Food Culture - Saigoneer

Huế's Palm-Sized Bánh Mì Chuột Is the Perfect Snack for Nibbling While Walking

2025-08-12T14:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh Mì Chuột

02 Trần Hưng Đạo Street, Phú Hoà Ward, Huế

A Tale of Three Chè Bột Lọc Heo Quay, Central Vietnam's Unique Savory Dessert

2025-07-05T11:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Xu Xoa, the Sweet, Gingery Dessert Soothing the Heat of Central Vietnam Summers

2025-06-20T12:33:41+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opinion: Anthony Bourdain Made Me Proud to Be Vietnamese-American

2025-06-09T10:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

As a Vietnamese American, this moment always stuck out to me. Growing up and bringing Viet food to school for lunch, I was always bullied. But whenever Viet cuisine was featured on an Anthony Bourdain episode, it made me so so proud to be who I was. https://t.co/pBOqjZ4TQS
— Vivian Nguyen (@VivianNguyenPR) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

That table where @obamahitsback and Bourdain ate bun cha in #Hanoi was encased like a museum piece at the restaurant. @bourdain did much for overlooked causes and cuisines, including that of Vietnam. RIP anh Tony. https://t.co/e3flhwAzOR
— Andrea Nguyen (@aqnguyen) June 8, 2018

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

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

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

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

I remember watching this episode of @BarackObama & Bourdain eating noodles in Vietnam w/ my young sons who are half-Vietnamese & who hadn’t yet been to Vietnam. They were so excited to see their worlds come together. Reeling from Bourdain’s death but grateful for all he showed us https://t.co/U6aQBB66CJ
— Vanita Gupta (@vanitaguptaCR) June 9, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

2025-05-31T18:00:00+07:00

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

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh ú tro on the altar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to make bánh ú tro

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

Bánh ú lá tre.

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

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

How to wrap a bánh ú.

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

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

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

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

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

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

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

These 5 Uncommon Bánh Canh Bowls Celebrate Vietnam's Regional Diversity

2025-05-25T21:09:34+07:00

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

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

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

Bánh canh Nam Phổ, a staple of the imperial city

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maritime central Vietnam’s seafood trove

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

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

Ingredients in bánh canh chả cá.

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

Bánh canh bột xắt, the Mekong specialty

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

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

Bánh canh bột xắt ingredients.

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh canh Vĩnh Trung.

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

Nguyễn Thị Thành, Saigon's Beloved 'Lunch Lady,' Passes Away at 59

2025-05-21T14:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Family Trip Is Complete Without Banter, Bolero and Bánh Mì Chả Lụa

2025-04-12T16:00:00+07:00

Every time my extended family took a trip, it looked more like a mass exodus than a holiday — bags teetering, arms overstuffed, and enough supplies to survive a small apocalypse.

It always felt like the night before Tết with the kids still half-asleep, while the grown-ups bustled back and forth with brisk, practiced urgency. Not until every bag was wedged in, and every seat was claimed did the family finally let out a collective breath, the unspoken cue that, the journey had officially begun.

The first bolero song didn’t even make it to the second verse when my mom, designated commander-in-chief, would already be reaching under the seat, pulling out her trusty travel kit: plastic bags, a few headache pills, a crate of bottled water, a bottle of medicated oil. And most importantly, the bánh mì chả lụa she wrapped at the crack of dawn, each one swaddled neatly in paper. Hungry or not, everyone from front to back got their share. “Eat a bit, love, keep your strength up,” the grown-ups would say.

As a kid, I couldn’t figure out why bánh mì chả lụa showed up on every trip. Wasn’t the whole point of going somewhere new, well, to eat something new? Seafood in Vũng Tàu, mountain fare in Đà Lạt, and certainly not the same sandwich you could grab any day at the end of the street? But to the grown-ups, that was exactly the point. Before going anywhere new, you should ground yourself in a familiar taste from home. Whether the road was long or short, that first bite of bánh mì chả lụa was the mental confirmation that, “We’re really doing this.”

To be very frank, bánh mì chả lụa isn’t exactly the poster child of its family. It doesn’t have the star power of the cold cuts version that’s now world-famous, nor did it ever leave Anthony Bourdain swooning and reaching for a third the way Dì Phượng’s bánh mì gà xé did.

It took me a while to realize that it was bánh mì chả lụa’s simplicity that made it the perfect travel companion. Just a few quick slices of pork chả, evenly cut cucumber, and a dash of salt and pepper could provide enough starch, protein, and fiber to stand in for a proper home-cooked meal. Sure, butter, pâté, xíu mại, grilled pork — those are culinary treasures in their own right. But in the cramped, jostling, sun-baked space of a long-distance coach, they had all the makings of a minor tragedy. Bánh mì chả lụa, on the other hand, was practical, a built-in insurance policy against price-gouging or worse, a game of bathroom roulette at some sketchy roadside stop.

I can still remember that familiar ache — the one that crept in as I passed rows of tempting roadside stalls, only to look down at the bland, squished bánh mì chả lụa in my hand.

“Yes, I’m eating,” I’d mumble when the adults checked in, letting out a quiet sigh before dutifully nibbling away. The bread sagged in my lap, right along with my face. I dragged it out so long, we were nearly in Đồng Nai before I took the last bite. It's strange how something so plain could end up being the hardest to come by.

The years reshaped everything. Children left home, siblings drifted, and the once-lively household grew still. As our family’s finances grew more comfortable, our vacations stretched farther — to places only reachable by air. And planes, with their sterilized, orderly routines, didn’t really leave room for anything homemade, so we settled into the new rhythm: slurping overpriced airport phở in silence. Still as bland, but somehow far more expensive.

These days, traveling on my own means grabbing a few quick, convenient rice balls to keep the hunger quiet. I’m an adult now, and no one’s left to nudge a warm bánh mì chả lụa into my hands before the coach pulls away. It takes a special kind of love to rise before dawn, to find the freshest loaf, thaw the chả, slice the cucumber just so — the way my mother once used to.

Maybe it's not so much the bánh mì I longed for, but the tenderness that helped prepare it.

Bored of Mundance Date Spots? Try Tân Sơn Nhất's Romantic Star Cafe.

2025-04-01T13:00:00+07:00

I know a little place.

Saigon’s cafe scene is so developed that finding and embracing cafes constitutes a hobby, if not a full-blown personality for certain residents. For some, the pastime is all about the drinks. Bean sourcing and roasting; preparation techniques and technologies; and pouring and presentation methods can all be meticulously assessed. Others care about the vibes and aesthetics, with particular attention paid to Instagram photo potential. Within this cafe culture world, bringing a date to the perfect coffee shop for stupendous drinks can be an unrivaled aphrodisiac.

No beverage better proves this than the cà phê truyền thống sold at the Star Cafe inside Tân Sơn Nhất’s Domestic Departure Terminal. Squeaking luggage trolly wheels; one-half of conversations shouted into cellphones; cranky kids crying to parents stressed by travel plans; and a pungent blend of body odor, perfume and distant jet fuel collects like soap scum and tangled hair around a clogged shower drain: the atmosphere in the domestic terminal is the ideal setting for a romantic date. Star Cafe even provides for the social media-minded as plenty of bystanders are present to snap the perfect photo for you to upload and inspire jealousy about your whereabouts while providing a valuable keepsake of the day you met the person you’ll one day marry.

But you cannot sit without purchasing something, of course. And we all know the adage “You get what you pay for.” The astronomical prices (US$6.50 for a large regular Vietnamese coffee) must mean that you’re getting something of exceptional quality. The fact that it's only listed in foreign currency lends a dose of international exoticism to the experience. The drink, coupled with the price of the tickets needed to get through security constitutes spending so extravagant your date will have no choice but to be impressed. And the coffee itself, tasting like the crass feedback emitted on a karaoke machine when two microphones are brought too close together, invites trauma bonding.

