behind these moss-covered citadel walls, but also feast on bundles of tasty nem chả made using age-old methods.

“Everything must be really fresh, made-to-order, colorful, and fragrant. Everything has its place, and is arranged exquisitely!” The food in the 2008 feature film Trăng nơi đáy giếng, adapted from a short story by the same name of Trần Thùy Mai, is a vivid depiction of Huế’s culinary creations — rustic, delicate, and ever-enticing. It’s evident in the tuber that Hạnh meticulously carves and then scents using pandan; in the bowl of lotus soup that she makes by wrapping in flowers the night before.

Some of the most iconic foods in Huế don’t stop at satiating the stomach, but aim to wow every sense of the eater. Huế chefs are mindful of every detail from the selection of ingredients to their preparation, to the arrangement of each element on the plate so that each plate is itself an artwork. Encompassing that spirit in bánh pháp lam, a novel dessert that inherits the flavors and forms of the traditional bánh bó mứt, but taking those to a new level with its brightly colored palette.

Photo by Huế Ngày Nay.

The sweet treat that captures the essence of the seasons

Bánh pháp lam, also known as bánh bó mứt, is a notable delicacy from Huế. It often arrives in special packages that are made from folded colored paper segments neatly assembled together into a square box. The colors are almost always red, yellow, green, purple and white, representing the five fundamental elements in Vietnamese culture (ngũ hành).

The name “pháp lam” is a relatively recent term to refer to this traditional treat, inspired by the enamel art by the same name that flourished during the Nguyễn Dynasty. It reached the Imperial City during the reign of Emperor Minh Mạng and involved layers of pigmented enamel coating a bronze base. When the metal is heated, the enamel turns into a sparkling film. Pháp lam art was commonly used to decorate palaces and could be spotted on many historic structures in Huế.

Huế's pháp lam art. Photo by Thái Hoàng via Lao Động.

Ancient homesteads in Huế often came with spacious courtyards, so people made use of the land to grow fruit trees, for both shade and a fresh, juicy treat once in a while. During harvest seasons, when there were more fruits to eat, the extras were sun-dried and then candied on low heat to produce sugared fruits.

The results were chewy, crunchy, sweet, and aromatic snacks that can be kept for months. Papaya, tomato, winter melon, banana, pineapple, etc. — many familiar fruits contribute to the elements of bánh pháp lam. Depending on the season, the resulting pháp lam can consist of different fruits, making a small bite that encapsulates the passage of time.

Photo by Hải Vân via HCMC Tourism Magazine.

After fruits, sticky rice is also another important component of bánh pháp lam. The best rice grains are ground into a fine flour, toasted carefully on low heat to brown, and then fragranced with pandan leaves.

In mixing the batter, a precise ratio between rice flour and water must be followed to arrive at an ideal consistency, not too crumbly or too viscous. The dough is hand-kneaded, rested for about half an hour. Once the dough has softened, pháp lam maker would flatten it into a thin sheet, arrange the candied fruits into layers, roll everything into a hunk of dough, adjust the edges so the cross-section is square, and finally slice across to get discs that are about one centimeter thick.

Each step in the creation of bánh pháp lam calls for a high level of attention to detail, so that the dessert not only tastes good, but is also visually appealing. With one bite, you will enjoy the gentle sweetness of the candied fruits, in between the rich, nutty taste of the sticky rice dough.

Thanh Tiên paper as wrapping

The paper segments that form the package for bánh pháp lam might look mundane, but they are actually from Thanh Tiên Village, where the bark of indigenous bamboo cultivars like dướng and nứa is turned into paper. Its durability is especially prized as the bamboo material can go years without being tarnished by termites. Thanh Tiên paper has a smooth texture and a gentle scent of bamboo.

Photo via Mộc Truly Hue's.

From Thanh Tiên bamboo paper, the segments are folded and assembled together into a cube. A five-color palette echoes the enamel art origin of the pháp lam name, as the five shades are commonly used in decoration

The hallmark of the ancient capital’s cultural heritage

To me, bánh pháp lam is the physical embodiment of Huế residents’ standout qualities and life philosophies. The sweet snack is the result of several different complicated steps, showcasing the characteristics of the people here: frugal, attentive, precise, and patient. The frugality is evident in how all the fruits come from trees grown at home; the precision and attention to detail come from the construction of the sweet; and the patience is imbued in the way each piece of paper is folded to create the cubes without using glue.

Traditionally, the women of Huế, the leaders of the household, were the creative minds behind the invention of many of the old capital’s most complex delicacies. It’s no wonder that Huế’s dumplings and desserts have managed to capture the attention of travelers all across the country, thanks to their flavors and the dedication of their makers.

Photo via Trí Thức Trẻ.

In the culinary arts of Huế, the balance of the five elements is always sought after. This philosophy originates from East Asia’s fundamental elements — metal, wood, water, fire, and earth. In Huế, these are represented by five hues: red, purple, yellow, green, and blue. This palette makes bánh pháp lam instantly recognizable, like Huế-born writer Hoàng Phủ Ngọc Tường describes: “Very glaring but also easy on the eyes.”

