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

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

“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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

On the way to Phú Thọ Indoor Sports Stadium in District 11, make a turn off 666/74 Ba Tháng Hai, go all the way to the far corner, and you’ll discover Triển Chiêu Quán’s bright yellow sign. Park underneath the canopy, walk up the ramp, and you’ll notice something stands out, but you might not know why — bunches of caramel-colored noodles in the kitchen area waiting to be enjoyed.

Dried, flattened, and blanched in boiling water, the chewy, brownish bánh đa noodle hails from Hải Phòng. In an ideal world, at some point in life, you will find yourself in the major northern port city, upstream from the mouth of the Cấm River, sitting under those royal poinciana flowers and hovering over a steamy bowl of bánh đa cua Hải Phòng, the city’s most famous delicacy.

Red phượng blossoms are a common symbol of Hải Phòng.

“One day,” I told myself, looking at the picture of this scene hanging on the wall at Triển Chiêu Quán in District 10. But, the line of sight to my imagined escape was broken and auspiciously brightened. Bluish skies and reddish flowers were replaced by bluish bowls and reddish noodles being carried toward me. A colorful concoction of flavor headed my way:

Purplish brown mushrooms. 

Orange-and-pink crab and shrimp. 

Red chili peppers, tomatoes and fermented chili sauce. 

Brown fried shallots, fried fish, and fish cake. 

Light green chives, chopped onions, and cilantro. 

And dark green morning glory and betel leaf-wrapped sausages. 

The swirl of colors fills my first bowl of bánh đa cua Hải Phòng, the first of many to come.

Trays of toppings.

Molasses is the ingredient that makes bánh đa stand out amongst bins of bún and miến, creating that signature brown color. That, and compared to bún, miến, and other noodles I’ve at least tried, bánh đa left me feeling noticeably more filled afterward. It’s more like eating fettuccine than spaghetti, except instead of dousing your plate with butter and cheese, bánh đa is engulfed in a seafood-based broth.

Bánh đa cá comes with heaps of dill.

One item in all our bowls left us perplexed to the point of asking the owner for clarification: the betel leaf-wrapped pork and mushroom sausages that we originally presumed to be bò lá lốt.

Bánh đa thập cẩm.

At Triển Chiêu Quán, I ordered the bánh đa thập cẩm (VND55,000), while my colleagues went with dry bánh đa trộn (VND65,000) and bánh đa cua (VND45,000). In between bites, I drank trà đá, while our editor went for nước sấu Hà Nội, a northern classic. The owner of the shop told us her mother pickled the sấu fruit herself and flew it down to Saigon, seemingly bringing together north and south in food and drink.

The homemade nước sấu at Triển Chiêu Quán.

To date, I have yet to make the journey to Hải Phòng to indulge in their local specialty, so for now, I’ll settle for reveling in the next best option: returning again and again to Triển Chiêu Quán to enjoy a delightful bowl of bánh đa cua Hải Phòng while I daydream, gaze at the photo on the wall and plan my future escape to its source.

The rustic shopfront of the eatery.

Triển Chiêu Quán is open from 6:30am to 8:30pm.

There’s a commonly acknowledged nugget of folk wisdom amongst foodies that hole-in-the-wall eateries almost always have the best food. In the context of Vietnam’s street food landscape, this concept could extend to cart on the pavement, table in the hẻm, coffee on a bike, and even wackier contexts. The star of today’s Hẻm Gems feature, however, is a true-blue hole-in-the-wall, both in physical manifestation and in spirits.

As an avid bánh canh enthusiast, I have long wondered about the mysterious bánh canh Nam Phổ, Huế’s contribution to the country’s pantheon of noodle royalties. There’s something about that intense shade of orange dominating the broth that contributes to the air of enigma, coupled with the fact that it’s very rarely seen or talked about in Saigon. It’s almost comical for me to have constructed this myth surrounding this dish just to finally arrive in Huế this summer and see that bánh canh Nam Phổ is everywhere.

At a corner of Phó Đức Chính Street, just a short walk from the Huế University of Education, Quán Hằng peeks out in between wedding parlors, groceries shops, and a particularly smokey cơm bình dân place grilling meat on the street. It’s just past 4pm on a Saturday, so the city center is perhaps still unwinding from its afternoon nap to sleep away the stuffy heat. The streets barely have anyone out and about. It’s the perfect occasion for me to stay ahead of the crowd and make a beeline for Quán Hằng before the limited seating capacity is filled up.

It's so crispy I'm gonna die!

Arriving at Quán Hằng, the first things that will capture your attention are several giant bags of crispy pork cracklings and fried shallots perched atop the glass display. Conventionally, these are to be sprinkled as garnish on bánh bèo nậm lọc, but to me those scream party-sized snack bags. It turns out I’m not the only person with this idea, because our photographer ends up buying one whole bag of pork crackling during his visit as a travel gift for the team. He knows us too well.

Quán Hằng fits the hole-in-the-wall stereotype to a tee: while-tiled walls, plastic tables and stools, a Coca-Cola-brand glass fridge repurposed for ingredient storage, and staff comprised entirely of family members. Inside the tiny dining space behind the prep station, there are four sets of tables, each can fit a group of three snugly or four uncomfortably. Usually, with just one person assembling the food at Quán Hằng, hopeful patrons might have to wait for a little while for a table.

