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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

If you’re roaming around New York but suddenly hanker for a bite of familiar salmon miso pizza taste, you might be in luck this year.

Pizza 4P’s, Saigon’s own homegrown pizza brand, is reportedly in the process of expanding to the US market. According to Insider Retail, the Japanese-Italian fusion pizza chain will open its first US location in Brooklyn, New York. An exact address has not been made available at the time of writing.

To facilitate the launch, Pizza 4P’s has put up a job posting seeking a General Manager to oversee the Brooklyn restaurant’s operations.

This move will mark the first time the chain ventures outside of Asia, after having branched out in several countries in the continent, including Cambodia, Japan, Indonesia, and India.

At the moment, 4P’s is running 35 locations in Vietnam, 2 in Cambodia, and 1 each in Indonesia, India, and Japan.

Beginning in 2011 with a cozy location in District 1 of Saigon serving homemade pizzas with unique flavors, Pizza 4P’s quickly gained a following for its farm-to-table ingredients and higher-end pizza experience, a different offering to the city’s fast-casual pizza chains at the time.

[Photo via Dân Trí]

I never imagined there could be more than one way to eat a watermelon. Yet here it was, transformed beyond recognition, via a bold experiment and a deeply personal story, challenging everything I thought I knew about such a simple fruit. Only later did I realize it was part of Sonó’s new tasting menu, “Tales & Tastes.”

The dish — named Mai An Tiêm after the main character in a famous folk tale — begins with watermelon on the grill. Fire draws out flavors we rarely associate with the fruit: smoky, savory, caramelized sweetness. To this, Chef Kiên Phan pairs a chilled cheese sauce, his playful take on gazpacho where vegetables are replaced with cheese. The contrast is striking, hot and cold, sweet and creamy, familiar yet unfamiliar. The classic trio of watermelon, cucumber, and feta is then elevated with lemon gel, finely chopped makrut lime leaves, and crisp prosciutto, creating a perfect balance of textures and tastes.

The inspiration comes from memory. Years ago in Vinh, Kiên once stopped at a roadside stall and tasted sticky rice served with a simple pickle of cucumber and lime leaves. That humble pairing lingered with him, sparking a curiosity to push lime leaves into new territory. Countless trials later, the memory returned in the shape of “Mai An Tiêm.” The dish embodies his philosophy of delivering comforting food rooted in French technique, with a gentle modern twist, and a touch of Vietnam. Something refined yet familiar, inventive yet grounded.

It is also the dish he’s most eager to share. The idea of grilled watermelon alone challenges expectation, asking us to see a familiar fruit differently. For me, Mai An Tiêm is more than a course in a menu. It’s a story of memory and imagination, and a quiet reminder of how extraordinary the ordinary can become.

The Tales & Taste menu which includes the Mai An Tiêm is accompanied by Petey Majik's entertainment show.

The differences between regional dialects across Vietnam is a fascinating field of research that can spawn days of discussion, but no other pairs of words has the power to mystify the internet like the dichotomy between bimbim and snack, both used in the Vietnamese language to describe bags of crackers made of rice, corn, or wheat flours. In today’s Snack Attack feature, Saigoneer is digging into the surprisingly recent history of why northern Vietnamese use the term “bimbim” while it has always been “snack” in Saigon and southern provinces.

From glass noodles to bimbim

Today, if one were to hit the streets of Hanoi and head to the nearest tạp hóa asking for “bimbim,” the most likely response from the owner would be “what kind?” because it is now recognized in the northern dialect as a generic term to describe all types of crunchy crackers coated in flavor powders, sweet or savory. There is, however, one specific brand of cream-filled cookie stick called Bimbim, produced by the Haiha-Kotobuki confectionery company, that holds the key to today’s etymological discovery.

Snacks are an indispensable part of tạp hóa. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

This sweet Bimbim snack would appear foreign to most Vietnamese adults today, as they likely grew up with a savory version called Snack Tôm Bimbim, the first widely known packaged chip in northern Vietnam, manufactured by none other than Haiha-Kotobuki.

Before becoming the established confectionery brand today, the company had its start as a state-run glass noodles workshop. In December 1960, under the directive of the northern government, Xưởng miến Hoàng Mai was founded to diversify the local food supply by producing glass noodles from mung beans.

