Bánh chưng and bánh tét are the two reigning monarchs of Tết food, representing the north and south of Vietnam. Still, not many know that in Central Vietnam, there are a plethora of Tết treats that are just as iconic, such as bánh thuẫn. To celebrate the new year, central families display a plate of bánh thuẫn in the living room to honor ancestors, entice visitors, and reward kids for their good behaviors.

It’s the last month of the lunar calendar, the most joyous time of the year. Everywhere in Central Vietnam, kitchens are constantly baking. The neighborhood smells of burning charcoal, gingery caramel, sticky rice paste, and mung beans; the air is filled with the sounds of excited banters, clinking pots and pans, sizzling batter, and the pops of firewood stoves — everything becomes a harmonious background in a timeless Tết musical special.

Bánh thuẫn somewhat mirrors the shape of an apricot blossom. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Bánh thuẫn takes the form of a golden five-petal apricot blossom, so our ancestors saw it as a symbol of good fortune, luck, and prosperity in a new year. Central Vietnam tends to call things for what they are: the molds to make this pastry is oval-shaped, also known as “thuẫn-shaped” in Vietnamese, so the thing that comes out of them is called bánh thuẫn.

Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

The typical ingredients include arrowroot flour (bột bình tinh), chicken or duck eggs, sugar, and ginger. People often call it “the pastry that comes straight from the garden” because a shopping trip is not necessary to procure the key components to make it.

You get the flour from pulverizing the bình tinh tuber (Maranta arundinacea). The plant grows in thick clumps, producing white elongated rhizomes. Arrowroot flour is not just a baking ingredient, but also a coating powder for deep-frying, and a thickening agent in desserts. It is the heart of bánh thuẫn and the deciding factor whether the resulting product can fluff up or not.

Bánh thuẫn “rises” into petals. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Preparing the batter is both fun and time-consuming. Before, every step required human labor instead of appliances like today, so the process consumed more time and effort. But being there from start to finish also created fond memories for everyone involved, no matter how old they get or how far they’ve traveled from home. First, whip the eggs until the mixture turns spongy and as light as cotton. During whisk-less times, people had a secret homemade “weapon”: bundles of chopsticks. Ten in each hand, they form a powerful tool to aerate the eggs. Once the texture is ideal, add the flour, sugar and ginger. More whipping is needed until the batter comes out viscous, golden, and uniform.

Bánh thuẫn is baked on firewood stoves. Photo via Pexel.

Finally, the baking begins. I think the tastiest bánh thuẫn hails from firewood stoves. Bánh thuẫn molds are often made of cast iron, with a thick bottom and 8 or 16 hollow segments on top. Grease the surface with a thin layer of peanut oil and then ladle the batter into the holes. Put the lid back on and then weigh the entire thing down with hot coals.

The dual heat from below and above makes quick work of the eggy batter. A special feeling swelled in me whenever it was time to take the lid off. The kids gather around the stove, whispering to one another: “Why do I feel so nervous? I don’t know if mom’s batter will fluff or become deflated like Aunt Sáu’s.”

Bánh thuẫn encapsulates the Tết joy of Central Vietnam kids. Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

Children in Central Vietnam have a unique hobby that takes place during the last month of the lunar calendar: going door-to-door to watch bánh thuẫn baking — The Great Miền Trung Bake Off, if you will. Which family's batter is lumpy, which family's pastry is half-baked, which family produces the prettiest dough, the kids have the receipts.

Naturally, the unlidding is a moment that rouses them the most. One would cover her eyes, one can’t stop giving commentary, one has to hold his breath, and, once the lid’s off, they burst into cheers and hugs like football fanatics celebrating a goal. “It’s risen! It’s risen,” they chant. They watch the batter rise with the same anticipation of a plant lover waiting for the first mai blossom to unfurl on the first day of Tết.

Bánh thuẫn is inherently a dry pastry. Photo via Người Lao Động.

A freshly baked bánh thuẫn is called a wet bánh thuẫn, with a texture as soft as sponge cake. Alas, the wet version will spoil easily, so it’s often dehydrated to increase the shelf life. Fresh pastries are arranged on a large bamboo tray and put on top of a low charcoal fire. They slowly dry out and become desiccated — dry bánh thuẫn. I remember my first encounter with them, a gift from my grandma. I thought this batch was spoiled. They look like little sponge cakes, but also arid. The first bite was crumbly and dry, but tasted magical.

The pastry melted in my mouth, alerting every taste bud of the flavor of egg, sugar, and a little zesty ginger. The aroma stayed at the tip of the tongue as the sweetness traveled down my throat. I devoured one, then a second one, and then a fourth and a fifth in the blink of an eye. Adults often enjoy dry bánh thuẫn with hot tea, but for children, washing them down with just tap water is enough.

Bánh thuẫn on sale at Bà Hoa Market in Tân Bình, HCMC. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Living far away from home, I think of the bags of bánh thuẫn as emotional triggers for my homesickness. I miss my grandma and my mom, who work all day to make the batter and bake the bánh. I miss the memories of my childhood, when I too was part of its making, an experience both tiring and exciting. Our Tết joys were simpler back then: wearing pretty clothes, going out of the house, and eating tasty pastry.