Quán Hằng is a family business, so on any given day, one can be served by different members of the family.

There are only two things on the menu here: bánh canh Nam Phổ and bánh bèo nậm lọc, both at VND20,000 a portion, extremely affordable snacks compared to the galloping inflation rates in Saigon. After we make our order and settle down at a table to kill time, delivery drivers and locals on bikes start popping up one after another, ferrying away big bags of bánh canh and bánh bèo — a reassuring sign that the food is excellent. Ah, Huế has woken up from its siesta and is now hankering for something to ăn xế.

Our plates of bánh bèo nậm lọc land on the table first, of course, with a generous sprinkle of fried shallots and pork cracklings. All three are made from rice flour batter and steamed; the latter two are wrapped in leaves while bánh bèo are in tiny shallow dishes. Delicate is the one adjective I would use to describe these little morsels of silky bánh. Each bánh bèo is spread thinner than typically seen in Saigon, but holds its shape surprisingly well. Bánh nậm and bánh lọc are both soft in texture and light in taste, allowing the subtly sweet nước mắm to seep in, perfuming every bite. While they have fierce competition in Huế, where making bèo nậm lọc is a municipal sport, these exceed any version I’ve had in Saigon by a wide margin.

Bánh nậm lọc (left) and bánh bèo (right).

Bánh canh Nam Phổ arrives on our table in small bowls, filled to the brim with a viscous orange sauce that encases nubs of meatballs and bits of bánh canh noodles. Everything is petite and snack-sized. According to Huế conventions, this noodle dish is almost always enjoyed in the late afternoon. Firstly, because cooks need to source the freshest seafood in the morning; and secondly, because it’s just meant to be a little bite before the proper dinner later.

Bánh canh Nam Phổ has shorter strands and a thicker broth compared to other versions.

Like most Vietnamese delicacies with a geographical location in the name, bánh canh Nam Phổ is believed to have originated from a real place: Nam Phổ, a village northeast of the Imperial City that’s now part of Phú Vang District. If most typical bánh canh noodles are prized for their distinctive chew thanks to a high percentage of tapioca flour, the noodles in bánh canh Nam Phổ are often made with a mix of rice and tapioca flours with a heavy lean on the latter, resulting in a supple texture. When cooked alongside the broth, chunks of noodles break off, so the dish is commonly eaten using a spoon instead of chopsticks. The meatballs are made of a combination of pork and shrimp meats, cooked in a ruốc Huế-based broth (shrimp paste). To get that distinctive shade of orange, Huế residents blend in crab and shrimp tomalley, or annatto oil.

The chili fish sauce adds an edge to an otherwise-mellow noodles soup.

After just a few spoonfuls of bánh canh at Quán Hằng, I realize why this is the perfect post-nap snack. It is umami and hearty, no doubt, but it’s also incredibly easy to eat compared to other noodle dishes: everything is soft and scoopable and there is no need to wrangle with pork hock, pick vegetables, or manage big chunks of topping. It is a child-safe treat, but children won’t be able to fully appreciate the full range of bánh canh Nam Phổ’s flavors, because they can’t eat the chilies. These are thinly sliced, bright green chilies mixed with fish sauce, readily available on the table. I’m already convinced by just the bánh canh, but upon spooning a few slices of chilies on top, I’m surprised by how much their citrusy bright heat brings to the table. They are like light sabers cutting right through the viscosity of the noodle broth, lifting everything up. For me, the chilies have become a must when having bánh canh Nam Phổ, even though I’m not generally a fan of spiciness.

Tiny eatery, big bags of pork cracklings.

It’s easy to romanticize travel destinations. You’re in vacation mode, untethered from the tendrils of work and life obligations, so everything tastes great and everybody you meet seems extraordinarily wise and lovely. There’s a possibility that I’m romanticizing the magic of Quán Hằng’s bánh canh Nam Phổ and Huế residents would scoff at my naivety, but you have to be there. The weather is not sweltering for the first time. The neighborhood is quaint. At a tiny table looking out into the street, I sit with my bowl of bánh canh, hands warm from hugging the bowl and mouth stinging from spicy chilies. You have to be there.

To sum up:

•     Opening time: 6am–8pm
•     Parking: Bike only
•     Contact: 0702 151 869
•     Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
•     Payment: Cash, Transfer
•     Delivery App: N/A

Upon finding out that I’m a student at the University of Architecture HCMC, people tend to bombard me with a barrage of questions: if my coursework is tiring, if my school fees are skyhigh, and what my plans for after graduation are. These curiosities are understandable, but in the past years, one peculiar query has popped up more frequently: “I heard there’s a really good miến trộn place outside your school, is it true?” 

Yes, it is true. The place has no name, known simply as “the miến gà place.” Miến gà is poached chicken meat served with glass noodles, either in a soup or as a mixed noodle dish. Netizens refer to it as “that miến place outside the architecture uni,” while students would use the shorthand “go eat miến” on sleepy mornings or sunny noons.