Across the 1960s, the facility also developed soy sauce and corn starch until 1966, when it was turned into the Hải Hà Factory for Experimental Foods, and worked on other edible products like malt sugar, bouillon cubes, and fermented soy beans. In 1970, it took over the candy facility of Hải Châu and became the Hải Hà Food Factory. After reunification in 1992, the entity was officially registered as HAIHACO, a confectionery enterprise, until 1993, when it entered the Haiha-Kotobuki joint venture with a Japanese F&B firm, based at 25 Trương Định in Hanoi.

One of the earliest packaged snacks in the north.

Haiha-Kotobuki's only remaining snack with the Bimbim brand.

The new company made use of Hải Hà’s established brand recognition in the local market and Japanese production technologies. One of their new products that hit Hanoi was Bimbim shrimp-flavored crackers. “When it came time to make a snack, [we] thought about how to name it,” Nguyễn Thị Lệ Thủy, then-CEO of Haiha-Kotobuki, shared in the company’s archive footage. “I said: ‘Children love automobiles, they like to press on the horn so it beeps, so we should use the name Bimbim.”

Following the same creative direction, Bimbim’s earliest television commercials in the 1990s featured cars that made noise. This association has mostly faded today, as the snack brand underwent genericization. Bimbim was the first packaged cracker in the north, made a mark in the culture, and now all snacks are called “bimbim.”

Vinabico and the legendary green crab snack

If you have ever engaged in cyber fights on whether “bimbim” or “snack” is the right way to call these bags of 80% air, 10% monosodium glutamate, and 10% crunch, you might be stunned to learn that their origin stories are almost identical. Southern Vietnamese, especially Saigoneers, all refer to these as “snack.” Of course, with certain degrees of Vietnamese bastardization, we’ll also accept bánh snack, xì nách, sờ nách, or just simply nách.

Illustration by Vent Hoang.

How this came to be was directly linked to the introduction of the legendary green bag of crab-shaped rice crackers known simply amongst snack disciples as “Snack Cua,” produced by local company Vinabico.

Vinabico was a confectionery enterprise founded in 1974, widely recognized by a logo featuring a swan. It was nationalized in 1978. In 1993, the company entered a joint venture with Japanese firm Kotobuki, similar to that of Hải Hà.

Employing rice flour and a new technology to make durable aluminum wrappers, it launched the first snack product in the southern market called “Bánh Snack Cua” in the same year. Each piece was made of rice and corn starches, puffed into the shape of a crab complete with two pincers, and tossed in an umami flavor powder. The bag was brightly colored using a palette of turquoise and red. An orange boiled crab was featured at the bottom. The word “snack” in red was the most prominent in the center of the packaging, so it has stuck around in the collective consciousness as the common term to refer to packaged snacks.

A newspaper ad promoting Snack Cua when it first launched in the 1990s. Image via Instagram user nikoskhanh2022.

The original packaging of Snack Cua.

In 2003, Vinabico bought out the shares of Kotobuki and performed well in the confectionery market across the 2000s. Still, in 2012, Kinh Đô took over the control of the company with 51% of its shares and eventually bought it out. In 2015, Vinabico ceased to exist, absorbed completely into Kinh Đô. Snack Cua fell out of the popularity race during this period due to tough competition from local and foreign brands, but has since resurfaced under the Kinh Đô umbrella, albeit with a modified package design.

Oishi, the dark horse from the East

Much of the discourse surrounding bimbim versus snack tends to focus on Saigon and Hanoi, as they have always been the biggest markets of consumer goods in Vietnam. There exists, however, another contender in the race: Oishi. If you grew up outside of the two biggest metropolises, especially in more rural areas in Central Vietnam or the Mekong Delta, it’s likely that you’ve been calling packaged snacks “oishi.”

“Oishi” is a Japanese word meaning tasty, so it’s natural to assume that the brand hailed from Japan, yet few know that this household name today had origins in the Philippines.

Some of Oishi's most iconic snacks of our childhood.

In 1974, Carlos Chan, a Filipino entrepreneur of Chinese descent launched the Oishi brand in the Philippines, putting snack foods produced using Japanese technologies in the national market. Oishi expanded to China in the late 20th century and, in 1997, reached Vietnam for the first time. Vietnam has long regarded Japanese-made products as superior, so the name Oishi serendipitously was well-received by local snackers.