From the outside looking in, the filling of bánh pháp lam is a multi-color feast that, while not directly associated with the elements, could evoke that elemental balance. Dried papaya’s redness is fire, and candied winter melon is water. Similarly, the paper cube of the packaging is also the product of many colored segments. It’s often believed that this use of colors represents the yin-yang balance of the dish and an appreciation of nature.

Photo by Hải Vân via HCMC Tourism Magazine.

Lastly, bánh pháp lam is also a crucial piece in Huế’s tea culture. Its sweet taste and crumbly texture pair nicely with the tannic notes of hot tea. In a peaceful setting, Huế residents sip on fragrant tea alongside slices of bánh pháp lam, while exchanging pleasantries — it’s the perfect occasion to reconnect with loved ones.

From north to south, there are countless permutations behind the filling of bánh pháp lam. Still, perhaps nowhere besides Huế can this special treat be created with such a level of reverence and care.

Sharing a building, Montauk and LP Club might initially appear to be just another cafe and another record store, but their goals are far loftier than selling drinks and vinyl.

I place my highball on one of the tables inside Montauk and head upstairs to LP Club. There, I find two men sitting on a rug surrounded by cardboard, scissors, and stacks of purple CD cases. They laugh and hum along to Japanese city pop as I flip through wooden boxes filled with records. Slowdive, M83, Frank Ocean — I could spend the next three days here without getting bored.

Montauk is a music-themed cocktail bar.

Unfortunately, I only had a single afternoon to spare. Upon learning this, I chug my highball, hop a xe ôm to my hotel, grab my camera, and rush back to Montauk/LP Club.

Because it's mid-autumn season, lanterns dot the corners of Montauk.

It’s a very photogenic space, especially if you enjoy getting lost in small details: a fish tank, vinyl sleeves above the bar, old cassettes stuck to the wall beneath the stairs, anime figurines, mini vinyl drink coasters, local band merch strewn over antique speakers, a shrine hidden behind an upholstered chair, and at least three days' worth of vinyl to flick through.

Montauk is inspired more by 2000s film than by music. The name Montauk refers to the setting of the 2004 Charlie Kaufman movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and the blue and orange color scheme evokes Kate Winslet’s hair and coat combination from that movie. The playlist is as hip as you would expect, mixing the occasional Vietnamese number into mostly western sets. It’s a great space to work or just kill a couple of hours chilling to the soundtrack and sipping cocktails, especially if you can nab a place on the sofa.

A Ngọt album in its natural habitat: next to a Beatles paraphernalia.

While there seem to be innumerable retro-inspired cafes opening around Hanoi, the goal of Montauk/LP Club is deceptively progressive. Its mission becomes clear when I start speaking to Anh Tú, the owner of LP Club, among the piles of CD cases scattered over the shop floor.

True to its name, LP club is filled with vinyl records.

“There have been many record shops opening in Hanoi the last few years, but most have already closed down because they’re just record shops. We’re able to keep going because we also produce music,” Tú explains.

This music production is a joint venture between Anh Tú and Ngọc, the owner of Montauk. Ngọc has spent most of his career working in Vietnamese media where he was able establish vital connections and learn about the music industry.

Record-digging is a real hobby.

The purple CDs on the floor, Tú explains, are for a Thanh Tùng tribute record by local artist Quỳnh Anh. Tú gladly shows me more CDs that he and Ngọc are producing for other indie acts, one presented in such an elaborate boxset of paraphernalia that he has to point out where the actual CD is.

Trinkets are peppered across the space.

“People want the physical product,” he shares. “And sure, this phenomenon is happening all over the world, but it’s especially true in Vietnam. This is because traditionally in Vietnam artists don’t really make albums — even the most famous ones. And because of this, their fans have no loyalty to them. They don’t have real fans, just people who enjoy hit records. So if they put on a concert of just them, I’m telling you, I’m telling you — no one will come. But now indie bands, because they are making albums — not just making albums but also releasing them on CD, vinyl, cassette — they have strong groups of real fans and can sell out their shows.”

Music posters awash in red light.

Local musicians can actually hold these shows at Montauk. The owners frequently use the space to stage album release parties. Such events embody the values held by Montauk and LP Club; they are not simply milking nostalgia trends to sell coffee and records, but using their businesses as a springboard for new artists. This in turn gives both of them a stronger foothold within the local indie scene.

LP Club also plays host to many cozy album launches by indie artists.

Of course, the music production and album parties would not work if Montauk/LP Club were not simply a cool place to hang out, have a drink, and browse records. Like a lot of the best cafes in Hanoi, it feels like a place that shouldn’t exist, like a bubble of calm amid the chaos. Once you set yourself down with your drink, and the music kicks in, and you take a sip and marvel at the retro decor, it feels like nothing could ever tear you away. Nothing except the convoy route of a foreign politician, of course.