With a rudimentary setup of one cart hailing chopped vegetables, noodles, and chicken, alongside a handful of tiny plastic stools, this food cart has become an unexpectedly famous lunch spot at the intersection of Pasteur and Nguyễn Đình Chiểu streets, a location I once thought to be ill-suited to open an F&B place. How can one attract customers at the meeting point of two one-way roads, because once you’ve missed it, you can’t turn back easily?

Even so, throngs of people still show up and the staff members continue to assemble noodle bowls at lightning speed every midday. This miến gà place has an undeniable allure, helping it stand out right in the heart of busy central Saigon.

The first appeal is that special feeling that comes from watching your own bowl of miến taking shape. It’s quite a simple process, but optimized into a smooth rhythm by staff after years of practice: one person arranges the veggies, one quickly blanches the miến and chicken, while another ladles on the sauce and sprinkles some fried shallot and herbs. Once an order is made, no matter how tricky the requests are — from no spring onion to non-spicty — the noodles will arrive on your hands quickly and precisely. Figuring out the seating arrangement is an art in itself. There are no tables, and the stools are very low, so patrons are welcome to take their noodles to any corner that fits their fancy on the pavement.

At Miến Gà Kiến Trúc, people-watching is a built-in feature of the dining experience. Depending on the day’s needs, each person can choose a personal view while eating. If you enjoy the “kitchen view,” you can pick a seat near the cart to watch the owner assemble noodles. Those who feel like chatting with friends should snap up a corner along the university fence on the Nguyễn Đình Chiểu sidewalk. Some might opt for a view of the school gate to observe students rushing in and out. Others might only be here purely for some sustenance in between classes and don’t care for the dining experience.

Miến trộn gà, essentially, is a simple but balanced noodle salad. There are all the main food groups in one bowl: al dente strands of glass noodles; tender chicken strips; the richness of chicken gizzards and skins; refreshing greens like beansprouts, morning glory, spring onion and cilantro; and last but most importantly, crunchy fried shallot and a harmonious sweet-and-sour sauce.

Still, those are not the only reasons why this humble cart has achieved a cult following amongst Saigon’s food enthusiasts.

The main appeals of this miến gà can be described in two S’s: the first stands for “substantial.” Depending on how much each customer wants to eat, the owner will scale up or down the toppings to match it. Whether you’re hankering for a VND30,000 portion to snack on, or a big VND50,000 bowl to satisfy a craving after weeks of absence, the server can always provide a balanced meal based on their “secret” ratio.

The other S stands for “special,” which is how I view the mixing sauce. I’ve heard many raving comments about the bucket filled with that mysterious dressing. It’s always sparkling with the golden shade of fish sauce and floating with chunks of garlic, ginger, and tiny but powerful green chilies.

The dressing’s base flavor is the salty umami of fish sauce with a touch of sweetness common to southern cuisine. I can’t take my eyes off the ladle as it coats the noodles with a layer of savory sauce. It is this enigmatic flavor profile that turns a run-of-the-mill bowl of chicken and glass noodles into an irresistible delicacy.

As a freshman just getting my bearings in a new college, I used to treat the miến gà as yet another fast food proprietor. I admit to not really seeing what was special about a noodle salad back then, but after a while away from that familiar stretch of Pasteur Street leading up to the school gate, I could feel a palpable sense of emptiness inside me.

There could be a plethora of reasons compelling someone to stop by this noodle cart in front of my university. They could have bumped into a short video about tasty noodles or heard the word of mouth from an acquaintance. Perhaps they were curious about the crowds gathering around a steamy vat of broth while walking on the pavement, or it was simply hunger that lured them here. No matter what the reason is, a bowl of flavorful miến trộn gà is a guaranteed result. It can be relished alone or with friends, with fewer noodles or more noodles, on a plastic stool or as takeaways. It’s often those slivers making up a personalized, cozy experience that entice people to come back.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 6am–2pm
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: N/A
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: N/A

One of the small joys in life is having a favorite dish readily available whenever you crave it. Ever since I discovered the little hẻm in Saigon where Cơm Hến O Thu lies, my life has been ever so uplifted by the comfort that, every fortnight or so, I can hop on my motorbike, sit for 15 minutes, and have cơm hến on the table in a blink of an eye for gulping pleasures. Cơm hến is one of my favorite things, so naturally, when I got a chance to visit Huế, the dish’s hometown, there was no way I could miss out on this small joy that packs big flavors.

There is very little you can say about the decoration or interior design of Cơm Hến Bé Liêm, because very little attention has been paid to it — which, in this case, is a good thing, because it means the proprietor cares more about the food they serve than where they serve it. The eatery is located in a convenient spot on Nguyễn Công Trứ Street. The family lives on one side of a nondescript yellow house, while on the right, a semi-open space serves as the dining and kitchen for their thriving cơm hến operation. Walking past a peacefully napping dog and under a verdant vine-covered pergola, you will be greeted by rows of low plastic chairs and tables that have definitely seen better days.

Cơm Hến Bé Liêm is open from 6am, just in time for an early breakfast.

