Saigon Hẻm Gems - Saigoneer

Hẻm Gems: Wake up Early, We're Getting Hủ Tiếu Cá for Breakfast

2026-10-10T19:00:00+07:00

When I used to live in Hanoi, I always knew that if an eatery only opens for half a day, the food is probably certified, at least by the locals, to be not only good, but excellent. There is something written in the local traditions that specific dishes should be served at particular times of the day.

Editor's note (2026): Hủ tiếu cá Anh Mai has relocated to 153 Lê Thị Riêng, the photos in this article depict the eatery's previous location.

For example, in every Hanoian’s consciousness, cháo sườn is strictly quà chiều, a cozy snack for the afternoon, although guests still come at any time of the day whenever their hearts desire. In some cases, perhaps the restaurant's reputation has built up so well over the years that the turnout is so consistently immense that they simply run out of stock in half a day. Therefore, you always have to put a certain amount of effort into scheduling, almost as if the meal itself is a special occasion.

Waking up late runs the risk of having no fish for your noodle bowl at Anh Mai.

Now, to a person whose concept of hủ tiếu cá was completely foreign until last Sunday, I do not know if this is a dish for which certain temporal rules apply. I have only discovered recently that a hundred ingredients could be combined with the chewy noodles — pork, shrimp, squid, satay, beef meatballs, even bones, and the list goes on including either with-broth or dry variations. However, there was something about a plain and earthy bowl of fish hủ tiếu that piqued my interest. Hủ Tiếu Cá Anh Mai, which served this dish specifically, came highly recommended online.

The Sunday breakfast crowd.

Online reviews specify that the store would close at around 12pm, so I was determined to pick myself out of bed and get there by 10am, hoping it would not be unbearably crowded. Anh Mai is located on Lê Thị Riêng, one of those rare streets in District 1 that is neither riddled with traffic nor high-rise buildings. Every table was filled, but the great thing was that the owners never seemed particularly frazzled during our visit. Like every good restaurant that has been in operation for over ten years, Anh Mai has their regulars. The woman in Table 4, for example, briefly mentioned to the smiling owner how she was running late that morning and did not have the time to drop by earlier. It was a familiar sight: families with small kids, office workers, and teenagers came in and out every 40 minutes or so.

A big portion (VND75,000) gets you a substantial amount of fish fillet.

After a short wait, our order of three hủ tiếu cá with broth and one dry hủ tiếu were served to Table 0 where we sat. With a generous amount of flaky white snakehead meat, garnished with scallion, pickled radish chopped into minuscule speckles, some bean sprouts, and a splash of soy sauce, my hủ tiếu bowl held the piping-hot soup within like a secret. Upon the very first bite, the fish let me know that it was the star of the dish — firm and moderately sweet in a tenderly seasoned broth.

Dry versus broth versions.

I learned from locals that this snakehead’s freshness was almost unparalleled across Saigon. As my chopsticks sank beneath, ample noodle layers were unveiled. The chewy texture of hủ tiếu seemed to take a step back to let other ingredients shine. No sooner had I thought that was the extent of the experience than a jolt of saltiness touched my palate in the most pleasant way imaginable. Was it from the pepper? I am still not quite sure, but the hide-and-seek game of flavor persisted until the last bite.

For your slurping pleasures.

We finished our meal at 11am and nodded our heads in contentment, even with the VND75,000 per person bill. It was simply worth it. As new customers started to flood in, we quickly parted ways so as not to overstay our welcome. Like every good meal, hủ tiếu at Anh Mai requires one to take their time — waiting, enjoying, and collecting themselves from that enjoyment. It's thus a good thing we waited until Sunday instead of going on Friday like the original plan. While there’s more for me to learn about the customs of eating hủ tiếu from Saigoneers, hú tiếu cá is now for me, perpetually, without debate, a Sunday dish.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–11:30am
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0906783242
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab Food

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cá Anh Mai

153 Lê Thị Riêng, Bến Thành Ward, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: The Izakaya Where Happiness Is Wrapped in Pork Belly and Grilled

2026-09-09T10:00:00+07:00

It took a few visits before I noticed that the music at Sakaba Sasuke was always the same.

It was a male Japanese artist, and the songs that consistently drew my attention had twinges of what I could only describe as a 1980s-esque combination of Jon Bon Jovi and Paul Stanley. More than once, I asked the staff if they could tell me what was playing. Exceedingly friendly and polite, they did their best to find out but could only intimate that The Boss was in control, and he was not around.

My nagging curiosity led me to finally ask The Boss myself, whom I suspected was the person on the other end of the Facebook messages I sent to make reservations. Eikichi Yazawa was the musician, he told me, and upon a cursory scan of the internet, his longevity, prominence and style seem to be much more David Bowie than KISS.

While the black noren is instantly recognizable for Star Wars fans, Takamura-san has no particular fondness for the sci-fi franchise and just likes the font.

The izakaya that “cool” builds

The Boss is Shumpei Takamura, and when I had the chance to ask him why Yazawa dominates the speakers at Sasuke, his answer was simply “because it’s cool.” Because it’s just cool would be part of the reason why Sasuke is one of my favorite restaurants. What even is cool can be so easily argued, but for my version of cool — and I’m guessing Takamura-san’s as well — I felt it immediately on my first visit. Before opening Sasuke in 2019, he came to Vietnam a few years prior to launch what he best describes as a “franchise” location of Japanese ramen restaurant Mutahiro, which is mere steps away from the pub. The idea for opening Sasuke was inspired by his actual experience working at a now-closed Sasuke in Tokyo.

Sakaba Sasuke doesn't have the typical decorations of classic izakayas, apart from the noren.

In a city with no shortage of izakayas to choose from, Sasuke doesn’t boldly try to announce its presence or distinguish itself from the pack. With its neutral decor, it doesn’t look the traditional part of rollicking Japanese pub, walls plastered with the written menu and a lantern or two overhead. A visitor exploring the labyrinth of Thái Văn Lung in Japantown might not take much notice of it. If they do make it to the quiet corner of the hẻm where Sasuke is located, they likely will only stop to read Sasuke’s noren, the traditional curtains that grace the entrance way.

After a meal at Sakaba Sasuke, one will eventually learn that there are few things that can't be improved by being wrapped in pork belly and grilled.

For better or for worse, the noren is how some people even know of Sasuke. “Oh, you mean the place with the Star Wars font on the curtains?” someone once asked me. Yes, the place with that (purely coincidental) font, which, in addition to carrying the name, also promotes the izakaya as “The Gather of Monkey Business.” Again, Takamura-san only has a simple reply when asked about the tagline. He said that he just liked the word “monkey,” and was stoically mum on any knowledge of the English phrase and its use to suggest what awaits you when you cross the threshold.

The monkey business is a small place that probably holds no more than 20 in the front room that houses the kitchen, a narrow bench-seated counter, and a few tables. There are more private tables in a back room, but your typical customer wants the monkey business that they first see.

Just pork belly-wrap that up

A portion of niku dofu.

Although the size brings intimacy, the bright lights at Sasuke are for action and attention seeking. Front and center for all to see when they walk in is a large nabe that is constantly simmering with niku dofu, a classic Japanese beef and tofu stew. It is one of Sasuke’s signature menu offerings that inspires both awe and appetite.

Contrasting the giant nabe that holds the stew, an order of niku dofu is a small bowl with a towering display. A block of tofu from the nabe is deftly presented on top of the tender beef; how to make your first move for a chunk is not an easy decision. As a sight to behold, the niku dofu on display is not rare in Japan, but it is here in Vietnam, and that is one of the reasons why Takamura-san wanted it to help shape Sasuke’s identity. Considering the music, noren, and slogan, his instinct was right.

Asparagus, cherry tomato, boiled egg, and even yakisoba swirls are amongst the many things on skewers here.

A specialty of that Sasuke location in Japan was yasai kushimaki, which are skewers of any manner of ingredients that have been rolled in thinly sliced pork belly. Takamura-san ensured they also made it on the menu here in Vietnam, and you’ll see them listed in English as “meat roll ups.” While yakitori gives you an appreciation for just how wonderful every part of a chicken can taste, yasai kushimaki gives you an appreciation for just how much better things taste when glistened with pork fat drippings. It is the most popular menu item for good reasons. Aside from it being an item that’s not easy to find in Saigon and, aside from it being delicious, Sasuke’s kushimaki is an adventure in learning all the unexpected items that can, indeed, be cooked on a skewer.

“While yakitori gives you an appreciation for just how wonderful every part of a chicken can taste, yasai kushimaki gives you an appreciation for just how much better things taste when glistened with pork fat drippings.”

Flavor is no doubt a factor, but rolling a ribbon of pork around something also gives it structure and some protection from the intense heat of the grill. So, how about a yakisoba skewer — a personal favorite of Takamura-san’s? Or spinach and cheese? That latter is a gooey delight, but I prefer the Camembert one for the funk. King oyster mushrooms with butter is another winner, but don’t sleep on the broiled tofu one. It sounds a little plain, but its texture wins your heart.

