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

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

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

Ayam Penyet Vindo's light box.

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

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

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

From house party to restaurant

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

Vindo is open from 10am to 10pm.

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

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

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

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

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

A chicken by any other name

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

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

Nasi goreng.

Gado-gado.

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

The flavorful chicken is enveloped in a layer of sambal.

A slice of tempeh.

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

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

Ayam kremes.

Ayam panggang.

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

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

To sum up:

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

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

In only three places have I enjoyed truly sumptuous bowls of bún bò giò heo: in its hometown of Huế, in Hội An and at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy in Hanoi.

I still remember how difficult it was to try and find bún bò giò heo in the capital after being spoiled by the meal’s true richness in central Vietnam. It always came down to one thing. In Huế, the broth derives its complexity from boiled bones, trotters and mắm ruốc (Huế-style shrimp paste), before being infused with lemongrass, chilies and cashew powder.

Hanoi’s version just seems watery and thin; in comparison, it was an apparition of flavor. Until I realized — that’s how Hanoians like it! It is common knowledge among Vietnamese that northerners prefer subtle tastes, while in the center and south it’s rich and well-seasoned nourishment that fits the palate.

Thankfully, Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy achieves a middle ground between the two by adapting their recipe to cater not only to Hanoians, but also those searching for a more authentic Huế style, like myself. Though their broth is clear and light and contains pineapple — something that would make my friends in Huế turn their noses up — the richness of the soup remains. Thùy, who owns the shop, is a Huế native and said she achieved the dish’s complexity through prolonged simmering of the bones. What’s more, all the shop’s condiments — mắm ruốc, chilli sauce, shallot vinegar — are shipped in directly from her hometown.

A complete bowl here is topped with thinly-sliced beef, tendon, a firm block of coagulated pig’s blood, a small pig trotter and a knob of chả cua (pork and crab ball). Thuy’s customers rave about the chả cua, to the extent that she fetches more from Huế a couple of times a week in order to keep them fresh. She’s also meticulous with her meat — the beef is always well-marbled and tender. And while I’ve munched on beef loin, brisket and meaty tendons elsewhere, I’ve actually never tried the cut served at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy: scrumptious and juicy beef cheeks.

In addition to bún bò giò heo, Thùy also serves bánh bột lọc and bánh nậm — two of the most popular dishes in Huế cuisine. Wrapped in banana leaves and then steamed, the former is pudgy, transparent and chewy, with savory shrimp pork fat inside, while the latter is flat, soft, and topped with minced meat and scallions. Although they aren't available every time I order, they are always fresh, and always my favorite. 

To sum up:

•     Opening time: 7:30am–9:30pm
•     Parking: Bike only
•     Contact: 098 697 3578
•     Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
•     Payment: Cash, Transfer
•     Delivery App: Be

This article was originally published in 2018 on Urbanist Hanoi.

It happened when a young chef explained where he learned discipline, and when a kitchen manager recalled his first serious mentor. It happened again and again. Over the years, reporting on Saigon’s restaurant scene, Chef Sakal Phoeung’s name kept coming up. After finally sitting down with Sakal and learning more about his time in Vietnam and his approach to building teams and restaurants, I now understand why.

When Sakal first came to Vietnam more than twenty years ago, Saigon looked very different compared to today. Street food reigned and headlined Vietnam’s culinary scene while higher-end restaurants were mostly confined to hotels. The idea of building a long culinary career here was not yet obvious.

Born in Cambodia but raised in France, Sakal was hired by Sofitel Saigon shortly after it opened because of his experience at Michelin restaurants in Paris.

He arrived simply to work, without expecting to stay long – a common refrain for foreigners who have made their long-term homes in Saigon.

“Vietnam felt open,” he told me when looking back at those early days, adding that he saw room to try things, build a team, and to grow along with the city.

What impressed him most at that time was neither the available ingredients nor the techniques. It was the attitude of young Vietnamese cooks in his kitchen. Cooking was not yet an aspirational profession; most of them simply needed a job. But they learned quickly, listened carefully, and worked hard without complaining.

Building Le Corto

After ten years of working at the Sofitel, Sakal decided to go out on his own and opened Le Corto. "Le Corto today is very close to what I first imagined. The bistronomy spirit, the comfortable pricing, the Parisian-style service, and the intimate atmosphere are all still there,” he told Saigoneer.

A decade is a long time for any restaurant to endure. While many owners get stuck in a vortex of concept tweaking and trend chasing, Sakal his success to staying the course. “We never changed our core idea,” Sakal says. “We just kept improving.”

This improvement has been defined by sourcing better ingredients, expanding the wine selection, and above all, building a team through discipline and support. This all culminates in young chefs who stay longer, and guests who are confident in a consistent level of excellence.

While he may be reserved when speaking about mentorship, many chefs who worked under Sakal openly recall him fondly while emphasizing the same characteristic: discipline. In his kitchen, it all comes down to structure, precision, and only then creativity.

“I never saw my kitchen only as a place to train cooks,” Sakal told me. “It is about shaping people.”

Over the years, Le Corto’s prep stations, stoves, and ovens have become an unofficial incubator for a generation of young chefs. Some stayed a few years before opening their own restaurants, while others joined international kitchens. A few eventually stepped onto competition stages to represent Vietnam.

Despite it technically being a lost investment, Sakal knows that as part of their growth, they will eventually depart the nest. When he feels a young chef is ready to leave, he gives them one simple piece of advice: move for growth.

Bocuse d’Or

Bocuse d’Or Vietnam 2025 team comprised of chef/coach Daniel Nguyen, Sakal Phoeung, Chairman of Bocuse d’Or Vietnam, chef Vũ Xuân Trường, and chef Nguyễn Quang Tâm (from left to right).

Outside of Le Corto’s kitchen, Sakal seeks other ways to help Vietnam’s restaurant scene expand and develop. One way he does this is through Bocuse d’Or, one of the most demanding chef competitions in the world, sometimes described as the Olympics of gastronomy.

Teams from over 24 countries spend months preparing for a few intense hours of cooking once every two years. Thanks to Sakal and others, Vietnam now has a voice there.

Beyond the symbolic value of having Vietnam compete in the prestigious event, Sakal sees it as a way to build chefs who can perform with confidence, which pushes them to raise their level to that of their global peers in more developed culinary markets. “Talent is not the problem,” he says. “The challenge is preparation.”