A space for sipping on some alcohol and listening to music.

Montauk and LP Club are open from 7:30am to 11:30pm. 

France’s Vietnamese population is one of the largest outside Vietnam. From colonial assignments to refugee migrations, the community has grown, shifted, and evolved since its beginnings in the 1860s. Meet the new generation of French-Vietnamese creatives — chefs, authors, cultural consultants — who are reimagining and representing Vietnamese culture in Paris in fresh and deeply personal ways.

History of Vietnamese migration to France

Paris hosts the oldest Vietnamese community in the western world. Today, an estimated 70,000 people of Vietnamese heritage live within the city limits, and another 100,000 in the surrounding Île-de-France region — together forming one of the largest Vietnamese populations outside Vietnam.

The first arrivals were not immigrants in the modern sense, but Nguyễn dynasty diplomats and officials, sent in the late 18^th century when France and Vietnam established formal ties. After France colonized southern Vietnam in 1862, Paris became a gathering place for Vietnamese civil servants, scholars, intellectuals, and artists — many of whom left an early cultural imprint on the city.

Door-to-door assortment of Vietnamese eateries and businesses in Paris.

When Vietnam gained independence in 1954, France remained an important destination for those seeking education or new economic prospects. But with the country divided and North Vietnam closed off, most newcomers during this period came from the South.

The upheaval of the American War brought a new chapter. The first wave of refugees, arriving in the months just before April 30, 1975, were largely political figures from the former South Vietnamese government and their families, beginning a larger and more complex migration story that would continue into the late 20^th century.

Anne-Solenne Hatte, author of Tasting Vietnam: Flavors and Memories from My Grandmother's Kitchen, shares with me that her grandfather worked in the previous government. “Even though he was a man of power, the one who was leading the family was really my grandmother... After [Diệm’s assassination], my grandfather had a job offer in Taiwan for a political position, but my grandmother said, ‘No more politics. It's done. We have nine children, and we need to take care of them.’” Because of her grandparents’ involvement in the Catholic community, a cardinal helped them immigrate to a small town in the center of France.

The cover of Anne-Solenne Hatte's book. Image via Amazon.

Vietnamese refugees, like Anne-Solenne’s grandparents, had to do what they had to do to stay alive, which often meant opening restaurants. She recounts: “My grandmother couldn't look back to her past. She needed to survive and move forward by creating a Vietnamese restaurant in the garage of their government-subsidized house without any money. It was not a project of the heart, it was a project of survival. They needed money.” She goes on to describe a small space, a third of the size of the hotel bar we were sitting in, that could only fit four dining tables. “All of the children participated. My mother and all of my aunts and uncles had a special skill: you do the appetizer, you do the main course. My mother and her twin were the waitresses. My grandmother would wake up at 6am to start cooking and work until 3am.”

Anne-Solenne Hatte (left) gathers her bà ngoại's (right) most loved recipes into a book project. Photo courtesy of Anne-Solenne Hatte.

The family recipes have always interested the former actress: “My grandmother is very close to me, even though she passed away five years ago — she's still with me every day. So the cookbook is very important to me. When I first started, it was just a cookbook for my family because there are 60 of us. Every one of us loves cooking, and I felt it was easier to have something like a dictionary where we could put all our recipes together.” 

But as anyone who has ever asked a Vietnamese person for a cooking lesson knows, collecting recipes is a lot more challenging and less straightforward than it sounds. “By the time I stayed with my grandmother, I realized her recipes were alive,” Anne-Solenne recalls. “Because she had moved between Vietnam, Washington, D.C., and France, she needed to adapt and recapture the taste without money, without nước mắm, without crabs, without whatever ingredients.” The completion of her book Tasting Vietnam, which weaves recipes with memoir, is made even more impressive considering their language barrier. In her words: “I don’t speak Vietnamese, but I speak the language of taste, the taste of Vietnam.” 

With a cookbook under her belt, Anne-Solenne just wrapped up production on a documentary featuring videos she recorded of her grandmother in the kitchen and an open door to the past via found archival footage of her family. “I think food is a great door to storytelling [about the Vietnamese experience] because it brings joy and lightness. It’s more powerful than when it’s always linked with pain.” Her documentary is called Taste of Exile.

The tricky situation Vietnamese food got itself into 

In the years following the American War, the 13^th arrondissement of Paris, referred to by most as Chinatown, transformed into “Quận Mười Ba” by the 1980s, as waves of Vietnamese refugees had reshaped the neighborhood, filling its streets with the shops, markets, and gathering places that anchored the community in a new country.

A view of the Asian quarter in the 13th arrondissement of Paris in 1994. Photo by Pierre Michaud via Radio France. 

