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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freshly assembled cơm hến.

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

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

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

Bún hến and cơm hến.

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

To sum up:

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

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

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

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

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

Seafood essence in a bowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A northern specialty corner in the middle of District 3.

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

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

To sum up:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

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

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

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

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

1. Cafe Linh

26A Phạm Ngọc Thạch, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

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

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

2. Sipply Coffee

73 Đinh Công Tráng, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

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

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

3. 16 Grams

32 Thạch Thị Thanh, Tân Định Ward, HCMC

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

4. Patio Cafe

400/2 Lê Văn Sỹ, Nhiêu Lộc Ward, HCMC

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

5. Starbucks Thorakao

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

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

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

Plastic stools circling low metal tables. Staff wearing pajamas and street clothes that match patrons welcomed from all walks of life. Meagre and/or mismatched decor. Views of street traffic with motorbike engines as soundtrack. Brief menus sometimes consisting of a single dish. A strict cash-only policy (until recent years, at least). Minimal concern for health-safety regulations. No artifice of chef as artist or meal as a masterpiece. While we can quibble over a specific, all-encompassing definition for streetfood restaurant, there are many qualities most will agree they share.

At first glance, Quán Bà Nga in Huế is a quintessential street food restaurant. Sutured into an inconspicuous neighborhood less than 1 kilometer from the Imperial Citadel’s West Gate, it contains not only near-platonic ideals of street food conventions but the best bowl of bún bò Huế I’ve ever had. While increasingly known amongst out-of-towners, it remains a favorite spot for the locals who keep it crowded from 3pm until late.

Thin gold bracelets encircle the arm that stirs a steaming vat of broth and meat. Beside her, other employees shuffle around a preparation table disheveled by stacked bowls and waiting ingredients: noodles, chives, lettuce, pork legs, and blood sausage. Beyond them, a few food delivery drivers wait next to a vendor taking advantage of the crowd to sell fresh jackfruit. Passing them leads to the wondrously unpretentious dining room where pots, pans, plastic baskets, and surplus sugar cane rest on rickety shelves against bare, waterstained walls.

Crumpled napkins litter the floor along with spent limes, their dry flesh reminding one of a cicada's desiccated shell. You won’t be greeted, but if you find an empty table, someone will notice you and come by to relay your request to the women beside the pot. Speed is another tenet of street food restaurants. Rarely does one wait more than a few minutes for their food to arrive, and the entire dining experience can often be completed in less time than it takes for an average Ferris wheel rotation.

If your visit to ​​Quán Bà Nga is anything like mine, however, you might experience a thrill before you begin eating. I went alone on a random weeknight. Frequently accompanied by my Kindle, I enjoy dining out alone. This time, however, I was not alone. I was joined by a child. A few moments after I’d sat down and ordered, and hardly a few stanzas into my book, a man who appeared to be in a rush pushed a boy of ten years old or so to the empty plastic chair across from me. After depositing him in his place and ordering something from the staff, he shuffled out the door and sped off down the road. He hadn’t so much as made eye contact with me, let alone attempted an explanation of why his son would be my dinner companion. Made no difference to me, as I quickly returned to my reading and the boy quietly slurped the noodles that soon were set in front of him. A quiet and unstressed acquiescence to the hectic happenstance of life is a hallmark of a street food restaurant.

For me, bún bò Huế in general is a mid-tier noodle soup. And before you begin crafting hate messages, let me clarify that I rank it as such because Vietnam is blessed with many wonderful noodle soups and I am actively committed to upholding the reputation of “mid” as an adjective meaning average, which is in no way a bad thing. Not everything has to be extremely, utterly, stupefyingly wondrous to be worthwhile and enjoyable: it's dinner, not a search for salvation. But when I express to friends that I think bún bò Huế is merely a mediocre noodle dish, by Vietnamese standards, I am frequently told I must be going to the wrong places. I should go to its city of origin to appreciate it. Thus, on a recent trip to Huế, I followed the recommendation of Saigoneer staff who told me to visit Bà Nga.