The young chefs he mentors bring Vietnamese ingredients and stories to the stage, but these need to be supported by structure and calm, which Sakal preaches on a daily basis in the kitchen of Le Corto.

Staying in Vietnam

After more than two decades, Vietnam is no longer a temporary chapter for Sakal. Outside of the restaurant, he has become a fixture at early morning markets where he scours ingredients for his menu.

New set menu of Le Corto in 2026

I asked him what he hopes people remember about Le Corto. “Without Michelin stars or global rankings, Le Corto’s reputation has been built by diners themselves. That kind of recognition, coming directly from the public, means more to me than any award."

He wants guests to stay longer than planned, and in a city like Saigon, where people don’t often linger at restaurants unless actively engaged in an all-engrossing nhậu session, this is an achievement on its own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Separated by a vast ocean and home to an unrelated language, culture, and history, Japan would seemingly have minimal interaction with Peru. But a close relationship between the two nations goes back centuries. 

In 1821, Peru won independence, and with the subsequent abolition of slavery, it needed plantation labor. Meanwhile, in the late 1800s, economic calamity in Japan resulted in thousands of poor farmers facing starvation. Alongside other immigrants, these Japanese arrived to work and, in doing so, set in motion a process of culinary evolution that would lead to the emergence of one of the most popular cuisines in 2026.

Japanese workers on a Peruvian plantation. Photo via Densho Digital Repository.

Upon arriving in Peru, the Japanese aimed to integrate into society, but their assimilation involved the intermingling of some culinary traditions. For example, to make ceviche, Peruvians would marinate seafood in citrus juice for hours, while the Japanese suggested just a few minutes. They also provided new ways to take advantage of the coastal nation’s abundant aquatic resources, as Peru hadn’t been accustomed to eating octopus or eel before. Over time, the Japanese left Peru’s plantations, with many entering the country’s food industry, where they introduced elements of what they had been cooking at home, including soy sauce, ginger, and tofu into local dishes, as well as preparation methods, including sashimi.  Waves of Japanese businessmen towards the end of the century created demand for traditional dining from their homeland, which increased the availability of Japanese ingredients and expert chefs trained in Japan, adding another layer of interaction between Japanese and Peruvian foods.

By the beginning of the 20th Century, Nikkei, the name given to the cuisine that resulted from Japanese immigration to Peru, began expanding around the world. The famed Nobu chain of restaurants, of which several have received Michelin Stars, helped bring global interest and prestige to a cuisine defined as an intuitive merging of bold Peruvian flavors with precise Japanese preparation and presentation methods, with ample room for local adaptation. The opening of Nikura in Saigon now allows diners here to understand what makes the creative cuisine so popular.

Nikura’s Nikkei Chef De Cuisine, Ivan Casusol, was born and raised in Lima, where Nikkei’s first foundations were laid. After growing up with the cuisine, he brought it abroad via Nikkei restaurants in North America, the Middle East, and Asia. At Nikura, he not only introduces diners to its strong flavors and delicate techniques, but also its propensity for adaptation. Vietnam’s seafood and flavorful produce can be incorporated with high-end imported items to provide guests with an authentic experience that is beholden to no singular definition or dogmatic principle. 

The best way to understand Nikkei cuisine, of course, is to try it. The central role of Peruvian chili peppers in bright, intense sauces is apparent in Nikura’s Concha, a dish that contains succulent seared Japanese scallops with a colorful, creamy, subtly spicy lime sauce. Meanwhile, a perfectly prepared A8 Wagyu steak reveals how Nikkei knows when to show restraint and let the inherent excellence of ingredients speak through expert technique. Finally, the Nikura rice, which contains cured ham broth, shiitake mushrooms, a poached egg, and a nutty sauce, spotlights how local ingredients can accompany novel preparations for moments never encountered before.

The interplay of Peru and Japan extends from the plate to Nikura’s space and ambiance. Patterns, textures, and visual inspiration appear on uniforms, decor, and architecture, embodying Japan’s understated elegance and Peru’s vibrance. Private dining rooms, a large patio beside an extensive organic garden that provides the restaurant with fresh ingredients, and seats in front of the open kitchen allow for a great variety of expectations.

Nikura’s ability to surprise diners through flavors and sensory details is matched by the adjacent modern cocktail bar, Pisco Hana. The room exudes upscale Japanese grace with hints of South American exuberance via live DJs who set, match, and respond to the room’s energy. 

Pisco Hana’s menu adopts Nikura’s ethos of organic integration thanks to an extensive cocktail menu that features Japanese fruits, flowers, and liquors, and Peruvian spices and flavors, with an emphasis on seasonal Vietnamese products and preferences. A focus on mocktails and low-alcohol drinks further allows Pisco Hana to accommodate all varieties of visits, including gatherings before meals at Nikura, or after-dinner drinks to continue conversations long into the evening. 

Nikkei exists because humans travel, migrate, trade, integrate, adapt, and share. It’s a living cuisine reflective of our creativity, flexibility, and appreciation for new experiences. When you take a bite of a dish at Nikura or a sip of a cocktail at Pisco Hana, your palate serves as a bridge spanning Japan and Peru.

I still remember vividly the anticipation running through my veins, when I saw a waiter bringing me a glass of sữa đậu nành, every time my family took me to one of the many Vietnamese restaurants of the 13^th arrondissement of Paris, the city’s renowned Chinatown. It was a neighborhood I was bound to get dragged to as a French kid with a Vietnamese parent, whether I wanted to or not. For me, this glass represented the quintessence of typical Vietnamese drinks during a good meal: one of the rare glimpses into the daily customs of my ancestors’ culture.

The dishes in those restaurants were good, but I was used to eating them at home, cooked by my grandmother. They were already part of my usual experiences, and as such, didn’t evoke the special feeling of Vietnamese authenticity, not like sữa đậu nành. I can recall restaurants’ over-the-top decorations, and customers shouting, one louder than another. In the midst of it, I only focused on my drink: it tasted mild, but with a slight earthy note. More than anything, the coldness shielded me from the heat of the meal, which I couldn't wait to devour.

A Vietnamese restaurant in Paris with al fresco seats. Photo via Noodlies.