While an Asian presence already existed in the area, the post-war influx turned it into a vibrant hub of Vietnamese life. Supermarkets like Tang Frères, Buddhist temples, travel agencies, bookshops, and steaming bowls of phở became fixtures of the local landscape. For many of the new arrivals, the restaurants weren’t just places to eat: kitchens became a source of community, serving familiar flavors to fellow refugees at prices they could manage.

“The first generation created restaurants to feed their own community. They sold their food for low prices so their fellow refugees could afford it,” Nam Nguyen, the proprietor of Hanoi Corner, a Vietnamese coffee distributor, observed. He goes on to explain: “Because of this, in France, Vietnamese food is expected to be cheaper than McDonald’s.”

As Julien Dô Lê Phạm, founder of the creative food agency Phamily First, argues in his Subway Takes video: “Southeast Asian food should get more respect, or at least be treated equally as any other cuisine. I love Italian food. I love a good cacio e pepe. It’s the most common dish that can be done in 5 minutes. You know phở? You have broth that was made the day before, with bones, with a lot of love, with the spices and everything. You have meat in three different forms. You have fresh herbs. You have everything. Phở is around EUR12–15... But people are willing to pay US$30 for the cacio e pepe.”

In addition to being cheap, Vietnamese restaurants in France have traditionally been seen as indistinguishable from one another and pigeonholed into making only a few well-known dishes. From a dining table across the street from Pont Neuf, the team behind the food and beverage brand Hà Nội 1988 explained to me: “Older generations go to the 13^th arrondissement for Vietnamese food, but rarely with a specific restaurant in mind.” Among the French, bò bún is the most popular dish, surpassing even phở. Bò bún is so popular in France that even Thai or Chinese restaurants serve it. In my opinion, when chefs outside the culture start serving a dish, it’s a surefire sign that it has become both popular — and profitable.

As a concept, bò bún is fairly typical Vietnamese fare, but the name might be unfamiliar to Vietnamese outside of Europe, who would call this dish bún bò xào. Photo via Grazia. 

As someone who has only heard of bún bò, and never bò bún, I was a bit confused. Bò bún is a bowl of rice vermicelli noodles topped with stir-fried lemongrass beef, lettuce, cucumber, mint, cilantro, bean sprouts, pickled carrots, roasted peanuts, and a fried eggroll — which is called “nem” in French, after the northern term, instead of the southern “chả giò.” Bò bún is served with nước chấm. In Vietnam, we would call this dish bún bò Nam Bộ, bún bò xào, or bún thịt bò xào. Why the name was flipped in France remains unknown, but it's a mystery many of us would like to understand.

Expanding France’s understanding of Vietnamese food

Steps from Notre-Dame, Hà Nội 1988 feels like a time capsule of Vietnam, with its retro décor and menu of familiar, soulful dishes, rooted in the flavors of the north. Founded in 2020 by Huy Nguyễn, a former photojournalist from Hà Nội, his dedication to developing his own northern-style phở earned him the Golden Anise Award from the Vietnamese Culinary Culture Association and Tuổi Trẻ. From there, Hà Nội 1988 has become a pioneer in introducing northern Vietnamese cuisine — beyond the usual phở and nem — to French audiences.

When I asked Uyên Trần, the general manager, and Phương Trần (no relation), the marketing lead at Hà Nội 1988, about the popularity of northern Vietnamese cuisine in Paris, they laughed and said, “Now restaurants are serving northern dishes. We can’t say if it’s because of us, but we know they were far less common before Hà Nội 1988 opened.”

The Hanoi 1988 team and their location. Photos by Tâm Lê.

They also emphasized the importance of their central location, outside the expected 13^th arrondissement, in expanding non-Vietnamese’s understanding of Vietnamese food. “We have many Parisians dining here, and a large number of international visitors from China, Korea, and the United States, particularly Asian Americans. Several social media food influencers and prestigious chefs, including Chef Hélène Darroze [a long-time juror on French Top Chef], have taken notice of us, which has helped draw in an even more diverse audience. For us, it’s a source of pride to bring Vietnamese food closer to people from all over the world.” 

But it’s become about so much more than food. Both Uyên and Phương came to Paris, from Vietnam, for college and started working at the restaurant as a part-time job. Uyên recounts, “Before I started working here, I didn’t realize how important it was to share Vietnamese cuisine and culture. At first, it was just a part-time job while studying in France, but over time I became proud of what our food represents. And I believe many members of our team feel the same.” She smiles as she continues: “Now it’s not only Vietnamese people who are opening Vietnamese restaurants and coffee shops, the French are doing it as well. Vietnam has become kinda trendy in Paris.”

Outside the Hanoi 1988 Cafe in the Latin Quarter. Photo via Time Out.

And in the five years since they’ve started, some of those were during the COVID-19 pandemic, Hà Nội 1988 has certainly started moving from cuisine into culture. They’ve got two restaurants and two cafés, the latest one being Hà Nội 1988 Flowers and Archives in trendy Le Marais, which offers not only coffee, but workshops on flower arrangement, paper flower making, and other skills. They’ve got their own merch and have collaborated on pop-ups with companies like Uniqlo. They’ve recently released a cookbook, and possibly, one of the most exciting pieces of news: they brought Hanoian coffeehouse Cộng Cà Phê to France.