Pork-wrapped lettuce is a strange but delightful menu item.

Yasai means vegetables, so getting a few of the roll-ups with vegetables is a good idea. But the vegetable one you must get, the coolest one for me, is the lettuce skewer. Yes, lettuce. It is the most popular and most attractive. On one skewer, you will get what looks like four, tightly-packed green ranunculus bulbs. The lettuce petals can’t unfurl because of those porky ribbons that keep them in place. Unlike the other kushimaki, the special lettuce ones are served in a puddle of a dashi-vinegar dressing. The pork fat doesn’t penetrate to the center of the pretty bulbs, so that extra bit of seasoning is an appreciated touch to bring everything together. The pork is crispy, the lettuce isn’t wilted, and the dressing reinforces the salt and gives welcome acidity.

Crispy chicken skin, pork and lettuce stir fry, and chicken dumplings in broth.

The other must-order, the last signature menu item, and the item that first piqued my interest when I saw Sasuke’s food on Instagram before even arriving in Vietnam, is the steamed chicken meatballs called mushi tsukune. Fans of yakitori associate tsukune with oblong chicken meatball skewers often served with a raw egg yolk for dipping. Sasuke’s mushi tsukunes are spherical and maybe the size of a golf ball. One order comes with four meatballs, and each meatball contains minced chicken with combinations of different ingredients to create four distinct flavor profiles. The mushi tsukunes are served on a wooden platform and a small paper legend of the four flavors is set behind. You will be instructed to eat the tsukune balls from left to right.

The chicken balls' fillings change often depending on what Takamura-san gets inspired by.

It sounds like a gimmick, but it functions only as pure fun. The flavors change every week, and the anticipation of a new experience with every visit is endearing. Traditional Japanese ingredients such as seaweed, mentaiko, burdock root, and sesame seeds are common, as are aromatics like chives, ginger, and garlic. But then anything else is game from any vegetable to shellfish to hard-boiled egg to sausage. I’m sure I’ve had the dish almost a dozen times, and while some individual ingredients repeat, I’ve never had the same combo twice.

When asked how he comes up with the weekly ideas, it’s another simple reply — “Instagram.” Any dish or flavor pairing he might see in food photos from restaurants or his friends in Japan could serve as inspiration. Japanese curry is one that he found particularly memorable. Not shockingly, natto was the biggest failure. While the fermented soybeans can be an acquired taste for many, their aroma is not a selling point for anyone. Takamura-san’s fatal miscalculation with his natto tsukune was not realizing that, in the steamer, the other three tsukunes would also emerge with the very distinct eau de natto.

The ins and outs of running an izakaya

From left to right: karaage, shumai, and deep-fried tofu.

The space can be elbow-to-elbow packed with sounds of laughter and friendly banter, and the host turning away those without a booking. It can also be a comfortably quiet hideout, where you’ll get to fully appreciate the Yazawa soundtrack and the back-and-forth calls and responses that servers and kitchen staff make to one another. Weekends are busier, but a Monday can also see a full house. Recently, Sasuke transitioned to opening seven nights a week.

“In a city with no shortage of izakayas to choose from, Sasuke doesn’t boldly try to announce its presence or distinguish itself from the pack. For better or for worse, the noren is how some people even know of Sasuke.”

Takamura-san says that his customer base is roughly two-thirds Japanese, and they are a captive audience that he was able to build from Mutahiro and networking through the community on social media. Offering yasai kushimaki would have been an initial draw, but once Takamura-san’s knowledge and expertise with it became known, interest turned to trust. When working at the Tokyo namesake, he had spent time learning how to make kushimaki in the region of Fukuoka where it’s from.

We're in izakaya heaven.

Takamura-san’s leadership allowed Sasuke to weather the pandemic lockdowns and continue to grow a customer base, but he has struggled like any restaurateur. He has found that many non-Japanese customers have izakaya menu expectations when they visit and question menu absences, with sashimi being the one he hears about the most. He may feel confident in most decisions, knowing that he has loyal customers, knowing that he knows what’s cool, but it’s clear he also knows he is running a business. He has recently made some menu changes, including a few fish skewers, to see what works.

Staffing is probably his biggest constant concern. A challenge with a chef in charge of yakitori and kushimaki is that they cannot taste as they go along. Like a steakhouse grill master who needs to know how to cook a steak medium rare or medium well, touch, sight and experience are what to be relied on in cooking kushimaki. At Sasuke, the chef on the grill has to know the difference between medium or well-done chicken livers and ensure those pretty lettuce rolls are sufficiently warmed through before the pork belly burns. It’s a craft that takes time and patience from both mentor and student, and keeping craftspeople around is not always easy.

Working a yakitori grill is a skill not many cooks can master.

Takamura-san’s team is largely Vietnamese and all seem to speak enough Japanese to get by with him and their primary customers. The main menu is in both those languages as well as English, while the specials are often only in Japanese and English. Pointing has always served me well, and the staff is so affable and friendly that I could probably still find success using my limited Japanese or Vietnamese.

He jokes that as much as the nabe of niku dofu or the drama of the grill’s flames are beloved by customers, it’s the smiling faces of the open kitchen that people like best. I’d agree. Whether it’s trying to find out about the song I can hear or asking for another glass of shochu, grins both shy and wide are always on offer, making the experience one that is as comfortable as it is delicious.

Sakaba Sasuke is open from 17:30 to 23:00.

To sum up

Taste: 6/5
Price: 4/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5
Cool factor: 10/5

Rhianna loves to eat fridge-cold bánh chuối nướng with canned whipped cream, would choose a boule of sourdough and a block of French butter for her death row meal, and often daydreams about going for an ice cream stroll with Larry David.

Sakaba Sasuke

8A/A22 Thái Văn Lung, Bến Nghé Ward, D1, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Where Fish Sauce and Soy Sauce Are Not Condiments, but Gelato Flavors

2026-08-13T14:00:00+07:00

Living in central Saigon as a diehard fan of ice cream and all frozen sweets, I fondly remember the late 2010s–early 2020s as the age of abundance. Back in the day, across downtown, there was always a little something for ice cream fans of all preferences.

Stalwart supporters of the OGs might stick to the long-enduring French-styled Fanny, which settled down in a charming old villa on Tôn Thất Thiệp. Østerberg dished out Nordic clean flavors in a nook on Lê Lai, while Ralf’s Artisan Gelato on Đặng Thị Nhu performed an impressive balancing act between traditional Italian classics and inventive local flavors. My hangouts in District 1 would more often than not end in the same way during this time: at one of these old haunts for a few scoops of sweetness.

Flash forward to 2026, and the downtown gelato map has suffered some major losses: after a few shifts in location, Fanny shuttered for good, while Østerberg relocated to Thảo Điền permanently. Ralf’s also moved to District 2 a few years ago, but is currently on hiatus. With quite a number of new players in the scene, Thảo Điền is now shaping up to be a mecca for ice cream, a development I’m immensely sad about, living so far from where all the action takes place.

Sugar Daddy Eatery has moved a few doors down the hẻm since 2025.

During the years of Saigon’s constantly shifting gelato landscape, my family found comfort in the stability of one trusty hẻm gem — Sugar Daddy Gelato, which has held fast to their quaint location on Trần Hưng Đạo, just a short drive from Bến Thành Market, for half a decade until now. The gelateria is a family business, founded by husband-and-wife pair Danh and Vy, but you’ll also likely come across Danh’s mom helping guests pick their favorite flavors as well.

When I discovered its existence a few years ago, the tiny shop was serving up scoops from a narrow storefront that can fit only a handful of seats, but since 2025, Sugar Daddy Gelato has relocated a few doors down to the renovated family home and expanded to a neat dining area with more seats and ample decoration. The interior is predominantly white and brightly lit, with green and stone accents to break up the monotony.

The bright interior of the place.

Danh is the creative mind behind the eatery’s culinary aspect. And yes, he’s well aware of the name’s scandalous connotation, but he told me that it was only selected after the couple welcomed their firstborn and he became an actual “daddy” to an adorable baby boy. Working with a lot of sugar is an indispensable part of running a gelato business, so the “sugar daddy” in question here follows the term’s most literal meaning. The tongue-in-cheek meaning is a happy coincidence that adds a sprinkle of eyebrow-raising curiosity for new guests.

Danh Phan founded the eatery with his wife, Vy.

Sugar Daddy Gelato came into existence in 2020 during the pandemic, but the pair had their start in the F&B world even earlier. Danh studied hospitality management in Las Vegas, and, upon returning to Saigon, opened his first eatery at Bến Thành Food Market, a canteen-like collective featuring many food carts catering to tourists. The first stall was Got Bun, whose menu featured Taiwanese-style bánh bao with novelty fillings; business went well, so they were able to launch the second stall, Bánh Xèo Em Ơi, and the third, Stir Fry. COVID-19 and the subsequent international flight bans put an end to all that, so they went back to the drawing board again.

Mè the bird with Danh's mom. Mè is usually chilling in the cage, but she took advantage of Saigoneer's visit to supervise the operation.