Soy milk isn't the only drink offered there, and there are versions of it everywhere. From cans at the store around the corner to homemade soy milk, the quality might differ depending on the restaurant, but it’s always on the menu. This is why I was certain that soy milk was the go-to drink for any Vietnamese person when eating out: the real taste of Vietnam.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Saigon to discover that the first restaurant I went to didn’t offer sữa đậu nành. Was there a shortage at the moment? Did I stumble upon the only restaurant without soy milk? I quickly understood the reality of the matter: the ubiquity of soy milk was an imagination of my own. Baffled by this realization, I looked to see what everybody else was really drinking when the server approached me: “Is trà đá ok?” Everywhere I went, tea was the de facto drink for Vietnamese food, and soy milk was nowhere to be found. Trà đá's role here is what I thought sữa đậu nành would be.

Hot soy milk, among other flavored milks like mung bean and corn, is a beloved beverage in Đà Lạt. Photo via Vinpearl.

Since then, I’ve had opportunities to get my hands on soy milk, be it in higher-end restaurants or special soy milk stalls in Đà Lạt style, a city I have yet to visit. However, the taste is always different from the ones I drank before setting foot in Vietnam. I was eager to find the representation of a country that only existed in my mind, only to realize what I sipped tasted like… soy milk. It was good, but the distinctive taste of getting closer to Vietnam was absent.

Maybe soy milk was just a me-fantasy, not even an experience all French kids with Vietnamese background have. What I have come to accept now is that this mythical “Vietnamese taste” I longed for is not locally present: if I go to Paris now and order one of these glasses I’ve had so many of, I know it won’t feel the same anymore. It was never about milk, nor was it about Vietnam: the Vietnamese daily life I thought I could peek at via the bottom of those sữa đậu nành glasses lit an interest in a side of my heritage that had felt far away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tibs, a stir-fry dish with beef.

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

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

Nighttime in Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward.

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

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

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

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

A bowl of hot shiro wot, or chickpea stew.

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

Last weekend, more than 2,500 people attended the two-day Saigon Pizza Festival hosted by Saigon Outcast at The Global City. Diverse, delicious pizza was expected, but the event delivered even more with food, activities, live music, and entertainment. And by the time it was over, a new pizza had swept the judges and was the crowd favorite for best pizza.

The activities began the moment guests arrived, received their free bottle of C2 Green tea or Ginseng and Chrysanthemum Drink and visited the brand’s 360 camera booth and games. From there, it was a maelstrom of delicious slices that revealed the true variety of pizza. Everyone had their personal favorites, but some of the standouts included a crispy naan-based Indian pizza from The Indian Curry Pizza and a Mexican pizza created by The Taco King & Cielito Lindo, while children gravitated towards Snackshack’s mini deep dish version. Purists in attendance gravitated towards the Kingcross’s traditional pizzas as well as New York-style and wood-fired Neapolitan slices, Sicilian squares, tangy Tomato Pies, crispy Grandma slices, and simple tavern bar versions.

As festival-goers waited for their digestion to work, they found plenty to keep their attention. A full lineup of DJs curated by FTWR created a raucous atmosphere whose energy was only matched by the high-flying theatrics of Vietnam Pro Wrestling.

The weekend also provided a glimpse into Saigon’s dancing scenes with Happievent, Salsa Thursday, and Xoay Studio communities each starting flashmobs that inspired movement amongst the audience. Tarot readings, pizza-making workshops, foot massages and handmade jewelry for sale, as well as backyard games, ensured the weekend was about more than beer.

It was difficult to spot people walking around with empty hands. If it wasn’t a slice of pizza, at least one fist was occupied with a drink, thanks to local breweries and outlets selling cocktails, wine, boba, and soft drinks. Sweet-tooths were particularly catered to with chocolate, gelato, and desserts.

For an event with pizza in the name, the most anticipated moment came during the announcement of the festival’s best pizza. Using an innovative Noshbox app to assemble votes throughout the weekend, and while esteemed judges tested their stomach sizes by sampling widely. When all was said and done, everyone agreed: Mila Mushrooms’ hand-tossed pizza made with dough fermented for 48 hours was the winner across the board.

Mila Mushroom's team winning pizza (left) as sampled by the judges (right).

Guests leaving the festival held by The Global City with the support of Masterise Homes were full, happy and already looking forward to next year’s fest. And in the meantime, they have a list of great pizza spots in the city to visit as proof that pizza in Saigon is alive and well. 

Mỳ Quảng’s reputation has spread across Vietnam and even abroad, yet few are well-informed about its origin story and the land it hailed from.

Editor's note: This article uses “mỳ Quảng,” the common way Central Vietnamese refers to the beloved noodle dish.

Mỳ Quảng, the Hội An port and a link to the world’s noodle map

From the 16^th to 18^th century, Hội An was once a busy and prosperous maritime trade center in Đàng Trong, under the lordship of the Nguyễn Dynasty. At the time, ships from all over the globe commingled in Hội An to exchange goods and services. Chinese merchants brought with them techniques to make fresh noodles and dumplings, while Japanese artisans introduced udon and soba to the seaport.

Central Vietnamese during the period managed to learn how to make noodles from traveling merchants and adapted the technique to local ingredients, such as rice flour. Hội An noodles, therefore, turned out to be more supple with a gentle rice fragrance.

The result was “Quảng Nam mian” or “mỳ Quảng.” Spelling “mỳ” with a “y” instead of “i” is a Quảng Nam quirk. Locals use the difference to distinguish between noodles made of wheat (mì) and of rice (mỳ). From a mix of East Asian techniques and local produce, mỳ Quảng has turned into a Quảng Nam staple, beloved both at home and wherever Quảng Nam residents migrate to.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm

Even right at its home region of Central Vietnam, there are a number of notable variations such as Đại Lộc-style chicken mỳ Quảng, Kỳ Lý style in Tam Kỳ, Đà Nẵng style, and, of course, Hội An style. Phú Chiêm style, however, is one of the most well-known editions that has transcended the region.

It hails from Phú Chiêm Village, Điện Bàn Commune in the former Quảng Nam Province, the quaint community known for traditional noodle-making artisans. Throughout history, every day, hundreds of vendors travel on foot to sell freshly made noodles to eaters in Hội An, Tam Kỳ, and Đà Nẵng. The contrast between their petite frames and the heavy load of noodles they carry on bamboo yokes always surprises me, not to mention their unique street calls promoting mỳ Phú Chiêm.

During the unearthly hours when the sun is still deep in slumber and chilly winds tease the skin, houses in Phú Chiêm Village are already lit and steamy. Household members, efficient like parts of a machine, are busy setting up packs of noodles to be delivered when regional buses make their first trips of the day, each person taking a task: making a fire to heat up the pot of flavoring sauce, dividing the sauce in tight bottles, and prepping bags of toppings, noodles, garnishes, fresh herbs, rice crackers, lime wedges, etc.