I’ve been Pavlov-ed by Vietnamese street food places so much that I practically start salivating whenever I see light blue plastic chairs, not because I’m hankering for a bite of that greasy plastic, but for the culinary orgasm that they often herald. It was a Monday morning, so the dining space wasn’t crowded. There was an air of subdued routine amongst diners, who were mostly Huế residents catching a quick bite before heading to work — we were the only rowdy tourists sitting on the edge of our tiny stools, humming with anticipation.

Usually, eating in casual street food settings like this, I’m not one to police the attitude of staff. F&B, especially in this economic climate, is back-breaking, hernia-inducing work, so as long as they don’t punch me in the face or slash my tires, we’re cool. However, I feel the need to point out that the people at Cơm Hến Bé Liêm were really sweet and accommodating, especially to a party of seven people of varying ages and dietary finickings. The fact that, according to multiple online reviews, local taxi drivers and xe ôm uncles keep recommending this place to visitors is a testament to its service and the tastiness of its food.

The people who run the place are some of the nicest people I've come across during my travesls across Vietnam.

Like hundreds of other cơm hến eateries in Huế, Bé Liêm serves only the star dish, though one can opt to switch out rice for bún or instant noodles — all for just VND15,000 a portion. On each table, there is a plate of 10 banana leaf-wrapped chả for diners to fortify their bowl if needed; these morsels of pork sausage are chewy and perfectly seasoned, but I personally think they fit clumsily in a cơm hến bowl as they are too chunky compared to the other perfectly chopped toppings. After a few minutes of us sitting around trading complaints about the Huế heat, our portions of cơm hến arrived.

Freshly assembled cơm hến.

Of every step involved in the dining experience, this is perhaps one of my favorite parts: when the food lands in front of me, putting a temporary suspension on the anticipation and hunger and showing off its glamorous bells and whistles. This is the best that any given dish will look on your table, so take it all in, waft the palpable aroma into your nostrils, feast your eyes on the freshness of the herbs, and enjoy it in any other senses because your palate does its job. A bowl of cơm hến is always a visual treat — on a bed of white fluffy rice grains, snippets of different shades of green peek out in between golden puffs of pork crackling and nubs of baby hến. Chopped Thai basil leaves, shreds of yellow young mango, slices of starfruit, and spongy stalks of dọc mùng form a luxuriant undergrowth just waiting for your spoon to dig in.

Made from cold rice and other simple veggies, cơm hến is a surprisingly balanced meal.

Cơm hến can be eaten any time of the day, but to me, it is the perfect breakfast with a balanced nutrient profile to fuel a busy day at work or school: just enough carb in the form of rice for energy, plenty of fiber from a diverse array of fresh vegetables, protein from the clams, fat from pork crackling, and heat from the chili oil to dispel any lingering lethargy. Bé Liêm has managed to evade some common setbacks that can sully the cơm hến experience, like sandy cold rice, clams that are past their prime, or fishy broth. Add in a teaspoon, or half if you’re a wuss like me, of chili oil, some shrimp paste, mix everything together with vigor — and your bowl of cơm hến is ready to be snacked on. I say “snack” because one bowl is never enough for me. My palate yearns for that comforting mix of savory shrimp paste, tingling heat, and crunchy veggies, so much so that I always get two, or even three on a hot day, bowls in one sitting.

Bún hến and cơm hến.

Every Vietnamese dish has a story behind it. Even right in Huế, nem công chả phượng is a living remnant of the grandiose court cuisine that past emperors enjoyed. Cơm hến, however, hails from much humbler origins on the submerged low-tide stretches along the Hương River, especially around Cồn Hến, a patch of land formed by river sediments and the ideal habitat for baby clams to thrive. Leftover rice, hến caught right from the water, and unripe fruits from the backyard are the simple ingredients that have allowed cơm hến to stay affordable and, over time, spread to all corners of Huế, becoming a satisfying snack for anyone, any time of the day.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 6am–until stock runs out
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: 0795538330
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

As a resident of Saigon, I’m well-acquainted with the city's vibrant food scene, which features cuisines from various regions of Vietnam, and how these dishes blend local recipes with flavors that resonate with Saigon locals. But Bún Ốc Thanh Hải is quite the opposite. Its dishes, snacks, drinks, and even atmosphere carry a distinct northern identity, so much so that upon visiting the place, I felt as if I was on a culinary adventure within my own city.

The eatery is located inside the alleys off the Nhiêu Lộc Canal in District 3. It’s quite easy to find; just wander through the narrow lanes between Trường Sa, Trần Quốc Thảo, and Kỳ Đồng streets, and the small roads will lead you into a spacious oasis, where Bún Ốc Thanh Hải awaits.

Thanh Hải moved from the Kỳ Đồng pavements into an alley years ago due to tightening rules.

I arrived at Thanh Hải during lunchtime. The scene was lively with sounds of customers chatting while enjoying their noodles, and the clinking of utensils coming from the kitchen. A waitress guided me to my seat and promptly took my order. Surprisingly, only a minute later, a hot bowl of bún ốc riêu cua was already placed on my table.

Seafood essence in a bowl.