Photo via Tripadvisor

But if you’re not convinced, remember McBeth speaking to the night sky: “Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.” If you want to make your deep desires known, surely you must bring them to the Star Cafe. You don’t even need to board the plane you bought the ticket for.

Editor's note: Happy April Fools' Day! This article is part of Saigoneer's 2025 April Fools' Day celebration. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the writer’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

The 50 Shades of Cháo on the Palette of Vietnam's Regional Cuisines

2025-03-25T16:42:15+07:00

Cháo, or congee in English, is a diverse genre of Vietnamese dishes in both executions and flavor profiles — from humble versions like pandan congee, red bean congee to more substantial and complex meals like offal congee, chicken congee and catfish congee. Each dish is a different variation, but they all share a reputation for being nourishing and a richness of regional culinary characteristics.

Once upon a bowl of cháo

During the shortages of wartime decades, our ancestors made cháo as an economical way to stretch a meal. It was often eaten with a sprinkle of salt or readily available plants in the yard, like jackfruit, rice paddy herb, morning glory, banana blossom, pea shoot, or bamboo shoot. According to historical accounts from Văn minh vật chất của người Việt (The Material Civilization of the Vietnamese People): “During famines, Vietnamese would start reducing the number of meals, first from three to two, and then to one meal a day, trying to retain lunches while switching from cooking rice to congee. It takes less rice to cook congee than rice, just about a quarter the amount, but the body can absorb nearly everything, and this also helps prevent dehydration very effectively.” After a day in the field, they often sipped on watered down congee, as it’s better for the stomach while replenishing energy.

The theory of yin-yang balance that Vietnam follows stipulates that the human body is a “mini-universe” where elements of yin and yang are equal and harmonious. If either of the two overwhelms the other, illnesses will appear. As a soft, light, and oil-less food type, cháo is considered an easily digestible meal that one can freely pair with other ingredients to rebalance the missing yin or yang in the body. Doctor Ngô Quang Hải from the Vietnam Acupuncture Association explained: “If the illness arose from too much yin, one needs to eat yang-rich food, and vice versa. For instance, if you have a cold (yin), you should eat yang food types like congee with ginger or tía tô leaves. If you have a heatstroke (yang), you should eat congee with spring onion (yin).”

Cháo is a dish that promotes the yin-yang balance.

Exploring the many cháo of Vietnam

Albeit simple, cháo can be a banner dish for any region in the country. From north to south, congee shapeshifts depending on the local produce and palates, resulting in myriads of varieties. In the north, Hải Phòng has cháo khoái; Bắc Ninh serves up cháo thái Đình Tổ, a congee novelty that’s eaten using chopsticks; the H’Mông community in Hà Giang eats cháo ấu tẩu, prepared using a potentially poisonous tuber; and of course, Hanoi’s thick cháo sườn is a treat as well.

I, unfortunately, haven’t had a chance to fly to the north to try out all these unique delicacies, but as someone whose family has roots in the northern region, I fell in love with the version of cháo sườn sold by the mobile vendors of Phạm Văn Hai Market — one of Saigon’s many enclaves of northern immigrants from 1954. Unlike standard congee, which is cooked using rice grains, cháo sườn is often made with rice flour, producing a glutinous texture, accompanied by fork-tender chunks of rib cartilage, crispy shallot, chopped coriander and spring onion, and deep-fried quẩy. Cháo sườn is a favorite snack of us kids as it’s easy to eat, so one full bowl in the afternoon might help us avoid dinner.

Cháo sườn on chilly days.

In the central region, Nghệ An has eel congee; Tam Kỳ is famous for chicken congee; Bình Định pairs pork offal congee with sheets of bánh hỏi; Quảng Nam adds black beans to beef offal congee; and congee with củ nén, a type of allium, is a staple of the “Quảng realm.” Despite the differences, they share a similarity in bánh tráng mè nướng, a sesame cracker, as an accouterment. During a visit in Quảng Nam, I was shown the correct way to eat their congee: snap off a morsel of bánh tráng nướng, drop it in the bowl, wait for it to soften, and then eat it to enjoy the slightly chewy texture.

Eel congee in Nghệ An.

In Saigon, I’ve always found street cháo stalls to be weirdly inviting. No fuss or flair, just a big umbrella and a dozen of low plastic stools — everyone is eager to sit down for a feast. A classic Saigon-style bowl of cháo often features three elements: toasted rice, fried dồi, and a handful of beansprouts at the bottom. The toasted rice helps add a nutty flavor to the congee. The raw beansprouts are immediately blanched by the hot congee while still retaining their refreshing crunch. Before diners dive in, a squeeze of lime and a tiny dollop of crushed chili pepper are must-haves in the bowl of dipping fish sauce. At this point, the bowl of cháo lòng is complete with every facet of saltiness, sweetness, sourness and spiciness. Slurp on hot congee, bite into a hunk of chewy offal and remember this feeling forever.

A bowl of cháo lòng.

Head to the Mekong Delta, one is bound to encounter cháo ám, a specialty from Trà Vinh. The origins behind the name might come from how the dish is usually a test of a new daughter-in-law’s cooking prowess. On the first day after she enters the husband’s family, she would cook a pot of catfish congee for the family and relatives. This level of pressure is why preparing a tasty cháo áo is constantly on the mind of young brides — the word “ám” is short for “ám ảnh” (haunted).

Cháo ám is made with freshly caught catfish from the field. To enrich the broth with more layers of umami, Trà Vinh adds roasted dry shallot, dry squid, and dry shrimp. Going alongside the congee is a plate of various herbs, including but not limited to banana blossom, crown daisy, and cải trời. Still, the most commonly used greens are rau đắng (knotgrass) and beansprouts. The subtle bitter notes of knotgrass are perfectly tempered by the nuttiness of the congee, the sweetness of the fish, the kick of black pepper, the aroma of alliums, and the crispy richness of fried shallot.

Cháo ám is Trà Vinh’s famous congee.

Teochew is amongst four big branches of Chợ Lớn, Saigon’s Hoa community, alongside Hakka, Guangdong, and Fujian. One of the most distinctive dishes of Teochew culture is cơm cháo, or rice-congee. The dish is served as a rather peculiar platter: a pot of white rice is placed next to a steaming hot pot of congee. The carbohydrates are eaten with bitesize chunks of braised offal and pickled cabbages, the same tart ingredient that Vietnamese usually used to braise with leftover feast meats like roast pork and duck. The sourness from the cabbage increases the shelf life of the dish while making the rich animal proteins more palatable.

Though cháo lòng might be a popular dish across Vietnam, the Teochew version of cháo lòng is perhaps a slightly different cousin in the family of congees. The congee is on the white side as the broth and rice are simmered together with pork bones, squids, and straw mushrooms. Pork offal, including heart, kidney, intestines, and liver, is boiled in a different pot. When served, they are eaten separately with a dipping sauce that comprises soy sauce and red vinegar. The congee is lightly aromatic and tastes of ginger, pepper, and green onion, accompanied by crown daisy. On top, slices of offal and century egg present an inviting pick-your-favorite-protein-feast.

Cơm cháo Triều Châu.

Eating cháo is perhaps the best way to slow down and focus on the flavors of life. Congee is always served steaming hot, so impatient slurpers are almost guaranteed to burn their mouth. It’s best enjoyed at a languid pace to savor all the delicious elements of cháo. On days when the temperature turns cold, what’s better than sipping through your most favorite cháo?