Cộng Cà Phê's first location in France. Photo via Cộng Cà Phê.

I arrived in the 2^nd arrondissement, steps from the Paris Opéra, just before the official grand opening of Cộng Cà Phê’s first French outpost, to see a space that looked more like a war zone than a café. Tarps hung like makeshift barricades, hammers echoed against exposed walls, and the scent of sawdust lingered in the air. In the middle of this chaos sat Giang Dang, the café chain’s CEO, coolly stationed at a laptop in the back corner. She didn’t need to raise her voice; her quiet focus carried the weight of command, like a field general plotting strategy while the battle raged around her. Even in the not-yet-completed café, the staging felt unmistakably Cộng: equal parts grit, vision, and discipline.

This Paris location on 18 rue Volney marks the brand’s first foray into Europe, an ambitious step for a café chain already beloved across Vietnam. For Giang, the significance of this moment goes beyond business. “We usually have brands coming to Vietnam,” she told me. “Now we can have a Vietnamese brand come to other places.”

For Giang, the decision was not only about expansion, but about who she trusted to bring the Cộng identity abroad. “We had inquiries before, from France,” she explained. “But actually, Huy [founder of Hà Nội 1988] was the first Vietnamese person to reach out. We did some research and saw his restaurants. That gave us the confidence that he could really do it. And I have to say, he has a very professional team.”

And this location won’t be the only stage. Giang shared that other new Parisian locations are already in the works, and the chain has its sights set on an even wider horizon. “My dream is to one day expand to New York, or Japan,” she said, her voice steady but the ambition clear. If Paris is the foothold, Europe — and beyond — may soon follow.

The future of Vietnamese food in Paris

The City of Light’s Vietnamese culinary scene is evolving from enclaved phở joints to high-concept eateries and hybrid café-boutiques. It reflects a generational shift: from first-generation immigrants who opened restaurants out of necessity in the 13^th arrondissement, to second-generation and recent Vietnamese entrepreneurs" who now use food, design, and storytelling to assert identity in Paris’s most fashionable quarters. Many of these cultural ambassadors are eager to reclaim and redefine what “Vietnamese” means in France today.

Left: My Ly, the founder of Bà Nội (left); and Nam Nguyễn (right), the founder of Hanoi Corner. Photo by Tâm Lê.
Right: Bà Nội's gỏi cuốn. Photo via Bà Nội.

“My parents really didn’t want me to go into the restaurant business,” recalled My Ly Phạm, founder of Bà Nội. “When I told them my idea, they made me meet with a family friend who had a restaurant, just so I could see how hard it was. For that generation, it was about survival. But for ours, it’s different — we choose to do this work, we’re not forced into it.”

For My Ly, that choice meant building a restaurant featuring summer rolls. “At home, everyone rolled their own at the table: my family, my French friends, anyone who came over. It felt normal to me, but my French friends would always say, ‘Oh my God, this is so good.’ That’s when I realized I wanted French people to discover this way of eating.”

She pursued the idea methodically, studying business, working in restaurants during a gap year, and spending semesters abroad in Bangkok and later traveling through Malaysia, Myanmar, Singapore, and Hong Kong. Each place added something to her vision. “In Myanmar, by the lake, I tried fish with this peanut sauce that was amazing. I asked the chef what was in it, and that recipe became my sauce.” Her menu today blends memory and inspiration: tom yum adjusted to her own taste, teriyaki salmon, and that peanut sauce. “If I were opening now, maybe I’d ask if it’s legitimate to do it this way. But eight years ago, it wasn’t about legitimacy. It was about inspiration, about sharing flavors with French people in my own way.”

That balance between authenticity and adaptation is a recurring theme among Paris’s Vietnamese restaurateurs. Nam of Hanoi Corner, put it bluntly: “People in Vietnam don’t fight over their authenticity. Recipes vary and everyone just says, ‘It’s the way I like it.’ French food borrows from everywhere — Japanese minimalism, Chinese small dim sum plates, African spices — and that’s how it thrives. Like how the French kebab is different from the original, I want Vietnamese cuisine in Paris to grow the same way, to have its own French-Vietnamese identity.”

Julien Dô Lê Phạm with cơm hến and bánh mì xíu mại from Chop Chop's collaboration with Saigon Kiss. Photos by Tâm Lê.

“I feel like French-Vietnamese food is not born yet,” echoes Julien Dô Lê Phạm. We are sitting in front of his spot Chop Chop, a painfully cool wine bar that hosts a rotating cast of multicultural chefs. This week is the Vietnamese-Dutch collective Saigon Kiss serving central dishes like cơm hến and bánh mì xíu mại. People mill around us hoping for a seat to open up, as he continues: “I see what’s going on in New York and it’s so interesting. Ha’s Đặc Biệt is doing American-Vietnamese. Mắm is authentically Vietnamese. Bánh by Lauren is amazing. She’s doing something very authentic in a New York way. I feel like we are late in Paris, in terms of having the younger generation create restaurants with their own identity. There is a freedom in the US, where a mix of cultures in cooking is possible. Whereas in France, you are always seen as an immigrant — you need to do your food and adapt it to French people.” 

