Eat & Drink - Saigoneer

Gỏi Khô Bò Lê Văn Tám Connects Generations of Saigoneers Over Papaya Salad

2026-10-14T12:00:00+07:00

My favorite genre of Saigon food places is most definitely address-less street vendors. With no name, no fixed location, no menu, no contact information, before Google Maps and smartphones, whether you can satisfy your craving for their food purely depended on the strength of your memory (to find them again) and the level of luck the universe bestowed on you that day.

While Gỏi khô bò Lê Văn Tám’s schedule is a little more dependable than the average street vendor, a tiny jolt of delight still swells in me whenever I turn the corner at Hai Bà Trưng Street to find their usual glass display filled with shredded papaya there. Also known as xắp xắp or xấp xấp — an onomatopoeia for the clanking of scissors cutting pieces of beef jerky — gỏi khô bò is one of Saigon’s oldest street snacks.

According to dì Sáu, the main proprietor of this cart, she started working here as a young lass about half a century ago, when it was run by her aunt and a plate was 50 xu (VND0.5) — this currency denomination doesn’t even exist anymore, just to show how historic the place is. After the aunt retired, she took over and has been serving countless papaya salad portions since, right at the same spot on Hai Bà Trưng Street overlooking the lush foliage of Lê Văn Tám Park.

The cart’s longevity has turned it into a rare culinary intersection of generations of Saigoneers: my Gen X dentist knows it, my Gen Y friends know it, and my Gen Z coworkers have also shared plates with her classmates. Everybody went through the exact same experience: settle down on the park sidewalk across the street, yell out your orders, and someone will cross the traffic to deliver your food.

Today, the operation has been upgraded to include a park-side satellite serving station run by her relatives for dine-in guests, and dì Sáu’s original cart is only for takeaways. The “dining area,” however, is still the raised cement edges of the street trees, and the “seats” are cut-out pieces of linoleum. Less than five minutes after we order, the gỏi khô bò arrives on iconic aluminum plates, as timeless as the operation itself.

Gỏi khô bò comprises finely shredded young papaya, chunks of black five-spiced marinated beef, a heap of golden shrimp crackers, a sweet-and-sour soy dressing, and optional chili sauce. At VND28,000 a plate in 2026, it’s not meant to be a full meal, but a refreshing snack to quell the summer heat. Here, the papaya is shredded more thoroughly, allowing it to soak up the sauce wonderfully — an excuse to consume a somewhat excessive amount of lip-smackingly umami dressing.

We finish our plates just in time for a bout of drizzle to sweep through the area. The street is suddenly filled with a rainbow of raincoats. Metallic plates of leftover sauces clank under the trees. This is the quintessential Saigon street food scene unfolding right before our eyes, like a carefully reconstructed museum diorama.

To sum up:

Opening time: 12pm–8pm
Parking: Use the park's parking lot
Contact: N/A
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery app: ShopeeFood

Gỏi khô bò Công viên Lê Văn Tám

Opposite of 259A Hai Bà Trưng, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sunday breakfast crowd.

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

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

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

Dry versus broth versions.

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

For your slurping pleasures.

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

To sum up:

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

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cá Anh Mai

153 Lê Thị Riêng, Bến Thành Ward, HCMC

Sugar, Ice, and Everything Nice: On the Mekong Delta's Love for Trà Đá Đường

2026-10-02T09:00:00+07:00

The pitcher of miền Tây-style sweet tea is like a boat ride taking me away from the exhaustion of the city back to the memories of my hometown amongst the canals of the Mekong Delta.

It’s a sweltering noon. I’m busy finding my uniform and preparing my backpack for this afternoon’s extra lesson. My midday napping habit has caused trouble for keeping up with the school schedule many times. I rush towards the Honda Cub in the front yard and see that my mom has already hung a familiar plastic pitcher on its side. She shows up behind me as if by teleportation and chastises my tardiness, as usual: “You sleep too much, so I made you trà đá đường to sip on while you go to class to continue sleeping!”

Just like that, pitchers of trà đá đường have quenched my thirst during every humid lesson and indulged my laziness during downtime when I sip while watching TV. It’s also my go-to order whenever my friends and I hang out at a streetside cafe.

Trà đá đường is self-explanatory: it’s made of tea, ice, and sugar. Photos via Facebook page Đồng Tháp Mười.

When typing these memories, I called my mom to share with her my intention. I told her that I would love to write about her pitchers of trà đá đường, about the pitchers we order at cafes, and, above all, about the familiar sweet tea of our hometown. She laughed at me through the video chat: “Oh dear, what is there to write about trà đá đường?”

When I think about it more, I get what she meant. It’s not too bold to claim that trà đá đường is like the lifeblood of delta folks. It shows up in every corner of life, when we’re thirsty, when we’re tired, when our appetite wanes. It exists as an assumed default beverage, so commonplace that it might seem that there’s nothing to discuss or debate over.

Transparency right from the name

Right from the name, this drink is already as transparent and straightforward as can be. “Trà đá đường” is simply made of trà (tea), đá (ice), and đường (sugar). Still, it’s not just any sweetened tea like some believe. There’s no official recipe for sweet tea, but the most popular method is steeping tea leaves really intensely to produce a strong brew with distinctive aroma and tannic taste. Then, add as much sugar as your heart desires. Many might be alarmed by this rather generous amount of sugar, but worry not; the concentrated sugared tea is then tempered by an equally generous amount of crushed ice. In the extreme heat of the delta, the ice will quickly melt to balance out the cloying sweetness of the tea.

A classic pitcher of trà đá đường. Photo via Măm Măm Sài Gòn.

Enjoying trà đá đường has never been a procedural or structured activity: you can take sips, use a spoon, or slurp loudly through a straw. Or, if particularly parched, just put the teaspoon handle across the pitcher opening to stop ice cubes from flowing into your mouth, and then chug. It also doesn’t require a table or special occasion. A pitcher of sweet tea can appear at any time on any surface to do its God-given job: bringing relief to dry throats.

In my opinion, a good trà đá đường should retain the slightly bitter and tannic notes of strong tea, followed by the sweetness of sugar. In one sip, one should be able to sense the faint grassy notes of tea, as well as the crunchy texture of crushed ice and some undissolved sugar crystals.

Of course, these are my preferences based on the best tea pitchers I’ve experienced, but each household, cafe, or person will no doubt have their own set of standards. Some prefer brutally strong tea with minimal sweetness, while others choose to dilute the tea with tap water to increase the drinkable volume. My family only uses móc câu tea by the Thiên Hương No. 9 brand, but my friend’s is faithful to Thái Nguyên jasmine tea.

Trà đá đường in the Mekong “sweet tooth” universe

On the other hand, not all Mekong families are into this tea. A high school friend used to complain to me about the trà đá đường ban at her home, as the parents were deadly afraid of diabetes. They scared her into abstinence by warning her that if she drank this stuff too much, ants would find her at night in bed.

Every family develops its own tea from a range of local brands. Photo via Tạp Hóa Tá Lả Miền Tây.