How Cá Cắt Khúc Becomes My Personal Touchstone of Vietnamese Cuisine

2025-02-26T19:00:00+07:00

It was 13 years ago when Christine Ha auditioned for and eventually won the third season of MasterChef US. Christine was a grad student from Texas then, and her victory was a watershed moment in the history of reality TV in the US and even globally. She’s visually impaired, a daughter of Vietnamese immigrants, and has a palate that even established chefs would envy. Back then, everything about Christine’s MasterChef run left an indelible mark on me, a budding food enthusiast from Vietnam, but as I grew older and embarked on my own cooking journey, there’s something about her audition that has always tugged on my heartstrings.

She auditioned for MasterChef with cá kho tộ, a rustic, homely dish where a fatty fish is braised in a claypot with fish sauce and simple spices, often eaten with steamed white rice and blanched vegetables. I have no shame about introducing cá kho tộ to a western audience because to me cá kho tộ is one perfect example of a simple but balanced meal, in which a salty, rich, umami-laden sauce is smartly tempered by plain carb and fibrous sides. Everything about Christine’s cá kho tộ screams Vietnam, from the choice of catfish to the use of the claypot, but nothing does it better than the way she cuts the fish: crosswise.

Christine Ha's original audition in 2012.

This cut is often called cá cắt khúc in Vietnamese or fish steak in English, producing rhomboid fish slices that retain a segment of the spine and a handful of ribs. Fillets, however, are the result of lengthwise cuts that carefully separate the fish flesh from the backbone. One thing I learned about cooking from western media is how much importance is placed on deboning. On MasterChef itself, there are challenges where contestants are required to segment an entire salmon by themselves, producing Instagram-ready squares of fish fillets whose every sliver of bone is picked clean by the chef. The cá cắt khúc–fillet dichotomy might seem trivial, but to me, it speaks volumes about the way Asian cooking traditions at large and Vietnamese cuisine in particular distinguish themselves from the gastronomical conventions of the west.

Fish fillets, freed of bones and skin, are primed to be grilled, pan-seared, battered and deep-fried, or baked; therefore, it’s perfect for meatier, leaner fish types that populate the northern seas like cod, halibut, seabass or red snapper. Cá cắt khúc, meanwhile, epitomizes the economical and resourceful way Vietnam approaches cooking. Bones always mean more flavor, so leaving the bones in fish steaks is an ideal way to amplify the tastiness of the braise and keep the fish from drying out. The freshwater fish species — from cá trê, Christine’s pick for her dish, to cá dứa and cá rô đồng — that often end up in cá kho tộ have flaky flesh and rather petite bodies, so the act of filleting can risk mangling the fish and leaving behind specks of fish meat — a wasteful crime that would alarm any Asian cook, who tend to greatly value using every part of the ingredients. And the concept behind cá kho tộ in itself is a way for Vietnamese families from less privileged backgrounds to stretch a small amount of protein to an entire meal for the family. During the braising process, the fish fat seeps into the liquid, making it more hearty, while the high salt content from soy or fish sauce promotes more consumption of carbs so the family will get full faster with less protein.

I am admittedly quite terrified of cá cắt khúc, due to a childhood incident involving a stuck fish bone in my throat, but I firmly believe that one must always go with slices of perfectly chopped fish in cá kho tộ. Of course, fish steaks exist in western cuisines too, especially in the case of salmon; and supermarkets in Saigon now carry a range of filleted fish for the convenience of busy homemakers. Today, representations of Vietnamese cuisine are not that rare on international media anymore and even TikTokers are making bánh tráng nướng at home, but you will never forget your firsts. I will never forget that special feeling, seeing Christine Ha’s cá cắt khúc for the first time on television — bubbling inside a claypot, coated in a layer of saucy, salty fish sauce caramel that appears like from a dream.

Fried Floating Rice with Dried Cá Chốt and Lotus Tells a Complete Vietnamese Narrative

2025-02-16T14:21:00+07:00

Chef Peter Cường Franklin shared a powerful narrative to introduce the dish he prepared for Saigoneer. Rice symbolizes the nation’s most important carbohydrate and its agrarian culture; cá chốt represents the ubiquity of local seafood and vital waterways; and lotus provides a metaphor for Vietnamese resilience because it grows in the mud and produces a beautiful, useful flower.

Peter’s dish was made with these ingredients from the Mekong Delta, which allowed him to reflect on the value and condition of the region. “We have flooding and we have different kinds of weather conditions that are affecting the farming and thus the livelihoods of the people in that region … We have 100 million people, we have to feed these people. So, the Mekong Delta is very important.”

The WWF's nature-based solutions projects include providing farmers with fish fingerlings and guidance on how to grow them without industrial feed and chemicals. The fish which, include cá chốt, can be dried, seasoned, and sold to people like Peter to enjoy throughout the country. Moreover, farmers receive support to plant floating rice, an ancient variety native to the region that grows naturally during the flood season and thus requires no blocking of floodwaters. By allowing water to flow naturally from upstream, sediments can collect and improve soil fertility while combating erosion. Groundwater reserves are also able to be replenished.

Photo courtesy WWF.

This rice provided Peter with an enjoyable challenge. He explained: “For home cooking, it is actually a very healthy grain of rice ... it still has all the flavor and texture outside. It requires more work, more effort, but I think it could be something to add to the arsenal of home cooking. People can create something that's new, that's different for the family. Because we eat rice, it's the same rice all the time. So, it's nice to have something that has a different flavor, and different texture, and requires a bit more work and effort. To some extent, it's a bit of fun, too.”

Peter seemed to have fun while frying the cooked floating rice with some vegetables and spices and added the dried cá chốt that had been lightly fried along with some boiled lotus seed for subtle sweetness. While bringing silverware for us to try he summed up the value of the meal nicely: “When we make a dish like this, we're actually showing people what and how the Vietnamese eat, and what we eat, and the resources available ingredients that are available to us to make a meal for our family.”

A Light Bánh Cuốn Quảng Đông to Break Your Fast the Chợ Lớn Way

2025-02-13T15:00:00+07:00

Meeting up for a Chinese-style breakfast often means gathering around stacked baskets of dim sum or diving into hearty bowls of wonton noodles. But if you're looking for something lighter, a serving of cheung fun might offer the perfect balance.

Cheung fun (腸粉), often likened to Vietnamese bánh cuốn, is made from thin sheets of steamed rice batter wrapped around various fillings like shrimp, minced pork, or vegetables. The name cheung fun loosely translates to “intestine noodles,” a nod to its coiled shape rather than its ingredients, which contain no actual offal.

The dish originated in Guangdong and has since spread globally through Chinese diaspora communities, adapting to local palates wherever it landed. In Vietnam, it’s commonly known as bánh cuốn Quảng Đông and is a staple of breakfast tables in Chợ Lớn, Saigon’s historic Chinatown. If you happen to wander through early in the day, you might come across Ngọc’s small cheung fun stall tucked into a hẻm in Phùng Hưng Market.

Ngọc, a Teochew descent, runs the stall with her husband, whose family hails from Guandong.

“This dish is now popular in many places like Singapore and Hong Kong. Each region has its own way of making it — some use one type of filling, others another, depending on their own take,” Ngọc explains. “My brother learned the original recipe and taught me, and I adjusted the seasoning to better suit local tastes. In China, the flavors are much milder, so I had to make some changes..”

If bánh cuốn is made on a stretched cloth and lifted with wooden sticks, cheung fun requires a multi-tiered steamer — one level for greens, one for fillings, and two for the rice sheets.

Ngọc’s batter starts with fresh rice soaked overnight and ground daily. Before pouring the batter, she brushes each tray with a thin layer of oil to prevent sticking and give the sheets a smooth, glossy finish. Each tray receives a ladle of batter, spread into a thin layer that cooks in just two minutes over rising steam. She lifts and rolls each sheet, slicing them into neat sections before plating.