Around 3am, the pitch black village roads are clamoring with motorbikes heading to the national expressway. The bus careens to a stop, and everybody starts loading the goods on. This is the main means of transport for noodles vendors to travel to the city and town centers to sell mỳ Quảng.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm is rustic but memorable. It starts with a ladle of steamy broth, wafting a sweet aroma of crab paste and củ nén in the air. In the bowl rests a bundle of pearly white noodles, tender and soft from the rice grown right along the Thu Bồn River. Peanut oil, củ nén, a touch of smokiness from the rice husk kindle tablets at the noodle workshop — every smell sings of local flares. On top of the noodles are slices of caramel-colored pork belly, simmered quail eggs, and scarlet shrimps. The warm broth ties everything together with its seafood-forward essence.

The best bowls of Phú Chiêm noodles are eaten alongside greens grown at Trà Quế Village, or a smattering of wild plants picked straight from the yard, like baby chards, bean shoots, culantro, cilantro, banana blossoms, etc. Their freshness contrasts with the crunchy, nutty roast peanuts and shards of crackers. Depending on how one likes their noodles, a number of condiments are on offer to boost up the flavors, including lime, chili jam, and fish sauce.

The adventures of mỳ Quảng in distant lands

Whenever a Quảng native relocates to a new land, they carry along a strong bond with home, so it’s no surprise that mỳ Quảng will eventually show up in Quảng enclaves across major cities in Vietnam. Finding ingredients that match the classic version of mỳ Quảng is always a tough task, so cooks often incorporate whatever nature offers them at new locations to produce regional varieties of mỳ Quảng. Along the coast, seafood like prawns, crabs, fish, squids, and jellyfish are popular. Further inland, pork, beef, chicken, and duck are more prevalent. In places where paddy fields make up the main biome, you will witness the inclusion of baby clams, eels, frogs, and snakeheads. It is thanks to Vietnam’s biodiversity that has greatly contributed to the local adaptations of mỳ Quảng.

In Nha Trang, for one, mỳ Quảng is both seafood-forward and decadent thanks to the addition of coconut milk. Southerners visiting this coastal city might mistake it for hủ tiếu, as the noodles are yellow, dry, and chewy like those in hủ tiếu mì. The protein toppings include pork, quail eggs, and slices of golden fried fish cakes. The most distinctive feature, still, is the broth: apart from the usual umami from simmered bone, the main flavor is nuttiness and richness from coconut milk and egg, respectively. Moreover, Nha Trang’s mỳ Quảng is enjoyed with lots of water soup broth, instead of Hội An’s minimal but concentrated seasoning sauce. The Nha Trang version is accompanied by roasted peanuts, lettuce, bean sprouts, and herbs.

Even though Phan Thiết is also a coastal province, the mỳ Quảng that emerges from here is famous for its duck and pork usage. Most surprisingly, there are two prominent styles that are equally appreciated in the local food scene: one leans closer to the Hội An style, often eaten in the mountain areas of Đức Linh and Tánh Linh; the other has flares from the South-Central Coast, best known as mỳ Quảng Phan Thiết.

Two types of noodles are used for mỳ Quảng in Phan Thiết: a rice-based noodle akin to phở and a wheat-based noodle. It’s believed that the latter arose in the local cuisine thanks to the culinary influence of Chinese immigrants in Central Vietnam in the early decades of the 20th century.

The seasoning sauce in mỳ Quảng here is brightly vermillion from annatto oil. Phan Thiết also enjoys mỳ Quảng with a bowl that’s filled to the rim with broth. Topping-wise, there are pork knuckles, thighs, and duck legs that are braised until tender. On top, each bowl is garnished with peanuts, chili jam, lettuce, diếp cá (fish mint), and húng lủi (water mint).

Away from the sea, mỳ Quảng also follows Central Vietnam immigrants to the hilly neighborhoods of Đà Lạt. There, mỳ Quảng has also become a part of the tourist food trail.

In Đà Lạt, the broth extracts its main flavors from tubers and dry shrimps. First, the shrimps are ground finely and stir-fried with alliums, then cooked with jicama, onion, carrot, chayote, and daikon to produce the stock. On top of the noodles are pork slices, lettuce, rice crackers, and peanuts.

Hitch-hiking with Central Vietnam immigrants, mỳ Quảng spread across Vietnam and settled down with numerous adaptations depending on what nature offers regionally and the palate of local eaters. Wherever it ends up, however, doesn’t change its core identity — human connection. Central Vietnamese rarely eat mỳ Quảng alone. If they’re heading outside for mỳ Quảng, a few friends are almost always tagging along, and if someone decides to make it at home, the result will be a giant vat enough to feed a small crew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I found it at Bún Thang 50.

The simple kitchen of Bún Thang 50.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A light lunch with elegant ingredients.

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

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

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

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

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

Bún Thang 50 is open from 6am to 9pm.

Saigon loves pizza, a truth attested to by the variety of slices available here. From familiar global chains to small shops offering authentic varieties from cities all around the world to innovators concocting new types in response to local flavors and traditions, a staggering number of options are spread all across the metropolis. For one weekend, the thriving scene is coalescing in one location for an event celebrating pizza and all its associated joys.

The popularity of pizza in Saigon shouldn't be a great surprise. A plentitude of fresh ingredients, innovative, experienced chefs, and people eager to try new foods with a preference for meals that can be shared and treated as an occasion: all these factors exist. But rather than explaining why pizza has caught on so well, it's better to celebrate it.

Saigon Pizza Festival by Saigon Outcast is back for another year with activities, award-winning craft beer, desserts, and of course, pizza. In addition to a few transcendent slices, the event aims to give passionate foodies, families, and youths a reason to gather while providing international visitors a peek into the city’s culinary landscape. 

A premier list of diverse pizza vendors is assembling for the festival. They’ll have everything from Neopolitan-style pizza baked in wood-fired ovens to more outlandish inventions, such as Indian curry pizza and beef bolognese-filled pizza pies. After sampling widely, festival-goers can help select the winners of the People’s Choice Awards for Best Pizza. Moreover, a pizza toss challenge and other family-friendly activities, and a lineup of live music and DJs curated by FTWR will keep everyone entertained while deciding which slice to try next. C2 will keep visitors cool throughout the day between slices.