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing when I heard the story. I still remember her gaze of admiration when she saw me chugging the tea pitcher I brought to class. Sometimes, I even sneaked her some, just as a treat, saying: “I think your mom worries too much. I had lunch at your house, and every dish was sweet. I don’t think we can live without sweetness.”

We realized the unspoken truth behind that offhand claim. Our palates would not be content without sugar. A pot of pepper braised pork, as savory as it is with lots of fish sauce, would not achieve its enticing shine without caramelized sugar. A plate of cơm tấm sườn must be accompanied by a viscous bowl of sweetened nước chấm. Trà đá đường is just one of many ways southern people sweeten our lives.

Many treat trà đá đường as a default way to hydrate. I have yet to reach the level of one pitcher a day, but I have heard of people who are already there — wherever they go, whatever meal they have, trà đá đường must be on the side. To me, it’s not a must-have everyday drink, but after a few days without it, I feel a craving.

Since that one time I let my friend drink my tea, she started asking me to make her some when I came to class. As I watched her painstakingly scrubbing her water bottle to remove any tea trace to hide it from her mom, I couldn’t help wondering who invented this addictive drink that stole the hearts of miền Tây people and pushed my friend into this subterfuge.

A recipe for a tea mix that went viral on social media. Image via TikTok user @nguyenthithaoquyen97.

According to my grandmother, in the 1930s and 1940s, during her generation, trà đá đường had already existed in the Mekong Delta. There is no written record confirming its origins, so my personal theory is simply that, in a land where sugar is so abundant that it appears in nearly every dish, iced tea is no exception.

Where I live, the elders believe that trà đá đường is a very potent energy drink. Just drink it, and you will feel healthy and awake immediately, they rave. Tea does contain caffeine, and sugar indeed gets turned into energy, so trà đá đường was born to be the countryside’s cheapest form of energy drink. Just imagine: after a whole morning laboring away in the field, you hunker down to rest and gulp up a huge sip of ice-cold, refreshing tea. How satisfying would that be? Perhaps, providing temporary relief from the back-breaking labor of agriculture was how trà đá đường first found its way into our hearts.

The delta’s choice of energy drink.

Today, trà đá đường is not beloved by just people who farm, but also cà phê võng patrons, children napping after school, street vendors in markets, ferry workers on a break, and xe ôm uncles waiting at intersections. A pitcher of trà đá đường is present somewhere by their side.

Now, living in the city, I tend to think of milk tea when the word tea is mentioned. It, too, is familiar and relevant to my current environment, yet, there is still a small corner within me for the pitchers of trà đá đường Mom made for me to take to school.

Fresh Lobster Accompanies Singapore's Famed Chili Sauce at The Straits

2026-09-23T10:54:00+07:00

Lobster needs no embellishments. But pleasure is about more than satisfying needs, and sometimes we want extravagance.

Extravagant is an appropriate way to describe the rich sauce found in Singapore’s famed chili crabs. The slightly sweet, intensely savory red sauce consists of tomatoes, ginger, garlic, lime, and chilis, is at the core of one of Singapore’s most cherished dishes. What began as a home meal turned street stall item can now be found on fine dining menus around the world.

The Straits takes the iconic dish a step further and smothers fresh lobster in the succulent sauce. The soft, buttery meat takes on an elevated richness from the sauce offering a novel lobster experience certain to be enjoyed by lobster enthusiasts as well as those as-yet unconvinced by the crustacean. While lobster will always be the main attraction of any plate its placed on, the sauce is so charismatic as to warrant an accompaniment of steamed or fried buns to sop up every last drop. Those in search of an alternative interpretation of the lobster can order lobster xo noodles which add fresh egg noodles and bok choy or select a traditional surf and turf which features black angus beef ribeye.

The chili sauce innovation comes as part of The Straits' aim to serve authentic, diverse Singaporean dishes in a relaxed and sophisticated setting. With expansive windows offering expansive views of Saigon’s nightscape, the comfortable dining room and bar provide a novel setting for familiar Singapore flavors to meld with an elevated setting. It’s here, amongst the char kway teow, chicken rice, rojak, nasi goreng, horfun, mee siam and laksa, you’ll discover a way to perhaps appreciate lobster more than ever.

Sedona Suite's Website

Sedona Suite's Email

The Strait's Facebook Page

090 667 79 23

Level 28, Sedona Suites, 67 Le Loi, Ben Nghe Ward, District 1, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam)

Kem Vi Bổn's Popsicles Anchor 70 Years of Saigon's Summer Memories

2026-09-22T13:00:00+07:00

Saigoneers have always been blessed with a thriving ice cream scene, perhaps an inevitable perk of living in a city that’s rarely not scorching hot. Amid a thriving scene of inventive gelato and soft serve flavors, one frozen treat place has stood the test of time for nearly 70 years: Kem Vi Bổn.

The first time I tasted Kem Vi Bổn was nearly 20 years ago when I was still in school, and I can confidently say that, after trying it just a few days ago for this article, the taste has remained unchanged. The shopfront has been renovated, and the ladies who run the place might look a little older, but it’s astonishing how the menu and recipe have stayed consistent throughout the decades. I guess if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

The Vietnamese language uses “kem” as a catch-all term to refer to all frozen desserts, but the products that Kem Vi Bổn is best known and loved for are actually popsicles. They also make a selection of ice cream in tubs. Available popsicle flavors could change depending on the day, but are usually in the range of mung bean, black bean, coconut, taro, durian, and kumquat.

At VND4,000 per kumquat pop and VND7,000 for the rest, this is likely to be the cheapest dish you will be able to purchase in Saigon these days. Are the popsicles the best thing you will taste in the city? Absolutely not, but boy do they give the most bang for your buck. What’s more, the ladies here are so sweet and considerate: they saw that our ice-pops were melting after being photographed in the sun, and offered to exchange them for new ones from the freezer.

Every flavor is made from simple local ingredients, prepared simply. Admittedly, to a tourist or visitor not having grown up with these ice-pops, they can taste aggressively plain, but, if you want to partake in a piece of Saigon culture, this is one of the cheapest ways to do so, for a refreshing outcome. My favorite is still kumquat after all these years, though to me, it looks and tastes more like Tang orange juice than tắc.

Kem Vi Bổn was founded by the family of Lý Vĩnh Đạo and Võ Thị Hai in 1958. Đạo’s father, Lý Thân, learned how to make ice cream when he was living in Cambodia. When they relocated to Saigon, he opened up a shop and taught all the children the family trade. A few sons and grandchildren even started branches across the city over the decades, but today, only the OG shop has managed to endure.

According to Thân, “bổn” means lifeblood, like in “bổn mạng” and “vi” means “because.” He named the shop as such to remind every household member that it is the family’s livelihood, something to maintain and preserve.

Kem Vi Bổn

19 Nguyễn Huy Tự, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

Bình Thạnh’s Best Budget-Friendly Off-Menu Bánh Mì by the Canal

2026-09-15T14:00:00+07:00

I trust the philosophy that, to find the best places to eat, look for those crowded with locals. Such logic would lead you to Xôi Thị Nghè near the five-way intersection close to Chợ Thị Nghè in the former Bình Thạnh District.

Bánh mì and xôi, breakfasts of champions.