Another element of street food is the absence of written recipes or standardization, allowing for daily and regional variations. No two shops prepare identical dishes, and the differences become more significant the further apart they are (a smarter person than I could probably illustrate this fact with a coefficient-laden, variable-rich equation). This is certainly true for bún bò. Each stereotypical difference between bún bò in Saigon and bún bò in Huế is seemingly subtle but becomes significant in aggregate. The bún in the south is thicker while chả lụa takes the place of crab cakes and pork blood. Southern broth renditions typically rely on beef bones and beef balls for flavor while the broth in Huế takes a more pork-centric approach thanks to pig bones and knuckles. The central broth is also more aromatic and spicy while the southern take is more subdued and single-note sweet from added rock sugar. Finally, locally available and seasonally specific herbs and vegetables alter the overall flavor and texture. It’s impossible to attribute the holistic experience to a single difference, but bún bò in Huế strikes me as a more complex and cohesive dish wherein the elements elevate one another rather than vying against one another for prominence.

In addition to the taste, another significant difference between bún bò in Huế and Saigon is the price. Simply, like most things, it's much cheaper in Huế. A fully loaded đặc biệt bowl with beef, crab and pork knuckle will only set you back VND40,000–50,000 at Bà Nga, while a dish with only one protein is just VND30,000. And given the heat from the chilis and overwhelming summer humidity, a refreshing nước mía for VND5,000 is the easiest decision you’re liable to make all day.

The more one travels throughout the world, the more likely one is to cherish Vietnam’s street food restaurants. Many of the qualities Bà Nga exemplifies get lost amidst modernization’s demands for standardization and regulation. A certain indescribable flavor is imparted into a dish when enjoyed on a plastic stool in a humid, noisy, dirty room so stuffed with convenience, tradition, and serendipity it threatens to burst into chaos at any moment.

It’s certainly the ideal environment to enjoy one of the country’s most beloved dishes. And dear reader, it shouldn’t matter to you one bit if Quán Bà Nga affected the placement of bún bò Huế on my personal Vietnamese noodle power rankings. You should make your own decisions, but I will recommend you experience it here to understand its full potential.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 5am–11pm
• Parking: In front of the restaurant (bike only)
• Contact: 0905263715
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Paul Christiansen only writes and edits because he can't afford a durian farm, yet. Read more at his website.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stainless steel sections divide the cart.

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

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

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

To sum up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the transient days when Hanoi’s weather morphs from winter to summer, the monsoon winds carry with them the drizzles of an in-between time. This cool climate evokes within me a yearning for some warm steam from boiling vats of soup stock, so on a rare chilly morning, I wandered around and stopped by Triệu Việt Vương Street for a distinctly morning treat in Hanoi.

Triệu Việt Vương is home to a diverse range of eateries and coffee shops, thanks to its position as a central thoroughfare of Hai Bà Trưng District. Amid the door-to-door rows of shops is a 25-year-old bún riêu store that has remained popular despite the cities’ changing times. The crowds of patrons that constantly head in and out of its doors are the best stamp of approval of its enduring liveliness in Hanoi.

The own of Bún riêu ốc bò Bình Huyền is cô Huyền, who started her noodle business in 1998 with just a mobile soup station. On one side of the bamboo yoke was a big pot of simmering soup broth and the other side housed a basket of fresh rice noodles and other toppings. Just like that, Huyền took her family flavors all over town to hungry Hanoians. After 15 years, she finally settled down at a tiny ngõ so narrow that eaters sat along all the length of the wall and even poured out into nearby coffee places.

Today, however, visitors to Triệu Việt Vương won’t be able to find that streetside bún riêu alley anymore, as Huyền has upgraded her operation to an indoor location for the past four years. Though the dining space might be more spacious with proper tables and chairs, long-term regulars will still recognize the nimble movements of Huyền beside her pots, arranging beef slices, sprinkling on snails, and ladling hot broth.