While pizza is the star of the weekend, there will be plenty of other tasty items. Modern artisanal gelato and other sugary treats can be found in the dedicated dessert alley. Few drinks go with pizza like a nice cold beer, so a selection of craft beers from familiar brands and up-and-coming brewers will be served as well.

 This year's event will take place at The Global City, an international-standard mixed-use township in the heart of Ho Chi Minh City created for a global community of residents. Saigon Pizza Festival is one of many events that will be held at the development that seeks to provide a space for vibrant events and community building.

Vote for your favourite pizza using the Noshbox app at the event for a chance to win fantastic gifts.

 Saigon Pizza Festival takes place on Saturday, April 18 and Sunday, April 19. Tickets are available online and at the door.

“If you have a heart and you have a mind, you must support Palestine,” Saleem Hammad emphasized as we sipped sweet tea overlooking Hanoi’s Old Quarter from the balcony of his restaurant, Oliva. The dinner we had just finished was delicious, but the visit to Vietnam’s only Palestinian restaurant felt more significant than a simple meal. Learning about Saleem’s journey, his personal relationship with Vietnam, and his efforts to deepen ties between Palestine and Vietnam underscored how cuisine can foster cultural exchange and understanding towards peace.

Oliva's second floor and doors leading to the balcony. The ornate painting was completed by one of Saleem's close friends.

“I’ve brought a small piece of Palestine to the heart of Vietnam,” Saleem explained about his opening of the restaurant late last year. That dream had been a long time in the making. He first came to Hanoi in 2011 to study on a scholarship provided by Al-Istiqlal University in his home nation. During those student years, while serving as a host of various Vietnamese television shows, operating popular social media channels, and his current work at the Palestinian embassy, Saleem has been a tireless voice for Palestine, introducing its culture, history, and current political situation to Vietnamese people while sharing about Vietnamese culture with audiences around the world.

Saleem shows off his iftar: the meal he will eat to break his daily Ramadan fast.

Saigoneer arrived at Oliva during Ramadan, and while Saleem was cheerful when he greeted us at 5:30pm, once he returned from breaking fast at sundown, he was exuberant. In a sign of things to come, he became deeply thoughtful and spoke with profundity when reflecting on the value of fasting. He didn’t like it as a child, but as an adult, he understands it as an opportunity to practice appreciation. Each grain of rice, each drop of water allows him to reflect on his blessings and faith. In turn, he tries to show appreciation to the people around him, noting “getting appreciation means you are alive; you exist.”

Saleem's arrival in Hanoi “was like being slapped in the face from all sides.” He didn’t know much about the country beyond a few school lessons about Hồ Chí Minh and General Giáp when he was awarded the scholarship and had imagined a hyper-developed Tokyo-like metropolis, not the rough-around-the-edges Hanoi where he lived in a dormitory with a gaping hole in its roof and washed dishes with his roommates in the toilet.

Despite the initial shock, it didn’t take long for Saleem to fall in love with Hanoi. “Family and culture is [sic] not different from my home,” he observed after watching daily life around town. People sing together, celebrate football, share fruit from their gardens, and simply express joy to be amongst one another. “There is happiness here,” he concluded.

Saleem during one of his many appearances on VTV. Photo via Reddit.

At first, navigating the city without Vietnamese was “like moving in quicksand,” he said in a typically descriptive turn of phrase reflective of his having studied Vietnamese literature. To better understand the culture and “break the wall to see all around,” Saleem needed to learn the language. His success in this task is evidenced by the smooth Vietnamese he speaks with a crisp Hanoian accent in his popular YouTube and TikTok videos and the proverbs he dropped frequently in our conversation. When asked why he started a restaurant, for example, he switched from English to Vietnamese: “Có thực mới vực được đạo” (you’ve got to eat to think).

“I was poor,” Saleem said when asked how he learned to cook. His mother was the youngest of 12 children, and his father the youngest of eight, meaning there were always hungry mouths around. Surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles in his small village, he grew up interested in kitchen work and started helping at local restaurants from a young age.

From 7am to 2pm, the building is used by a phở shop, while Oliva operates from 2pm until 11pm.

While Saleem enjoyed learning how to make traditional dishes as well as interact with customers (anyone who spends five minutes with him will agree that he is very much a “people person”), his mom was less convinced. “I don’t need your money, I need your degree,” she scolded him once after he brought her the tips he’d earned. He indeed studied hard and achieved the education his mother expected of him, but still found his way back to the kitchen. Saleem makes the majority of the dishes at Oliva, though his wife, who is also from Palestine, helps with some items as well.

Visitors to Oliva may understandably be unfamiliar with what to expect from authentic Palestinian cuisine, though any experience with Middle Eastern food, broadly, will allow one to recognize many of the dishes, flavors, and ingredients. The region is home to thousands of years of human civilization, which featured extensive trade networks. Significant exchange, migration, and influence make it impossible to attribute many items to any singular, modern nation.

The falafel is served with tarator, a creamy tahini-based sauce.

Oliva’s hummus was smooth and rich, the blended chickpeas containing a bright dose of lemon that balanced the beef in the version we ordered. Meanwhile, the falafel was crisp on the outside with a welcome softness inside, which allowed the flavor to stand apart from the texture. Both the hummus and falafel were perfect accompaniments to the fresh and airy flatbread. The most unexpected delight of the meal was the pickled vegetables: crisp, colorful, briny bursts of sour bliss!

Hummus (left) and pickles (right).

Having sampled various Middle Eastern cuisines around the world, I was particularly excited to discover a dish I’d never seen before: maqluba. Arriving at the table with a ceremonial upturning of the pot to tumble a heap of rice, vegetables, and chicken onto the table, the maqluba was the star of the meal. Dating back at least 700 years, the Palestinian dish is assembled in the pot before cooking, with layers of eggplant, carrots, potatoes, and rice absorbing the chicken and eight spices, which need to be sent from Palestine.

The maqluba's pot is overturned at guests' tables and served with chopped nuts.

For conservative Vietnamese palates, Palestinian food should be quite approachable. The maqluba has even welcomed comparisons to cơm gà. One notable difference might be a lack of raw vegetables in the dishes. The situation is easily addressed with a Palestinian salad. In addition to the lettuce, tomato, and cucumber, the pieces of fresh apples contributed a pleasant vegetal element.