Classic cheung fun comes with fillings like minced pork, shrimp, or egg, with the mildly seasoned rice sheet acting as a backdrop for the fresh ingredients to shine. At Ngọc’s stall, the dish is served with steamed bok choy and additional fillings like scallops and imitation crab. “I also make my own sauce, adding a bit of sa tế to match local tastes while keeping it true to tradition,” she explains.

The first bite is all about balance — soft rice sheets, a flavorful filling, a touch of sesame oil, and just enough heat to wake up the palate. It’s a Chinese breakfast that doesn’t demand a feast, yet leaves you perfectly content to take on the day.

Bánh Cuốn Quảng Đông

189/1 Phùng Hưng, Ward 14, D5, HCMC

Cua Cà Mau Consommé Evokes Nostalgic Summer Beach Holidays

2025-02-08T08:33:00+07:00

Seafood reminds chef Nghiêm Minh Đức of childhood vacations to northern beaches with his family. But since moving to Saigon, he has been exposed to southern products including cua Cà Mau’s which inspire him to experiment with new dishes.

its crabs, which populate the mangrove estuaries where the river system meets the sea. This fragile ecosystem and the people who depend on it are at risk because of rising sea levels and saltwater intrusion; the prevalence of dangerous agricultural chemicals and pesticides; disrupted water cycles; and deforestation. The WWF’s Nature-based Solutions (NbS) projects are addressing some of these issues while improving the socio-economy and resilience of local communities through sustainable livelihoods.

In Cà Mau, farmers raise crabs and shrimp according to a nature-based solutions (NbS) model, wherein shrimp and crabs live and feed naturally in native mangrove forests without any chemicals or industrial feed. This NbS approach not only improves livelihoods for local communities but also encourages them to protect the mangrove ecosystem, keeping it green, clean, and reducing the risk of deforestation.

Photo courtesy WWF-Viet Nam.

“Every time we find new ingredients or create new dishes, we always think about the whole process and the whole cycle. Everything from the farmers, how they plant it, and then how they supply to us, and how we use that, and how we introduce the ingredients to the customer. So it's a full circle.”

Photos courtesy of WWF.

To create his dish, Đức paired noodles made with floating rice with a cold, tomato-based consommé made with crab meat, chamomile tea, and local herbs. While straightforward, the process required patience, such as processing, boiling, then icing the noodles and slowly straining the broth to let the crustacean flavors shine. The result was a bright, refreshing dish perfectly suited for endless summer days.

After tasting a bite and reflecting, Đức explained that he initially wanted to make something original that was inspired by the joy surrounding the beach vacations of his youth. But in the end, he discovered that he had made something similar to another Hanoi dish: bún ốc nguội. This led to Đức’s profound realization about chefs: “We think that we make new things, but actually, we just reimagine and recreate our memories; the old, good and happy memories … the experiences that we had wherever we were born and grew up and stay.”

Tết Tales: The Many Folk Stories Behind Vietnam's Bánh Chưng, Bánh Tét

2025-01-26T08:00:00+07:00

To me, there's nothing that screams Tết as much as sticky rice cake. However one wants to spice up the usual celebration by replacing some dishes with something new each year, sticky rice cakes remain a must-have in Vietnamese households. Try searching for an image of the Lunar New Year and there’s a high chance that you’ll spot the cakes amongst the first ten results.

Vietnam's culinary repertoire features several types of sticky rice cakes. Bánh chưng and bánh giầy are most commonly associated with families from the northern provinces. Bánh chưng refers to a savory square cake made of sticky rice with mung bean paste and pork filling, wrapped in lá dong, an oval-shaped leaf. Bánh giầy is a white sticky bun made from glutinous rice often served with giò chả, a type of Vietnamese sausage.

Then there’s bánh tét, which is mostly eaten in central and southern Vietnam. The savory filling of bánh tét is similar to that of bánh chưng, except it's cylindrical and wrapped in banana leaves. However, there are different versions including a sweet one with banana fillings; bánh tét lá cẩm, with magenta plant-infused sticky rice; bánh tét trà cuôn, which is a spin-off from the original pork filling with salted egg and dried shrimp added for more flavors.

Bánh chưng & bánh giầy

The origins of the sticky rice cakes are equivocal. Although there are no reliable factual accounts of it, the earliest record of bánh chưng bánh giầy can be found in Book 1 of Lĩnh Nam Chích Quái (Extraordinary Stories from Lĩnh Nam), the earliest collection of legends, myths, and folklore dating back to ancient Vietnam in the 14^th century, compiled by an anonymous author during the Trần dynasty. Most of the stories in the collection are an attempt to explain many aspects of Vietnamese life, including the origins of iconic foods like paan or watermelon. The bánh chưng bành giầy story, titled “Chưng bính truyện” is the one with which most people are familiar.

“Chưng bính truyện” tells the story of the sixth Hùng King who wants to pick an heir amongst his 20 sons. To do this, the king hosts a cooking competition among the brothers, sending them on a search for delicious dishes everywhere in the world. Lang Liêu, the king’s eighteenth son, being poor and motherless, couldn’t afford to travel far. Lucky for the prince, one night when Lang Liếu is sleeping, a deity enters his dream and is kind enough to offer Lang Liêu the advice to use sticky rice as the main ingredient to make a square cake (bánh chưng), symbolizing the earth; and a round cake (bánh giầy), symbolizing heaven. According to the deity, there is no exotic delicacy that can compare with rice, as rice feeds and nurtures life. The deity also adds the leaf wrapping to represent a mother's protection. Lang Liêu follows the suggestion and becomes the heir.

Although the story is obviously not a factual account, it’s interesting how symbolic meanings of cosmology, nutritional logic, and a unified sense of national and cultural identity are packed into a single narrative that is widely used as an explanation for a very concrete and mundane item.

Sociologist and anthropologist Nir Avieli breaks down these meanings in his culinary ethnography on the Tết rice cakes in Hoi An. For example, the square and round shape as representations for earth and heaven, to be offered during Tết, a time that is considered by many a rebirth of nature, can be seen as performing a symbolic creation and recreation of the universe.

Avieli continues to ponder the legend's emphasis on rice that reflects the rice-growing agriculture of Vietnam. It can also be understood as a way of infusing geographies and national identity into the cake's meaning. Although Vietnam is not the only country that thrives on rice cultivation, it sure is an identity-defining trait of the country. The cake, according to Avieli, also resembles a spatial organization of the countryside, where rice farms (the sticky rice layer) can be found anywhere with small patches of legumes and other farm animals nearby.

However, given the legend's heavy dose of magical elements, the story raises doubts and debates among some Vietnamese scholars. In his essay “Triết lý bánh chưng bánh giầy” (The philosophy of bánh chưng bánh giầy), historian Trần Quốc Vượng contends that the story of Lang Liêu is more of a “fakelore” rather than an authentic Vietnamese folk story as the idea of using square and round objects as symbols for earth and heaven is an imported cultural conception from China's cosmology.

Bánh tét

As for the central and southern bánh tét counterpart, we are left with fewer legends to discuss, yet its factual origins and history remain a debate among many. Some believe that the cylindrical treat is an invention originating from a military tactic of turning bánh chưng into bánh tét to more easily to carry around as a combat ration. The idea is credited to King Quang Trung (Nguyễn Huệ) in his campaign against the Manchu army in December 1789. However, there are many versions of this story. For example, another narrative suggests that it was one of Quang Trung's soldiers who brought bánh tét from his hometown to Quang Trung to be used as a dish for Tết and victory celebration. Another way to look at bánh tét is through the prevalence of rice-farming anxiety during Tết, which used to be a vulnerable time for crops. Because it can be stored for a long time the cake is, therefore, a practical means of overcoming food spoilage.