In May 2020, Danh signed up for a gelato-making course, and three months later, Sugar Daddy Gelato was born, alongside the resurrection of Got Bun, at a small location near his family home. The current iteration combines both the sweetness of Sugar Daddy frozen treats and the savory creations of Got Bun into one menu to satisfy both old regulars from the Food Market days and gelato fans — I firmly belong to the latter.

There are 12 flavors at any moment during opening hours.

At any given moment at Sugar Daddy, there are 12 flavors in the gelato display, and finished ones are replaced by different flavors. When the Saigoneer team visited, we were greeted with avocado, tamarind, pumpkin and coconut, Thai milk tea, Earl Grey milk tea, Heal Your Soul (matcha and butterfly pea), strawberry, tàu hũ gừng, passion fruit and mango, vanilla and Oreo, phở, and bún bò. The latter two, in addition to fish sauce and soy sauce, are the most experimental flavors in Danh’s wheelhouse. They’re not unprecedented, if you’ve spent some time sampling enough ice cream in Vietnam, but I love watching people’s facial expressions when I take them here and introduce these unconventional flavors.

According to Danh, the essence of the noodle dishes is infused into the gelato by cooking the herbs and spices in milk — no meat involved. He went through a wide range of spice mixes available on the market to arrive at the current flavor profile. The phở gelato is gently fragrant, with notes of cinnamon, star anise, and black cardamom; while the bún bò gelato reminds me a lot of the lemongrassy oil atop bún bò broth, and the orange-yellow hue certainly evokes its sparkling shimmer as well.

The Saigoneer team is divided on which is better. I have to side with bún bò.

While not in the display yet, Danh was kind enough to let us try the two condiment-inspired buckets as well. The fish sauce flavor is made of kid’s fish sauce for the reduced sodium and tempered fishiness; with added caramel, the flavor tastes like a silky salted caramel gelato with a touch of umami funk towards the end. And finally, the soy sauce gelato — my personal favorite — is a rich, layered combination of Lee Kum Kee soy sauce and just a touch of miso nuttiness. I’ll have to add that there’s also a miso and burnt butter gelato in the rotation that I’ve only managed to catch once, but it was so good I had to buy a takeaway portion. My mom, who doesn’t consume alcohol, is quite into the orange and beer flavor, for some reasons; it is refreshing, but in a zesty way.

Soufflé pancakes is a new addition to the menu.

While the layperson often uses the terms “ice cream” and “gelato” interchangeably and “gelato” is actually just Italian for “ice cream,” there are some differences in technicality. As Danh shares, gelato has lower air percentages and is made from milk instead of cream; both result in a denser, more viscous mouthfeel compared to the fluffiness of ice cream. Gelato is also often kept at a slightly higher temperature, so it’s best enjoyed quickly.

Whether a certain fruit or local treat shows up in the gelato display mostly depends on the season. In the summer, longan, lychee, and durian are bound to make an appearance. Pink dragonfruit was paired with yogurt or pineapple, while a mangosteen flavor is being workshopped at the moment. According to Danh, trips to the local market in search of seasonal fresh fruits are the way he looks for inspiration on what to turn into gelato next.

Apart from the gelato, Sugar Daddy as an eatery also features savory dishes, some of which are remnants of the Got Bun days like five-spice pork bao — which I can personally vouch for. Other options for snacking include saucy chicken wings and crispy tacos. However, the true star of the new menu is the pillowy soufflé pancakes, which will take a while to arrive at the table, but are really worth the wait. Airy pancake bites are paired with caramelized bananas and cream on top.

Fruit tea and honey kumquat tea

Bò kho tacos

Crème brûlée

The ice cream and gelato scene in Saigon has really flourished in 2025–2026. It seems like every few months I would come across an ad on social media for a brand-new ice cream boutique. While I’ll be gallivanting around town to have my share of exciting new flavors, this Hẻm Gems feature seems like a fitting way to pay tribute to a Saigon staple that has been with me through thick and thin, breakups and first dates, in hopes that it will remain on the map to share the love of gelato to many others.

To sum up:

Opening time: 2pm–10pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 077 864 9404
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Sugar Daddy Eatery

345/29 Trần Hưng Đạo, Cầu Ông Lãnh Ward, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: At Phở Chay Như, a Banquet of Vegetarian Versions of Iconic Viet Dishes

2026-07-30T13:00:00+07:00

A bowl full of noodles is one of the things that make me feel lucky to be alive, and alive in Saigon in particular.

There are a plethora of noodle soups to fall in love with in Vietnam, and Phở Chay Như offers a wide variety, meat excluded.

After discussing featuring Phở Chay Như as a Hẻm Gem, I went back to the restaurant on a quiet afternoon after leaving the Saigoneer office. This was my fourth time going, but somehow I still managed to drive past it. I don't know if this says more about my derpish sensibility or the obscurity of its entrance. Likely a melange of the two.

Phở Chay Như is easy to miss if you drive too fast.

The restaurant is located along Trương Quyền Street, sandwiched between Điện Biên Phủ on one side and Võ Thị Sáu on the other; a quick walk from Lê Văn Tám Park. I entered and took a seat to the left of the owner. He sat, leaned back with arms crossed, watching what sounded like an action movie on a laptop set on one of the establishment's aluminum fold-up tables.

After receiving my bowl of the signature phở, I squeezed in as many limes as I could get my hands on, added a few pieces of red chili, and a healthy portion of basil from the plate of herbs and greens provided. Then, my favorite addition to the soup, a fried wonton, a plate of which is provided for customers to add as they please for a small fee. Because I am exceedingly horny for condiments, I added quite a bit of vegan nước mắm and the lemongrass-heavy sa tế sauce.

There are many vegetarian noodles here, all inspired by normal Vietnamese dishes.

My bowl was now ready to go. The circle of noodles was surrounded by floating mushrooms and rolled bean curd skin, which added a nice touch of umami to the clear broth. The freshness of the basil, the tartness of the lime, the kick of chili and the salty sweetness of the nước mắm were all nice compliments to the earthy flavors. Adding the oily wonton added a delightful touch of gluttony to the otherwise simple offering.

A bowl of phở chay

My one quibble with the dish is that the temperature of the broth wasn't as hot as I would like it to be. If a food is supposed to be served hot, I want it to basically burn my mouth. But, like I said, a quibble.

I returned a couple of days later with some of the Saigoneer crew to try some more dishes. We ordered the cơm tấm, bò kho, mì Quảng, and another bowl of phở. The cơm tấm was quite satisfying. The chewy and oily mock meats sat on a bed of rice and made the perfect bite when covered in the chili-infused nước mắm. The bò kho is a real standout dish. The vegan version of the beef stew is fragrant with a variety of sweet spices, lemongrass and chili.

Mỳ Quảng chay

Bò kho chay

Cơm tấm chay

Along with eating more food, I was able to satisfy a few curiosities on this return with co-workers. I learned that the restaurant has been open for over 40 years and that the staff begins their day at 5am, preparing the food and starting to serve customers at 6am. I was also curious about the presence of beer, as most chay places do not serve alcohol. The question as to why Phở Chay Như's refrigerator is stocked with Tigers and Heineken was answered mainly with laughter. In addition to the beer, the fact that the restaurant stays open until 9pm makes it a good option for those looking for both a good late-night meal and a few beers.

The kitchen has a common vegetable stock, and whenever a bò kho or mì Quảng is ordered, the cook will mix in the appropriate sauce to add flavor to the common broth.

Phở Chay Như has what made me so obsessed with Vietnam to begin with: delicious vegetarian food delivered in a laid-back atmosphere that manages to delight with little details that stick in my consciousness more subtly than the flavors that linger on my palate.

This article was originally published in 2020.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–8pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: N/A
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

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

Phở Chay Như

54 Trương Quyền, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: An Alternative Cơm Tấm From Long Xuyên for Thịt Kho Trứng Fans

2026-07-13T09:00:00+07:00

When it comes to cơm tấm, most people are familiar with cơm tấm Sài Gòn, featuring grilled pork ribs as the vedette topping. But since the dish’s creation, and as it gained popularity across the Mekong delta and southern Vietnam, another cơm tấm variant emerged alongside cơm tấm Sài Gòn. This version became so cherished by the locals that it was named after its birthplace — cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

I recently tried this dish for the first time at Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh. I arrived with the expectation to have the usual cơm tấm Sài Gòn, but I saw the Long Xuyên-style listed on the menu, and curiosity got the best of me.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is hidden in a nondescript hẻm in District 3.

The shop is nestled in an alley that links Kỳ Đồng Street with the road along the Nhiêu Lộc Canal. It’s a modest spot with an open house where food is prepared and ordered, while customers sit across the house in the front yard of another neighbor that serves as both a parking area and a dining space. There’s another branch in Gò Vấp District, but I chose this location because it’s closest to my house and workplace.

To place an order, one must weave through a sea of delivery staff from food-hailing apps.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is run by a family from southwestern Vietnam. They started as a snack shop more than 10 years ago but only began serving many types of cơm tấm in 2021. Their signature dish is cơm tấm Long Xuyên, a culinary highlight of their hometown, but they also offer the more common Saigon-style cơm tấm with toppings like chicken or tender ribs.