Significantly, Oliva is a halal restaurant, meaning that all food is clean, ethically obtained, and free from forbidden (haram) substances, including pork and its derivatives, according to Islamic dietary laws. But even non-Muslims should appreciate halal items because the distinction typically connotes carefully selected and stored items of a higher standard, which results in fresher, more delicious flavors. Considering the nation’s talented cultivators along with the soil and weather conditions, Saleem posits that if Vietnam followed halal rules, it would certainly have the healthiest, most delicious cuisine in the world.

Halal items are a matter of tourism in addition to business. Anyone with a social media account understands that of all Vietnam’s many virtues, it is often food that makes the largest impression on international tourists. This doesn’t apply to Muslims, however, of whom there are approximately two billion in the world. Saleem explained that for them, travel to Vietnam can be a chore of squinting at store packaging and having to forgo the majority of restaurants, from street stalls to Michelin dining experiences, because they do not adhere to or even know about halal restrictions.

Saleem provides explanations of what makes a food halal on his social media channels in Vietnamese to help the country better cater to Muslim visitors, a vast and relatively untapped market for a nation so keen on attracting tourists. When you consider that nearby Indonesia has the largest Muslim population in the world, it's a bit shocking that one doesn’t see more halal restaurants here already. Moreover, learning how to follow halal rules will also open up vast export markets for Vietnamese farmers, producers, and distributors, significantly helping the economy. “Uống nước nhớ nguồn,” (drink the water, remember the source), Saleem said when explaining his motivation to share ideas and information in Vietnam.

Oliva's political message is clear in the restaurant's artwork.

The bridges between Vietnam and Palestine that Saleem builds via Oliva, his social media, and his job at the embassy go both ways, and he wants to transmit important messages home: “As a Palestinian, I miss peace; I find peace here… If Vietnam can do it, so can Palestine.” He seeks support for this peace by explaining the ongoing genocide in his homeland in Vietnamese. Moreover, as an informal spokesperson, his warm and helpful presence helps to humanize their plight. He once again uses a Vietnamese proverb to explain his work: “Ngòi bút có thể thắng vạn quân” (one pen can beat 10,000 soldiers).

Refreshing mint tea to end the meal.

Saleem sat with us for a long time after dinner, pouring tea and sharing stories about his homeland and his people’s simple desires to eat, send students to school, care for their own land, and not fear slaughter every day. Not once did he check his phone, answer a call, or run down to the kitchen. His attention and energy were singular. It’s difficult to comprehend how he could be so generous with his time, considering his many roles at the restaurant, at his job, managing his social media presence, and translating several political works from Vietnamese into Arabic, all while being a devoted husband and member of a large family abroad that relies on him. I asked if he ever gets tired, metaphorically or literally, from speaking so much in support of Palestine. “Never,” he says while admitting that at night he often takes medicine for his throat, “Because words are strong.” I would add that a meal can also be strong, whether its a means of introducing people to a new culture or showing one’s support.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 2pm–11pm
• Parking: Motorbike out front
• Contact: @olivapalestinianhalalfood
• Average cost per person: $$ (VND150,000–under 500,000)
• Payment: Cash, Card, Transfer
• Delivery App: N/A

From harvest to finished product, how long does it take to make a bar of chocolate?

Typically, the process lasts one and a half to two years, but Saigon-based The Cocoa Project's chocolate has shortened it to just 60 days and is celebrating the achievement with a collection of six unique chocolate bars.

To make a bar of chocolate, cocoa pods must be harvested and their contained beans fermented, dried, and roasted before tempering and molding. These processes, along with the soil in which the cocoa plants were grown, are the main determinants of a chocolate's flavor. By executing the steps with precision and strict control in only 60 days, The Cocoa Project's chocolate collection preserves the distinct flavor notes of Vietnamese cocoa beans.

Such faithful capturing of the bean’s flavors makes pairing with other ingredients difficult, because the bold taste can overwhelm more subtle fruits, herbs, and spices. Committed to showcasing the quality of Vietnamese chocolate to instill pride in local producers and consumers alike, The Cocoa Project’s dogged R&D department was undeterred. They spent nearly a year testing new recipes and flavors. Amongst the countless experiments were loveable failures and divisive concoctions along with appealing results that simply could not be consistently produced when scaled for mass production.

Six flavors all passed the rigorous testing and challenge of creating “a chocolate bar inspired by happiness.” Amongst them is milk chocolate with osmanthus tea and peach that invites consumers of all ages to return to youthful lightness; dark chocolate with oranges and lemons that calls to mind memories of sundrenched moments in family gardens; dark chocolate with salted lemon with roselle jam, a bright and tart product of the highlands; and a milk chocolate with mint tea and jackfruit that is as relaxing and familiar as a childhood afternoon. Meanwhile, a 74% dark chocolate underscores how sometimes chocolate in and of itself is all one needs. 

The most interesting of the approved group, the milk chocolate spices bar, proved to be the most contentious choice. Inspired by a home-cooked meal and made with onion, pepper, garlic, and chilli, it drew mixed reactions for both taste and sales potential. Ultimately, one particularly passionate member of the marketing team half-jokingly promised to “take responsibility” for it, and the chocolate spices bar was added to the inaugural 60 Days chocolate lineup.

The availability of Vietnamese chocolate made with intriguing local ingredients has experienced a boom in recent years, which The Cocoa Project considers a cause for celebration. Achieving sustainable, local chocolate that everyone can enjoy makes it easier to reach their goal of supporting appreciation for and integration of Vietnamese agricultural products while providing “chocolate for the people.” People are taking notice as well, with four flavors from The 60 Days lineup winning medals at the world's largest competition this month. The entire collection can be found at The Cocoa Project’s first store and the recently-opened Cocoa Kitchen, their website, and familiar online retailers, are a great place to experience this delicious aim. 

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

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

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

The mysterious steps leading to the door of the bar.

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

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

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

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

Simplicity in a glass.

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

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

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

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

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

The famous Hanshin Tigers bottles.

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

A special homemade bottle offers a surprising local twist.

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

The unassuming entrance below.

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

To sum up:

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

Saigon’s streets snarl with hot, sticky knots of traffic every evening. As people finish their workdays and look ahead to quality time with families at home, precious hours pursuing hobbies and meeting with friends around the city, they must first contend with horrific congestion. This rush hour period, when movement is slow and frustrating, coincides with peak skyline beauty.