The most eye-opening theory for bánh tét origins — one that crushed my former assumption that the sticky rice cakes are exclusive to Vietnamese culture – belongs to Tran Quoc Vuong. He suggests that the dish might be the remnants of the past Champa kingdom and was only exposed to Vietnamese people during Nam tiến, a period when Vietnam expanded its territory southward and occupied Champa.

Indeed, bánh tét, or taipei nung in Chăm language, is an important traditional dish in many Chăm festivals including Kate (Cham Balamon community's new year) and Ramawan (Cham Awal community's new year). In this context, bánh tét now contains different meanings that relate to phồn thực, which is a faith followed by Chăm people that celebrates life and reproduction. Phồn thực worships linga (the phallic icon) and yoni (a symbol for the womb). A common food combination in a Kate festival is bánh tét and sakaya (a type of ginger-based cake that has a dendritic shape), representing the linga and yoni, respectively. As a common Chăm saying goes: peinung ala, sakaya ngaok (bánh tét placed below, sakaya cake placed above).

Of course, we should take all these tales with a grain of salt. Apart from giving us insights into the history of the food itself, they also reveal a history of how people attach meanings to food which attempt to negotiate and maintain a consistent cultural and national identity. They are, in a sense, the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves as an expression of identity and senses of belonging via mundane objects.

This article was originally published in 2018.

Tôm Sú Kakiage with Floating Rice Noodles is a Crisp, Cool Dish for Steamy Saigon Afternoons

2025-01-24T06:54:00+07:00

Phở, bún, hủ tiếu, cao lầu and bánh tằm are stand-outs in Vietnam’s impressively diverse portfolio of noodles made with rice. The ones Saigoneer tasked Anaïs Ca Dao van Manen to create a dish with were also made using rice powder, but have different qualities. “The noodle has such a nice bite to it … you can not taste the rice but you can actually taste the different texture of it so it reminded me of soba which made me think, okay, let's do a cold noodle dish.”

The noodles were made using floating rice, which is a centerpiece crop being grown by farmers in the Mekong Delta as part of the CRxN projects deployed by WWF. As part of the non-profit’s efforts to improve the socio-economy and resilience of local communities through sustainable livelihoods while protecting and restoring critical ecosystems, they’re helping farmers return to the rice variety that was once abundant in the area. Able to grow in flooded fields, it grows without the need for devastating chemicals or the manipulation of water cycles which helps the soil rejuvenate.

Noting its similarity to the healthy brown rice her mother loves, Anaïs explained how the noodles made with floating rice remain chewier than typical white noodles. This would make them a great compliment to crispy fried food. She settled on Japanese-style kakiage made with “any vegetables you have in the house,” and tôm sú, or black tiger prawns.

The prawns are also part of WWF’s efforts in the Mekong Delta. Farmers are supported to raise crabs and prawns in the native mangrove forests without any chemicals or industrial feed. This nature-based solution (NbS) model not only improves the local livelihoods, it encourages protecting the health of the vital mangrove ecosystems and combats deforestation.

“For prawns, you have to let the ingredient shine because that's what it's all about, right? It's the flavor of the prawn.” Anaïs said. “So here we're gonna make it shine through two ways, through the stock and through a nice batter.”

Photo courtesy WWF.

The resulting dish delights with its contrasting light crispy fritter and chewy noodles. The fresh herbs, vegetables and shrimp are enhanced by a light sauce boasting salty, umami-laden prawn notes. These fresh flavors and its cooling temperature make it an ideal summer meal that highlights the Mekong Delta’s bounties.

Photo courtesy WWF.

Re-imagining a Streetfood Staple with Sustainable Ingredients: Cơm Tấm Ốc Bươu with Floating Rice

2025-01-23T04:01:00+07:00

Cơm tấm is “all about utilizing, minimizing food waste and, basically, not giving anything away,” explains Chef Trụ Lang of Mùa Sake, as he stands in front of ingredients from the Mekong Delta. “That matches with the ethos of what these crops are trying to do … show a different way of thinking, a different way of agriculture, a different way of using the land, and using the relationship that we have with the land to coexist.”

Trụ is referring, specifically to the ốc bươu, or black apple snails and floating rice (gạo lúa mùa nổi), that he was challenged to cook with to help showcase products produced as part of WWF-Viet Nam’s Nature-based Solutions (NbS) projects. The undertakings aim to improve the socio-economy and resilience of local communities through sustainable livelihoods while protecting and restoring critical ecosystems.

U Minh Thượng National Park in Kiên Giang province. Photos courtesy WWF-Viet Nam.

The core zone of U Minh Thượng National Park in Kiên Giang province is strictly protected, but increasing market demand frequently drives buffer zone farmers to collect apple snails for their livelihood. These farmers now receive support from WWF to raise responsibly collected snails in waterways, using natural and readily available food sources.

Floating rice being grown in Long An. Photo courtesy WWF-Viet Nam.

Meanwhile, the floating rice was once largely abandoned by local farmers despite its natural cultivation coinciding with flood cycles, and thus, not requiring chemically intensive fertilizers and destructive interference with water flows. Nature-based Solutions (NbS) projects support residents in Kiên Giang and Long An in adopting feasible, sustainable methods for cultivating the floating rice which helps return the land and water to health and fertility.

After boiling the ốc bươu, Trụ chops the meat to make a patty with pork, egg, honey and fish sauce. The juicy meat is fried, topped by the requisite egg with a runny yolk, and presented atop a mound of floating rice. The whole grain rice is at first difficult to approach, Trụ admits, as it is tougher, more flavorful, and requires overnight soaking and a longer cooking time. However, in addition to greater nutritional value than conventional rice, its production helps maintain soil fertility without leaching harmful chemicals across the Mekong’s land and waterways. He offers the advice of mixing some of it into your daily white rice to get some of these benefits.

U Minh Thượng National Park. Photo courtesy WWF-Viet Nam.

Complimented by pickles and more fish sauce, the ốc bươu cơm tấm with floating rice is a wonderfully salty, juicy, complex meal that retains all the charm of the more familiar pork chop version. They taste all the more delicious knowing that the ingredients are the result of projects that support local livelihoods while protecting treasured wilderness areas and natural water and soil balance.

Charles Phan's Bánh Mì Is Not Here to Take You Down Memory Lane

2025-01-22T10:00:00+07:00

“Charles Phan had more impact on Vietnamese food than any other chef in the country.” — Michael Bauer, San Francisco Chronicle.

Editor's note (Jan 2025): We’re deeply saddened to learn of Chef Charles Phan’s recent passing. For nearly 30 years, Charles played a pivotal role in introducing and elevating Vietnamese cuisine in the US.

When preparing for my upcoming move, I debated which of my many books would come along with me. One book that immediately went into the box was Charles Phan’s The Slanted Door: Modern Vietnamese Food, a cookbook featuring about a hundred recipes from the iconic San Francisco restaurant The Slanted Door, littered with curled neon pink bookmarks that I hastily made out of post-its and placed on the page of every recipe or story about its formation that caught my imagination.

Today Charles Phan is billed as the “inventor of modern Vietnamese cuisine in America” by Food Network and a recipient of the James Beard Foundation 2004 award for Best Chef: California, often fondly referred to as the “Oscars of the food world” and considered to be the highest honor in the culinary community.

His most well-known restaurant, The Slanted Door — recipient of the James Beard Foundation award for Outstanding Restaurant in 2014 — was, according to the San Francisco Chronicle, one of the first Asian restaurants to create a serious wine list and bar program using organic ingredients. Despite being around for over two decades, and having almost 300 seats in its waterfront Ferry Building location, the restaurant is always packed for lunch and dinner service.

But it wasn’t that long ago that Charles was lucky to even get the opportunity to bus tables at fine-dining establishments.

The Slanted Door’s space. Photos via Instagram page @slanteddoor.