For a cơm tấm place that’s only three years old, Tị Quỳnh is surprisingly busy during the lunch hours. But after ordering a portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên, I was fortunate enough to find a seat. About 5–10 minutes later, my dish was ready.

The standard portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên has rice, pickles, fish sauce, thinly sliced braised pork belly and eggs.

The most noticeable difference between Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm and the Saigon version is the topping. Instead of grilled pork, it features caramelized pork and eggs, both sliced into thin strips, with a drizzle of braised sauce to enhance the flavors. Upon tasting, the main topping offers a delightful mix of textures. The yolk of the boiled egg provides a creamy mouthfeel, the pork strips contain both tender lean cuts and crispy, chewy fatty cuts.

If one is looking for something more substantial, pork chops and ốp la are great add-ons.

Another unique feature of cơm tấm Long Xuyên that one can observe from eating the dish is the rice. Known as “cơm tấm nhuyễn,” it is a type of broken rice with smaller grains and a firmer texture compared to Saigon’s common broken rice. To get this cơm tấm nhuyễn, the shop has to source it from Long Xuyên. When served fresh and hot, the grains give off a gentle, comforting aroma. With each spoonful, I can feel the fluffiness of the grain.

Essential elements of cơm tấm.

Sweet fish sauce is the element that ties everything together and can make or break any cơm tấm dish. Long Xuyên’s style fish sauce is also quite distinctive, thanks to its thicker, more pronounced sweetness. After all, Long Xuyên is located in Miền Tây, where sweetness is a hallmark of the region's culinary identity. Pouring the fish sauce onto the toppings ensures that each serving is filled with rich, inviting flavors.

A lunch for champions.

Upon finishing the dish, what fascinates me about cơm tấm Long Xuyên is the culmination of contrasting aspects. On one hand, the thick sweet fish sauce, and the light, delicate grains of cơm tấm nhuyễn guide me into the essence of a local delicacy from a faraway region. On the other hand, the main topping is caramelized pork and eggs, a renowned dish that evokes memories of family meals. Almost every Lunar New Year, my mom prepares a big batch of caramelized pork and eggs to ensure we have enough food stocked up throughout the holidays. It gives me a homey feeling, even though I’m savoring cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

In conclusion, Tị Quỳnh offered me a savory introduction to a southwestern specialty, Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm. A dish that truly reflects the palates of its homeland. When tasting a regional dish like this, there are elements that are new and different from what I'm used to, yet there are also elements that remind me that, no matter where we come from, there are things that still bind us all together.

This article was originally published in 2024.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–2pm; 4pm–9pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0962359528
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh

19E Kỳ Đồng, Ward 9, D3, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: CCCP Anchors Fond Memories of Soviet Cuisine for Saigoneers, Young and Old

2026-06-28T09:00:00+07:00

My earliest memories of breakfast are of Omachi beef-flavored instant noodles cooked with tomatoes and ground pork. On days where noodles sounded uninspiring, my mom would offer me the same plate as my dad: rye bread, butter, and Russian caviar. Eager to follow in his footsteps, I welcomed this addition to my breakfast menu, eventually replacing my beloved noodles.

When I was young, rye bread with butter and caviar existed in my universe simply as my dad’s breakfast. It was not Soviet or Russian, because I had no concept of Eastern Europe, and it could not be Vietnamese because it was never available at local eateries. It had no nationality; it came from nowhere in particular except my fridge. Only much later did I encounter it again as a Soviet Russian item, and began indulging in it after breakfast hours at CCCP Saigon, this week's Hẻm Gems. Here, at perhaps the most well-known Soviet restaurant in Saigon, my family and I eat our way back to my dad’s cherished college years.

The cozy wallpaper and interior at CCCP

Soviet cuisine in the 1970s in the eyes of a young Vietnamese student

From 1974 to 1979, my dad studied fluid mechanics at State University Moscow, also lovingly referred to as MGU by its Vietnamese alumni. At 18 years old, his academic achievements earned him a 12-day journey by train, taking him outside of Vietnam for the very first time. Within the boundaries of the school cafeteria, my dad quickly familiarized himself with Soviet cuisine. Albeit limited by cafeteria dining standards, he remembers this culinary experience as utterly wholesome.

My first taste of the same flavors at CCCP was much more glamorous and comfortable. Wooden dining sets, made up of large tables and matching picnic benches on wheels; red-and-white checkered curtains, under which colorful lacquer tea trays and Nevalyashka dolls peek out; floral wallpapers and mismatched tablecloths: I imagine one would find the same rustic charm in the house of someone’s grandmother in a former Soviet country. But I wouldn’t know what the interior of a Soviet home looks like, and neither does my dad. As a poor Vietnamese student living abroad during an impoverished time, he focused solely on his education, and it never took him inside any Moscow restaurants or homes. CCCP allows my dad and I to envision the place that he once called home as we eat.

My dad (left) and his roommate (right) in Moscow in 1974.

My discovery of Soviet food was an intense love at first bite. Taking after my dad, I ate a lot, quickly, and grew devoted to dishes I had gone most of my life without. Like him, I did not find Soviet flavors foreign at all. I asked if it took him long to adjust to Soviet cuisine; surely, I assume, he had struggled to repress his longing for Vietnamese flavors and fell in love with Soviet food in the long and difficult process. Yet, his practical answer humbled my sentimental expectation: during his five years eating Soviet cafeteria food, my dad never missed Vietnamese food.

The nevalyashka (Russian roly-poly doll) was once a staple in Vietnamese households.

“I hardly thought about the food back home [Vietnam],” he explained. “I was happy that there was food here [Soviet Russia]. Rich, hearty, fatty food. I had never seen such richness before. Back then, there was nothing to eat at home, so there was not much to miss. In the student-designated cafeteria, which was different from and cheaper than the one reserved for faculty and staff, there was always lots of butter, soups, and bread.”

Saigon's corner for Soviet nostalgia

The counter features many Soviet souvenirs.

CCCP’s extensive menu retains that same abundance that my dad so fondly recalls. I firmly believe that every CCCP meal should start with rye bread, mustard, optional Russian butter, raw garlic, salo (cured pork fat), and dill. All should be assembled in this order into one glorious bite. I must admit to feeling adventurous when trying it for the first time, but my dad’s first encounter with salo is far more interesting. In 1974, his Russian college roommate returned to campus with a large bone-in ham that he brought from home. He left it outside of the dorm to harden in the snow; with ease, he sliced into the solidified pork fat and offered it to my dad.

“I hardly thought about the food back home [Vietnam]. I was happy that there was food here [Soviet Russia]. Rich, hearty, fatty food. I had never seen such richness before. Back then, there was nothing to eat at home, so there was not much to miss.”

Once your palette has been shocked, then wooed, by this combination, it is ready for the mixed salted fish platter. The beet-cured salmon and smoked mackerel, with an extra side of pickles, are my personal favorites. Conversely, the juicy lamb and pork shashlyk platter is worth the 45 minute wait, which the staff always warns you about.

Rye bread and salted pork fat are a great way to start a meal.

One of my dad’s favorite Soviet dishes is on the menu: kotleta, which involves breaded and fried ground pork patties served with potatoes. The MGU student cafeteria deserves credit for adding such a hearty dish to his otherwise meagre diet. He explains: “If the dishes at the cafeteria did contain meat, which was already a luxury, it was mixed with a lot of starch, which acted as a filler in otherwise measly student meals.” Back then, he enjoyed the cafeteria kotleta and shashlyk primarily for their nutritious value.

Against all expectations, my dad has no sentimental attachment to the restaurant. Unlike him, I have grown emotionally attached to CCCP, where I taste pieces of my childhood, experience bits of my dad’s youth, and inherit his Soviet eating practices. This inheritance leaves me with an imagined sense of nostalgia for something I hardly know.

Mix bread basket

Salo (salted pork fat)

Olivier salad

Such nostalgia, however faint in my dad’s case, was brought to Saigon by Nguyễn Duy Thành, the manager and co-owner of CCCP Saigon. After living, studying, and working in Russia for eight years, Thành developed a desire to introduce a new culinary culture to Vietnam, Soviet cuisine. To help Vietnamese diners understand the food of a country that no longer exists on the world map, CCCP relies on the recipes of Ukrainian Chef Svetlana Nguyen. Svetlana, Thành’s mother-in-law, created CCCP’s first dishes.

Cured fish platter

Shashlyk platter

Smetana with berry jam

Striving to preserve and share Soviet culinary traditions, Thành and his wife Suzanna brought Svetlana’s recipes to Saigon. He recalls: “In the early days, my wife and I were the ones directly in charge of the kitchen and training the staff,” most of whom “had never been to Russia, nor had they been exposed to Soviet culture or cuisine.” Despite the cultural distance between local chefs and the menu, CCCP quickly became “a space where those who studied, worked, or have memories of the Soviet Union could rediscover familiar emotions.”