Bún Bình Huyền opens at 7am every day, the prime time when Hanoians take their kids to school and head to the workplace, and find a filling breakfast to fuel up for a busy work day. The aroma of bún riêu seeps into the nearby streets, enthralling unsuspecting pedestrians to stop by for a bowl. During peak periods like breakfast and lunch times, the narrow dining space of 10 tables is always filled with slurping diners. “Many of my customers are from the south, and for the past dozens of years, have visited every single time they’re in Hanoi without fail,” Huyền told me as she quickly filled several bowls with broth.

Even though the restaurant was packed, I didn’t have to wait for too long for my turn to enjoy this bodacious bún riêu. I order a special portion with every available topping. It landed before me like a colorful present that appealed to all the senses: fried tofu pieces hide in between chunks of snails, beef, and spring onion. The seemingly contrasting textures fit together surprisingly harmoniously. Strands of white noodles appear to sparkle beneath the broth and the room’s lighting. I slurped up a spoonful of warm and subtly sour broth. The steam coated my face and the remaining sleepiness vanished.

Cô Huyền’s place manages to attract a loyal following not just thanks to its strategic location on a central street, but also its consistency in delivering flavorful food after years of operation. Each snail, slab of beef, and cube of tofu is prepared with care by the owner. Regulars keep coming back here because they miss the hot broth, elastic noodles, chewy snails, distinctive carb paste, mắm tôm, sweet and sour stock, tender beef, and crispy tofu.

The menu hasn’t changed the entire time the place has been around: bún riêu is the only dish. Depending on craving and interest at any given moment, eaters can opt for different combinations of toppings from fried tofu, snail, pork sausage, beef slices, and more. There are around 10 different choices. To ensure eaters from all walks of life can enjoy her food, Huyền starts her price at VND25,000 for a bowl with just noodles and crab paste. The most expensive option can go up to VND80,000 with an assortment of toppings and a significant amount of beef. This price point might be deemed quite expensive for a bowl of bún riêu, but many patrons still pick it to eat to their heart’s content.

Over two decades in the trade, cô Huyền is very well aware that only the freshest ingredients can produce the highest quality of noodles to make sure eaters come back. Every day, she does the shopping herself, picking every slab of beef and cleaning the snails before preparing them for customers.

The prep work begins at 4am to get ready for a full day of bún. During the hours when the sun still hasn’t risen, a team of six people would start slicing herbs, frying tofu, blanching snails, making the master stock, etc.

Of course, bún is the heart of bún riêu. Here, the bún is soft and white, moderately thin and chewy, so it won’t easily disintegrate in the water. The accompanying greens include lettuce and other aromatic herbs. The meat and crab roe is fried with shallots until the proteins are cooked and fragrant. Fried tofu is also a must-have topping, which is fried until the outer layer is crispy enough while the interior is fluffy.

The most expensive topping on the menu is beef, 20 kilograms of which is consumed every day at Bình Huyền, including cuts like shank, top blade, and tenderloin. The meat is cleaned and trimmed carefully before being sliced into thin slices. The eatery doesn’t process all the meat in the morning, but slice and blanch depending on customer demand to ensure it stays fresh in the bowl.

Ốc, or snail, is another key ingredient in the bún riêu experience. The shop makes sure to pick those with shiny shells and feel heavy. The snail innards should come out cleanly after being cooked. Just like how the beef must be sliced as thin as paper, several kilograms of ốc are processed patiently before being served to customers.

Apart from a diverse range of toppings, cô Huyền’s broth also rounds out the bún riêu. It’s mostly translucent, made from bones, tomatoes and rice vinegar into a golden liquid. This tangy taste balances out the heavy richness of the toppings.