Before bánh mì: coffee, architecture, and menswear

Charles Phan spent his childhood in 1960s Đà Lạt where his mother grew up, and where his father immigrated to; they both are of Chinese descent. Across from the steps leading down to the hilly city’s central market, his parents owned a general store. Behind, a mì xào giòn cart would set up shop, serving crunchy fried wheat noodles with a savory seafood gravy, while another cart would serve up hot, crispy, turmeric-tinged bánh xèo, forming the basis of some of Charles’ fondest food memories.

In 1971, his father bought a coffee farm nearby, only for them to have to abandon it four years later in 1975. “We left the very day of April 30, 1975. I actually saw the very tank that crushed the gate and went through the Presidential Palace,” Charles tells me, thinking back to when he was thirteen. In order to leave Vietnam that day in a cargo ship with 400 other people, “We got there before the sun set and waited by a nearby ship, and at midnight, we slipped in there. They pulled out at two in the morning,” he recounts in a Good Food podcast episode.

The cargo ship ended up getting lost and being picked up by Malaysian patrol boats that took them to Singapore. Charles recognizes how lucky they were for this to be the case, “When you’re at sea it’s very scary — an approaching ship could be pirates or other bad people.” But not everyone felt so grateful towards the Singaporeans. Laughing, Charles recounts to me, “They literally brought us food every day. I remember the first day [when] they just showed up and they didn’t have anything — they brought us fourteen loaves of bread for 400 people. And the Vietnamese were a little pissed off. They expect Singaporeans to come with a feast or something. [So they] threw one loaf back into the ocean, and once the boat left, a guy — half-naked — jumped into the water and grabbed the bread.” I guess some things never change; the Vietnamese will go to great lengths for their bánh mì.

"I guess some things never change: the Vietnamese will go to great lengths for their bánh mì."

From Singapore’s waters, there were seaworthy ships prepared with appropriate navigation and fuel (a luxury not all boats leaving Vietnam had) that enabled refugees to either return to Vietnam, immigrate to Taiwan, or immigrate to America by way of Guam. Charles playfully reminisces, “They made sure to park the ship far away enough so you can’t swim to Singapore. But everyone wanted to go there. [When] people got sick, they got an army escort to go see a doctor in Singapore. I remember there was an eye infection that spread across the whole ship, but I didn't get it. I would try to poke my eye out with salt water to make it red, in hopes that I could go on a field trip [to Singapore]...But I guess I didn't poke it hard enough!”

Charles’ mother pushed for America, so the family of ten — two parents, Charles, his five younger siblings, and an aunt and uncle — ended up on the Micronesian island of Guam as they waited for a sponsor in America. “You had the choice to get on a plane and they’ll take you wherever they drop you, or you get to stay in Guam. At the refugee camp, there were stories of people going to Minnesota with snow and ice, and you know, we’re from the Tropics so we didn’t want to go. My mom opted to stay in Guam. She was always very forward-thinking.”

“Guam was [sic] 400,000 people and you live in big army tents. When there was a monsoon, water was running through your feet. As time goes by, it gets smaller and smaller and they move you to an army barrack,” Charles recounts. “We were the last family. There were ten of us and no one wanted to sponsor us. They’ll sponsor two or four people, but when there’s ten of you, no one wants to adopt that many people in the household.” So, after two years in Guam, his aunt and uncle split off as their own family.

Photo via Wikipedia.

So on July 7, 1977, two years and two months after leaving Vietnam, Charles and his family flew Pan-Am to San Francisco. “We had friends in San Francisco and they said they rented two beautiful apartments — turned out they got us two studios in the Tenderloin for ten people,” laughed Charles, referring to apartments that didn't even have a door separating the bedroom from the common area, in a neighborhood that had 40% of the city's drug overdoses and a quarter of its homicides in the 1970s. The notorious neighborhood became Charles’ first impression of San Francisco: “Coming from a small town [in Vietnam], and Guam was pitch dark, the Tenderloin was very colorful — lights, prostitutes. It was just mind-boggling when I first got here.”

As a sign of what was to come in his career, “My dad got a job, somehow, in Chinatown as a janitor in a restaurant, and I started working in the restaurant a year later, bussing tables when I was 16. That’s how I got into the restaurant business.” Charles worked at a range of food and beverage joints from British pubs to nightclubs. “Back then [at predominately white restaurants], it was rare that they even had me [a Vietnamese person] as a busser,” he recalls. “Everyone asked me, ‘Where are you from? Why are you here? Are you supposed to be here?’ like I came from Mars.”

At the end of high school, Charles found himself with acceptance letters from a couple of art schools (due to his skills in pottery), as well as Berkeley. Well, I’m sure you can guess which school his father pushed him to choose. After studying architecture at Berkeley for three years (he dropped out as a protest to steep tuition hikes), he went home and ran his mom’s sewing shop, creating a men’s clothing line, named Fin du Siècle, along the way.

“I got emotional the minute I landed at Tân Sơn Nhất. It had just rained, and the street smell, the dirt, the smoke — it was just like I had remembered. There’s nothing romantic about it, but it got me emotional.”

Funny enough, it was his clothing, not his culinary experience, that brought him back to Vietnam after seventeen years away. In 1992, he returned to the motherland to help with sourcing for a local sewing shop. “I got emotional the minute I landed at Tân Sơn Nhất. Leaving the taxi to go into the city — the smell. It had just rained, and the street smell...the dirt...the smoke... It was just like I had remembered. There’s nothing romantic about it, but it got me emotional.”

Once that job ended, Charles went back to California where he worked at a software company for two years before it folded. It was at this time that he started to look at new career options.

The fish heads can’t hurt you

“I’m very entrepreneurial, just like my father and mother. And part of me was really annoyed in Berkeley that people just didn’t take Asian designers seriously. They thought that I should have been in the engineering or math department,” Charles continues. “So I had this idea in my head for 10 years. I wanted to show [that] Vietnamese restaurants could have great designs. We already have great food, so I don’t need to reinvent that.”

Slanted Door in the Mission District on Opening Day. Photo courtesy of The Slanted Door.

Originally envisioned as a bánh xèo shop, The Slanted Door opened with a six-item menu in 1995 in the Mission District. At that time, the Mission was a predominantly working-class Hispanic neighborhood, though today it is a gentrified neighborhood with artisanal ice cream shops and commissioned street art to serve as a backdrop for your Instagram photos. Charles kept the menu simple: phở, bún, and the like. “But,” Charles adds, “because I came from fine dining, I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t do phở or bún at night, I focused on other entrées. Who eats phở at night anyways?”

Like many other immigrant chefs, Charles worked to find a balance in his menu. “It’s a constant question, as a chef, where your voice is. For years I struggled... Will people buy this? Is this too white? Is this too Vietnamese?” He recalls of his early years: “It was hard [then] because you don’t know. I remember selling four whole fish, and two of them came back. People didn’t want to pay for it. They got upset; they cried; they saw the head. I think Vietnamese and Chinese kids are trained to be adventurous, but here [in America], it’s the opposite.”

"I remember selling four whole fish, and two of them came back. People didn’t want to pay for it. They got upset; they cried; they saw the head. I think Vietnamese and Chinese kids are trained to be adventurous, but here, it’s the opposite."

But he must have eventually gotten it right because in less than a decade, he received the James Beard Foundation award for Best Chef: California in 2004 and within another decade, The Slanted Door was named the nation’s most Outstanding Restaurant by the James Beard Foundation.

“I was floored when we won. I thought, ‘This’d better not be a joke because I’ll be very upset.’ I came home, and the internet crashed. Our site got so crushed. And that’s when I found out that I have a very cheap [Internet] hosting company,” Charles reminisces. To understand the significance of the award, you have to remember that it was 2014, and Asian food didn’t enjoy the same interest and recognition it does today.