Every morning, from sunrise until supplies run out by 10-ish, the street cart services an endless stream of people pulling over and ordering without dismounting from their motorbikes. The husband-and-wife team who operate the simple stall move as a seamless, synchronized pair; he fills styrofoam containers with sticky rice that she loads up with ordered toppings and returns to him to be handed to customers in exchange for money. It’s a study in efficiency borne from repetition, the success of which is measured in the number of plastic bags hanging from bike handles as they plunge back into nearby traffic.

A well-oiled machine

I’ve visited this cart more than any other in my life. A couple of times a week for the better part of a decade, I’ve sauntered into view, and they begin making my breakfast without so much as a word spoken. They see me and know. But despite it being a cart specializing in xôi, as its name attests to, that’s not what I’m there for. Long ago, a buddy of mine noticed they sell xôi gà xé and bánh mì xíu mại, so they should be able to make a bánh mi gà xé. He simply asked, and they named a price. I merely piggybacked onto the offering and have kept it up ever since.

Bread, pickles, cucumbers, mayo, cilantro, shredded chicken, a sprinkling of salt and MSG. There is no secret sauce; there is no magic preparation. The straightforward bánh mi is delicious in large part because of how basic and familiar it is. I also appreciate it for what it’s not: not greasy like bánh mi chả cá, messy like bánh mì xíu mại, or consisting of reconstituted gore à la thịt nguội. And at only VND15,000, it’s not stuffed to the crust, though surely filling enough to keep a narrow-chest like me full until lunch.

Is there any better view to enjoy a street snack?

An extra perk of this xôi stand, and the reason I am recommending it now, is the location. Most customers are off to work, about to brave the congested exit onto Xô Viết Nghệ-Tĩnh to travel into District 1 or deeper into Bình Thạnh and beyond, but if you go the opposite way, you’ll encounter perhaps the best free seating in all Saigon. The zoo is just across the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè Canal, and the edge of the ward doesn’t suffer through traffic. Instead, the wide sidewalk with numerous benches becomes a sight of serenity enjoyed by dog walkers, dancers and coffee sippers. Sitting there with bread in hand, giraffe necks rising in the distance, is a unique pleasure made all the more special if you’re early enough to hear the gibbons calling.

Bánh mì? For me? Where?

Xôi Thị Nghè

2B Huỳnh Mẫn Đạt, Khu phố 3, Thạnh Mỹ Tây Ward, HCMC

In Defense of Vietnam's Iced Beer and Why, in My Beer, I Want Ice Ice Baby

2026-09-11T15:00:00+07:00

The snobby beer connoisseur may scoff at those who drink beer with ice. But in Vietnam, as much as 75% of drinkers enjoy their beer with ice, a habit I myself have picked up and have grown to love whilst living in Saigon. If I’m having beer, I’m almost certainly having it on the rocks, be it room-temp or already chilled; a cheaper beer from a convenience store or a craft IPA at a pub — in which case I will somewhat embarrassingly ask for a separate glass of ice. Iced beer is far superior to normal, boring beer. Below, I offer my five-point defense of why.

1. A cold plunge

No one likes lukewarm beer. And what better way of fast-tracking the cooling process than pouring it directly into a glass of ice? Though it needs saying, ice is not just for the tepid. On a hot and steamy day (by which I mean night, obviously), I crave an ice-cold beer atop ice-cold ice. I like my beer so cold, in fact, that it might just give me a thrilling brain freeze — the stuff of childhood, sure, back when we had yet to learn how too fast or too much might just backfire up along the neck. Though who would’ve thought, many a year later, what joy it would be to re-learn that same lesson over again?

2. A snack

When drinking, I constantly find myself seeking something to nibble on, accustomed to Korea’s “anju” culture, a parallel to Vietnam’s nhậu culture. A sip to whet my appetite, a bite and a nibble, and a swish to awash the food, ad infinitum. But rarely do I not feel sick once I’m done, a problem of too much bloat. I find ice a perfect zero-calorie solution — something to suck and bite on to ease the boredom of the mouth. After all, an ice is just an ice.

3. A lie

As a lightweight, I delight in the fact that ice can give the illusion of multiple drinks in one. What would have filled merely one tall glass can now be poured into multiple icy glasses. The volume of beer is the same but what do I care? Oh, the satisfaction of slamming down a glass in one go like a boisterous viking! Why split the G when you could go all the way?

4. A natural timer

Critics of iced beer will complain that ice waters down beer. Yet how come the same critics do not bat an eye when it comes to other commonly iced drinks? Coffee, tea, cocktails, juice, the list could go on and on. Sure, ice waters down beer like any other drink, but must that be a bad thing? When my beer begins to taste more and more like piss, I take that as Dionysus’s sign for me to gulp down what has probably already gone flat anyways and order myself another one.

5. Bubbles!

Beer experts will tell you that creating foam when pouring beer in fact helps enhance the taste of the beer and the drinking experience. But personally, I drink beer for its carbonation and the belch that helps to release — nay, sublimate — not just gas but something more incorporeal like pent-up discontent. (Is this a good place to emphasize that I am not an alcoholic?) I mention this for the reason that, apparently (and I’ve long suspected such from experience), pouring beer over ice helps to reduce the amount of CO₂ that escapes. Granted, the ice needs to be “rinsed” — but who says it has to be with water? I prefer to rinse my ice with a swirl or two of beer.

To be clear, none of this is an endorsement of alcoholism. Ideally, we should avoid drinking altogether. But if we are going to drink anyways, we might as well have our beers in their optimal form: served ice-, ice-cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The izakaya that “cool” builds

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just pork belly-wrap that up

A portion of niku dofu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ins and outs of running an izakaya

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

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

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

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

We're in izakaya heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up

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

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

Sakaba Sasuke

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

Ngõ Nooks: On Hàng Bài, Golden Bún Cá Thái Bình in a Hole in the Wall

2026-08-28T10:00:00+07:00

When a friend of mine returned home after living abroad last year, he longed for a bowl of bún cá. I suggested the classic Hanoi dish, with satisfyingly oily deep-fried fish, but he had other ideas — a fresh feast originally from Thai Binh, located almost 100 kilometers from the capital.

We ventured to a narrow, lively alleyway close to Tràng Tiền Plaza. The restaurant is in a dimly lit room in a crumbling old colonial house. I noticed bowls of pickled bamboo shoots on the tables which, it turns out, are prepared specifically to go with the bún cá they serve. That point alone marks a clear departure from the dish’s Hanoian cousin.

When my bowl arrived, I saw how the broth barely covered the bún in my bowl. The noodles were also thicker — more akin to those served with bún bò giò heo — and the soup had a distinctive taste formed from fish stock and a hint of sour tomato. But what really topped it off was the meaty chunks of richly hued snakehead fish.

The fish held firm between my chopsticks yet, as soon as it entered my mouth, its tender flakes fell apart gorgeously. Later, I was told that these plump and juicy pieces were carefully picked from prime cuts and, to achieve their burnt orange color, they were braised in a rich mix of turmeric and cashew powder.