Sometimes when I have a sudden craving for bánh thuẫn, I would drive to Bà Hoa Market, Saigon’s famous corner of Central Vietnam treats. It might not taste exactly like my hometown’s version, but it helps abate the missing.

I pride myself on being a child of Hanoi, but only after nearly 20 years, did I realize that trứng vịt lộn is not exactly an authentic topping in Hanoi-style bún riêu.

With 2024 coming to an end, many apps are urging me to reflect on my year and Top 10 this and Top 10 that. If I were to make a list of the most surprising discoveries I've made this year, finding out that traditional “authentic” bún riêu doesn’t include trứng vịt lộn would definitely comes out on top. Turns out, my regular bún riêu order, one I’m always chanting like a mantra of a Hanoian craving — “riêu sụn giò tóp mỡ trứng vịt lộn, bỏ cùng nước” (bún riêu with pork cartilage, giò, with fried pork fat and balut egg) — is a modernized, non-traditional version of bún riêu. The diversity of toppings today is a far cry compared to the original simplicity of Hanoian bún riêu, which is a simple noodle dish that only highlights riêu cua (crab paste), an easy-to-find ingredient in the subsidy period in the early 1980s. Since then, I have always wondered: how could trứng vịt lộn become such an iconic dish of Hanoian cuisine?

Illlustration by Ngọc Tạ.

From a rustic beginning

Trứng vịt lộn, or balut, is a fertilized duck embryo that can be enjoyed in numerous ways depending on the region and country. The English term “balut” originates from the Tagalog phrase “balut sa puti,” which means “wrapped in white.” This came from the traditional preparation method where the egg is “wrapped” during incubation. There are many ways the Vietnamese culture has attempted to make sense of its Vietnamese name.

Does vịt lộn lộn? Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

Trứng vịt — or hột vịt, as it's commonly called in southern Vietnam — can be directly translated to duck eggs, but “lộn” has many interpretations, from official dictionary definitions to folk stories. According to the Vietnamese-Portuguese-Latin dictionary by Alexandre de Rhodes, “lộn” is a Nôm word of Vietnamese origin, meaning reincarnation. However, according to the writer Minh Lê, a folk tale references “lộn” as “mistake,” as in “This already half-hatched egg is mistakenly cooked!” Another version suggests that “lộn” can mean “mixed” due to duck eggs being incubated by hens, resulting in a mix-up. These myths all partially illustrate the prevalence of trứng vịt lộn in Vietnam folk life. However, its exact origins are somewhat unclear. Still, according to historical texts, the tradition of consuming fertilized eggs is believed to have originated in China and was imported into the Philippines through Chinese traders.

Before electricity, Vietnamese were used to trứng vịt lộn vendors lit up with oil lamps. Photo via Phụ Nữ.

According to an article in the Journal of Ethnic Foods, fertilized duck eggs are a shared delicacy of numerous Asian countries, including the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. This practice began as a way to extend the shelf life of eggs before refrigeration was available, creating 毛鸡蛋, or “feathered egg,” which still have visible feathers once cooked. The fundamental difference between these regional baluts lies in the incubation duration: in Cambodia, the incubation lasts from 18 to 20 days, while Vietnamese eggs are usually incubated for 19–21 days to ensure the embryo is firm when cooked.

In Vietnam, the earliest historical mention of trứng vịt lộn can be traced back to the imperial eras of the Nguyễn Dynasty. In 1822, the Minh Mạng court hosted John Crawfurd, a British ambassador, at a banquet that featured three bowls of balut. If true, this shows that trứng lộn has been eaten in Huế since at least the 1820s, though there are no records indicating whether they were chicken or duck eggs. In his journal, Crawfurd described the balut as “the highlight of every grand feast.”

John Crawfurd’s Journal of an Embassy from the Governor-General of India to the Courts of Siam and Cochin China, a classic reference text of 19^th-century Vietnam. Photo via Biblioasia.

According to writer Nguyễn Gia Việt, trứng vịt lộn was brought to southern Vietnam by the Ma Ní people (Manileños), which refers to Filipino soldiers who served as mercenaries for the French. Then, it was commercialized by the Chinese as the first seller in Saigon's Chợ Lớn. While the exact year is unclear, this was the first place to trade trứng vịt lộn, with Bến Bình Đông being a hub for duck egg incubation. The selection of duck eggs over chicken eggs is due to the former's stronger shell and membrane, with a smoother shell texture. This gives the egg stronger resistance during the demanding incubation process.

In the 1950s, Pateros was the “Balut capital” of the Philippines with around 400,000 ducks dedicated to balut egg production. Photo via History Oasis.