“You should try putting some mắm tôm into it,” she told me right after serving my meal. While I rarely add shrimp paste into my food, afraid that my breath will inherit its pungent aroma, the lady adds that “a little bit of the paste won’t hurt anyone.” Intrigued by her enthusiasm, I decided to give it a try. In turn, I got to have a quick chat with her to learn more about this place.

The interior of Thanh Hải is very typical of a storied street restaurant in Saigon.

Bún Ốc Thanh Hải is ran by a family from Thái Bình. They moved to Saigon and introduced their hometown dishes to the city locals in the 1980s. Back then, they operated a small food cart on Kỳ Đồng Street. However, as sidewalk regulations became stricter, they relocated further into the narrow alleys of Kỳ Đồng and eventually set up their establishment.

For more than 40 years, Thanh Hải is mostly known for their signature northern-style bún ốc in which the toppings consist of snails, crab paste, some slices of tomatoes and green onions. And of course, the addition of shrimp paste into the mix is also a part of this traditional style. “That’s how we do it in our hometown,” the waitress said to me.

Chewy chunks of snail and soft crab paste are the star toppings of bún riêu here.

After stirring up the broth to let the shrimp paste dissolve into it, I had my first taste of the broth and the noodle. At first, I don’t notice any clear difference. But much later on, when I was casually going through the dish, the broth started having a tangy flavor that was stronger than the regular bún ốc that I’ve tried in the past.

The main highlights of the bún ốc were its seafood toppings. The snails are sliced into small pieces, spotting a crunchy texture when chewed on. My portion had chunks of melt-in-your-mouth crab paste, and its sweet flavors really came out when combined with the broth.

A portion of bún riêu cua (left) and bún ốc riêu cua đặc biệt (right).

Aside from the signature dish,the menu features a variety of options ranging from main courses to side dishes. If you’re not in the mood for another bún riêu variant, there is northern-style bún ốc chuối đậu. Various snail-based side dishes like ốc bươu nhồi thịt, ốc xào chuối xanh are available for your chewing pleasure. The tangy taste of bún ốc broth mixed with shrimp paste might leave you feeling thirsty, and the place offers multiple types of refreshing drinks like apricot juice.

Bún ốc chuối đậu is among a handful of northern dishes on offer here too.

The spaciousness of the establishment gave me a chance to walk around and explore the place. Right at the entrance of the shop, a counter hosted an array of northern delicacies and snacks such as Thái Nguyên tea leaves, peanut brittle candy, and bánh cáy — it felt like a mini market filled with northern goodies. 

Eating here, patrons can also brush up on their ethics lessons.

The distinctively northern setting and heaps of regional snacks at Bún Ốc Thanh Hải made me feel like a tourist, as it reminded me of the rest stops where my family and I would hang out during trips; the only difference is that the Thanh Hải “pit stop” is conveniently a three-minute drive away from my workplace.

A northern specialty corner in the middle of District 3.

Overall, my experience with Bún Ốc Thanh Hải was a delight. As I savored the flavors of their signature northern-style bún ốc riêu cua and couldn’t help but enjoy the lively and inviting atmosphere. I appreciate how the Thái Bình family gives me a taste of their hometown. Throughout my stay, the eatery welcomed throngs of patrons: some lingered at the local specialties counter, and some brought their whole families, casually chatting with the waitress like they’d known one another for a long time. It was as if Bún Ốc Thanh Hải could provide northern-born residents of Saigon a taste of their roots.

Bún Ốc Thanh Hải is open from 7am to 8:30pm.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 7am–9pm
• Parking: In front of the restaurant (bike only)
• Contact: 02838435785/0945888849
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

What do you think of when imagining a cafe? For me, it's plants in every corner, small and cute paintings that adorn the walls, or a light- and neutral-colored space that brings a sense of peace to customers. What would happen if a coffee shop attempted to subvert most of these elements? This is the case of 3 Hào Cafe, a combination of vintage industrial ambiance and, of course, good drinks.

I am just a typical university student, one who was constantly smothered in deadlines and crippling anxiety that I may not be able to meet those deadlines. This state, in one way or another, forces me to stay hyper-focused and finish my work, which was why, in the first two years of university, I was always scouting on Instagram for affordable coffee places around District 7, especially since I couldn’t fully concentrate in my dorm which I associated with a strong urge to fall asleep. Thus, I stumbled upon 3 Hào Cafe on a random sunny Saturday morning, as it happened to be surprisingly close to where I live. Seen from the outside, I wasn’t sure what to expect because it looked similar to many other coffee shops in the area, but my lack of anticipation was turned upside down in the best way possible when I finally decided to go in.

Upon setting foot inside, the overwhelming strangeness of the space hit me, to the point that I had to double-check the Google Maps location and their social media to confirm if this place was indeed a cafe. With other coffee shops in Saigon, I am familiar with their cozy style, which focuses on either a natural atmosphere through an abundance of plants; or an “artsy” vibe, with paintings and cute statues for customers to paint on. 3 Hào has a more minimalistic approach to interior design. Though there are still some plants, grey walls surround vintage moridenki desk lamps, old steel tables and chairs; and industrial lamps hang on the ceiling. I felt like I was working and having coffee in a 1990s Vietnamese factory rather than a typical cafe, as the design and furniture pieces seemed to have been taken straight from an industrial space.