Feasting merely on fish and noodles can be a tad heavy; thankfully they are served with steamed seasonal vegetables such as morning glory, celery or water mimosa (rau rút) to add freshness. And if that wasn't enough, the aforementioned tangy bamboo shoots easily balance out the heartiness of the bowl.

If I had come by a little later in the day, closer to noon, they would have been serving pork rinds with each meal. These crunchy, fatty, deep-fried snacks are a favorite among office workers who regularly swing by.

The restaurant’s owner was born in Thái Bình City but moved to Hanoi years ago. She tried and failed to sell general household goods before eventually offering customers her hometown’s celebrated noodle soup. Initially, only those familiar with the dish came by, but word gradually spread, and these days her restaurant is always brimming at meal times.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–8pm
Parking: If you come by motorbike and are unsure of where to park in the tiny lane, keep heading straight past the shop and you’ll see a big yard used by the community there. Parking is free.
Contact: 0989310749
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Hà Tạ absolutely loves food and dreams of selling noodles.

Bún Cá Thái Bình

21D Hàng Bài Street, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

From Fine Dining to Comfort Food: Why Chef Thierry Mounon Followed up La Villa with La Fontaine

2026-08-27T11:28:00+07:00

“Beyond awards or recognition, a restaurant is about welcoming people, creating memories and bringing joy around a table,” explains Chef Thierry Mounon of his decision to expand from French fine dining into comfort food.

Chef Thierry Mounon and the La Fontaine team.

Thierry and his wife, Tina Trang Phạm, spent over 15 years building La Villa into one of Saigon's best-known French fine-dining restaurants. The Micheline-selected restaurant has earned a reputation as a destination to experience classic French cuisine, where exquisite ingredients are meticulously prepared and presented, accompanied by carefully choreographed service. One expects tasting menus with goose foie gras terrine, blue lobster tail, and Dombes barbecued duck, accompanied by an extensive wine list and choreographed service. With such success, one could expect Thierry to open another fine dining concept that builds off his experience. Yet, with La Fontaine, he chose to “return to the roots of hospitality … The heart of French gastronomy is much simpler.”

Locating the heart of French gastronomy

Just down the road from La Villa, La Fontaine takes inspiration from the neighborhood bistrots in the South of France, where Thierry grew up. Compared to fine dining, bistrots are more casual and part of to everyday life as opposed to special occasions. “A bistrot is spontaneous, lively, and accessible,” he says. “It’s where families, friends, neighbours and regular guests gather around honest food.”

Roast chicken, steak frites, and onion soup, all of which are exemplary items on La Fontaine’s menu, appear simple, but they do not require any less skill in the kitchen to prepare, according to Thierry. “I often tell my Chef Thanh that bistrot cooking leaves nowhere to hide,” he says, going on to explain that while fewer techniques are used in homestyle cooking compared to fine dining, there is no less love needed for the preparation or ingredients.

Given that the standards for skill and care in the kitchen are shared by both restaurants, the atmospheres that surround the meals are the biggest differentiators between La Villa and La Fontaine, in addition to price. By offering experiences that people can enjoy casually, without cause, pomp, or circumstance, La Fontaine becomes a member of the neighborhood. Families can rest there after busy days, couples can opt to connect over a bottle, and foodies can taste stellar food without the need to dress up or put on airs.

A reflection of Saigon’s evolving dining sophistications

With Michelin restaurants, celebrity chefs, and a headfirst dive into global trends, Saigon’s culinary world has changed significantly in the decade and a half since La Villa first opened its doors. Amidst the chase for attention, accolades, and recognition, there has emerged a counterbalancing desire for authenticity. Thierry sees the new bistrot as attending to people uninterested in highfalutin egos and distractions.

Attuned to classic French and a wide range of global cuisines, alongside Vietnam’s many regional delicacies, diners are skeptical of gimmicks and novelty. “What they appreciate is honesty,” Thierry says. This is achieved by serving staple French comfort foods like Lyonnaise salad, duck leg confit, seared scallops, and beef vegetable soup in a relaxed dining room where comfortable chairs stretch beneath the types of photos, posters, and images one might find in a French countryside home.

La Fontaine has a similarly grounded approach to the role of promotion. “People don’t return because of marketing; they return because a place becomes part of their lives,” Thierry notes. This means frequent guests are greeted by name and brought to their favorite tables, where they can order the same dish as always, prepared precisely as they expect. Meanwhile, seasonal dishes and flavors help keep every visit fresh.

One can consider La Fontaine a logical step for an esteemed chef with a passion for honoring the nation’s culinary legacy without judging success by accolades and prestige. One can also think of La Fontaine as reflecting Saigon’s ever-maturing dining landscape, which has space for high-quality international food within everyday routines. Or one can simply think of La Fontaine as an ideal place to linger over delicious food with loved ones, ensuring the day contains something exemplary.

La Fontaine's website

La Fontaine's Email

Phone (+84) 283 535 5487

La Fontaine, River Garden, 170 Nguyễn Văn Hưởng, Hồ Chí Minh 700000, Vietnam

What Cooking Bún Chả for My Birthday Abroad Taught Me About Vietnameseness

2026-08-18T14:00:00+07:00

“Hot summer night, mid-July, when you and I were forever wild,” Lana Del Rey croons every July 15 to celebrate my birthday. Those melodramatic words consistently evoke three specific elements in my mind: Heineken or Tiger beer cans on the floor; the sweet smoky smell of bún chả and nem enlaced with the rainy air of a darkening Saigon sky; and my friends and family under the LED-lit roof of an iCool karaoke room. Such pillars uphold what I consider the quintessential Vietnamese birthday experience.

Versions of this birthday routine punctuated my summers until July 2024, when I left Vietnam for Canada. In three years of studying abroad, only my second year was unmarked by a visit home. Curious to see if I could confidently call Montreal my home, I decided to turn 20 under the Canadian sun. Being the furthest I had ever been from home, I was more determined than ever to turn 20 the right, Vietnamese way.

The idea of my friends tasting my favorite Hanoian dishes for the first time, whose recipes followed my family south to Saigon, was exciting, but it was the prospect of cooking these meals with them that I dreamt of. In Saigon, grilling bún chả and rolling nem was a family tradition that eventually grew to include my closest friends. It was a rite of passage for those with whom I envisioned a lasting friendship: only the truest bonds survived an entire day of cooking with my family.

In Montreal, I trusted that the same labor-intensive endeavor would enlarge my “family” as it did back home. I tasked friends who did not qualify for the kitchen crew with bringing either Tiger or Heineken beers — cans only. Neither Heineken nor Tiger is a Vietnamese brand, yet these names automatically recall quintessentially Vietnamese moments. Crushed tin cylinders, green and silver or blue and orange, overlay the floors of nhậu joints; the floor of my uncle’s backyard in Hanoi on the night of my grandmother’s funeral. I also knew that I would sing my way into my 21^st year on Earth, as I did every year prior. A private karaoke booth for my loved ones and I to sing songs that only we care for— that was probably what I missed most about Saigon whilst living abroad.