Vietnamese mostly enjoy trứng vịt lộn già, or old balut, which is incubated for 20–21 days. At this time, the embryos are small but most of the parts of the ducklings’ bodies have been developed, giving the otherwise soft albumen a more textured filling. Apart from trứng vịt lộn, trứng cút lộn (fertilized quail egg) is also a well-beloved street food often sold at nhậu restaurants, either stir-fried in tamarind sauce or fried with butter. 

To a familiar daily presence

Trứng vịt lộn has many “faces” as it can be featured in numerous dishes. While any Hanoian child is familiar with the simple boiled egg, served with rau răm, the traditional Saigon way to eat vịt lộn is slightly more refined. The egg is put on a tiny ceramic cup, with the bigger end facing upward; the diner uses a teaspoon to crack a hole just big enough to slowly scoop the insides out to eat — similar to the way the French eat soft-boiled eggs (œufs à la coque). In southwestern provinces, trứng vịt lộn can be boiled in coconut water, infusing the signature sweetness of this distinctly southern flavor. Trứng vịt lộn can also lend itself brilliantly to other dishes, including hotpot, porridge, and soup.

Trứng vịt lộn and porridge and in trứng vịt lộn om bầu. Photo via Kênh 14 and Kenvin Travel.

In my daily life, I encounter trứng vịt lộn quite often: on my way home from work, I can count over 15 trứng vịt lộn spots only from fleeting observation. On any street, from cities to the countryside, right beside the foot of a skyscraper, or deep inside small alleys — you can always find a little vendor selling trứng vịt lộn, with tiny chairs here and there filled with diners wearing all types of outfit. White-collar workers in formal shirts? Grandmas wearing their signature patterned pajamas? Dressed-up ladies preparing for a girl’s night? Little kids still wearing school bags? Trứng vịt lộn is literally everywhere, every time, for everyone.

Therefore, if you love trứng vịt lộn, it will take only 5 minutes to find the nearest trứng vịt lộn, be it in a supermarket or at a vendor on the street. Boil for around 15 minutes and be creative with how you eat it: dipped in salt, pepper, and lime; with pickles; or with accompanying porridge. In my opinion, trứng vịt lộn contains the essence of Vietnamese cuisine: flexible adaptations, on-the-go convenience, and, of course, booming bursts of flavors packed in little vessels.

The nutritious trứng vịt lộn stew with mugwort and Chinese medicines, the best friend of all sick northern children. Photo via Check in Vietnam.

There are different reasons for eating trứng vịt lộn. For me, it is simply a sudden craving for it, often in the middle of meetings, work, and brain freezes. For my mom and grandmother, it is reserved for when younger members of the family catch a cold, as northerners often treat trứng vịt lộn as a nutritious comfort food. In fact, trứng vịt lộn is often deemed to be too nutritious, so my mom and granny tame this finicky treat by stewing it with ngải cứu (mugwort) and herbal ingredients like wolfberry, jujube, and longan. 

According to common folk beliefs, eating trứng vịt lộn is also a way to dispel bad luck as “lộn” can also mean reverse. Just remember to eat an odd number of eggs only, then crush the eggshell after eating. Psychologist Nguyễn Thị Đào Lưu explained that this is due to spiritual reasons. In challenging times, people look for something to rely on, making eating trứng vịt lộn a comforting cultural practice that provides not just nourishment, but also a sense of hope.

And to a symbol of Vietnam's ever-evolving cuisine and identity

Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

I pride myself as a connoisseur of Hanoian food, having spent my childhood inside the Old Quarter, and then growing up in Đống Đa — which arguably has the second-most vibrant food scene in the city, after Hoàn Kiếm. It has always been the norm for me to have bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn; the colorfully marbled egg elevates an already-perfect dish. Its saltiness blends harmoniously with the crab-infused broth, golden fried tofu, chili vinegar, raw vegetables, and shrimp paste. While some prefer having trứng vịt lộn in a separate bowl, carving out a piece to accompany spoonfuls of bún here and there, I reckon dropping the egg fully in the bowl gives the trứng vịt lộn broth a chance to shine. It brings out the full flavor profile of the egg: umami, gamy, and savory — exactly why Vietnamese all fall in love with it.

The vibrant full-topping bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn. Photo via Dân Trí.

Thus, when I learned that the authentic Hanoian bún riêu doesn’t feature trứng vịt lộn, I was in denial. Sure, there are “minimalistic” spots that do not serve the egg, but I have always assumed that this was merely a matter of topping preferences, similar to fried doughnuts in phở, which my family doesn’t fancy but are staples for many. Upon further reflection, it makes sense that the favorite bún riêu vendor of my dad, a true Hanoian, doesn’t serve trứng vịt lộn. Nestled deep inside a tiny alley that can barely fit my dad’s cruiser bike, the little vendor offers minimal toppings of just tofu and crab. One time, the owner grimaced at my request for trứng vịt lộn, exclaiming that her place, which has been passed down through generations, has never, and will not, serve that topping. It is obvious that the owner certainly did not approve of the modern version of bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn. 