Julien pauses as he chooses his next words carefully, “This event might be the edgiest Vietnamese thing in Paris right now, but the best is yet to come once us kids of immigrants are totally free to express ourselves. Creating something that is intentionally mixed was not possible until now. For a long time, it was only about French food, French food, no deviations, and Vietnamese restaurants were considered hole-in-the-walls. It’s only been recently that Paris has embraced its diversity and the kids of immigrants. That’s why Paris is so exciting nowadays.” 

Julien’s optimistic sentiment reminds me of something Nam expressed earlier, laughing as we stood outside Cộng Cà Phê during their soft launch: “Being Vietnamese in Paris is finally starting to feel fun.” Santé to that!

“We are Italians, we do pretty much what we want,” said Chef Francesco Leone when pressed for his vision of Basilico. “If you want to transmit authenticity and the feeling of Italian food by making Basilico a small section of Italy in Saigon, then you need to reflect Italy in the ambiance, but mostly in the food.”

Born in Corato, Southern Italy, Francesco is adamant about serving authentic food as it was envisioned in his home country. “If you want to defend yourself as a chef, a restaurant or a brand, you need to maintain your authenticity … if customers don’t like it, they don’t like it, and I’m really sorry about that.”

More than 15 years after it first opened, Basilico is receiving an extensive makeover with a menu created by Francesco that perfectly matches the new interior. While a few menu items remain for the guests who have been coming since those early days, Francesco is committed to bringing flavors and preparations he learned at culinary school and Michelin-starred restaurants in Italy to the newly renamed JW Marriott Saigon.

Francesco sat with Saigoneer earlier this month to walk us through the new menu, pointing out with pride the changes and additions he has made that allow him to oversee meals at Basilico that maintain Italy’s culinary reputation. 

Leaving Italy, But Not Leaving Italy Behind

We cannot say that cooking is in Chef Francesco Leone’s blood. While he did help his mother prepare the family’s Sunday cakes, he comes from a family of accountants, so his decision to attend culinary school was a radical departure from expectations. Oddly, his decision to move to Southeast Asia after several years working his way up the rungs in esteemed restaurants in Italy was not unusual for his family. Francesco has several relatives in the region who encouraged him to enter the international culinary scene, which has developed rapidly here over the past several decades. 

As he transitioned from resorts in the Philippines, Singapore, and most recently, central Vietnam, he refined his craft alongside a determination to introduce people to authentic Italian cuisine. This often involves dispelling previous misconceptions, such as the acceptability of adding cream to carbonara as a shortcut to achieving a rich, smooth texture. 

“When I saw it, I wanted to pull out my hair. I already don't have hair, but I wanted to pull out my hair,” Francesco said of the burrata on the previous Basilico menu. Leon completely changed the recipe, removing the berry jam and reverting to an authentic simplicity that involves the fresh cheese alongside heirloom cherry tomatoes, Roman tomatoes, Parma ham, and a balsamic reduction. Many of the items on Basilico’s new menu retain old names but feature completely different preparations, ingredients, and presentations. For example, an international-style sandwich was replaced with one featuring 18-month Parma ham, mortadella, coppa, and spicy salami. Meanwhile, the pizzas are no longer flatbread-esque but on their way to being true Napoletana-style thanks to a new pizza oven prominently placed in the open kitchen.

Alongside these reinvigorated recipes are dishes completely new to Basilico. For example, the pasta menu has been fully revitalized, including the linguine al pomodoro, which features hand-made linguine pasta tossed in cherry tomato sauce and basil finished with parmesan cheese. A new crab pasta reflects the reality that it’s not reasonable or even possible to import only Italian ingredients, and some of the local ones are great too. Thus, Cà Mau mud crab is served with hand-made spaghetti and Stracciatella cheese while the hand-made bigoli pasta complements Nhin Thuận flower crab. Similarly, Francesco praises the octopuses that are caught and prepared in Japan and used in a seafood salad, a tagliatelle, and an organic saffron risotto.

The Role of Creativity in the New Menu

In explaining his culinary philosophy, Francesco is most concerned with defending traditional flavors and can be less dogmatic regarding presentation, particularly when it coincides with the elevated decor and expectations of diners who consider the visit a special occasion. Thus, he embraces the opportunity for one-of-a-kind presentations that are fit for social media.