The beer cans that could have been

I had designed the perfect trident: Hanoian barbecue, beer cans, and karaoke would guarantee a perfectly Vietnamese birthday. But each prong of the Vietnamese fork quickly bent to the Montreal winds — the material conditions of my new city threatened, and ultimately transformed, each of my traditions. My bartenders scavenged the city for my beer cans only to return with bottles. I heard the sound of defeat — the unbearable clinking of glass — before I could see it. Such a minor substitution should not cause despair, but my heart sank anyway: bringing Saigon to Montreal might be more difficult than I thought. The absence of cans alone would not make my celebration less Vietnamese.

Bringing karaoke into the wild

But it was more than cans. Orchestrating a karaoke experience that matched my Saigoneer memory was surprisingly challenging. Whereas karaoke rooms populate every crevice of Saigon, in my area in Montreal, karaoke exists only in one bar on the main boulevard. Here, strangers gathered around a small wooden stage facing a small screen hung from above. Under the disco ball, you didn’t have to know others to sing with and to them. One did not choose their songs directly from YouTube, but from a song book. The limited set list, whose latest hits came out circa 2018, was printed in tiny font sizes that drunken customers squinted to read.

Clearly, I was a long way from iCool. In that faraway kingdom, I ruled as karaoke queen as my loved ones smoked and drank on leather couches, under the cooling AC ambience, screaming lyrics projected on a huge flatscreen. This luxury, which I took for granted in Saigon, was far beyond my reach in Montreal. The only similar options were Korean karaoke salons: a private room with mostly Korean or Japanese hits, mixed with the occasional banger from the Black Eyed Peas, would cost me more than any Vietnamese person should be willing to spend on karaoke.

Luckily, my pièce de résistance — a compact karaoke machine — was available on Facebook Marketplace for CA$60. Its vendor lived at the very end of the blue line, which I rarely took. Early the next morning, my roommate and I rode down to a corner of Montreal we seldom saw. After nearly an hour on the metro and another half spent battling Google Maps under the sun, we reached our destination. The vendor unboxed the brand-new device, and the three of us spent nearly another hour trying to set it up. Once that was done, my roommate and I sang Rihanna in this sweet stranger’s living room. The night of my birthday, the cool summer breeze, the dim light of the moon and candles overflowing from wine bottles, and the picnic benches of Parc La Fontaine built a world more intimate than an iCool room.

Bún chả blues began with the meat cut

Our journey to this happy evening was messy, and food was our most grueling obstacle. With the joint audacity of three 20-year-olds, we believed ourselves capable of making nem from scratch for 15 people in an evening. I underestimated the time it would take to transfer cooking skills, which took years to become instinct, to friends who had never tasted, let alone made nem. The meticulous dicing of vegetables, the delicate rolling techniques, even the hunt for jicama, exhausted us. As the sun rose, we labored around my kitchen table, inhaling every final drop of caffeine, rolling our last nem to the rhythm of French rap.

This logistical nightmare became a wholesome, albeit long, night I was lucky to share with friends who cared enough to recreate something they have never known. The traces of our collective effort — rice paper stuck to the table, puddles of spilled water, ground chicken splattered on the walls and counters — would be a pain to clean up in the morning. But that night, I contemplated that mess, which transformed my apartment into my family’s kitchen, with endearment.

With no barbecue equipment, I eventually had to replace bún chả with bún thịt nướng. This was a happy substitution: bún chả’s Saigoneer sibling was more practical but just as delicious. Shopping for the right cut of meat, however, was the most devastating hurdle. To accommodate my friends who avoid pork, I decided on beef thịt xiên. My mom theorized that thăn would be the only one cut of beef that can remain tender after being thinly sliced, skewered, and broiled. I did not recognize it, nor could I find its English equivalent. I Google-translated the word she uttered; I studied beef cuts diagrams online, naming and showing every cut to my mom. Having never cooked nor shopped in English, she couldn’t confirm my intel; having never cooked or shopped in Vietnamese, I couldn’t understand hers. Hoping live visuals would help, I called her again at the supermarket. I showed her every tray of ruby meat; I scanned every tag and read the Vietnamese translations out loud as my mom shook her head on my screen. Eventually, the 11-hour time difference between Saigon and Montreal released my mom from my panic-stricken calls, leaving me helpless in the meat aisle.

My homesickness and perfectionism willed me to prove that I could recreate Vietnam accurately anywhere. So I continued searching for a cut of beef I could not name, across five hours and three grocery stores. My last destination was the Asian supermarket by my old apartment, a 40-minute walk away. To my surprise, the butcher was Vietnamese. I ran to him, hopeful, asking for the cut in Vietnamese. In a mix of French and Vietnamese, he told me he wasn’t sure what that was: having lived in Montreal for 60 years, he had lost much of our mother tongue. Desperate, I begged for an adequate substitute — if language barriers separate us, surely we still share the same food memory? To my dismay, the butcher selected the one cut my mom instructed me against, and I began sobbing between the meat refrigerators. It was now 5pm, meaning 4am in Saigon. I could not reach my sleeping mother now, and even if I could, what would I tell her with my limited Vietnamese?

Resignation washed over me as a dual realization settled: I have failed at grocery shopping and must now surrender to a random tray of meat; and I am living in an Ocean Vuong scene from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. In a passage that I had painstakingly analyzed for my thesis, the narrator’s illiterate Vietnamese mother struggles to buy oxtail to make bún bò Huế in the US. Devoid of the right English words, she jumps from Vietnamese to broken French to body language, ultimately leaving the store empty-handed. Why academically hypothesize about the gut-wrenching relationship between home and language, when I can experience it myself?

Crushing failure reigned temporarily in the wake of my attempts at the perfect Vietnamese experience. My disgraceful shopping led me to question my knowledge of my culture, and thus my belonging to it. Out of options and out of time, my friends and I cooked our misadventures away. We made thịt xiên by cooking the wrong cut of beef the right way — adapting and tenderizing it however we could, just as my mom would have told us to. We drank the right beer from the wrong bottles, washing down our oversized nem; we bastardized the concept of iCool with our version of karaoke in the park.

Circumstances forced us to deviate from my recipes for a quintessentially Vietnamese celebration; the whole thing was a mess. But the mess was laughter, labor, music, homemade food and love. I turned 20 in that mess, and at 22 now, I realized that there are no perfect standards of Vietnameseness except the ones we imagine. Now, two summers later, I look back on this wonderful night only to see my favorite birthday party yet, one that was a loudly Vietnamese celebration in Montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bright interior of the place.

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

Danh Phan founded the eatery with his wife, Vy.

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

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

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

There are 12 flavors at any moment during opening hours.

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

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

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

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

Soufflé pancakes is a new addition to the menu.

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

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

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

Fruit tea and honey kumquat tea

Bò kho tacos

Crème brûlée

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

To sum up:

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

Sugar Daddy Eatery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bowl of phở chay

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

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

Mỳ Quảng chay

Bò kho chay

Cơm tấm chay

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2020.