Nonetheless, to me, the modern bún riêu remains quintessentially Hanoian. Whether served with vibrant toppings or in its original minimalist style, each bowl still tells stories of Hanoi and its people, albeit, slightly different for each era. It doesn't matter whether it comes with vịt lộn or not, bún riêu is still enjoyed with friends, sharing stories, and keeping the heart of Hanoian culture alive. Hanoi's tradition of enjoying bún riêu during Tết as a refreshment from repetitive Tết dishes was continued even with the new addition of trứng vịt lộn. Sidewalks are lined with numerous vendors, serving people of all generations and even foreign visitors. It perfectly demonstrates how the non-traditional trứng vịt lộn is becoming a part of Hanoi’s gastronomic traditions, continuing and evolving the heritage.

Bún riêu for Tết is modern Hanoian tradition. Photos via Kênh 14.

Trứng vịt lộn, as non-traditional as it is in bún riêu, has become a part of the collective memories of the present generation, or even the older Hanoians who are willing to embrace changes. My dad was introduced to trứng vịt lộn in bún riêu by me, and sometimes — when hunger strikes — he will go for an “energized” bún riêu with trứng vịt lộn. Somehow, trứng vịt lộn not only brought a new flavor profile to a timeless dish but also renewed a culinary experience savored across generations. On my days of wandering around Saigon, I still miss my trứng vịt lộn–bún riêu, my mind filled with homesickness and nostalgia, longing to be back to my beloved city and its streetside vendors.

In his essay collection Miếng ngon Hà Nội (Hanoi Delicacies), Vũ Bằng raves about one of his favorite snacks: “Though they’re all inside the pig, each organ is tasty in a completely different way: the liver is both savory and bitter, even aromatic when enjoyed with basil; the heart is soft and supply in the mouth; the stomach is clamorously crunchy; the uterus has an incredible bite; while the intestine is just fantastic, chewy at first bite, but then turns tender.”

Vietnam’s eclectic appreciation for lòng (organ meat) means that ever since animal husbandry became a thing, butchers have never let any part go to waste. From the common lean meat to the entire inside anatomy of the pig, any portion can transform into a prized meal thanks to the expertise of local cooks. Organ meat is naturally nutrient-dense, but can decay quickly, so our ancestors have devised numerous ways to disinfect and deodorize organ harvests, using vinegar, mẻ (fermented rice), lime juice, salt, pickling liquid, and a plethora of aromatics. The practice gave rise to a wide variety of organ-based dishes in every region: poached lòng dipped in shrimp paste, lòng porridge, phá lấu using pork or beef offals, etc.

Ancient Vietnamesee use of animal organs to create many dishes.

Phá lấu, a southern street treat

Phá lấu was originally a Teochew (Tiều) dish that followed Chinese immigrants to southern Vietnam and, over time, was embraced by Saigon’s foodies wholeheartedly. Before 1975, one corner of Lê Lợi Boulevard used to be a snack food mecca, featuring dishes like Viễn Đông sugarcane juice, gỏi khô bò, and phá lấu Tiều sold on bamboo skewers. Vendors carried around gray aluminum trays containing heaps of golden pig offals, like ear, stomach, tongue, wafting the aroma of five-spice in the air.

When they felt peckish, Saigoneers at the time would seek out the distinctive street calls “phá lấu ơ” of cycling vendors with trays perched atop their heads. The seller would slice off bits of each organ into a plate and poke a toothpick through for ease of dipping.

Bamboo stick Teochew-style phá lấu was a famous snack of Saigon-Chợ Lớn back then. Photo via Dân Trí.

Today, the term “phá lấu” might refer to three different styles of cooked organ meats: coconut-braised phá lấu, beef phá lấu, or Teochew-style braised phá lấu with pickled cabbage.

The first style is known for deep brown pieces of lòng that taste slightly sweet thanks to the coconut water, and smell of five-spice powder. A variety of pig organs are simmered in coconut water until the meat is tender and the sauce caramelizes. Then, the protein is cut into thin strips to be eaten with rice or bánh mì, garnished with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and cilantro.

Beef phá lấu. Photo via Tạp chí Du lịch TP. HCM.

Beef phá lấu is a street specialty that can be found all over the city, but most famously in District 4’s Xóm Chiếu neighborhood. It is served in a small bowl comprising two components: morsels of beef tripe and a savory, sweet, rich broth made of coconut milk. The use of coconut milk reflects the presence of Khmer influence on southern Vietnamese cooking. There is also a “dry” version in which the organ meat is stir-fried with morning glory and instant noodles and enjoyed with a tamarind or kumquat dipping sauce.

Phá lấu stew with pickled cabbage is a mainstay of Teochew eateries. Photo via AFamily.

In Chợ Lớn, there’s another rendition of phá lấu eaten as a tangy braised dish, most commonly seen in Teochew-style rice-congee eateries. Proudly presented in the glass display in front of the shop are dangling strings of pork intestine cooked to perfection, as well as plump heads of pickled cabbage. The braising liquid smells faintly of cinnamon, clove, star anise, and goji berry. The taste is not too salty or sour. The organ meat is braised until soft, not too tender. Each serving features thinly sliced lòng submerged in a ladle of broth and garnished with pickled cabbage. Diners can dip the meat in a simple soy sauce while enjoying it with rice or congee.