CCCP’s drink menu also covers all the Soviet classics: kvass, a lightly fermented drink; kompot, which is basically non-alcoholic fruit punch; Russian imported beer; and of course, vodka. Though the eatery's titillating appetizers and hearty entrees make for a satisfying meal, their desserts truly take the cake. The medovik, napoleon, and smetana have never been excluded from our CCCP table. Some 50 years ago, my dad had his first smetana, a thick fermented cream served with hard sugar cubes to be crunched on between every spoonful. Today, I indulge in my smetana with much more ease. When pork fat on butter just doesn't feel decadent enough, topping my creamy slice of napoleon with even creamier smetana is the only remedy.

A flavor to crave, in sickness and in health

While studying and living in Montreal, I spent many winter nights bedridden with a gruesome cold. When I could not bring myself to cook, and the snow, cold and hail ruled out picking up food, I searched for borscht on UberEats in vain. Inevitably, I wondered what my dad did to combat moments of illness all alone, through the unsympathetic Moscow winters. I wondered how much colder his winters must have been compared to mine as I scroll through Uber offers. I have only ever had borscht from CCCP: more than any other dish, borscht brings me back to the restaurant in Saigon, and makes me dream of CCCP even in Montreal.

The borscht at CCCP

It is admittedly strange for a Vietnamese girl to crave borscht of all soups when sick — had I no faith that a bowl of phở or bún bò Huế would heal me? But I have my reasons. I needed something rich in fiber without sacrificing starch and protein, a soup that I could consume with no more than one utensil, directly from my bed; any Vietnamese noodle soup would force me to use both chopsticks and a spoon. I needed something red, because it reminded me of tomatoes, which my mom threw into the noodles of my childhood for additional vitamins. Most importantly, I desperately needed to be soothed by that familiar and comforting feeling that I associate with eating borscht at CCCP with my family.

A meal at CCCP is best enjoyed in a group to share and experience more dishes.

Alas, there was no borscht in Montreal, so I settled for a miserable night’s sleep until the craving, and eventually, the cold, was gone. My yearning for a piece of Soviet tastiness was a surprising sentiment in contrast to my dad's immunity to cravings and nostalgia for CCCP. He laughs at my disbelief: “Simply because there are so many restaurants now, and I could easily eat at any of them.” In his day, scarcity made any food worth craving, let alone decadent and nutritious Soviet food. Now, he has both means and options, neither of which he had before. Today, he simply enjoys — rather than craves — meals that he shares with us at CCCP Saigon. However happy I am for his expanded access to cuisine, I am happier still that we do not share the same perspective on CCCP. As we both continue to relish CCCP’s food, I know that I will simultaneously be craving it.

To sum up:

Opening time: 10:30am–9:30p,
Parking: Cars and motorbikes
Contact: 0338 068 688
Average cost per person: $$ (around VND300,000)
Payment: All forms accepted
Delivery App: Not on apps but can be ordered via Facebook messenger and Zalo

CCCP Saigon

48A Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Om Momo Brings Stories, Tasty Dumplings From Tibet to Saigon

2026-06-14T10:00:00+07:00

Though I’ve known about momos for quite some time, it was only recently when I first visited Om Momo — a cozy little Tibetan restaurant tucked deep inside a dark nook in Thảo Điền — that I finally tried momos. Inside, one finds a world with a life of its own: at its center stands a mysterious figure, thinly veiled by a cylindrical sheath of turquoise; hung on the walls are vibrantly colored photographs and artworks; and between them sit tables of diners who gaze and converse around salt-rock lamps that warmly illuminate the room.

For those unfamiliar with the dish, the momo is a Tibetan dumpling, distinct from other dumplings in a few key ways. Importantly, the dough is thicker and thus chewier, and its meaty filling is considerably minimalist — which Om Momo’s owner Tsering Tashi Gyalthang attributes to the lack of abundance of ingredients in the mountains of Tibet. At Om Momo, one can choose between a filling of lamb, beef, or chicken, though they also serve a delicious vegetarian spinach and cheese momo. As Tsering puts it, the taste of momos are “pure” in that they emphasize and foreground the natural flavors of its ingredients.

Tsering (left) opened Om Momo in a secluded corner of a residential compound in Thảo Điền.

From producing videos to momos

The journey that brought Tsering — a man who seemingly embodies a combination of charisma and soft gentleness — to open Om Momo is a strange and fascinating one. Ever since arriving in Vietnam as a young man in the early 2000s, Tsering has worked as a filmmaker and director, mostly on boutique commercial films and advertising, though from time to time, also on artistic and documentary films. His career as an ad director took a turn two years ago, however, when he hosted some of his Tibetan friends to work on a film in the Mekong Delta as part of State of Statelessness, an anthology film exploring the Tibetan experience of statelessness that has now screened in prestigious film festivals across the world.

Prayer flags above the al fresco area at Om Momo.

During their visit, he and his friends frequently made and shared food together, including, above all, momos — as Tsering explains, momos are a dish that is communal by nature due to the incredible amount of work that goes into each stage of making them. Such an experience was not anything new, as he was used to frequently hosting Tibetans passing by the city as Tibet’s “unofficial ambassador” to Vietnam, as he jokingly calls himself. Yet, this time, the communal experience of making and sharing momos left him craving for more. “All these years making advertisements as a director, it was never mine, no matter how beautiful I made it,” he recalled reflecting afterwards. “I was feeling at the time I wanted to do something very human. I wanted to do something by hand, something I could hold.” He decided that, whatever happens, he wanted his next project to be related to food.

Mastering how to make dumplings was the owner's personal project in 2024.

The following year in 2024, he thus embarked on a project to devote the year to learning just one thing: making the perfect dumpling. He first went back to his hometown to learn from his friends and mom, frequenting old favorite places to get inspiration. When he returned to Saigon with the new knowledge and insights he gained, he started making dumplings at home every day. With the oversupply of dumplings, he offered his cooking to his friends, who tasted all versions, beginning with what Tsering describes as “really terrible” first trials all the way to the momos that one can now find at Om Momo.

The cozy interior of the restaurant.

Though his friends frequently floated the idea of selling his dumplings, Tsering had always been resistant to it. “I was still very uncomfortable about selling,” he explained. “I've been an artist my whole life… and as artists, we always have a kind of shyness about selling our work.” Yet, by the end of his year of making momos, Tsering felt like he was not only more patient, but also braver to tackle new things than ever before.

Thus, when his neighbor who ran a cafe asked if he wanted to take over their spot, he surprisingly said yes. “If somebody had asked me this a year before, I would have said hell no. But because of a year of meditating while making momos, I thought: Why not? Let’s do it. I called up Anto, my best friend back home, to come right away to give me a hand. And that’s how we started.”

A home in Saigon for momos and other Tibetan treats

The striking grace and beauty of Om Momo’s momos are perhaps a testament to the incredible amount of time and effort that Tsering put into mastering their form and taste. Traditionally, momos are had plain, often dipped into a fermented Tibetan chili sauce. Om Momo offers three different house-made condiments at three different levels of spice, all delicious with their own unique flavor profiles, the spiciest bringing with it quite the punch and tingle.

Guess which one of these chili sauces is the spiciest.

But though Om Momo offers momos plain, they also serve momos on a bed of Indian-style curry sauce with an assortment of spices — each type of momo paired with a different type of sauce. As Tsering explains, momos have become quite popular in India, where it is often served along Indian-spiced sauces as street food. Following the 1959 Tibetan Uprising, tens of thousands of Tibetans, including the 14^th Dalai Lama, fled Tibet to seek refuge in India, a country which has since become home to the largest community of Tibetan exiles. Thus, for Tsering, served this way, the dish serves as an homage to India, where he too grew up as a Tibetan refugee in the country’s Northern outskirts.

It is perhaps hard to think of a bite more perfect than a beautifully folded dumpling: a culinary Trojan horse that brings with it a burst of flavor that floods the mouth. Smothered in sauce, the momos become doubly explosive. Much as one reaches for bread to soak up a good sauce, the momo’s chewy dough works wonderfully to accompany the rich gravy and savory filling. I find that there is something extremely satisfying about eating each momo in a single, albeit not so easy to fit, bite, so as to experience its gush of flavor in a single mouthful.

Beef momo

Spinach and cheese momo in green sauce

Chicken momo in yellow sauce

Aside from the specialty momos, the restaurant serves other Tibetan dishes as well. Shapta is a stir-fry dish served with tender beef or chicken with bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes — quite spicy, though its spice works well with the tingmo served on the side, a fluffy Tibetan steamed bun. Other dishes include chicken shamdey, a chicken and potato stew served with rice that Tsering describes as Tibetan comfort food, and kewa datshi, soft potatoes in a rich chili and cheese sauce.