To sum up:

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

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

Phở Chay Như

54 Trương Quyền, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

The Unifying Presence of Cái Mâm, Vietnam’s Ubiquitous, Familial Food Tray

2026-07-22T10:00:00+07:00

An authentic Vietnamese meal cannot be complete without cái mâm. Mâm, a humble, circular food tray, has conducted generations of Vietnamese into a familial ritual for centuries. Once a mâm is set as the centerpiece, knees begin touching knees until the whole family sits cross-legged in a circle. One person pairs up chopsticks from the bundle and distributes them to fellow diners, while another scoops rice into bowls.

Mâm was first created using wood, usually from jackfruit trees. According to Tuổi Trẻ, former versions were painted crimson and featured intricate patterns to display wealth. At the dawn of the Bronze Age, a new, more durable version appeared, only to be replaced centuries later by its contemporary, aluminum cousin.

Some ethnic minorities utilize other eco-friendly materials for their mâm. In certain areas of northern Vietnam and along the nation’s central coast, men from Thái minorities take pride in the woven cane trays they create, which can last for up to 20 years. During special feasts, Muong minorities line their mâm with lightly scorched banana leaves and arrange regional specialties on leaves to form a colorful platter.

A 1960 silk painting by Nguyễn Phan Chánh. Photo via designs.vn.

Mâm is, therefore, a lens through which one can capture how Vietnamese people eat every day. A minimal checklist includes a serving of seasonal vegetables, a protein dish and a bowl of soup. Each mâm is a round of culinary delights orbiting around a spicy bowl of fish sauce. Indeed, what would a summer meal be without sautéed morning glory, or a winter feast without braised catfish?

The intuitive design of mâm explains its timeless utility. A round tray adorned with food becomes an instant focus for hungry eyes. Its magnetic presence attracts diners around its rim. The round tray has no prominent spot, thus it establishes seating arrangements of unrivaled equality. Diners, regardless of status or age, enter an intimate circle to share stories over plates of food. And yet it is, after all, merely a simple tray for carrying food to and from the kitchen to the dining area.

Now in his 60s, my father believes the communal aspect of mâm grew out of Vietnamese rice-farming culture. After working from cockcrow until noon, his parents and their nine children sustained themselves with only two boiled eggs, some diluted fish sauce and wild greens. He reminisced: “It was fulfilling somehow. We shared whatever was there on the plate.”

Table manners surrounding mâm weave daily interactions into a rhythm. The young show respect to elderly family members, who lightly nod in return. If someone seems too far from any dish, an observant relative will pass chopstick-held food across the mâm. If someone is late for dinner, their portion of food is reserved in a covered dish.

An illustration of a mâm plate adorned with sticky rice cakes, pickles, pork sausage, braised pork belly and stuffed bitter melon. Illustration by Phan Phương.

Like a timepiece without hands, mâm rings a bell of reunion. Its routine presence rushes workers out of offices, out of phone calls, and away from life’s daily hustle to take up their spot in the circle. It would only taste like Tết, however, if everyone makes it in time for the midnight meal.

The connective duty of mâm extends beyond quotidian family tables. Mounted with engagement gifts, mâm turns strangers into in-laws. When resting upon altars, mâm represents an outstretched hand to ancestors.

Yet while mâm is a mediator, it can also act as a form of segregation. Festive gatherings in rural areas still divide mâm trên, a higher rank, from lesser mâm dưới. Only when elders and men in the mâm trên group finish drinking and dining can the women and children in mâm dưới leave the gathering and start washing dishes.

A family of three generations having dinner. Photo by Trang Six.

In urban households, a generational rift manifests itself over mâm. My sister, a sophomore student, says home life stresses her out, and that street food meals are simply more exciting. Her obvious preference is to eat out with friends. This lifestyle choice of my sister and her generation questions the continued relevance of family gatherings.

In public spaces, some are finding ways to reconcile with this new cultural milieu. Modern Vietnamese restaurant owners serve food on mâm as it opens doors for business partners to enter a circle of trust, or for travelers to taste a sample of ‘genuine’ Vietnam in communal homestay dinners.

Across endless decades, mâm has satisfied generations of hungry souls. Bridging relationships one meal at a time, mâm whispers that we are all connected. In this circle of life, we are all a part of something greater than ourselves.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2020.

Chợ Bà Hoa Transports Central Vietnam's Universe of Crispy, Funky, Sugary Treats to Saigon

2026-07-15T14:00:00+07:00

My family lives in Saigon, a long distance from our hometown in Quảng Ngãi. We only visit a few times a year, but each time is a celebration of amazing food: bánh tráng nướng with sausages, bánh gói with spicy, garlicky nước chấm, crispy fried rolls, etc. Without fail, whenever I set food in the city again, I can’t help missing it dearly.

I used to wish that Saigon would have a market dedicated to all sorts of Central Vietnamese treats, and the universe has answered my prayers in the form of Bà Hoa Market. Based in an alley on Trần Mai Ninh Street in Bảy Hiền, former Tân Bình District, the market exists as a home for the most familiar, rustic, and distinctly central fares, from obscure snacks to central Vietnamese accents.

Bà Hoa Market was established by central Vietnamese immigrants who moved to Saigon during the war.

A brief history of Bà Hoa Market and Saigon’s central Vietnamese enclave

According to historical records, the Bảy Hiền area in Saigon has been the safe home for many immigrant communities from Northern and Central Vietnam for decades. Amongst them, people from the Quảng region are the most populous.

The market is crowded from the early hours of the day until midday.

During the most tumultuous times of the war, waves of immigrants left their hometowns to seek solace in Saigon’s suburban areas. To make a living in the new land, they took up whatever jobs that were available, from driving a xích lô, mechanical work, carpentry, to selling mỳ Quảng. Most notably, central Vietnamese founded the famed Bảy Hiền Weaver Village.

At Bà Hoa Market, you can find all sorts of interesting food from central Vietnam.

Once the community grew big enough, people started longing for a common space to trade spices, produce, and regional dishes. According to some sources, around 1964–1967, a woman named Hoa decided to purchase the low-lying lot belonging to the Đắc Lộ Parish in Bảy Hiền. She filled the plot and established the market that we know and love today.

To pay respect to the founder, the market was named after her: Bà Hoa. Nowadays, this historic venue is renamed Ward 11 Market on administrative maps, but in the minds of Central Vietnam migrants, Bà Hoa Market is an irreplaceable memory anchor. Its existence reminds them of a tough period in their life and the human connection those hardships helped foster.

The market nurturing migrant souls

Each marketplace in Saigon is beautiful in its own way. Some stand out thanks to their massive structural scale. Some have transcended their basic commercial functions to become historical landmarks. Bà Hoa Market, on the other hand, is not that different from a rustic countryside hangout, a place to convert homesickness into tasty, familiar treats.

Right from the opening of the alley leading into the market, you’ll bump into rows of bicycles and carts vending iconic snacks. Xu xoa is an opaque, crunchy, refreshing white jelly made from a special type of seaweed collected along the Central Vietnam coast, enjoyed with brown sugar syrup and candied ginger. A bowl of warm beancurd is also great with smooth, velvety spoonfuls of soy and ginger flavors and a touch of southern quirks with coconut milk and white chewy pearls.

Xu xoa and beancurd.