As for me, the bustling atmosphere, combined with the factory-like setting, oddly motivated me to work and study hard, especially when I felt comfortable doing my assignments in a space that reminded me of normalized physical and mental labor. The entire industrial environment subtly encouraged me to work hard as a way of blending in with the lively atmosphere, alongside the people who were doing the same. On the other hand, the comfort of just relaxing at this cafe, listening to music, and reading a book with a side of nice, decadent drinks is impeccable in my mind, especially during the periods when there aren’t many customers inside the cafe, and I can fully indulge in its peaceful atmosphere while unwinding. 3 Hào Cafe even remains open past midnight, becoming a respite for anyone who needs a long and focused stay, whether to complete their work or simply rest after a stressful day.

Contributing to 3 Hào’s industrial ambiance are many distinctive decorative objects: old typewriters, Vietnamese books from the 1980s and 1990s, unique-looking water bottles, etc. They all evoke a sense of nostalgia for visitors, prompting them to remember either their childhood or their parents’ childhood. For example, the worn-out steel tables and chairs may take guests back to their past school days, when they studied on the same table and chair set; the peculiar water bottles remind them of beer bottles that their fathers drank from back in the day. These items also expose younger, born-in-the-2000s generation of customers like mine to a bygone era in Vietnam, inviting us to explore a world that only exists in our parents’ memories. Being able to look at them, to immerse myself in a time I didn’t live through, is a surreal experience, as I can connect to the memories of those who were born way before me through my own eyes, getting to know the past lives and identities etched on these items.

Although most of 3 Hào’s charms are in its unique aesthetic and atmosphere, the drinks here are also a plus point, especially when they are relatively inexpensive, yet delicious. One of their best-selling items on the menu, and one that I usually order, is the salted cream matcha latte. At first, it looks like every other matcha latte with cream on top, but upon simultaneously drinking it and eating the cream with a spoon, I realized that not only is there a nice balance between the milk and the matcha, but the salted cream’s sweetness and saltiness blend perfectly, not making the drink too sweet but subduing the matcha’s overpowering grassy taste. However, if matcha latte isn’t your preferred drink, there are plenty of other items on their menu that you could try, such as the salted coffee or the mango yogurt.

Since that fateful Saturday, 3 Hào has become an ideal cafe for me, providing me with a place to go to other than my school and my dorm, whether to finish upcoming assignments or to just take a break from the outside world. It may not be decorated with lush plants or beautiful paintings, but it gives me something better: the comfort of focus, familiarity, and the feeling that I’ve stepped into someone else’s memories — and created my own out of them. Thus, if you are in the area, don’t hesitate to visit this lovely coffee shop and immerse yourself in its nostalgic, industrial atmosphere. 

To sum up:

• Opening time: 7:30am–2:30am
• Parking: In front of the cafe (bike only)
• Contact: 0909884991
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: None 

Saigon is a cafe enthusiast’s paradise. A decades-old coffee culture fostered by previous generations is still alive and well, in addition to the latest global trends brought over by the younger generation of baristas. When it comes to interior styles and vibes, there’s a little something for everyone, from gritty industrial to spartan Japandi chic to Saigon’s very own southern modernist architecture.

At Saigoneer, we always have a soft spot for kiến trúc hiện đại Việt Nam, an idiosyncratic style of architecture that arose in the 1960s–1970s in southern Vietnam. During its heyday in the 1980s and 1990s, you didn’t have to search for it, because practically every building on local streets is modernist. Since the 2000s, as Vietnam absorbed more international influence, most new builds in the city have left behind modernist traits for more neutral or minimalist elements, so if you’re a fan of modernism, you’ll have to seek out historic structures, like the five landmarks we previously featured here.

There isn’t a standardized guideline on what makes something “modernist,” so most experts on southern modernist architecture use the term “vocabulary” to describe the elements most distinctive to this style. Much like words, home owners pick and choose modernist elements they like to express their individuality and personal taste, like brise-soleil, cantilever, pregolas, geometrical windows, and more.

To appreciate Saigon’s modernist marvels in the flesh, apart from public structures like hospitals and college campuses — which can be hard to get into — cafes might be your next best bets. The five names I’ve listed below have different degrees of architectural application, but might contain pieces of the bigger story of modernism in Saigon, all of which are worth exploring.

1. Cafe Linh

26A Phạm Ngọc Thạch, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

In the quest to emulate a distinctive Saigon spatial experience, Cafe Linh opts for the most faithful and familiar recreation, down to little details like the motif on the floor tiles and shade of wood for the furniture. Young Vietnamese today would find the decoration and interior design instantly relatable, as most probably grew up or are even still living in a similarly furnished home.

One will notice right away how Cafe Linh pays homage to modernism from the moment they see the entrance: grey đá rửa on the facade, a wooden door with metallic frames, and two stencils of stylized flowers. Inside, the staircase, bookshelf and upper railings are probably my favorite elements showcasing modernism — regular patterns made up of irregular shapes, like angular spirals. Cafe Linh might not have set out to be a modernist coffee shop, but in its attempt to bring forth the coziness of 1990s Vietnamese homes, modernism is an indispensable ingredient.