Every portion of bún riêu is served with a plate of fresh herbs, and those with a penchant for spiciness can garnish their bowl with some chili oil. Most importantly, there’s another polarizing condiment that, in my personal view, can’t be left out of bún riêu: mắm tôm. The funky shrimp paste pairs exceptionally well with the seafood in the bowl. This bowl of bún riêu, eaten on the cusp of a new season, will render its eater speechless.

To sum up

• Opening time: 6am–9pm
• Parking: In front of the restaurant (bike only)
• Contact: 0947401995
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Vivian Nguyen (@VivianNguyenPR) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Andrea Nguyen (@aqnguyen) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

— Vanita Gupta (@vanitaguptaCR) June 9, 2018

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

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

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

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

Tree-lined Lò Đúc street is home to Phở Chay: a restaurant so small it could fit in the palm of your hand. 

The establishment's vegan phở is served out of a rectangular slice of a building in Hai Bà Trưng District that is very small, very yellow and very cute. 

Though compact, its presence packs a punch. The interior and exterior of the restaurant have been painted a neon lemon-yellow, including the restaurant's name and signature dish, marking its territory in bold capital letters set against a green backdrop. Lest you be confused about what the restaurant has to offer, there's also a smaller poster advertising the phở chay as well as the name of the dish written on the food cart at the entrance to the restaurant. 

Suffice it to say, some phở chay-slurping was in order for this lunch excursion. 

Although the menu out front offers a variety of dishes, only the basic bowls were available as we arrived close to the restaurant's closing at 2pm. The soup is available in two sizes, baby or big bowl. We went for two big bowls at VND25,000 each, some crunchy quẩy sticks for dipping, an order of nem rán, finishing with lime juice and soy milk to drink.

Cute is a fitting word to describe this petite little respite. Despite it “stealthy aesthetic” designation, it's undeniable that smallness is a key feature of what we consider cute. Whether it be a baby panda, a miniature bottle of Tabasco, or a teeny-tiny soup establishment, there is something about smallness that makes our brains go “awwwww, so smoll,” and this restaurant is no exception.

At our seats in the nook, I noticed the pink lotus paintings on the wall and green plastic vines snaking across the ceiling. Maybe, it was these “natural” elements that enticed a buzzing honey bee into the eatery during our visit. It searched aimlessly for nectar in the painted flowers and, less amusingly, my hair.  

Along with charming encounters with insects, a small speaker plugged into the wall lulled us by playing Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật softly, music that you are likely to have heard if you spend much time in vegetarian restaurants.  

The smell of food frying, the promise of soup, the calming tune on repeat, the cozy environs, and the warm afternoon all made for a soothing precursor to a lovely meal.  

Thùy, who operates the restaurant, prepared the dishes from the food cart, which sits at the front of the space, as well as from a fryer perched on a plastic table just to the left of the entry. 

Soon, the phở arrived, featuring plenty of “beef,” seitan, cilantro, and quite importantly, piping hot broth. I am of the opinion that any food or drink that is meant to be served hot should be close to burning my mouth off and that, as it cools down, each degree has a negative impact on its tastiness. Luckily, this soup met my temperature test and the flaky bánh quẩy was great for soaking up the flavors and adding nice textural variety.

It's not a flavor-dense broth, but the wide assortment of seasonings makes it a blank canvas for each individual to satisfy their palate with just the right amount of zhuzhing. A squeeze of lime here, some chilis there, a dash of nước mắm chay, a dribble of rice vinegar and a sprinkle of pepper — the dish proved a great base for the real joy of my life: condiments of the spicy, sour and salty variety. 

Aside from the noodles, the nem rán was a real standout, arriving at our table still crackling from the fryer. Each bite was delightfully greasy and chewy, especially when paired with basil leaves and dunked in “fish” sauce — chef's kiss! It's a good day when you get something fried, fresh, tangy, and herby all in one chomp. 