Walk a few more steps and you’ll be greeted with kiosks specializing in all sorts of rice paper and noodles. The compendium of rice paper from the region is extensive: Bình Định-style coconut rice paper, rice sheets, sesame crepes, wrapping sheets from spring rolls, and Đại Lộc-style rice paper for rolling. Right in front of their stalls, vendors set up coal fires to grill crackers until golden and alluringly toasty.

Grilled crackers are the soul of central foods.

Grilled crackers are the soul of Central Vietnam foods, being a part of a range of dishes including bánh đập mắm nêm, don xào, turmeric-braised white bait, vịt lộn, mỳ Quảng, offal porridge, and turmeric stir-fries — the crisp sounds of breaking up a cracker is iconic.

Next, the rows of confectionery kiosks house tangible reminders of a sweet childhood, quite literally. Blooming yellow bánh thuẫn remind me of previous Tết when I helped mom mix batter until my hands were exhausted. The black bánh ít lá gai and logs of sesame-covered bánh tổ bring back memories of my time with grandma. The vast range of sugar types evoke the imagery of endless sugarcane fields and the many desserts they flavored, like cakes, chè, dried sweet potatoes.

Quảng Nam-style bánh tổ is made of glutinous rice powder, sugar, ginger, and sesame seeds, often eaten during festive times.

Bánh ít.

Different forms of raw sugar.

Đường bát (bowl sugar).

The region’s umami-rich side is on display at mắm vendors, in many fermented condiments like anchovy mắm, mắm cái, mắm nêm, fermented baby eggplants, mắm ruốc, sardine mắm, and even flying fish mắm. Mắm cái, an assortment of fermented fish, is perhaps the favorite one in the eyes of Quảng Ngãi residents in my hometown. A few spoonfuls of mắm, some sugar, garlic, chili, and lime juice make for a tantalizing bowl of dipping sauce for fresh greens.

Of course, a stroll through Bà Hoa Market is never just for stocking the pantry, because the fragrance of ready-made foods from everywhere would entice anyone to sit down for a plate of bánh đập mắm nêm. On top of a big grilled cracker lies a sheet of silky bánh ướt, smeared with chives oil and dipped in mắm.

Tasty dishes are made right in the market.

Besides, there’s always mỳ Quảng that sings of củ nén, eaten with simmered pork and shrimp, sesame crackers, roasted peanuts, fresh herbs, and chili jam. For something different, you can also seek out offal stir-fried with turmeric, lemongrass ốc ruốc, or bánh bèo served on puny plates with prawn floss and chives oil.

Wrapping bánh nậm using dong leaves.

If you have nothing going on this weekend, drop by Bà Hoa Market for a different type of hangout. You’ll not only get to feast on amazing food, but also get to know Central Vietnam’s exceptionally flavorful cuisine.

Bánh đập is a crepe-like dish combining a layer of cracker with a layer of rice sheet.

Mỳ Quảng, bánh bèo and chả Huế.

Tiny ốc lễ are stir-fried with lemongrass and chili.

Pork offal stir-fried with turmeric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Essential elements of cơm tấm.

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

A lunch for champions.

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

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

This article was originally published in 2024.

To sum up:

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

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh

19E Kỳ Đồng, Ward 9, D3, HCMC

Christine Ha Writes New Food Stories From Her Parents' Culinary Heritage

2026-06-30T13:00:00+07:00

“I was in a creative writing program for grad school at the time, and I thought, as an artist, going on MasterChef would give me something to write about.”

Going on MasterChef

Little did Christine Ha know that her decision to enter the American version of MasterChef, the competitive cooking show made famous by Gordon Ramsay’s acerbic assessments, would give her more than just fodder for her literary ambitions. In a sense, she was right: winning MasterChef comes with a cookbook contract and hers, Recipes From My Home Kitchen: Asian and American Comfort Food, became a New York Times bestseller.

Photo via FOX

Christine’s family is originally from northern Vietnam but they immigrated to the south, along with almost a million other northerners after the Geneva Agreement of 1954. “Because my family was originally from the north, we eat our phở the northern way with the wider rice noodles and few herbs or condiments. My grandmother was also known for her giant 8”x8” [20 cm x 20 cm] bánh chưng during Tết,” she explains.

On April 29, 1975, Christine’s father, who was still courting her mother, realized they needed to leave the country very, very soon. He rushed to ask for her mother’s hand in marriage, and they ran to find a US naval ship. Bouncing from the Philippines to a refugee camp in Guam to Pennsylvania to Chicago to southern California (where Christine was born), the family eventually settled down in Houston, Texas when Christine was two years old.

Flash-forward 18 years and Christine started losing her vision due to neuromyelitis optica (NMO), a rare inflammatory autoimmune disorder, just as she was begining to experiment with cooking. While in grad school for Creative Writing, her then-boyfriend (now husband) John Suh set up a blog. They called it The Blind Cook.

“I think the casting director for MasterChef was jokingly Googling ‘blind chef’ and ended up landing on my blog.”

Photo via FOX

In 2012, they reached out to her about auditioning for Season 3 of the show and Christine thought the name Gordan Ramsay “sounded familiar.” John and her friends strongly encouraged her to apply so she could bring awareness to what visually impaired people were capable of. Christine simply saw it as a way to gain experience and inspiration for her writing.

So she set aside her thesis and answered the open casting call, which asked potential contestants to present a dish that represented their life story. “For me, I’ve been on this eternal hunt to recreate my mom’s recipes,” she says. Christine’s mom passed away when she was 14 before teaching her daughter how to cook or writing any of her recipes down, so it’s been a series of trial and error since college. “I chose thịt kho because it was the dish I grew up eating the most often. There was always some in the fridge at our house.”

“I chose thịt kho because it was the dish I grew up eating the most often. There was always some in the fridge at our house.”

For her first audition in front of the judges, Christine put together another classic Vietnamese dish: cá kho tộ. Khôi Phạm, Deputy Editor of Saigoneer, reflects in a Saigoneer Podcast episode, “I think she’s one of my favorite contestants because she sticks to her roots. Her audition dish is actually a very, very traditional dish. If you watch western cooking shows, the fish is usually filleted horizontally but for Christine’s dish, she cut it vertically. If you go to fish markets in Vietnam, all the butchers will cut it that way. She doesn’t even try to deconstruct it or add any frills, bells and whistles.” A perfect balance of savory and sweet, her caramelized and braised catfish dish impressed the judges, and thus Christine’s life was changed from that point forward.

From contestant to the other side

But Christine may be more familiar to Saigoneer readers for her turn as a judge on MasterChef Vietnam (Vua Đầu Bếp) Season 3 from 2015. The role made her the first former contestant to become a regular judge — in any country — and placed her amongst the few female judges in the whole international franchise. “It was a great feeling to go from contestant to the other side and become a mentor,” Christine reflects.

MasterChef Vietnam Season 1 Runner-Up, Trí Phan, reflects, “From her story, I realized the most important thing when it comes to cooking is taste. And since then, I started to put more emphasis on flavor combinations that make sense, [instead of] throwing many things on a plate, just to make it look impressive.”

The Five Fungi Congee served at Christine’s new restaurant Xin Chao. It’s a grown-up take on a dish all Vietnamese children remember eating. Photo by Tam Le.