Instead of tedious hours in the back of a car or clutching handlebars, wouldn’t you rather have a panoramic view of the skyline as it’s drizzled with dusk colors? Sunset should be savored, peacefully, ideally with a refreshing drink and tasty snack in reach. On the 28th floor of Saigon Centre, Sedona Suites offers just this experience in the recently redesigned The Straits Kitchen and Bar.

The Straits sprawls out in front of you as you exit the elevator, the spacious room expanding to floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Saigon River in one direction and past Landmark 81 and the seemingly endless scramble of development that constitutes central Saigon in the other. Plush couches invite you to rest, recline, and meet with friends in what could be the day’s first moment of true relaxation. In the center of the room are similarly comfortable chairs around tables with The Straits’ sleek, brightly lit bar behind. 

A Singapore Sling may be the most obvious drink to order upon your arrival. The glowing orange gin-based drink with a tropical profile not only matches the sunset, but is in line with The Straits’ identity as a Singaporean restaurant. While the cocktail’s precise origins are debated and the original recipe uncertain, the namesake beverage was first enjoyed in the now-city-state more than 100 years ago. 

While less directly tied to Singapore specifically, The Stratis’ signature cocktails capture the nation’s sunny disposition and abundance of fruit. The Straits Side contains vodka, Midori, lemongrass, and pomelo syrup, and the Tropical Frozen Margarita offers fresh mango and passionfruit juice, while the star ingredient of the Guava Martini is self-evident. These adventurous drinks are joined by classic cocktails as well as local beer, mocktails, smoothies,  and soft drinks. If you need a refreshing pick-up and will be driving home, Saigoneer recommends the coconut coffee, which contains not just fresh coconut juice and flesh but an invigorating splash of pandan syrup for a special twist.

It's never wise to drink on an empty stomach, and after a full day in the city, whether working, shopping, or sightseeing, a snack is a welcome sundown accompaniment. Served from 10 until 10, The Straits bar bites include international standards such as charcuterie platter, spiced cashews, and crudites alongside some Singaporean items. Har cheong gai, crunchy, mid-joint chicken wings with prawn paste batter and spicy dipping sauce, is an easy favorite as is the soft shell crab gau bao. 

The Straits is a perfect post-work place to gather with friends and co-workers to wait out the rush, but once you’ve sat down and smelled the wonderful dishes being served, you might decide to stay for dinner. The menu, frequently assessed and enthusiastically approved by Sedona’s Singaporean owners for its authenticity, gives diners a thoughtful introduction to some of the nation’s most cherished dishes. The char kway teow, for example, underscores how cuisine is the result of time, place, and tradition. Working-class members of immigrant communities married their traditional flat rice noodles with the abundant seafood of the region. The resulting wok-fried dish is a harmonious medley of prawns, cockles, Chinese sausage, bean sprouts, and garlic.

Singaporean cuisine’s commitment to flexible balance is evident in the laksa. Its rich, creamy coconut broth depends on which locally available spices and herbs are available, as well as the preferences of the chef. Similarly, the hor fun is a whole that's even greater than its beef or seafood, vegetables, and Peranakan sauce parts. And of course, the chicken and rice that started as a humble way to make the best use of the finest breed of chickens and now graces Michelin Guide books must be present. 

If you squint, the shimmering tail of water flowing between Saigon skyscrapers resembles the strait running along Singapore. Given that and the two metropolises’ proximity, it’s rather shocking that Saigon has so few Singaporean restaurants that cater to discerning tastes in a refined atmosphere. But not only does The Straits meet those needs, offering a plate of mee siam or nasi lemak in a relaxed dining room, it also provides an elevated oasis of cool comfort. Far above the 5 pm chaos, it’s a perfect place to watch the afternoon slip into evening and a dignified serenity fill your mind. 

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

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

Tokyo Moon II is unfortunately closed.

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

The tiny corner of Tokyo Moon in Japan Town.

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

Our drinks came with mismatched cutleries and glasses.

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

The ssanghwacha comes with an egg yolk.

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

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

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

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

Mr. and Mrs. Moon behind the counter.

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

The wall of Poraloid shots preserving generations of customer visits.

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

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

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

Many decorations here were gifts from past patrons.

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

This article was originally published in 2024.

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

To sum up:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

The restaurant business is fickle to the point of a well-known unattributed business truism: "How do you make a small fortune in the restaurant business? Start with a large one." So when a restaurant not only survives but spawns multiple outlets and brands, it’s all the more impressive. This is the case with Quán Bụi Group, a collection of Vietnamese and Thai eateries and cafes which, like many enduring brands, started as a story of rising from failure.

In 2009, Danh Trần took notice of the popular Bobby Brewers café, an eatery with a hodgepodge Western menu, and had the opportunity to acquire it. Over the next two years, Danh studied how people gathered and used the space. But when his lease was up, the model wasn’t living up to his expectations, especially with many other similar concepts in the market and he decided to close it.

Quán Bụi always offers an inviting entrance to guests.

Reflecting on this first foray into F&B, and with the desire to stay in the industry, Danh tried to devise something that he felt Saigon needed but was lacking. His explorations led him to something familiar.

In September 2011, Danh opened a Vietnamese restaurant, Quán Bụi, on a small street in Tân Định. It was humble, serving set menus to office workers. There, he identified what would become the core elements of the many Quán Bụis to come: home cooking, Vietnamese comfort food, and a meal that imparted meaning beyond the sum of its ingredients.

Quán Bụi Restaurant on Ngô Văn Năm Street.

Two years later, Danh further refined the concept, and a refined version opened as an à la carte format on Ngô Văn Năm that remains to this day. The timing was fortuitous, as Vietnamese dining habits were evolving alongside the arrival of global chains. A customer base had emerged that wanted local flavors made with high-quality ingredients served in more sophisticated yet authentic settings.

At Quán Bụi, Danh found a way to express inherent Vietnamese culture through dining experiences. He believes that a major reason for the restaurant's success is that it provides a space for diners to find comfort in tradition as a juxtaposition to their busy city lives.

Quán Bụi expresses inherent Vietnamese culture through dining experiences.

It seems like this has resonated with Saigon’s restaurant goers as there are now nine Quán Bụi locations operating across the city. Amidst this expansion, Danh strives to ensure that each outlet maintains a continuity of concept from service to food.

Quán Bụi offers a diverse menu of over 200 dishes representing regional flavors from across Vietnam.