Offal porridge across Vietnam’s three regions

If you happen to be in Bình Định or Phú Yên, there’s a good chance you would begin your day with bánh hỏi cháo lòng, a surprisingly delightful combination of two familiar dishes: porridge and the thin lattices of bánh hỏi. A portion comes with blanched pig offal, hot porridge, a plate of bánh hỏi topped with chives oil, in additional to local greens. Other accoutrements include crispy sesame crackers and pure fish sauce with fresh slices of chili.

Bánh hỏi cháo lòng Quy Nhơn. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

This hearty breakfast is both filling and open to any manner of enjoyment. One can go the rolling route by using bánh hỏi sheets to wrap the meat and veggies into a roll, which can be dipped into the spicy fish sauce. Another person can opt for a less labor-intensive way: mix everything into the hot bowl of porridge for a no-frills quick slurp.

In the south, however, cháo lòng is perhaps the most common dish featuring lòng. Saigon’s porridge is almost always cooked with toasted rice and can be spotted across town in mobile carts hauling giant vats of steaming cháo alongside plastic stools and glass displays chock-full of cooked lòng.

A typical bowl of Saigon-style cháo lòng comprises three layers: at the bottom lies a nest of fresh beansprouts; then, hot porridge is added as the middle layer, par-cooking the beanspouts; lastly, a smorgasbord of cooked pig organ slices are arranged on top. Heart, esophagus, blood pudding, liver, skin, and slices of fragrant fried lemongrass pork sausage sit beneath ginger strips, spring onion, and a generous sprinkle of black pepper. The embellishments don’t stop there; before diving in, one is encouraged to further adjust the bowl to their taste with a giò cháo quẩy, a squeeze of lime, a spoon of dish sauce, or a dollop of freshly pulverized chili.

Hanoi-style cháo lòng. Photo via VnExpress.

Hanoians sometimes eat porridge with lòng too, albeit with some local quirks. For one, intestine sausages are stuffed with blood pudding, lard, rau răm and Thai basil and boiled or steamed instead of fried like in the south. The porridge is cooked down to a finer texture and takes on a darker hue due to the addition of pig blood. The organ meat’s gameyness pairs incredible well with ngò gai and basil.

Lòng in noodles dishes

From the sidewalk to fancy storefronts, the glass displays of hủ tiếu vendors are always particularly inviting due to their range of cooked organ meats. On days when lean meat takes too much effort to chew and pork knuckles are too much of a hassle, people tend to go for a hủ tiếu lòng.

Dry hủ tiếu with pork kidney. Photo via Báo Tuổi Trẻ.

Each slice in the bowl encompasses many tastes and textures: savory, aromatic, rich, nutty, spongy, elastic, tender, etc. With a sharp knife, cooks make diagonal cuts to produce thin slices. They are then arranged atop a bundle of white rice noodles, under a sprinkle of spring onion, black pepper, and fried garlic. You can dip the organ meat in fish sauce or soy sauce, but most people opt to mix for themselves a classic plate of soy, red vinegar, chili oil, and several slices of fresh chili.

Hủ tiếu hồ. Photo via Lao Động.

If hủ tiếu lòng usually features a simple broth with chewy strands of rehydrated dry noodles, hủ tiếu hồ is a more complex noodles hailing from Teochew communities. Noodle leaves are big and irregular while the broth falls on the herbaceous and spice-forward range. The toppings include braised pig offal, skin, blood pudding, and pickled cabbage. The most popular parts are pig stomach, heart, and ear. They are cleaned thoroughly before being simmered with five-spice powder until tender. A standard bowl of hủ tiếu hồ must have the savoriness of phá lấu, tanginess of the pickles, spice-rich broth, decadence from crispy shallot and pork fat, and salty umami from the soy sauce-chili oil dipping plate.

Sóc Trăng-style bún nước lèo. Photo via Pháp Luật.

Apart from mammal organs, Vietnamese also don’t leave behind the guts of other animals, such as fish. This crunchy, rich fish part is the star ingredient of quite a number of Mekong Delta noodle dishes, like Sóc Trăng-style bún nước lèo or Kiêng Giang-style bún cá. Fish heads are often cooked and set aside with fish guts as the most prized noodle topping. Many diners are fond of their cartilaginous texture and fishy tastes — to be dipped in sweet-and-sour tamarind dipping sauce or just a bowl of really high-quality fish sauce.

Rice dishes and lòng

In addition to dining out, Vietnamese families incorporate organ meat into daily meals in a number of ways. Pig organs tend to receive simple treatments like blanching with aromatics, slicing thinly, and then dipping in fish sauce or shrimp paste alongside fresh greens and cà pháo (pickled white eggplants). Northern cooking might also include stir-fried lòng with pickled cabbage.

Turmeric stir-fry. Photo via bepxua.vn.