To reference the ubiquitous Thai phrase known to anyone who has traveled to the Land of Smiles, filming MasterChef Vietnam was “same same, but different” from filming MasterChef US. “A lot of the challenges emulated the American ones, but there were still many differences. For example, the contestants cooked for the military, just like I did, but the military bases were so different. The ingredients in the pantry included a lot of fish and shellfish I’ve never heard of because they’re regional to Vietnam.” Additionally, the unionization of film crew labor in the United States meant that production could only take place six days a week, stretching filming over a period of three months; whereas Vietnam’s ability to work seven days a week meant a rigorous one-month film schedule. Same same, but different.

As a Việt Kiều, Christine faces the additional challenge of having only spoken conversational Vietnamese at home. “When I came to MasterChef Vietnam, it was terrible. Not only was there new slang, but there’s a different lexicon to speak formally on TV.” If Christine’s upbringing was anything like mine — which, as a Việt Kiều who also grew up in Houston and attended the same university undergrad program as Christine, I think is a fairly safe bet — she may have only heard this formal way of speaking on Paris by Night which has been playing non-stop at all Vietnamese family gatherings since the late 1980s.

Photo via Ngoisao.net

“As I grew older, I didn't really have family around to keep it up. So I feel like my Vietnamese [was] rusty when I first arrive in Vietnam. It’s an ordeal when I travel with my husband John, who is Korean American, but has sight. Whereas I know Vietnamese, but I can’t see. So he has to spell out all the signs, and I need to remind him to include the accents or I won’t be able to read it. But it’s like riding a bike — it comes back.”

When I asked Christine about the dishes in Vietnam that surprised her the most, she had the same answer I did when I first moved to Saigon: the new street snacks. “In America, the Vietnamese food we got was what our parents brought over [in the late 1970s], which has stayed stagnant. Now a newer generation has come up with new dishes like bánh tráng trộn and bánh tráng nướng. That’s the kind of stuff that really intrigued me.”

“Now a newer generation has come up with new dishes like bánh tráng trộn and bánh tráng nướng. That’s the kind of stuff that really intrigued me.”

The Blind Goat & Xin Chao

Creative street food dishes and nhậu culture inspired Christine and John to open their first restaurant venture: The Blind Goat (Christine was born in the Year of the Goat) in 2019. Currently located in Houston’s Bravery Chef Hall among other creative culinary concepts (there are plans to move it to a standalone restaurant), The Blind Goat is an open kitchen with about fifteen seats wrapped around it like a bar. It was the first place the public could enjoy Christine’s cooking and dishes made famous by MasterChef, such as Rubbish Apple Pie, a Pop-Tart-shaped pocket pie inspired by McDonald’s apple pies but with a Vietnamese touch of star anise and ginger in the filling and a fish sauce caramel drizzle on top.

Pork Belly Baos make the perfect fried, sweet, savory, fatty snack.
Photo by Tam Le.

It was there that Christine and John serendipitously met Tony Nguyen, chef and partner at Saigon House and their future business partner. Not long The Blind Goat opened, Tony introduced himself to the couple and the restaurateurs started commiserating on the labor-intensiveness of Vietnamese food. Tony offered to help prep at The Blind Goat so they wouldn’t have to take Christine’s egg rolls off the menu, and soon one conversation led to another. "We have similar backgrounds and it turns out, the same philosophy on Vietnamese food: our parent’s food is great, but we want to make it more contemporary and reflective of Houston," remarked Christine.

At Saigon House, Chef Tony Nguyen was known for his Viet-Cajun crawfish and his H-Town Bang sauce which contains 29 ingredients including garlic, butter, citrus, cayenne pepper and cilantro. It is now a weekly special at Xin Chao.
Photo by John Suh.

“Going into business together is like a marriage, and we didn’t know each other that well, but you don’t know until you try.”

Within a few months, a location with a good deal on rent opened up and by January 2020, Christine, John, and Tony signed a lease for their new brick and mortar restaurant Xin Chao. “Going into business together is like a marriage, and we didn’t know each other that well, but you don’t know until you try.” Xin Chao would be a larger, more sophisticated restaurant than The Blind Goat, with a more robust modern Vietnamese menu complete with tequila and nước mía cocktails.

Local Houston artist Caroline Truong contributed on of the murals that cover the restaurant’s colorful interior and exterior. There is ample outdoor seating on bright blue picnic tables, a lifesaver considering Xin Chao didn’t open for business until September 2020 when America still had many pandemic restrictions for indoor dining. The inside consists of sleek wood tables, echoing the contemporary dishes.

Xin Chao Interior.
Photo by John Suh.

“I feel like less is more and when flavoring foods, I’m disciplined in creating a delicate balance.”

Speaking of their menu, the duo’s differing tastes result in a range of offerings. “Tony’s palette is very into robust flavors. He loves smoking meat and working with beef and pork. I am on the other end of the spectrum. I feel like less is more and when flavoring foods, I’m disciplined in creating a delicate balance. I enjoy creating more refreshing dishes and working with chicken and seafood,” analyzes Christine. And like any good marriage, “we complement and challenge each other.”

Xin Chao’s Smoked Beef Rib Flat Rice Noodles is one of the dishes that represent both Christina’s Texan side (smoked beef rib) and her Vietnamese side (flat rice noodles).
Photos by Tam Le.

You can find updates from Christine Ha, The Blind Goat, and Xin Chao on Instagram. You can also catch Christine Ha on a bag of Uncle Jax American Gourmet popcorn. As a notorious snack lover, I, Tam Le, will emphatically tell anyone who will listen and any readers of this article that Uncle Jax (either the Wisconsin cheddar cheese flavor or the Uncle Jax mix of cheese and caramel) is the best snack brand available in Vietnam.

Designed by Phan Nhi, Phuong Phan.
Top graphic by Jessie Tran.
Illustrations by Patty Yang, Hannah Hoang.

This article was originally published in 2021.

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

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

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

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

The cozy wallpaper and interior at CCCP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saigon's corner for Soviet nostalgia

The counter features many Soviet souvenirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mix bread basket

Salo (salted pork fat)

Olivier salad

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

Cured fish platter

Shashlyk platter

Smetana with berry jam

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

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

A flavor to crave, in sickness and in health

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

The borscht at CCCP

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

CCCP Saigon

48A Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

Bánh Ú Tro Wraps the Childhood Joy of Tết Đoan Ngọ Within Its Green Leaves

2026-06-19T10:00:00+07:00

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

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh ú tro on the altar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to make bánh ú tro

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

Bánh ú lá tre.

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

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

How to wrap a bánh ú.

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

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

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

From producing videos to momos

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

Prayer flags above the al fresco area at Om Momo.

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

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

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

The cozy interior of the restaurant.

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

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

A home in Saigon for momos and other Tibetan treats

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

Guess which one of these chili sauces is the spiciest.

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

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

Beef momo

Spinach and cheese momo in green sauce

Chicken momo in yellow sauce

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

Tibetan bread

Chicken shamdey

Beef shapta

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Om Momo

11/2 Street No. 57, An Khánh, HCMC