Oishi strategically made a move to enter the market via small-scale retailers like mom-and-pop shops and public school canteens, entrancing Vietnamese children one salty finger at a time. It worked, and today Oishi remains one of the country’s most prevalent snacks, especially in the countryside and second-tier municipalities, whose residents will use the term “oishi” to refer to packaged snacks.

After egg coffee, coconut coffee, and salt coffee, is the next coffee trend going to be peanut butter coffee?

Probably not, but it should be!

The concept is evident in the name: add rich and creamy peanut butter to a familiar cà phê sữa đá, or cà phê sữa tươi. The earthy oils of the peanut cut through some of the sugar while adding a bit of complexity. 

Given peanut butter and peanut milk’s general presence here, it’s a bit surprising one doesn’t see cà phê đậu phộng more often. I had never encountered it until earlier this year, at Suối Tiên, of all places. While delicious, that version was made with an extra-heavy pour of sweetened condensed milk that led to a severe sugar crash. Since then, I’ve been scouring menus for a version that might fit my preferences a bit more.

After one disastrous rendition at a cafe I won't name, Saigoneer got targeted by an Instagram ad for a place named Mardoll Coffee. We ordered from Grab and were pleasantly surprised to find the cà phê đậu phộng was smooth, milky and subtly nutty without being cloyingly sweet. Luscious and refreshing, it warranted an in-person visit.

“I don’t know if the coffee is any good, but people keep coming to that shop to take pictures,” we overheard an elderly neighbor exclaim in Vietnamese when she saw us outside Mardoll, located down a busy District 3 hẻm. The apparent trend of people visiting Mardoll to take photos is baffling, because it's not really a coffee shop; it's a nail salon that happens to have a barista counter that makes terrific peanut butter coffee. There is no possible way to drink it there comfortably amongst women getting butterfly and flower gel designs, but it’s certainly worth ordering for delivery or takeaway.

As Grab orders pinged in on the barista’s phone, we watched him make our cà phê đậu phộng. The process is simple, with the ubiquitous Golden Farm peanut butter applied around the edges of the cup and allowed to seep into the milk before the coffee is added on top. He said he wasn’t sure why it appeared on the menu recently or where the shop’s owner had gotten the idea. While I will likely order from here again, the true takeaway was that the recipe is one worth experimenting with. What’s stopping me, or you, from having peanut butter with your fresh milk and sweetened condensed milk for sapid start to the day?

Huế's culinary landscape is designed for snacking. From bánh khoái to bánh bèo to chè bột lọc heo quay, many of the most popular and delicious dishes are served in small portions that work together collectively to fill one’s belly, but don’t get the job done on their own.

Saigoneer has theories for why portions in Huế are so small, including influence from imperial feasts that aimed to show off how many different, often exotic items one could fit on a table, with such lurid descriptions as orangutan lips and elephant feet. Alternatively, the snack-sized offerings can be a matter of practicality. Unlike in Saigon, where residents are often busy rushing between work, hobbies, and obligations, in sleepy Huế, folks might have more time to prepare and savor dishes in their kitchens. Thus, they are not buying heaping bowls of noodles or heavy plates from vendors, and instead picking up reasonable noshables to tide themselves over between meals.

This all leaves bánh mì in a precarious situation. The typical bánh mì constitutes more or less a full meal, and eating one during a food-filled tourism trip to Huế can mean foregoing all an appetizing serving of bánh nậm or bánh bột lọc. This represents a tragedy for any self-respecting foodie.

Thankfully, Huế has a solution in the form of a tiny sandwich: bánh mì chuột. The palm-sized sandwiches provide a pleasant few bites of bread that are filling without spoiling one’s appetite for further munchies meandering. The specific ingredients don’t differ greatly from the average Huế bánh mì, the familiar thịt xíu, pa-tê, fried egg, and pork, and even the intriguing but ultimately unsuccessful bột lọc. Expectedly, the chillies pack a bigger punch than one typically experiences in Saigon.

We have returned to a particular grouping of bánh mì chuột vendors operating at the far end of Đông Ba market. Surrounded by big baskets of tiny, warm bread and trays with the rudimentary fixings, for a mere VND5,000, we had quick and simple satisfaction enough to power our walk to the next food stall. Other spots exist in and around the city selling these ideal snacks, and we suggest making a little room for one the next time you are in Huế.

Why am I so obsessed with chè bột lọc heo quay?