In the case of chicken and duck guts, a seasonal stir-fry employing local ingredients is the way to go — whichever vegetable is available and cheap will accompany them into the pan, such as gourds, chives, beansprouts, bell peppers, onions, vines, etc. Central Vietnam is famous for its intensely yellow turmeric lòng. Organ meat from chicken or duck is cut into bite-sized pieces, marinated with fish sauce and turmeric powder, then quickly stir-fried with alliums. 

Mướp hương (sponge gourd) is another frequent collaborator with chicken gizzards in stir-fries. In the mood for something else? Lòng chưng is a savory, salty, and eggy treat. Pieces of chicken or duck gizzards are mixed with eggs and spices and then steamed in small bowls. Before removing them from the steamer, cooks will brush a light layer of egg yolk to impart a shade of golden orange.

Chicken gizzard and gourd stir-fry. Photo via VnExpress.

Dishes that revolve around lòng have that special draw in the eyes of Vietnamese eaters — they’re delicious in a rustic, cozy, no-frills way. The accompanying spices could be colorful or simple, but it is of utmost importance to retain the original tastes of the star ingredient. Phá lấu, steaming, blanching, stir-fries, porridge — lòng not only fills our stomach and satiates our plates, it is a reminder of home and old-fashioned street vendors.

During my journey to explore the culinary specialties of Khánh Hòa, I was delighted to discover the nem chua and chả lụa from Diên Khánh, a centuries-old ancient town that’s just 10 kilometers from downtown Nha Trang.

About 10 kilometers west from Nha Trang, there lies a historic citadel constructed by Nguyễn-era emperors during the early days of southward expansion to form the Bình Khang Prefecture under the control Hiền Lord (Nguyễn Phúc Tần). It’s called Diên Khánh Citadel, one of southern Vietnam’s oldest, and often referred to by locals as “the Citadel,” comprising the township in Diên Khánh Province today. Apart from historic structures, this is also the hometown of many traditional artisan villages, including nem chả — two rustic delicacies known simply as nem chả Thành (citadel nem chả).

Nem chả Diên Khánh is Khánh Hòa’s most notable treat.

Though both are processed meat sausages made of pork, nem is lightly fermented while chả is created by pulverizing the meat into a paste and then boiled. The first time I tasted this citadel nem chả, I could immediately detect the slight differences compared to similar versions from Huế or Đà Nẵng. This delightful personal experience, along with the affection both locals and tourists shower on this treat, compelled me to dig deeper into the making and culture behind nem chả.

The most crucial ingredient contributing to the quality of chả is, of course, freshly butchered pork. Contributing to the seasoning are flavorful locally made fish sauce made on the coast, and a little sweetness from sugar. With just a bite, one will immediately sense a savory mix of saltiness and sweetness, a faint tingliness from black pepper, and that special touch of banana leaves.

The corner where leaf-wrapped nem is boiled.

Compared to chả, nem is a much more complicated product involving more steps requiring a higher level of precision that not all manufacturers can attain to create that perfect bite of nem Thành. Only families who have been in the craft for decades could produce sausages with the right texture and that highly sought-after subtly sour taste.

Shredded pork skin, one of nem’s typical ingredients, must be cleaned properly to retain its bouncy texture without too much chew or odor. This is still a step that many nem makers do by hand to ensure it turns out up to the standard.

Nem chua Thành is first coated in a chùm ruột leaf before the final banana wrapping to promote fermentation.

The meat mixture is first coated in the leaves of chùm ruột, a berry native to Vietnam, to encourage natural fermentation and impart the subtle fragrance of the leaves. Then, each nugget is wrapped in banana leaves before being cooked. Some foodies enjoy eating the nem with the chùm ruột leaves, relishing the peppery notes of the leaves. Within the old citadel area, there's an entire village dedicated to making these sausages, each household has its own family recipe, but overall, a good nem should be lightly tangy in taste and a little leafy in smell without any off-putting smell. Some prefer their nem to be a little “young” — meaning freshly made and fermented for only 2–3 days, lightly chewy and meaty. Others wait until after the fifth day to enjoy nem, when the sourness reaches its prime and the pork skin is still bouncy. Older nem pieces might be too sour or start to go bad.

Wrapping chả from the meat paste.

Among the two dishes, perhaps chả Thành is more famous and respected as a local delicacy. The nem here might have its own fans that value the nuances in flavor, but most eaters might not be discerning enough to distinguish it from similar versions from nearby like Nha Trang and Ninh Hòa.

In contrast, chà Thành is a firmly established mainstay in the regional food landscape — not just as a savory snack to eat on its own, but also as a silent contributor to many other dishes like bánh căn, bánh xèo, bánh bèo, bún thịt nướng, etc. Step into an eatery in Diên Khánh or Nha Trang and you will immediately spot bundles of wrapped chả dangling in the display, their presence a sign of implicit trust by the vendors in the quality of their hometown’s special creation.

Freshly cooked chả is wrapped and tied into bundles, each comprising 14 pieces.