Charles and The Slanted Door’s first dishwasher, Daniel. Photo courtesy of The Slanted Door.

“That was just unheard of [then]. It’s always been very Euro-centric with these awards. And now it’s good that people aren’t treating these foods like some cheap hole-in-the-wall place — which we all love. Now people are a little bit more adventurous. Now no one returns a fish because it has a head. You don’t realize how far we’ve come in terms of food and what we expect of food.”

Where are the pickles?

Today, Charles isn’t afraid of cooking the dishes he wants and editing them to his liking. Since opening The Slanted Door, the chef and restaurateur has opened up many different concepts, including his newest venture: Chuck’s Takeaway.

This takeaway bánh mì shop features classic combinations like pâté and chả with mayonnaise, cucumbers, jalepeño, and a crush of herbs in his stuffed C.P.’s No. 3, as well as more location-inspired sandwiches like Jo Jo’s Bollito which swaps out the baguette with a toasted bun and is filled with tender braised beef belly smothered in tangy, spicy salsa verde.

The CP No. 3 from Chuck’s Takeaway.

And in a Charles twist, he serves his pickled seasonal vegetables (think more Romanesco broccoli, Fresno chiles, and radishes, and less shredded carrots and daikon) on the side, not in the sandwich — a move a pickle hater like me is very happy to hear.

“There’s a small segment of people who are mad about it. They ask, ‘Where are the pickles?’,” he tells me. “People don’t say that to chefs who are doing a new type of food, but when it’s traditional dishes, if people have certain memories with traditional dishes, they just react and don’t think straight. I’m not here to take you on a trip down memory lane.”

"They ask: 'Where are the pickles?' People don’t say that to chefs who are doing a new type of food. When it’s traditional dishes, they just react and don’t think straight. I’m not here to take you on a trip down memory lane."

At US$16, the sandwich is bound to get some haters, as seen in Yelp reviews. One reviewer writes "I wouldn't call this an everyday lunch spot bc $$$," while on the other hand, another reviewer comments, "I will admit that the baguette is really nice and soft (probably the best baguette I've had), [...] I really wish it had the traditional pickled daikon and carrots." Charles reflects: “This latest round with Chuck’s has been amazing — it’s the best praise we’ve had from Vietnamese people. The tides have really turned.”

Jo Jo’s Bollito from Chuck’s Takeaway.

When you learn about the effort Charles puts into his sandwiches, the price makes sense. He spent years perfecting his bánh mì baguettes. He tracked down a guy in Vietnam and paid to learn from him. After that, he had to change the baguette recipe to meet his standard of bread conditioner and achieve the perfect, yet almost impossible to combine, texture: crunchy and light on the outside with density and a chewy pull on the inside, mimicking a good sourdough. He elaborates: “Ten to fifteen years ago, the food was expected to be a certain price. And yes my food is expensive, and I make no qualms about it. I’ve got to take care of myself, my farmers, my staff, buy sustainable ingredients and make my own pâté, chả... I actually make less money this way since it’s not super efficient since I have to make everything small-batch.”

Charles 4.0

Currently, Charles is working on renovating the San Francisco Ferry Building location of The Slanted Door and its takeaway offshoot Out the Door, as well as opening up a new concept, Moonset, a small shop which will focus on his love of noodles.

“I have to think of the next version of me: Charles 4.0. I should retire, but it’s more scary now because it’s not just my name I’m protecting, but it’s everyone’s job. I know I have to change to stay successful.”

When asked about his version of the future, Charles answered: “I hope with my cooking, if anything, that the next generation will carry the baton that I’m carrying, promoting culture and heritage, taking care of the farmers, making beautiful food. Passing down these things are [sic] important because food is not just about flavor. It’s history, a way of thinking...”

Photo via sfgate.com.

“I was just in Seattle and I saw more Vietnamese chefs starting to put Vietnamese food in a different context. Some do it with a tweezer, and more power to them. I would never cook with a tweezer, but that doesn’t mean there’s a real right or wrong [way]. The fact that you’re paying homage to a culture you love, that’s your own, and you’re exploring it. I think that’s a beautiful thing.”

To Charles, the promotion of Vietnamese food, in any way, shape, or form, is deserving of support: “You’re actually putting this culture on a pedestal, and you’re trying to broadcast this way of thinking, way of eating, the way of Vietnamese people, and I think that’s wonderful. Whatever medium you want to use is fine, you’re still preaching the Vietnamese gospel, and I’m all for that.”

"Whatever medium you want to use is fine, you’re still preaching the Vietnamese gospel, and I’m all for that."

Graphic by Hannah Hoàng, Phan Nhi and Hương Đỗ.

From Sticky Rice and Sugar, Bánh Tổ Binds Me With Tết and My Hoa Vietnamese Roots

2025-01-19T23:00:00+07:00

This Tết, you’re invited to my grandma’s house for a true-blue Tết meal of Hoa Vietnamese, comprising char siu, khâu nhục (braised pork belly), cured duck meat, etc. Then, you can think of the best well-wishing for my grandparents, after which they will give you a red envelope. In my experience, the cleverer and more sincere the wish, the thicker the envelope would be. Before you leave, she would pack up a bánh tổ for you to take home, and store in your fridge to tie you over for the rest of the Tết holiday, as she believes that the core values of Tết are connections and generosity.

Bánh tổ is a traditional confectionery of the Hoa ethnic minority, often consumed during ceremonial occasions, especially Tết and Tết Đoan Ngọ, which celebrates the midyear mark. In Sino-Vietnamese, it’s called niên cao (niángāo), a homonym of “a greater year.” Symbolizing the hopes of self-improvement in a new year, bánh tổ is believed to be an auspicious snack if eaten during special occasions. According to historical sources, it was brought by Chinese merchants into Hội An (Quảng Nam) in the 16th–17th century; residents used bánh tổ as an ancestral offering, so it was given the name “bánh tổ.” Over time, bánh tổ has become an indispensable element of Tết in Central Vietnam.

Bánh tổ is an indispensable element of Tết of Hoa Vietnamese families.

Hoa Vietnamese follow the belief that offerings to Ông Táo (the Kitchen God) must include items that are “sticky” and “sweet” to bribe him into ignoring the household’s faults during the year in his annual report to the Jade Emperor in heaven. Thus, bánh tổ is not just a common feature of usual ancestral feasts, but also those put together for the annual Kitchen God day as a delicious bribe. This distinguishes the Hoa offering platter from the Kinh version, which often consists of sticky rice, poached chicken, sweets, areca nuts, betel leaves, and liquor.

The main ingredients of bánh tổ are glutinous rice powder, sugar, and, sometimes, red beans as the filling — much simpler than other Hoa Tết treats like bánh thuẫn, bánh phát tài or bánh xếp. To make bánh tổ, the powder is mixed with sugar syrup and steamed in a cylindrical mold with banana leaf beneath. It’s a simple enough process that many Hoa families traditionally make them at home for special occasions.

Bánh tổ has a bright shade of golden orange and comes in various sizes. Prices start from VND80,000 per kilogram.

For my family, nothing compares to the joy of shopping before Tết to prepare for the upcoming holiday. Wandering through Chợ Lớn to marvel at the merchandise is much more fun than visiting relatives or gathering at family meals. I can’t put my finger on why I enjoy trips with my mom and grandma to the market during the last days of the lunar calendar, even though the price gouging is apparent and streets are ever-congested. I’ve always thought that this is the best time of the year to be in Saigon; when everyone looks forward to time with family and an impending Tết.