Bột lọc heo quay is a fairly straightforward concept, as its name already tells you everything you need to know. A tiny cube of pork (heo quay) is covered in a coating of tapioca dough (bột lọc), formed into a sizable pearl much like those found in bubble tea, and then eaten with a simple ginger syrup and ice. Finding out about its existence the first time often elicits two types of reactions in people: disbelief or delighted curiosity. Meat? In my dessert? Well, it’s more common than you think.

My initial response somewhat leaned towards the latter, and upon discovering a restaurant in Saigon that serves it, the Saigoneer team made a beeline at the door. This iteration, which we’ll refer to as 001, is the most visual appealing bột lọc heo quay I’ve had: it comes in an aquamarine glazed ceramic bowl, surrounded by julienned strips of ginger and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds. The tapioca dough is pliable and well-cooked, but the nub of roast pork inside is underseasoned and lean, and thus, dry and fibrous. It is certainly photogenic and shows a level of care from the restaurant kitchen in the way it was assembled.

001: Chè bột lọc heo quay at Góc Huế, Saigon. Photos by Cao Nhân.

Bột lọc heo quay originates from Huế, the old imperial city in Central Vietnam, and according to our guide, it was once a privileged treat reserved for the imperial court due to the level of intricacy involved in its preparation. During a recent trip to Huế, it was natural that we sought out some popular local versions.

002 came from Chè Hẻm, the city’s most popular dessert spot, though it was clear that most patrons were tourists. The operation here is rather hectic but efficient; gaggles of tourists speaking all sorts of Vietnamese dialects swoop in and out like termites. Chè Hẻm’s bộc lọc heo quay is the largest, with a thick, opaque tapioca skin that was unfortunately as tough as rubber. The filling was a surprise: a mixture of peppery minced pork with bits of wood-ear mushroom that was no different than the filling of bao buns in Saigon. The syrup was rather boringly sweet. Though the seasoning and pepper were interesting, I couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t roast pork.

002: Chè Hẻm, Huế. Photos by Khôi Phạm.

Last but certainly not least, 003 was the offering from Chè Mợ Tôn Đích, a highly sought-after destination for locals and tourists alike, judging by the full house of people waiting patiently 15 minutes before opening time. Here, bột lọc heo quay is served in a tall glass in a subtly gingery syrup. The tapioca dough’s texture balances between chewy and elasticity in a pleasant way, but the headliner of the show was undoubtedly what it enveloped: shredded pork that was caramelized in soy sauce, sugar, and five spice — like a sweeter thịt kho or carnitas. To me, this was the best interpretation of the famous dessert, even though, once again, this was not heo quay. But does it even matter at this point?

003 Chè Mợ Tôn Đích, Huế. Photos by Khôi Phạm.

As much as it is polarizing, the savory bột lọc heo quay is a quirky outlier in a sea of often cloyingly sweet, pasty Vietnamese chè, and I realized that a part of me, perhaps, was hoping that, by being able to appreciate its whimsy, I myself could be quirky too. Judging by how wildly different all three versions are, even within Huế itself, I’m happy to report that there might be room for everyone to be quirky after all.

Addresses
001 Góc Huế / 41 Kỳ Đồng, Ward 9, D3, HCMC
002 Chè Hẻm / 1 Kiệt, 29 Hùng Vương, Phú Hội Ward, Huế
003 Chè Mợ Tôn Đích / 20 Đinh Tiên Hoàng, Phú Hoà Ward, Huế

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Vivian Nguyen (@VivianNguyenPR) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Andrea Nguyen (@aqnguyen) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

— Vanita Gupta (@vanitaguptaCR) June 9, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh ú tro on the altar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to make bánh ú tro

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

Bánh ú lá tre.

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

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

How to wrap a bánh ú.

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

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

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh canh Nam Phổ, a staple of the imperial city

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maritime central Vietnam’s seafood trove

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

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

Ingredients in bánh canh chả cá.

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

Bánh canh bột xắt, the Mekong specialty

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

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

Bánh canh bột xắt ingredients.

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know a little place. 

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

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

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

Photo via Tripadvisor

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

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

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

Once upon a bowl of cháo

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

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

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

Exploring the many cháo of Vietnam

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

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

Cháo sườn on chilly days.

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

Eel congee in Nghệ An.

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

A bowl of cháo lòng.

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

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

Cháo ám is Trà Vinh’s famous congee.

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

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

Cơm cháo Triều Châu.

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