2. Sipply Coffee

73 Đinh Công Tráng, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

If Cafe Linh sought to preserve what modernist architecture has been in previous eras, Sipply Coffee presents a vision of what modernism could be in the future. Based inside a refurbished modernist tube house, the cafe might look familiar from the outside, but upon setting foot inside, visitors will be greeted with an intermingling of modernist and contemporary features that are purposely meshed together in the space’s design.

At the back past the cashier counter, on a floor of vintage tiles, a white spiral staircase typically seen in old houses stands out as if a centerpiece, lit up by the natural lighting from the lightwell above. The tables and chairs, however, are sturdy and angular, marked by color blocks and shiny metallic surface, a far cry from the organic textures of modernism. Sipply Coffee is an interesting case study of how existing heritage houses can be made over to accommodate the aesthetic sensibilities of a new age.

3. 16 Grams

32 Thạch Thị Thanh, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

Much like Sipply, 16 Grams got its start from an old modernist shell, whose facade still retains much of the retro Saigon charm from the 1990s. A main palette of white and deep teal tiles, in addition to wood accents, evoke a cozy ambiance for patrons seeking a quiet place to catch up on some emails or a few chapters of a good book. Two elements particularly stand out: the floral pattern on the door frame and the colorful mosaic on the upper-floor veranda.

4. Patio Cafe

400/2 Lê Văn Sỹ, Nhiêu Lộc Ward, HCMC

True to its name, Patio Cafe’s most inviting and sun-drenched corner is the small patio on the side, obscured by swaying green vines and other foliage. Standing in the small courtyard and looking up, you’ll spot a very familiar railing design and a door-window combo that is essential to Saigon houses of the 2000s. A ribbon of brise-soleil lines the front beside a big glass panel bearing the cafe’s name. Patio Cafe pulls together different threads of architectural influences, but they coexist harmoniously instead of clashing. There are enough variations that each seating arrangement feels like something you can really melt in and make your own. 

5. Starbucks Thorakao

241Bis Cách Mạng Tháng Tám, Bàn Cờ Ward, HCMC

Whether to include Starbucks Thorakao in this list was a decision that I toiled with for weeks in the making of this roundup, for a number of reasons. For as long as I’ve been living in Saigon, I could never resist looking in awe at this special building whenever I stop at the traffic light between Cách Mạng Tháng 8 and Điện Biên Phủ streets. The exterior is covered entirely in that recognizable shade of gray from đá rửa, but what makes it striking is a blend between retro and futuristic in its silhouette. On the second floor, a dome-shaped block juts out into the air, lined with tinted glass — I used to imagine that the entire structure is a spaceship, and the dome houses the cockpit steering the vessel on space exploration missions. It is commanding but not foreboding, distinctive yet perfectly in place in the modernist landscape of Saigon. It’s one of my favorite buildings in town, both to admire and as a shining example of an architecture style that’s uniquely our own.

Thorakao is a long-enduring local brand of cosmetics, perhaps most famous for its skincare products containing turmeric, and the Thorakao Building has been the company’s headquarters for decades. For a few years of those until now, the first floor is rented out to Starbucks, which has done literally nothing to amplify the modernist style of the building it occupies. The interior is woefully cookie-cutter, following the cafe chain’s generic design, so you’d be better off just appreciating the building from the intersection outside if you come here for southern modernist architecture. I have nothing amicable to say about its cafe tenant, but I would be remiss not to mention the Thorakao Building, because it is just that iconic.

Whenever I come back to Vietnam, it is a personal ritual of mine to visit locales of the past. As clichéd as it sounds, as I have been abroad in Singapore for six years, returning to Vietnam is almost synonymous with returning to places that once shaped my past selves, whose presence has been fading in my mind.

As I walk along Nguyễn Thái Bình Street of Saigon in the evening, the rain and the yellow lights of bistros I never remember existed bundle up my nostalgia with warmth. Catching sight of the Parish Church of The Lady of Peace, as humble and still as its bilingual signage, I know I have reached Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu, the Hẻm Gems for this week, across the street.

Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu has a handful of counter spaces and a few extra chairs.

It is just the same as I remember amidst the city’s changing landscape. Fluorescent tube lights illuminate a single wooden cart, typically seen at Hoa Vietnamese mobile stalls, complete with fitted reverse glass paintings featuring the name Lâm Vinh Mậu and illustrations of episodes from Chinese literary classics. Below, its built-in sections are filled with various chè soup bases and glass bowls displaying add-on ingredients. Apart from myself, there are only two other customers, who nonetheless are about to leave. Sitting down on one of the few tall plastic stools, I order my favorites. This time, chú Sơn mans the stall. He shares how, for the past few decades, he and his brother have been taking turns running the business, setting up the cart right in front of their shophouse. They took up the business after their uncle Lâm Vinh Mậu decided to settle abroad. Mậu was also the cart's namesake, though he recently passed away.

Colorful tranh kiếng works, a traditional Chinese art form, line the upper portion of the cart.