To enjoy the full-bodied flavors of chả, try slices of it with steaming bánh ướt. For nem, I would recommend grilling them on charcoal fire to bring out those vibrant notes of savoriness amid a chilly evening. A tip that I learned from locals involves biting a tiny bit of green chili and fresh garlic with nem chả — a stylish way to eat these Diên Khánh treats.

Nem chả from Diên Khánh remains rather obscure still; perhaps it can’t shine too brightly in the heart of Khánh Hòa’s already sparkling culinary sky. For me, both nem and chả carry the spirits of this coastal region.

Sweet chả and tangy nem.

If you happen to set foot in Khánh Hòa one day, the land where placid natural scenery harmonizes with historic cultural traditions, don’t hesitate to drop by Diên Khánh. Not only can you learn more about the history behind these moss-covered citadel walls, but also feast on bundles of tasty nem chả made using age-old methods.

“Everything must be really fresh, made-to-order, colorful, and fragrant. Everything has its place, and is arranged exquisitely!” The food in the 2008 feature film Trăng nơi đáy giếng, adapted from a short story by the same name of Trần Thùy Mai, is a vivid depiction of Huế’s culinary creations — rustic, delicate, and ever-enticing. It’s evident in the tuber that Hạnh meticulously carves and then scents using pandan; in the bowl of lotus soup that she makes by wrapping in flowers the night before.

Some of the most iconic foods in Huế don’t stop at satiating the stomach, but aim to wow every sense of the eater. Huế chefs are mindful of every detail from the selection of ingredients to their preparation, to the arrangement of each element on the plate so that each plate is itself an artwork. Encompassing that spirit in bánh pháp lam, a novel dessert that inherits the flavors and forms of the traditional bánh bó mứt, but taking those to a new level with its brightly colored palette.

Photo by Huế Ngày Nay.

The sweet treat that captures the essence of the seasons

Bánh pháp lam, also known as bánh bó mứt, is a notable delicacy from Huế. It often arrives in special packages that are made from folded colored paper segments neatly assembled together into a square box. The colors are almost always red, yellow, green, purple and white, representing the five fundamental elements in Vietnamese culture (ngũ hành).

The name “pháp lam” is a relatively recent term to refer to this traditional treat, inspired by the enamel art by the same name that flourished during the Nguyễn Dynasty. It reached the Imperial City during the reign of Emperor Minh Mạng and involved layers of pigmented enamel coating a bronze base. When the metal is heated, the enamel turns into a sparkling film. Pháp lam art was commonly used to decorate palaces and could be spotted on many historic structures in Huế.

Huế's pháp lam art. Photo by Thái Hoàng via Lao Động.

Ancient homesteads in Huế often came with spacious courtyards, so people made use of the land to grow fruit trees, for both shade and a fresh, juicy treat once in a while. During harvest seasons, when there were more fruits to eat, the extras were sun-dried and then candied on low heat to produce sugared fruits.

The results were chewy, crunchy, sweet, and aromatic snacks that can be kept for months. Papaya, tomato, winter melon, banana, pineapple, etc. — many familiar fruits contribute to the elements of bánh pháp lam. Depending on the season, the resulting pháp lam can consist of different fruits, making a small bite that encapsulates the passage of time.

Photo by Hải Vân via HCMC Tourism Magazine.

After fruits, sticky rice is also another important component of bánh pháp lam. The best rice grains are ground into a fine flour, toasted carefully on low heat to brown, and then fragranced with pandan leaves.

In mixing the batter, a precise ratio between rice flour and water must be followed to arrive at an ideal consistency, not too crumbly or too viscous. The dough is hand-kneaded, rested for about half an hour. Once the dough has softened, pháp lam maker would flatten it into a thin sheet, arrange the candied fruits into layers, roll everything into a hunk of dough, adjust the edges so the cross-section is square, and finally slice across to get discs that are about one centimeter thick.

Each step in the creation of bánh pháp lam calls for a high level of attention to detail, so that the dessert not only tastes good, but is also visually appealing. With one bite, you will enjoy the gentle sweetness of the candied fruits, in between the rich, nutty taste of the sticky rice dough.

Thanh Tiên paper as wrapping

The paper segments that form the package for bánh pháp lam might look mundane, but they are actually from Thanh Tiên Village, where the bark of indigenous bamboo cultivars like dướng and nứa is turned into paper. Its durability is especially prized as the bamboo material can go years without being tarnished by termites. Thanh Tiên paper has a smooth texture and a gentle scent of bamboo.

Photo via Mộc Truly Hue's.

From Thanh Tiên bamboo paper, the segments are folded and assembled together into a cube. A five-color palette echoes the enamel art origin of the pháp lam name, as the five shades are commonly used in decoration

The hallmark of the ancient capital’s cultural heritage

To me, bánh pháp lam is the physical embodiment of Huế residents’ standout qualities and life philosophies. The sweet snack is the result of several different complicated steps, showcasing the characteristics of the people here: frugal, attentive, precise, and patient. The frugality is evident in how all the fruits come from trees grown at home; the precision and attention to detail come from the construction of the sweet; and the patience is imbued in the way each piece of paper is folded to create the cubes without using glue.