The soups, for example, are prepared at each table so the merging of beetroot, which turns the conventional stuffed pasta a shocking shade of pink. Such attention to unexpected experiences underscores Basilico’s understanding of what elevated cuisine means. For example, in Italy, a seafood salad is presented as a singular mix in a large bowl, colors and flavors can delight diners and online friends. Meanwhile, the ravioli recipe at Basilico is more refined with each ingredient marinated and presented individually. “It’s the exact same dish, but with an elevated touch,” Francesco summarizes. 

Basilico also allows Francesco to express his personal creativity. While again adhering to the flavors and textures Italians expect, he tweaks and embellishes recipes in ways that modern Italian restaurants are familiar with. For example, the amatriciana pizza captures the flavors of the similarly named pasta sauce via a San Marzano tomato sauce reduction. Meanwhile, a late-night epiphany led him to carmelize the bottom of gnocchi, giving them a crispy quality that contrasts with the sauteed version served elsewhere.

A Time and Place for Compromise

With a certain amount of glee, Francesco shared a story about a foreign guest who asked for a Hawaiian pizza at his restaurant in Manila. Francesco wouldn’t do it. No amount of money, or threats to complain to the owner, would change his mind. While he still refuses to make a pizza with pineapple, he has softened some of his views on cuisine and also restaurant management. No longer does he rule the kitchen with a severity that earned him the nickname Francesco Valkyrie, after a famous World War 2 assassination plot. “You change, you mature, and then you become more professional, more diplomatic,” he says.

This diplomatic attitude extends to his remaking of the Basilico menu. There are some menu items that he would not include if it were up to him alone, but he understands it’s a business and that means keeping beloved guests who have been coming for years happy. So French oysters, seafood pasta and Caesar salad remain, made with as much loving attention as always. 

A New Look in Every Direction

Part of the bold, new impression Basilico hopes to make has nothing to do with Francesco's impact on the menu. The airy first-floor space recently re-imagined its entire interior, elevating the decor in a way that pairs with the new food. In addition to new furniture and wall decor, it’s opened the kitchen to showcase the care Francesco and his team pay to each dish. Similarly, an increase of vegetation, including the namesake basil plant, reinforces the fresh and natural feel that permeates the atmosphere and the plates.

If you want to know the sincerity of Francesco and Basilico’s commitment to authenticity, you can ask him about alterations to classic dishes that are popular in the region. “No cream in the carbonara. Absolutely no cream in the carbonara,” he said while pounding the table. “You can cry. You can roll on the floor. I honestly don't care.”

Crab has long held a beloved place in Vietnamese cuisine, and it is often simmered into comforting soups, tucked into rustic rolls, or served fresh and simple on coastal tables. Yet it is rarely treated as a star ingredient or explored with the kind of finesse that reveals its deeper character. That is precisely why the Smoked Crab Salad from Viên Dining in Hanoi deserves attention.

In Chef Trương Đức Mạnh’s hands, this humble seafood is reimagined with elegance, offering diners a fresh way to experience the essence of Khánh Hòa’s coastal bounty: refined and contemporary, yet deeply rooted in tradition.

The crab is carefully shelled and steamed before each strand of meat is meticulously separated to preserve its natural texture. The meat is then cold-smoked over straw for a full hour. This delicate process imbues the flesh with a subtle, fragrant smokiness while amplifying its inherent sweetness. Finally, the crab is gently tossed with Vietnamese herbs and seasonings, which balance the smoky depth with the bright, clean freshness of the sea.

Paper-thin slices of zucchini and radish bring a crisp, refreshing contrast, while toasted pumpkin seeds add a layer of nutty richness. The result is a dish that feels both grounded and elevated, a microcosm of the coast where acidity, crunch, and umami exist in harmony.

Paella’s elevation of humble countryside ingredients into an extravaganza of flavors united by fluffy rice; soft and creamy Torta del Casar sheep’s milk cheese; intense Pimentón de la Vera paprika made with smoked peppers, and nutty, earthy iberico ham sliced whisper thin: Spanish culinary treasures are becoming increasingly common in Vietnam. As more Spanish restaurants open and Spanish products occupy more space on grocery store shelves, people here are also discovering how Spaniards like to eat.

Spanish hams.

Eating Like a Spaniard

Perhaps the biggest difference between how Spanish and Vietnamese eat involves timing. Unlike the rise and shine and dine culture here, the Spanish tend not to prioritize breakfast, opting for a small, mid-morning meal consisting of simple bread, pastries, and cheese alongside strong coffee. One is therefore unlikely to see any Spanish restaurants competing for attention beside bustling phở shops or xôi vendors.

Meanwhile, lunch, or la comida, typically arrives later than here, coming at between 2 and 3 pm. But while breakfast may be light, once the Spanish begin eating, they go all in, and la comida is a large and long-lasting affair with numerous courses. With an agricultural heritage similar to Vietnam’s, it has been historically common for Spanish folks to take a nap after a long lunch, which helps them recover after arduous mornings in the fields. 

Secreto Iberico.

