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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5 — VND30,000 per bowl.
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5