The methods of achieving consistency underpin Danh’s subsequent creations. Having found the ingredients for success at Quán Bụi, Danh began to explore other concepts, launching Laang Saigon in 2019 which serves modern Vietnamese and Asian dishes.

Founded in 2019, Laang Saigon serves modern Vietnamese and Asian dishes.

Laang marked a quiet shift in Danh’s journey. It proved that what he had built at Quán Bụi was not limited to one cuisine, but a broader approach to hospitality and comfort.

Laang Saigon’s contemporary Vietnamese cuisine draws diners seeking a balanced and health-conscious lifestyle.

Soon after Laang Saigon came Sticky Rice, a Thai restaurant where Danh applied the successful attributes of comfort and reliability to a neighboring cuisine.

The ambience of Sticky Rice Restaurant

Finally, Café’In focuses on restive settings to enjoy coffee, tea, juices, and freshly baked cakes, popular with remote workers and groups of friends. While serving a smaller menu than the other restaurants, consistency remains a key to its popularity.

Facade of Café In in Thảo Điền.

 The common threads of clear conceptualization and commitment to meeting customers’ lofty expectations are most apparent when viewed side by side. Recently, Quán Bụi, Sicky Rice and Café’In can be found under one roof at the newly opened Quán Bụi Group Complex in An Khanh.

Facade of Café In in Thảo Điền.

 Success for Danh and Quán Bụi Group was not linear. Like many businesses, the Covid-19 pandemic plunged his operations into disarray, and he was forced to confront uncertainty. He told Saigoneer that to endure, he drew strength from Vietnam’s long history of resilience and was able to restart operations once the pandemic subsided.

Today, after 15 years of opening the first Quán Bụi, Danh is not complacent, nor is he one to sit behind a desk and manage from afar. When Saigoneer met him in the months preceding the opening of Quán Bụi Group Complex, he periodically checked his phone, making sure the right tiles arrived for the flooring and other elements of construction were on track. The trials and tribulations of his journey stay at the forefront of his mind and he still has an active role in nearly every part of his business. The impact of such dedication is something customers will undoubtedly notice when visiting any of his locations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home to chives and bánh bèo.

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

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

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

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

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

Cá thu fillet is one of the toppings.

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

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

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

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

A surprise dessert: đậu xanh sương sáo.

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

To sum up:

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

Do you always remember the first time you tried a new food? With common staples like hủ tiếu, bún riêu or cơm tấm, that might be difficult, but I can recall exactly the first time I had bánh giò: it was from a bike vendor with a very distinctive northern-accented street call of “chưng, gai, bánh giò.”

Like its siblings bánh chưng and bánh gai, bánh giò is a dish of northern descent, albeit one that has integrated seamlessly into the national snack landscape over the past decades. Today, one hankering for something simple but filling can seek it out anywhere at any time, but when I was a child in the 1990s, northern vendors on bicycles would be the most common way to get our hands on a bánh giò.

On the back of a rickety bike that had definitely seen better days rested a huge plastic rucksack that felt hot to the touch. Inside, rows of leaf-covered bánh sat waiting for their turn to explore the outside world. As he briefly unfurled the bag to pick out bánh giò with tongs, the steam turned my glasses foggy and filled my nostrils with the familiar grassy scent of banana leaves.

A classic bánh giò is made up of a rice-based dough coating a filling of pork, shallot, and mushroom.

Those neatly wrapped leaves would become a clean surface to enjoy your bánh giò, its glutinous wobbly rice dough, its peppery pork filling, and its pearly quail eggs. The best case scenario should involve a spoon, but I have, on occasions, raw-dogged a bánh giò with just my hands and trusty teeth. There is no shame, because bánh giò is not a food designed for decorum and fancy cutleries.

I think bánh giò can do no wrong. As an adult man, I have to admit one is not enough for a full lunch, so you can always eat two or three if you so wish. However, to me, it is irrevocably the perfect snack made for the moments in life when you’re peckish but don’t want a whole bowl of phở: for breakfast; as an after-school, pre-dinner ăn xế; or especially as a stomach soother after a night out drinking.

Bánh giò makers are still around today if you know where to look, but the most accessible way to get them is no longer mobile vendors, but convenience stores. Thọ Phát, Saigon’s very own bánh bao maker-turned-entrepreneur, started mass-producing a version tailored for the convenience of modern retailers, and those leaf-wrapped pyramids began appearing in steamers at FamilyMarts and Circle K’s, further consolidating its role as a convenience, hearty, filling snack.

A maximalist “full-topping” version of bánh giò in Hanoi, featuring various types of sausages and pickles.

In December 2025, the company announced that it would sunset the old leaf-wrapped bánh giò version and switch to a new plastic mold, effective immediately. The reasons given included improved hygiene, convenience, and shelf life. The plastic version retains the pyramidal silhouette, and similar food filling, with a meagre banana leaf square at the bottom that can fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I personally think the mass-produced version, leaf or plastic, has never held a candle to bánh giò by independent makers, but it has taken a turn for the worse after the removal of leaves. Their grassy aroma contributes significantly to the eating experience and their broad surface helps the content retain moisture; without leaves, the dough is stodgy, monotonous, and miserable.

It is perhaps histrionic of me to decry something as seemingly simple as the recipe change of one company. After all, traditional bánh giò are still coming to life every day from kitchens from north to south, and a plastic makeover might not spell the demise of a time-honored delicacy, but it is still very clearly yet another example of the enshittification of modern life that’s unfolding right before our eyes. Shrinkflated chocolate bars, paywalled app features, synthetic fibre replacements in clothing, and now plastic bánh giò — these are all signs of corporations making our lives worse for the sake of profits.

Thọ Phát's bánh giò with plastic packaging.

I haven’t seen our bánh giò bike vendor in 10 years and now satisfy my cravings with ones from a store specialized in northern foods on Nguyễn Thiện Thuật. He could be too old or too sick to continue the work, but I suspect the disappearance of mobile vendors is not limited to my neighborhood, but part of a much bigger shift in the country's economic pattern. It is an incredibly challenging time to operate a small business in Saigon, with stringent recently introduced tax policies, harsh sidewalk-clearing campaigns, and less disposable income from consumers in general all squeezing the profit margins dry and driving out smaller players.

I don’t know about you, but I think it is high time I seek out a nice bánh giò in this trying time. I will drive to my favorite shop, park my bike, and ask for their biggest one with the most banana leaves around it, to make up for the leafless abomination I just ate for the sake of research.