All through the year, I’ve gotten used to seeing my family working and saving tirelessly so they can afford to spend a bit more during this time to decorate and renovate our home to prepare for a new year. If splurging on half a kilogram more of pork can be a tough decision on any other day, during Tết, this spending is a no-brainer: “Not just for our family, but we also prepare enough to feed our relatives and neighbors too,” my grandma often says. Paying nearly VND100,000 just for a pastry like bánh tổ on a normal day would probably yield some passionate disapproval from her, but if it’s for Tết, she could happily spend VND500,000 just to have enough to share with her grandkids, relatives and even those living next door.

A stall with all sorts of Tết treats at the corner of Phùng Hưng and Nguyễn Trãi streets.

The flavor profile of bánh tổ evokes a sense of prosperity and richness, from the moreish sweetness of the sugar to the glutinous and sticky texture of the rice, creating something both rustic and enticing as each bite dissolves in your mouth. The primordial version of bánh tổ is just brown, but in order to zhuzh it up for Tết, bánh makers in Chợ Lớn add in turmeric powder to create that appealing shade of yellow.

More often than not, freshly bought bánh tổ can already be sliced and eaten straight away, though it can be kept for a month. After a while, bánh tổ is often thinly sliced, dipped in an egg mixture, and fried on the stove. This way of transforming leftovers reminds me of bánh chưng or bánh tét, both traditional altar offerings that can be the savior during the early days of the holiday when grocery vendors and supermarkets are not open yet. In those moments, the traditional rice cakes become “fridge-cleaning” dishes for the entire family, commonly consumed with pickles to balance out the greasiness of the frying.

From the middle of the last month of the lunar calendar, Saigoneers have already started shopping for Tết.

With each Tết past, away from my grandparents, I can feel a distance forming between me and my roots. Bánh tổ is perhaps the remaining link connecting me with my Hoa traditions. It’s not just a familiar taste, but also an embodiment of the spirits of generosity and bonding in a community, so that everyone can be as closely “sticking” together like bánh tổ.

A Shelf-Stable History of Why Vietnam Loves Mì Gói

2025-01-07T11:00:00+07:00

Instant noodles are more or less a religion. They have widely spread to many lands, where they are adapted to suit the culture and people there. Most importantly, they offer us salvation in some of the darkest times.

This article was originally published in 2021.

These are the thoughts that ran through my mind while slurping up a bowl of instant noodles. Saigon is now beginning its third month of social distancing, and households aren't even allowed to go outside for groceries. Even when we could, my mother, whom our family entrusts with this task, often returns home exclaiming: “There is almost nothing left. Even instant noodles are out of stock.”

Flash back a bit in time to when the pandemic situation in Saigon was just beginning to become complicated and unpredictable. Nervous and confused, many people, like me, rushed to grocery stores to prepare for the uncertainties ahead. As if connected by an invisible force, everybody in the store at that moment was at the instant noodle section, staring blankly at the limited choices they could make, calculating both variety and quality against price, and then quickly putting several packets into their baskets.

In a checkout queue that felt like forever, everyone was trying to stock up on noodles. Each person was armed with Hảo Hảo, Omachi, Miliket, and more, all hugging the packets as if they were afraid that somebody might accidentally take them.

If you have experienced this yourself, you probably wouldn’t be surprised about the surge of instant noodle consumption in Vietnam since the outbreak of COVID-19. According to statistics from the World Instant Noodles Association, Vietnamese people consumed more than 7 billion packets of noodles in 2020, 67% more than during the same period in 2019.

Similar trends are seen in other Asian-Pacific countries such as China, South Korea and Japan, where the instant noodle industry has continuously observed record-breaking profits, sometimes even passing technology companies and car manufacturers in taking the lead in the stock market.

Even before the pandemic, Asian communities as a whole, and Vietnamese people in particular, already had an unshakable love for instant noodles. In Vietnam, a delicious bowl of noodles is considered a complete meal. To satisfy the craving for noodles, we incorporate various ingredients to create "masterpieces" such as mussel noodles, snail noodles, and stir-fried beef noodles. Though this product is present in western countries too, only in Asian cuisines do instant noodles play such an important role.

From a scientific perspective, it is not difficult to understand why we love eating noodles so much. The main ingredients in each bowl are starch, fat, and monosodium glutamate (MSG) — a combination methodically crafted to stimulate human appetite. Each packet is often not large enough to make us full, enticing us to reach for another.

Or, perhaps we eat instant noodles because the habit is so deeply ingrained into the Vietnamese lifestyle. As children, one of everyone’s favorite snacks was a colorful packet of noodles, small enough to fit in the palm of our hands. We would tear open the packet, pour it into our mouth, and listen to the sounds of noodles crunching in our mouths. Passing the noodle packets under the table during class was how we tightened our childhood friendships.

As we grew older, instant noodles became our savior during those sleepless nights trying to study for exams, chasing after endless deadlines, or those drunken nights when we almost forgot our way home. At convenience stores, shelves of instant noodles and the hot water counter are also strategically located near the entrance, making it a much-desired stop for those hungry stomachs out in the busy streets.

But above all, we eat instant noodles because it is a necessity. For many people, the consumption of noodles does not come from a love for the taste, but from the urgency of life. In the midst of the rapidly developing economy in Vietnam, many people have to make a living through informal, non-contracted jobs, with low and unstable wages. Meanwhile, the average price of a box of multiple packets of noodles fluctuates around VND100,000, roughly 1/30th of the minimum wage. For them, though instant noodles aren't an ideal source of nutrition, they are by far the cheapest way to satisfy hunger.

Instant noodles were invented in Japan in 1958, after World War II. At the time, Japan was in the process of an economic recovery and plagued by famine. The popular dish at the time was noodles, though they were not widely produced due to a lack of factories and storage options. Realizing the demand of the people, an entrepreneur named Momofuku Ando sought to invent a kind of noodle that could be stored for a long time and consumed instantly.

Google Doodle for Momofuku Ando on his 105^th birthday.

In his autobiography, Momofuku writes: “I happened to be passing by this area and saw a 20-30 meters long line of people queuing in front of a dimly lit ramen shop, from which clouds of steam were rising from. People were underdressed for the weather and were shivering under the cold. [...] Their faces lit up as they slurped the bowl of ramen.”

The first packets of instant noodles were sold for JPY35 (VND7,200), carrying Momofuku’s aspiration to bring affordable sources of nutrition to the people. “The world will be at peace when everybody is well-fed,” he affirmed.

Fast forward to 2021, the world is again reeling from war, natural disasters, and social inequality. Millions of people face poverty and food shortages due to the pandemic. In the midst of that bleak picture, instant noodles are not the magical products that Momofuku hoped for, but they remain an important lifeline. During the time of a tsunami in Japan, earthquake in Taiwan, or floods in central Vietnam, instant noodles were ever-present.

Hence, it is not surprising that when a global pandemic broke out, instant noodles were readily waiting for us in the corner of the cupboard. Just put the noodles in a bowl, add in the seasoning packet, pour over some boiling water, let it sit for five minutes, and we have a complete meal. Though it can’t compare to the sophistication of phở or the flavors of bún bò, amidst the uncertainties we are experiencing, the rich flavor from MSG is an adequate comfort for your empty stomach.

Instant noodles are more than just a basic, convenient product, they are a representation of many common values that Vietnamese people and Asian communities share. They stand for persistence during painful histories, from post-war famine to the devastating pandemic. They represent culinary creativity stemming from the most trivial ingredients, which is evident in Saigon’s phá lấu, or Korea’s military hotpot. Most of all, it is a sense of security, family, and home.

When a Korean eats Shin Ramyun, an Indonesian eats Indomie and a Vietnamese eats Hảo Hảo, we are all savoring different flavors, yet feeling the same warmth and comfort. And maybe that is the invisible string that leads us back to the instant noodle shelves at grocery stores in the good days, the bad days, and the many days afterwards.

Illustrations by Patty Yang and Phương Phan.
Graphics by Phan Nhi and Jessie Tran.