Tibetan bread

Chicken shamdey

Beef shapta

Om Momo’s desserts are also worth trying. Interestingly, Tsering explains that Om Momo’s desserts are inspired by and dedicated to people in this world for whom he cares deeply. The pear poached in red wine and spices atop of the pulp of house-made Tibetan rice wine — the shape of which resembles a lama sitting in meditation — is named the “Drunken Lama,” dedicated to the Bhutanese lama and filmmaker Dzongsar Khyentse Riponche. The chocolate lava cake is dedicated to Tsering’s daughter, who loves chocolate, and the Tibetan rose panna cotta was made to satiate his girlfriend’s seemingly insatiable love for panna cotta.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s belief that “food is storytelling.”

After our meal, the Saigoneer team also tried Tibetan butter tea: a kind of fermented black tea mixed with a spoonful of butter. Almost every aspect of the tea comes as a surprise. Firstly, the tea is served in what is best described as a wooden bowl, huge in contrast to what one normally expects of a “cup” of tea. But perhaps what is more surprising is that the tea is salty — and as a result, the tea tastes somewhat like melted, salty hot ice cream. The mix of tea, salt, and butter, Tsering explains, offers Tibetans the boost they need to power through the day. While the butter used at Om Momo is cow butter, traditionally, the tea is made with yak butter, the taste of which Tsering describes as “rancid,” a word which admittedly piqued my curiosity. While butter tea may not be for everyone — myself included, somewhat shamefully — it is worth trying at least once for the experience alone.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s impassioned belief that “food is storytelling.” This manifests in the way that the dishes at Om Momo are carefully crafted as embodiments and expressions of certain stories from Tsering’s own life. But more broadly, Tsering views Om Momo as a storytelling project also in that, through it, he hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might in turn set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet: its history, culture, and people, about whom many people in Saigon know nothing about. “For many people, our food is their first introduction to Tibet,” Tsering explains. “The goal is for everything — the art, the music, the food — to make people curious.”

He hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might, in turn, set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet.

To sum up:

Opening time: 12pm–9:30 weekdays, 11:30am–10pm weekends
Parking: Cars and motorbikes
Contact: 0918 699 697
Average cost per person: $$ (around VND200,000 VND)
Payment: All forms accepted
Delivery App: N/A

Om Momo

11/2 Street No. 57, An Khánh, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Indonesia's Ayam Penyet Is a Smashing Celebration of Spices

2026-05-25T10:00:00+07:00

The most straightforward definition by which to explain ayam penyet to the Vietnamese layperson is perhaps “cơm gà Indo.” It’s technically not wrong: the dish has rice and chicken, and originates from Indonesia. But once you've actually sunk your teeth into this special fried chicken, the translation seems unfairly reductive because ayam penyet is so much better than the sum of its parts.

Editor's note: As of March 2024, Ayam Penyet Vindo has moved to 24 Điện Biên Phủ. The interior depicted in the review features the previous location.

You can’t go 500 meters in Saigon without bumping into cơm gà. Combining the cheapest carbohydrate and the cheapest meat, permutations of chicken rice are available to people of all ages, financial situations, and walks of life. With just VND50,000 or less, Saigoneers can wolf down a portion of Hainanese-style chicken rice or crispy cơm gà xối mỡ just around the corner from their natural habitat. This poultry love is not limited to Saigon, as many other Vietnamese localities have concocted their own versions as well, such as cơm gà Hội An, Phú Yên, Nha Trang, and Phan Rang, among others.

Ayam Penyet Vindo's light box.

As a cơm gà hobbyist, I find great pleasure in its level of ubiquity, but for home cooks aspiring to break into the commercial scene with their own creations, this means there are many chickens in the market to compete against. The owner duo behind Ayam Penyet Vindo, Lizam and Ricoh, find the popularity of cơm gà in Vietnam both an opportunity and a challenge to overcome — how to convince local customers’ taste buds that ayam penyet is not just typical rice with fried chicken.

Originating from Java, ayam penyet is nothing fancy, though its accessibility means there are thousands of versions out there. “Ayam” means “chicken” and “penyet” is Javanese for “smashed.” After being fried, the chicken leg is pounded to break up the meat. Some theorize that the action is to make it easy to eat ayam penyet by hand, but Ricoh tells me that it’s to release the moisture so that once sambal is applied on top, the meat will absorb the sauce, becoming more flavorful.

According to Singaporean food blogger Tony Boey, this now-commonplace dish had its beginning in sambal tempe penyet from the East Javan city Surabaya where tempeh — fermented whole soybeans pressed into blocks — is fried and pressed into a plate of sambal. This is a favorite meal of Pak Wardoyo, the son of Puspo Wardoyo, the founder of Ayam Bakar Wong Solo restaurant chain, so he added it to their menu, and later Pak incorporated fried chicken to form a new dish called “ayam penyet” in 1992. The smashed chicken gradually grew in fame, spreading to the rest of the country, and even to nearby neighbors like Malaysia, Singapore, and now Vietnam.

From house party to restaurant

Having sampled some particularly memorable ayam penyet versions in Singapore, I often find myself daydreaming about sambal chicken and airy fried batter flakes. A spontaneous Google query during the lockdown in 2021 brought up Ayam Penyet Vindo, a casual upstart promising authentic fried chicken from their home base on Cống Quỳnh Street, which has since shuttered as the Vindo duo ventured outside the alley onto the streets of downtown District 1. As you make a turn from Điện Biên Phủ into Mạc Đĩnh Chi, it’s impossible to miss the bold red-and-yellow sign of Vindo. The restaurant’s dining area is sparse, with a small entrance furnished with a few table sets, and a cozy air-conditioned corner upstairs.

Vindo is open from 10am to 10pm.

Vindo is run by Lizam, a Malaysian, and Ricoh, an Indonesian, who had been close friends for years before they decided to dip their toes into the F&B world. Lizam, with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm demeanor, represents the cautious, measured half of the pair, while bespectacled Ricoh fills in the rest with an adventurous streak and knowledge of Indonesian cuisine.

Back in Malaysia, the two met in 2014 while working for the same rubber company: Lizam in marketing and Ricoh in a technical role, a dynamic that they said carried over into the restaurant’s genesis. The friends moved to Vietnam in 2016 and 2017, following a call for a foreign partnership from a Vietnamese rubber company. Working together in Vietnam, they once shared an apartment and sometimes would cook dishes from home; this was the setting for the first spark leading to Vindo. Being an Indonesian restaurant, Vindo’s original chicken recipe naturally came from Ricoh, though once they realized that this flavorsome chicken was something special, they worked together to perfect it into an easy-to-follow recipe for the kitchen staff.

Lizam and Ricoh, the owners, came to Vietnam in 2017 and 2016, respectively.

“One day, in the evening, I fried chicken, then he [Lizam] said he loved it so much. Then I suggested ‘how about we make ayam penyet?’” Ricoh recalls. He would make ayam penyet again for a Malaysian buddy, and slowly the tasty fried chicken gained a reputation among their Malaysian and Indonesian friends in Saigon. “They love the chicken so much, so people would call and say ‘Please come to my house and eat chicken together.’ They ask me to cook the chicken. I said ‘Oh my god, I cannot cook for you every day.’”

We pooled the money, got the place, and rented it. Do first, worry later.

Nonetheless, getting from “this is some delicious chicken, we should sell it” to opening an actual business is not a simple A-to-B journey. “We didn’t agree [on the decision to open the restaurant]. We spent a month or two playing devil’s advocate. He was ‘pro,’ I was ‘con,’” Lizam explains. “After a while, Ricoh said ‘let’s just rent a place and do it.’ So we pooled the money, got the place, and rented it. Do first, worry later.” It took them about a month to test the whole dish together to reach a final product that can appeal to most Saigoneers, meaning trying to temper the heat in the sambal so as not to blow people’s heads off with Indonesia-level spiciness.

A chicken by any other name

Clockwise: ayam panggang, ayam penyet, ayam kremes, gado-gado, and nasi goreng in the middle.

At Vindo, the menu is decidedly straightforward: the main attraction is chicken leg quarters done in various ways. The headliner, of course, is ayam penyet, a fried chicken leg gently smashed and slathered in a coat of bright, pungent sambal. Ayam panggang instead subjects the leg to open flame in a grill while rendang ayam is chicken that has been braised for hours in coconut milk and a host of aromatics. If one is tired of poultry, there’s also fried rice in the form of nasi goreng, and a sweet peanut salad in the form of gado-gado, both officially recognized as Indonesian national dishes. Each chicken plate arrives with rice, fried tofu, tempeh, and a dollop of sambal.

Nasi goreng.

Gado-gado.

Differentiating their fried chicken from the corner cơm gà in the eyes of eaters is a continuous concern for the pair, though, if the addition of sambal and native accouterments like tempeh is not enough to do that, the flavor of the chicken leg would surely suffice. Having been parboiled with spices before being fried, the chicken absorbs much of its surroundings to stand on its own, but the sambal topping really equips it with a powerful punch. Notes of galangal, turmeric, chili, and garlic seep into every bite, cutting the oily side of the frying. We enjoy the sambal so much that we have to order an extra bowl to smear on everything.

The flavorful chicken is enveloped in a layer of sambal.

A slice of tempeh.