Puttering around Hanoi immersed in various endeavors, we found that a bowl of soup and some fried tid-bits were a welcome comfort. No matter what you're hungry for, a trip to Phở Chay is always a solid choice.

This article was originally published in 2020 on Urbanist Hanoi.

To sum up:

Opening time: 9am–2pm
Parking: Limited
Contact: 01698206678
Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash
Delivery App: None

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Hummus and pita

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

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

Beef shawarma

Arabic salad

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

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

Falafel

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up

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

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

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

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

Bánh canh Nam Phổ, a staple of the imperial city

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maritime central Vietnam’s seafood trove

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

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

Ingredients in bánh canh chả cá.

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

Bánh canh bột xắt, the Mekong specialty

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

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

Bánh canh bột xắt ingredients.

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the soft morning light, three teenagers once stood before the Temple of Literature, whispering hopes for exam success into clasped hands. A decade later, that same trio — Triết Nguyễn, Tùng Nguyễn and Dương Nguyễn — have channeled their youthful aspirations into MÀU, a gastro wine bar directly opposite their old place of pilgrimage.

MÀU, meaning “color,” is more than a name; it's a manifesto. The space glows with translucent orange panels, and the walls are adorned with vibrant art, setting the stage for a dining experience that is both familiar and refreshingly novel. Dương, the brain behind MÀU’s marketing, has applied her knowledge and skill picked up from years studying and working in Canada to the website and branding of this new project much closer to home.

MÀU is just a stone's throw from the Temple of Literature. Photos courtesy of MÀU.

Finding it, though, isn’t entirely straightforward. The address won’t help much, and a quick Google Maps search is just as likely to send you to a completely different restaurant. (The team has apparently been hacked — twice.) In a way, it’s kind of fitting. But perseverance is rewarded with a seat at a bar where the city's past and future coalesce over plates of inventive cuisine.

We are sat at the bar, and this is what we discover. Quán Bánh Cuốn Nóng Gia Truyền 50 Đội Cấn is the best place to get bánh cuốn. Phở Khôi Hói is Triết’s favorite spot for noodle soup, and Phạm is the name of his friend’s cocktail bar, which apparently is pretty much a converted front room. We don’t make it to the latter sadly as it’s closed on the day we’re in town, but the other two spots prove excellent recommendations. These new restaurateurs sure know their stuff and are very well-connected to the food that they’re taking their inspiration from. And the service, led by Tùng, shows the warm and deft touch of a seasoned professional, someone able to transform a dining room into a second home for those on their first visit or their fiftieth.

Having grown up in Hanoi, the team behind MÀU is appreciative of the capital's diverse street food wealth. Photo courtesy of MÀU.

And just to clear up any confusion: this isn’t Mau restaurant in the Old Quarter. That one serves a solid lineup of northern Vietnamese staples: bún chả, bánh xèo, gỏi cuốn. At MÀU, you’ll find echoes of that tradition, but the execution is something else entirely.

Vietnamese fare with little touches of unexpected novelty

Serving a plate of pickles at the start of a meal is all the rage in the UK right now, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in Vietnam. Vietnamese cuisine has long known how to balance crunch and tang. A quick glance inside any bánh mì is proof enough. But here, pickling gets the spotlight, and a few unexpected guests. Watermelon rind, carrot, baby cucumber, garlic stem and banana — yes, banana — just go to show that you can pickle almost anything, swoop it through a pile of lightly curried mayonnaise and it will be delicious.

Photos courtesy of MÀU.

There’s less of a Vietnamese touch in the pillowy, crisp slices of sourdough focaccia, but it’s no great loss as the bread — whether it’s Vietnamese, Italian, French or Egyptian — is excellent. The bacon butter, however, is lacking in salinity and tastes almost completely devoid of pig. But the team welcomes the feedback; it’s only the third week and the menu is still in its nascent stages.