While fewer offices and businesses are closing nowadays to accommodate the habit, la comida continues to contain heavy, food coma-inducing items. Soup and salad starters, meet, seafood, and rice mains, and desserts consisting of fruit, pastries, or cheese and honey are all standard practice whether eating at a restaurant or at home.

Pincho de magret de pato.

The culmination of a meal doesn’t mean one gets up from the table, however. Sobremesa, a Spanish word without a good translation, involves remaining at the table to drink coffee or wine, smoke cigarettes, and most importantly, chat with family, friends or colleagues. Simply hanging out and letting the good spirits continue is surely familiar to anyone who has spent a night out here, and the commonality reveals how, across cultures, food brings people together. 

Pan tumaca.

Spanish dinner comes late, and in contrast to lunch, is a smaller meal consisting of moderate portions or leftovers from lunch. To tide people over until it’s served at around 9 or 10, many people break for tapas. Coming from verb “tapar” which means to cover up, legend claims tapas originate with the plate placed over wine or beer to keep insects away. Over time, bars and restaurants begin putting small portions of shareable food on the plates, particularly salty ones that would compel people to drink more. In some regions of Spain, guests receive these items for free, while they are paid for in others. 

Gastronomic experience with Spanish flavors.

Dining Spanish-Style in Vietnam

As often happens when traditions cross borders, tapas have been transformed, taking on new meaning when brought outside Spain. Rather than snack items served with drinks between meals, many restaurants outside Spain now use the term to describe any small item that can be shared amongst diners. Thus, a lunch or dinner at a Spanish restaurant may consist of a dozen or so small plates, all selected from a menu’s tapas section. One can also treat the item as the Spanish do, and order some cold cuts, bread with cheese and olive oil, croquettes, meatballs, omelets, olives, and fried bites beside a late afternoon or early evening drink.

Tortilla de patatas (left) and paella, pinchos and sangría (right).

Diners in Vietnam can observe either approach at local restaurants led by Spanish teams, such as Saigon’s Sabor Restaurant & Bar, which serves traditional tapas, including meatballs with tomato sauce and calamari with spicy sauce. Many Spanish restaurants here balance time-honored dishes with creative items, such as the Michelin-recognized Octo Tapas Restobar’s octopus with ginger and sesame relish and roasted bone marrow with beef tatar and oyster cream.  

Crowd gathers at Iberico in Saigon.

In addition to consistent innovation and expanded popularity amongst local diners, an exciting trend in Spanish cuisine in Vietnam involves expansion beyond Saigon. Recently, Capos in Hanoi, My Casa in Đà Nẵng, OLÁ Beach Club by SOL Meliá in Phú Quốc, and Hispania in Nha Trang have all opened. Such forays into less traditionally adventurous markets reveal the suitability of Spanish cuisine for local palates. Meanwhile, the talented chefs who helm these restaurants require authentic Spanish ingredients, and therefore a robust supply chain that can meet their high standards.

Chef at Sabor Restaurant.

Ensuring Quality and Authenticity

In response to the growing need to access authentic ingredients and a desire to bring diners around the world a true and delicious experience with Spanish cuisine, in 2020, ICEX Spain Trade and Investment launched the Restaurants from Spain certification program. In order for a restaurant to obtain the official distinction, it must meet seven criteria related to the ingredients used, the dishes offered, and the presence of a Spanish chef or representative capable of conveying the cuisine’s heritage. Each application is carefully evaluated by ICEX’s local offices abroad, while a commission in Madrid composed of Ministries, Associations, and food professionals reviews the dossiers to ensure that every Restaurant from Spain truly represents authentic Spanish cuisine. 

Certification plaque verifying authenticity.

As of now, there are more than 500 certified restaurants around the world, including 11 in Vietnam, including the previously mentioned establishments, as well as Olé Saigon Restaurant, Tomatito Saigon, and  Iberico Tapas y Vino I, II, and III, with more in the application process. Of course, there are more than 11 restaurants in Vietnam that claim to serve authentic Spanish cuisine so discerning guests can ensure they are patronizing a restaurant that has undergone the exhaustive application process by looking for the certification plaque.

In addition to these restaurants, people around the world can obtain authentic Spanish products with the help of the Colmados from Spain certification, which verifies food and wine shops that specialize in Spanish products. Several establishments in Vietnam are currently in the process of obtaining this certification, which will guarantee consumers of the Spanish items’ quality and origin. At present, there are more than 80 Colmados certified worldwide.

Spanish olive oils.

Welcoming and flexible, Spanish cuisine is ultimately about enjoying food and the people you share it with. Knowing that Spanish people eat dinner at 10 pm, or that a meal doesn’t traditionally consist of tapas, is neat knowledge, but doesn’t need to be followed to appreciate authentic ingredients and recipes. Simply savoring the dishes is enough, particularly when the experience has been certified by the Spanish government. A perfect way to experience Spanish cuisine in Vietnam falls on October 12th, when Spain celebrates its National Day. An occasion to honor the nation’s history, culture, and traditions, the day is a great way to embrace its rich gastronomy.

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