According to Ricoh, every day he has to make three batches of fresh sambal, each with a different level of heat. If this was Indonesia, we likely would need just one — at the hottest level — but alas the sweet tooth of Saigoneers necessitates palatal coddling. I am guilty as charged, and I enjoy dipping my chicken into the Level 1 sambal a lot.

Vindo’s ayam penyet is just as delectable as my memory serves, but admittedly, it’s just No. 2 in my ranking of dishes here: the first position belongs to their rendang ayam. It’s a festive treat whose main method of imbuing flavors into the meat is by cooking it for hours and hours, as Lizam aptly puts in my favorite description of anything we sampled during our visit: “Rendang is like ‘Danggg, you don’t have rendang?’” Its existence is so natural in any self-proclaimed Indonesian eatery that people will bemoan its lack thereof. With every slight maneuver of my cutlery, the meat falls off the bone, deeply infused with a coconut-rich sauce that prompts me to demolish the entire portion of rice as quickly as it arrives.

Ayam kremes.

Ayam panggang.

There used to be a time when Vindo’s following was made up of nearly all Malaysians and Indonesians, but now, they tend to book takeaway orders rather than make time to dine in. On weekends, Indonesian households living in suburban Saigon or nearby localities visit the restaurant as a stop during a family outing, but during the weekday lunch rush, Vindo’s tables host groups of Japanese office workers, curious passersby, and even gaggles of young Vietnamese eager to sample new, exciting food.

“We are a halal restaurant. People always think halal is ‘no pork,’ but it’s actually much bigger than that, it’s about the cleanliness, method of preparation, and the animals being used. We want to portray that it’s not just for Muslims,” Lizam says. “When you put in effort, when the food is good, the people are happy. The love is there.”

To sum up:

Opening time: 10am–10pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: +84 366 891 668
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab

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

Ayam Penyet Vindo

24 Điện Biên Phủ, Tân Định, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: Go Back in Time to Chợ Cũ's Golden Days via Cô Chánh's Hủ Tiếu Mì

2026-05-11T17:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh

69 Tôn Thất Đạm, Bến Nghé Ward, D1, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: At Sara Ethiopian Restaurant, a Chicken Stew for the Soul

2026-04-28T08:00:00+07:00

Before the existence of Sara Ethiopian Restaurant in Saigon, my knowledge about the African country could fit squarely in a child’s palm: its capital, Addis Ababa; the tragic Ethiopian Airlines crash in March; and its national dish, injera.

Editor's note (April 2026): Sara Ethiopian has returned after a few years of hiatus and has moved to Thủ Thiêm. Check out their updated address at the end of the article. This review features the restaurant's original location in Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward in 2019.

Look, I’m not proud of it. Living in Asia doesn’t do wonders for one's immersion in African culture and cuisine, even to someone who sees eating as a sacred hobby, like me. My past experiences with African food, however, have always been stellar. A lady living in the suburban reaches of Gò Vấp District cooks the most divine Nigerian dishes out of her own home. These include fragrant batches of jollof, a golden rice dish that packs in tomatoes, cayenne pepper, curry powder and thyme. Still, jollof is a mainstay in West Africa, at least three countries away from the Horn of Africa along the eastern coast of the continent, where Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia huddle.

I am a firm believer in character development, so after an eye-opening meal at Sara Ethiopian, I set out to wallow obsessively in Wikipedia articles. Ethiopia is currently the most populous landlocked country in the world, though what it lacks in seafood, it more than makes up for with a range of diverse stews and vegetable-based fare, a fact that’s well-represented in Sara’s menu.

Berhanu Demissie opened the restaurant with his wife, Sara Alamerew.

When I arrived for my second visit, the restaurant's general manager, Berhanu Demissie, was casually sweeping the shopfront. Sara Ethiopian is in the basement of a tube house down an alley on Đỗ Quang Đẩu Street. Its front dining area is outfitted with a verdant plastic lawn, and the walls are embellished with a mosaic of food photography, including bowls of hearty stew and platters of salad. Demissie and his wife, Sara Alamerew, officially opened the eatery in Saigon just a month ago after more than two years in Cambodia.

Sara Ethiopian’s Phnom Penh counterpart is already a household name among the expat community there, as well as visiting tourists, thanks to its close proximity to the National Museum of Cambodia. According to Alamerew, opening a restaurant in Asia wasn’t her original plan. A friend of the couple was teaching English in Cambodia a few years ago. “He told us: ‘Why don’t you open a restaurant here, you have the experience’," Alamerew said. “Then I said. ‘okay, why not?'”

They didn’t expect the Phnom Penh joint to blow up like it did, but the success was enough to entertain requests to branch out to Saigon. Even in Cambodia, their patrons included many visitors from Vietnam, who insisted that the husband and wife pair grace Vietnam with their culinary expertise. Requests were made by everyone from travel enthusiasts to the big names at the Ethiopian Embassy in Hanoi, who were stoked to learn of the opening of Sara in Saigon. “They took a lot of injera, even the dry ones, to Hanoi,” Demissie proudly claimed. “Now they’re very happy we’re in Hồ Chí Minh [City].”

Sara Alamerew once owned a successful eatery in Addis Ababa, the Ethiopian capital.

Injera is the country’s national dish, a steamed flatbread whose humble appearance might lead the uninitiated to underestimate it, but it bears a unique taste and texture that’s impossible to forget. The most traditional version of the bread is made entirely from teff powder and water. Native to the Horn of Africa, teff is an ancient grain that’s even smaller than sesame seeds but packs ample micronutrients and fiber. Ground into a powder, teff is used as the main or partial ingredient to make injera batter, which undergoes three days of fermentation to give the bread a tangy, sourdough-like flavor and a spongy texture that’s reminiscent of Vietnamese bánh bò, a dessert also made fluffy by yeast.

It is this unique airiness that enables injera to soak up the array of sauces in Ethiopian cuisine. At Sara’s, injera is made fresh by order and served in rolls neatly arranged in a basket. When needed, tear away a small portion and use it to pinch bits of the stew and sauces to put in your mouth. For Ethiopian food novices, you can’t go wrong with the meat veggie combo — including doro wot, a chicken stew; minchet abish, a spiced beef stew; marinated beef; and accompanying vegetables (see the top photo).

A portion of doro wot with a basket full of injera rolls.

Describing doro wot as a stew is unjustly simplistic, but the complexity of the concoction is hard to transcribe in words. A portion of doro wot comes with a hard-boiled egg and chicken meat, drenched in a mahogany gravy. “That one [doro wot] is a little difficult to make,” Alamerew warned me. “Red onions, a lot of red onion.” Early in the morning every day, she wakes up, chops up the onions and sweats them down on low heat. “You do it for a long time, you have to do it with fire,” she said. Once the onions are sweated down, she sautées them with a mixture of spices and Ethiopian clarified butter. It’s also crucial to remove every bit of fat from the chicken, “even from the inside” because, according to her, the stew will spoil if the fat gets into the sauce.

Shiro wot, a chickpea stew, is also the pride of Sara Ethiopian. The velvety soup coats your tongue with a nuttiness and umami flavor so inviting it practically commandeers your hands to never stop dipping. Of course, one can request steamed rice to go with the soups, but “injera is our daily life. This is what we eat all the time,” Demissie said. He emphasized its casual presence in their cuisine, in comparison with doro wot, which is a “special occasion” feast for important days like New Year or Christmas.

Tibs, a stir-fry dish with beef.

At one point during our conversation, Alamerew excused herself and came back with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. The tall black pot is called jebena, an important part of Ethiopian coffee culture. People can drink coffee in the morning, for lunch and in the evening, she said. She likes it that Vietnamese also gather to drink coffee on the street as a bonding activity. As much as the beverage is an indispensable part of Saigon’s daily rhythm, at times Saigoneers don’t take it as seriously as Ethiopians do. While the latter do drink coffee casually, the most ceremonial form of coffee consumption in Ethiopia is a ritual involving incense, flowers and snacks like puffed rice or popcorn.

The restaurant has only been open for a month, but reaching that point required years of planning. Within the span of two years, they went back and forth between Cambodia and Vietnam numerous times to look for a suitable location. Once they found the current location, they liked it so much that they paid rent for three months while the place was still empty because they didn’t want to lose it to other tenants.

Nighttime in Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward.

When asked if she ever misses home during her years abroad, Alamerew laughed and said that she was just in Ethiopia two months ago. She is a veteran when it comes to packing up one’s life to take root elsewhere. Her family resettled in Yemen when she was young, and she once again moved to New Delhi for high school and stayed until she finished her degree in economics at university. Her mother is also a sterling chef and restauranteur, whose 35-year-old Ethiopian eatery is still open in Yemen. Growing up with a food-loving mother familiarized Alamerew with the ins-and-outs of a professional kitchen.

“I used to follow her, she used to teach, she’s a professional. And now she has many stuff going on, she’s only watching people,” Alamerew says of her mother, who stayed with them for three months when they were preparing to open Sara Ethiopian in Phnom Penh, helping to fine-tune their injera. The batter depends a lot on the weather to rise, and Cambodia’s humidity and rainy tendencies necessitated special adjustments to the family recipe. It proved to be a success that not even Saigon’s fickle weather patterns could topple.