The stall serves a wide variety of chè, from classics such as sâm bổ lượng or chè đậu đỏ, but there are two particular dishes I’d always come back to. First is the chè hạnh nhân, whose central ingredient is almond tofu. A dish served cold with chopped ice, it comprises a clear sweet soup base, with morsels of soft white almond tofu. Against the sweet soup’s canvas, the tofu’s creamy and herbal notes shimmer with a subtle delicacy.

From top to bottom, clockwise: sâm bổ lượng, almond tofu, tea egg, and egg soup with sago.

The other dish is chè trứng bột báng, an egg dessert with sago. From its appearance, one is easily forgiven for thinking it is anything but chè, particularly because the hard-boiled egg and wispy beaten yolks included inside are more evocative of egg drop soup. Yet, despite being a strange combination, the egg ingredients and soup base make for a fascinating taste combination. The viscous chè filled with sago balls provides a textured sweetness to the savory hard-boiled egg. I split the egg open with a two-pronged fork and notice the yolk crumbles into yellow powder swirling within the clear soup. Eating the two chè dishes again from their little porcelain cups after such a long hiatus, I am comforted by the fact that they taste no different from how I remember them six-odd years ago, when I ate at the stall before I left for Singapore.

Apart from special dishes like tea egg, most toppings are eaten with a jasmine sweet syrup.

I give my compliments regarding the chè to Sơn as he wipes off condensed rings of water on the bumpy metallic table with his rag. The night air remains damp, and there are only two of us at the stall. We thus have a brief chat, and he asks me about my university academic journey, and whether I was on vacation. After I tell him of my return to Vietnam for a long break from Singapore, he shares how his son was also a media and communications graduate, and Singapore was also the first country he traveled to with his family overseas back in the 2010s. “Universal Studios [Singapore] was fun,” he recalls, handing me a shot glass of chopped ice and light tea, a palate cleanser.

As I sip the tea, I ask him about his business and regular clientele. According to Sơn, most of them are returning customers, many of whom are also overseas Vietnamese revisiting Saigon. He also bemoans the dwindling Hoa Vietnamese customer base and community in the neighborhood. “Most of them have already migrated abroad. A lot of them have family members who sponsored them,” he says. “Many current residents come from other regions of the country.” He reverts back to talking about Singapore, sharing how his son visited there recently for Lady Gaga’s “Lion City Mayhem” concert.

Simmered fruits and nuts make up most of the chè toppings.

Rain rustling on the corrugated iron roof fills the empty silence. Uncle Sơn stares out at the rain. Apart from the Parish Church of The Lady of Peace from across the street, there is also Khai Minh Secondary School, the vestige of a former Chinese guild-established school; and various communal housing blocks where small food businesses operated by Hoa uncles and aunties within the neighbourhood. As much as they are at risk of disappearing as the Hoa population in District 1 gets older, they are the little gems, tucked away within this corner of the city, waiting to be discovered.

Lâm Vinh Mậu was the name of the original owner, the late uncle of the brothers who currently run the stall.

I don’t think our brief interactions were enough for me to know much about the uncle, let alone the Nguyễn Thái Bình Neighborhood, his home turf, or the complexities behind the Hoa Vietnamese community in Saigon. Nevertheless, the encounter reminds me of a concern plaguing contemporary urban spaces, to which this city is no exception. The concept of a palimpsest has been used to describe the layered nature of a city’s history, whereby traces of the past are left behind or hidden beneath modern establishments.

Stainless steel sections divide the cart.

There are trade-offs to be made, and there are tensions between urbanization and heritage preservation in Saigon that need to be resolved. There is something bittersweet about this whole ordeal: with the continuous migration of people to and away from the city, the presence of heritage — whether it's a chè bowl or the presence of the Cantonese language — becomes as ephemeral as its people who once thought they would make a home there.

Most patrons are regulars, though the Hoa community in the neighborhood is dwindling every year.

As I savor those sweet, carefully curated bowls of Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu, I think about the knife slicing through the almond tofu block, the delicate ladle lifting, the sugary water seeping through its holes, and that rag at rest after a rough run across the table’s rim. I think about chú Sơn’s hands. A crumbly old shophouse with its peeling walls is never just a lifeless building when the hands that cook those morsels have been the scaffolds that keep it standing, but so are the customers, old and new, coming to relish its food. Representatives of our intangible cultural heritage, like cuisines are often inextricably linked to tangible spaces, and the people inhabiting them both. Perhaps people’s nostalgic memories and the desire to rediscover their roots are the greatest catalysts that will ultimately keep these delicious artifacts alive.

To sum up

• Opening time: 7pm–11pm
• Parking: By the stall (bike only)
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash
• Delivery App: None

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

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

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

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

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

Hummus and pita

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

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

Beef shawarma

Arabic salad

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

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

Falafel

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grilling bò lá lốt is an art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A roll with bò mỡ chài inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2019.

To sum up

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

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

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

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

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

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

The store is filled with earthy materials and colors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guests will share the space with two resident felines.

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

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

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

Thật Thà the ceramic bird in its natural habitat.

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

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

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

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

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

Masala chai and a cookie.

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

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

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