Pickle platter. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Focaccia with bacon butter. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

The gut-wrenching admission that they have run out of crab bao with sea urchin is softened only by several more sips of a very smooth glass of muscadet from one of my favourite wine regions, the Loire Valley. Further pacification comes in the form of thinly sliced scallop, lightly torched, sat atop fresh mango, pomelo and mint and carefully balanced on a rice cracker. It’s a one-bite wonder, but no less a wonder for it.

My favourite dish of the night, stir-fried corn with shrimp, embodies the meaning behind the name further. The vibrant yellow hue is a bowl of sunshine, so warm and cheerful it surely must have been the inspiration behind the Natasha Bedingfield hit, though this silky purée is probably not something you’d want in your pocket. Having just returned from the Hà Giang loop, where whole hillsides are striped with rows of cornfields, I enjoy seeing this everyday ingredient getting some love.

Stir-fried corn with shrimps. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Veal carpaccio. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Scallop on rice crackers. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

The dry-aged duck with tamarind and the veal carpaccio are more muted in color but no less in flavor, certainly in the case of the duck. Head chef Hưng Nguyễn has clearly treated this duck with care, mastering the art of rendering the generous layer of fat under the skin while leaving the centre rosy-pink. Though I’d always opt for meat on the bone if possible, the hunks of tender breast paired with the fruity and sharp tamarind make it one of the best renditions of duck I’ve had in the whole of Vietnam.

Dry-aged duck with tamarind. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

Sweet potato cheesecake. Photo by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

There are few things I love more than sitting at an open kitchen. The clatter of pans, the small rituals of service, the chance to eavesdrop on your dinner being made — it’s part theatre, part therapy. Not only can you pick up some top-tier cooking tips from watching chefs go about their work, but you often can badger them into giving you restaurant recommendations too.

We finish with a sweet potato cheesecake: a big, wobbly block platforming a quenelle of molasses ice cream. They’ve cut off the best bit, the nose, to make it a rectangle, but it’s exquisite all the same. This dessert is a lesson in balance: sweet, creamy, humming with the umami of potato and the gentle tang of sticky molasses.

A newcomer with great potential

Because of an early trip to Cát Bà the next morning, we don’t make much of a dent in the wine list, but it’s worth noting: this is one of the few places in Hanoi where you’ll find orange wine. The Gerard Bertrand blend is punchy and wild on the nose, and drinks beautifully. There’s plenty more where that came from: five champagnes, plus bottles from Europe, Japan, Morocco, and Australia. I’d love to see some Southeast Asian representation on there eventually — a funky pet-nat from Đà Lạt, perhaps? — but it’s a great start, and no surprise given the third co-founder Triết’s years as a sommelier.

Photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour.

As we step back into the quiet night, the warm glow of MÀU fades behind us, tucked away across from the Temple of Literature like a secret only the city’s most curious souls stumble upon. In a capital that can sometimes feel caught between tradition and trend, this little wine bar hums with possibility, unafraid to reinterpret, to experiment, to pickle banana and pair it with Loire Valley muscadet.

Chef Hưng Nguyễn (middle) and the team. Photo courtesy of MÀU.

It’s still early days, so the team is tweaking recipes, fighting Google glitches, and pouring drinks over open counters where conversations flow as freely as the natural wine. But if this is MÀU in its infancy, it’s a beautiful beginning. MÀU is a testament to long-standing friendships and what can be achieved when a group of people combine their skills and experience to build something great.

A toast, then, to color — and to a new chapter in Hanoi’s ever-surprising culinary map. It seems the prayers worked after all.

MÀU is open 6pm–11pm, Tue–Sun. Visit their Instagram page for more information.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grilling bò lá lốt is an art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A roll with bò mỡ chài inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2019.

To sum up

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

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

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

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

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

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

The store is filled with earthy materials and colors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guests will share the space with two resident felines.

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

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

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

Thật Thà the ceramic bird in its natural habitat.

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

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

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

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

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

Masala chai and a cookie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5 — VND35,000 per bowl.
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5