Though Demissie occasionally misses home, the husband and wife pair are content with their new endeavor in Vietnam.

“We’re happy. One thing I like about Vietnam: the Vietnamese people, they like to try foreign food,” she said. “The neighbors come to eat, they taste our food, and they appreciate [it]. I love our neighbors. And we have the same culture. You know, Vietnamese people, they like to help others, even if you don’t have money, they will give you, like ‘okay keep it, you can give me back later.’ In that way, in Ethiopia also they do that.”

A bowl of hot shiro wot, or chickpea stew.

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

Sara Ethiopian Restaurant

Ground Floor, B-00.01 Sadora Building, Mai Chí Thọ, An Khánh Ward, Thủ Đức City

Hẻm Gems: At Bún Thang 50, Unexpected Hanoi Flavors in a Phú Nhuận Corner

2026-04-12T15:00:00+07:00

When I was growing up in California, every couple of months, plastic containers of sliced fried egg, chicken, and chả lụa would line the kitchen counter. This medley of ingredients would usually mean bún thang for dinner — which, in turn, signaled that the dinner was a special occasion.

Back then, the chicken broth's sweet, slightly gingery scent didn’t emerge for the mundane; it only filled our household on birthdays or the last days of school. I was always excited to see those containers, and would snack on the spongey strands of egg omelet before they garnished the bowls of rice vermicelli. The sparing presence of bún thang in my mom’s meal rotation wasn’t unique to bún thang itself: every Vietnamese soup she cooked was coveted amongst our household’s meals of largely non-Vietnamese cuisine.

The family behind Bún Thang 50 migrated to Saigon in the 1970s.

My mom and dad were both born in Saigon but raised in the US. The youngest of each of their families, they left the city as toddlers and ended up in different parts of Southern California. I thus have the distinct experience of being a child of immigrant parents who, oftentimes, don’t fit the archetype of immigrant parents at all. They didn’t teach me to speak Vietnamese; they’re pretty culturally liberal. Most nights, we’d have pasta, rosemary chicken, steak and mashed potatoes.

A clear broth and a variety of diced toppings are the hallmarks of bún thang.

Bún thang was, somehow, one of the few Vietnamese dishes that subverted my preference for western food. The piping-hot chicken broth is clear and light, flavored to taste with mắm tôm, crushed ớt, and a hearty dose of black pepper; and every spoonful is perfectly composed of noodles, egg, and chả lụa. It’s something that I’ve only ever had at home. While I’ve since expanded my palate to embrace Vietnamese food of all kinds, bún thang is still perhaps my favorite — even if by virtue of comfort alone. So when I moved to Saigon for the summer, thrust into a sprawling, unfamiliar city, I knew I had to look for bún thang.

I found it at Bún Thang 50.

The simple kitchen of Bún Thang 50.

Tucked away in a quiet street of Phú Nhuận, this restaurant is one of the rare places in Saigon that specializes in bún thang — making it easy to discover through a quick Google search. The thing is Saigon residents probably aren’t searching for bún thang very often.

As a second-generation Vietnamese American, my patchwork exposure to Vietnamese food was uninformed by geographic specificity. Only recently did I realize my naivete about Vietnam’s geographically varied cuisine, and that a Hanoian dish like bún thang, for example, might not have a foothold in Saigon. I had no idea it was peculiar for it to be in the repertoire of my Saigon-born mother. When I asked her about it this past month, she said that the recipe was passed down from her mother, who is also from the south. My grandma's memory is fading, so we might never concretely know the origins of bún thang in my family, but my mom suspects that my grandma learned the recipe from my grandpa, who is from the north.

A quick blanch of the noodles and then the toppings are arranged neatly on top.

Unsurprisingly, Bún Thang 50 is operated by a northern Vietnamese family. They moved to Saigon in the 1970s and opened the restaurant in the 1990s. It has the intimate feel of a family-owned shop: the dining space borders what is presumably their living room; the small plastic cups provided for complimentary tea are cutely, childishly decorated with cartoon flowers.

I wandered into the shop at around 9am during my first few days in Saigon, eager to participate in the brilliant norm of noodles for breakfast. The tables aren’t crowded, but a few women cycle in and out, devouring their bowls before getting on with the day.

Fried omelet, mushrooms, chicken meat, and chả are the main proteins.

While the menu offers other noodle soup options, the titular bún thang is likely the primary draw. I order a bowl of bún thang Hà Nội (VND40,000). In the open kitchen, the vendor assembles it from a row of metal containers which are reminiscent of the plastic containers that materialize in my own home. She ladles in the chicken broth.

A light lunch with elegant ingredients.

Soon, the bún thang — along with a plate of fresh herbs — arrives on the metal tabletop. The toppings each occupy their own satisfying little sections of the bowl, with a bright green pile of rau răm at its center. A squirt of mắm tôm and several chili slices later, the bowl is ready to be mixed and eaten.

Mắm tôm, chili sauce and lime are available should one feel the need for more flavors.

In my mind, bún thang is a dish that’s only made by my mom; I’ve always been baselessly skeptical if any other version can taste the same. Indeed, Bún Thang 50’s bowl diverges from what I’m used to in some ways. Its toppings include wood-ear and shiitake mushrooms — traditional bún thang ingredients that eluded our family recipe. The noodles here also stand out thanks to the shop’s addition of crispy, chewy bits of pork greaves, and the unmistakably northern touch of dill in the shreds of chả lụa.

A touch of dill in the chả distinguishes this topping from others.

For me, this bún thang at once echoes the soul-soothing, celebratory dish I so anticipated seeing in my childhood kitchen, while sprucing it up with new flavor and textural deviations. The mushrooms and pork greaves are a welcome reprieve, balancing the otherwise purely soft mixture of egg, chicken, and chả lụa; the broth is a bit stronger and fattier than my mom’s. This bún thang, then, is both a taste of home and an exciting reminder that I’m somewhere else entirely.

Bún Thang 50 is open from 6am to 9pm.

Bún Thang 50

50 Hồ Biểu Chánh, Ward 12, Phú Nhuận District, HCMC

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

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

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

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

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

The mysterious steps leading to the door of the bar.

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

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

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

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

Simplicity in a glass.

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

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

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

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

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

The famous Hanshin Tigers bottles.

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

A special homemade bottle offers a surprising local twist.

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

The unassuming entrance below.

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

To sum up:

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

Bar Mitsuboshi

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

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

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

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

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

Tokyo Moon II is unfortunately closed.

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

The tiny corner of Tokyo Moon in Japan Town.

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

Our drinks came with mismatched cutleries and glasses.

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

The ssanghwacha comes with an egg yolk.

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

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

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

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

Mr. and Mrs. Moon behind the counter.

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

The wall of Poraloid shots preserving generations of customer visits.

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

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

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

Many decorations here were gifts from past patrons.

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

This article was originally published in 2024.

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

To sum up:

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

Tokyo Moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

O Phương - Món ngon sông Hương

162 Điện Biên Phủ, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home to chives and bánh bèo.

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

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

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

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

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

Cá thu fillet is one of the toppings.

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

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

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

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

A surprise dessert: đậu xanh sương sáo.

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

To sum up:

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

Bánh Bèo Cô Mai Phú Yên

54 Hoa Sứ, Ward 7, Phú Nhuận, HCMC

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

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

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

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

A humble wartime creation

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

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

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

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

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

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

A do-it-yourself soup

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

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

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

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

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

Some perilla seeds to accentuate the soup.

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

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

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

From Busan to Saigon

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

The interior uses mainly wood accents.

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

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

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

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

Subyeon is often packed during the weekend.

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

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

To sum up:

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

Đệ Nhất Cơm Canh Thịt Lợn

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

5 Cozy Saigon Coffee Shops With Outstanding Cat Residents to Befriend

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

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

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

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

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

1. Auvery Cafe

14 Lê Ngô Cát, Xuân Hòa Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

2. Phường Cà Phê

115/102 Lê Văn Sỹ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

3. Haru Craft

15/10 Nguyễn Huy Tưởng, Gia Định Ward

Photos by Cao Nhân.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

4. Kalery

172/9 Đặng Văn Ngữ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

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

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

5. Passengers

46/9 Trần Quang Diệu, Nhiêu Lộc Ward

Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

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

Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Read Saigoneer's review of Passengers here.

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

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

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

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

What is American Chinese cuisine?

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

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

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

From Australia to Saigon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

WOKO Saigon - Chinese Takeout

74B Phạm Viết Chánh, Thạnh Mỹ Tây, HCMC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Nhi brings her own lassi to nhậu eateries.

Bún Mắm Nêm Dì Bảy

199 Bàu Cát, Ward 14, Tân Bình, HCMC

Hẻm Gems: In the Mood for Lẩu? A Ngưu Offers Hong Kong Vibes and Tasty Bites.

2025-11-28T12:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Tiệm Lẩu A Ngưu

11C Vũ Huy Tấn, Ward 3, Bình Thạnh