Traditionally, the women of Huế, the leaders of the household, were the creative minds behind the invention of many of the old capital’s most complex delicacies. It’s no wonder that Huế’s dumplings and desserts have managed to capture the attention of travelers all across the country, thanks to their flavors and the dedication of their makers.

Photo via Trí Thức Trẻ.

In the culinary arts of Huế, the balance of the five elements is always sought after. This philosophy originates from East Asia’s fundamental elements — metal, wood, water, fire, and earth. In Huế, these are represented by five hues: red, purple, yellow, green, and blue. This palette makes bánh pháp lam instantly recognizable, like Huế-born writer Hoàng Phủ Ngọc Tường describes: “Very glaring but also easy on the eyes.”

From the outside looking in, the filling of bánh pháp lam is a multi-color feast that, while not directly associated with the elements, could evoke that elemental balance. Dried papaya’s redness is fire, and candied winter melon is water. Similarly, the paper cube of the packaging is also the product of many colored segments. It’s often believed that this use of colors represents the yin-yang balance of the dish and an appreciation of nature.

Photo by Hải Vân via HCMC Tourism Magazine.

Lastly, bánh pháp lam is also a crucial piece in Huế’s tea culture. Its sweet taste and crumbly texture pair nicely with the tannic notes of hot tea. In a peaceful setting, Huế residents sip on fragrant tea alongside slices of bánh pháp lam, while exchanging pleasantries — it’s the perfect occasion to reconnect with loved ones.

From north to south, there are countless permutations behind the filling of bánh pháp lam. Still, perhaps nowhere besides Huế can this special treat be created with such a level of reverence and care.

The differences between regional dialects across Vietnam is a fascinating field of research that can spawn days of discussion, but no other pairs of words has the power to mystify the internet like the dichotomy between bimbim and snack, both used in the Vietnamese language to describe bags of crackers made of rice, corn, or wheat flours. In today’s Snack Attack feature, Saigoneer is digging into the surprisingly recent history of why northern Vietnamese use the term “bimbim” while it has always been “snack” in Saigon and southern provinces.

From glass noodles to bimbim

Today, if one were to hit the streets of Hanoi and head to the nearest tạp hóa asking for “bimbim,” the most likely response from the owner would be “what kind?” because it is now recognized in the northern dialect as a generic term to describe all types of crunchy crackers coated in flavor powders, sweet or savory. There is, however, one specific brand of cream-filled cookie stick called Bimbim, produced by the Haiha-Kotobuki confectionery company, that holds the key to today’s etymological discovery.

Snacks are an indispensable part of tạp hóa. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

This sweet Bimbim snack would appear foreign to most Vietnamese adults today, as they likely grew up with a savory version called Snack Tôm Bimbim, the first widely known packaged chip in northern Vietnam, manufactured by none other than Haiha-Kotobuki.

Before becoming the established confectionery brand today, the company had its start as a state-run glass noodles workshop. In December 1960, under the directive of the northern government, Xưởng miến Hoàng Mai was founded to diversify the local food supply by producing glass noodles from mung beans.

Across the 1960s, the facility also developed soy sauce and corn starch until 1966, when it was turned into the Hải Hà Factory for Experimental Foods, and worked on other edible products like malt sugar, bouillon cubes, and fermented soy beans. In 1970, it took over the candy facility of Hải Châu and became the Hải Hà Food Factory. After reunification in 1992, the entity was officially registered as HAIHACO, a confectionery enterprise, until 1993, when it entered the Haiha-Kotobuki joint venture with a Japanese F&B firm, based at 25 Trương Định in Hanoi.

One of the earliest packaged snacks in the north.

Haiha-Kotobuki's only remaining snack with the Bimbim brand.

The new company made use of Hải Hà’s established brand recognition in the local market and Japanese production technologies. One of their new products that hit Hanoi was Bimbim shrimp-flavored crackers. “When it came time to make a snack, [we] thought about how to name it,” Nguyễn Thị Lệ Thủy, then-CEO of Haiha-Kotobuki, shared in the company’s archive footage. “I said: ‘Children love automobiles, they like to press on the horn so it beeps, so we should use the name Bimbim.”

Following the same creative direction, Bimbim’s earliest television commercials in the 1990s featured cars that made noise. This association has mostly faded today, as the snack brand underwent genericization. Bimbim was the first packaged cracker in the north, made a mark in the culture, and now all snacks are called “bimbim.”

Vinabico and the legendary green crab snack

If you have ever engaged in cyber fights on whether “bimbim” or “snack” is the right way to call these bags of 80% air, 10% monosodium glutamate, and 10% crunch, you might be stunned to learn that their origin stories are almost identical. Southern Vietnamese, especially Saigoneers, all refer to these as “snack.” Of course, with certain degrees of Vietnamese bastardization, we’ll also accept bánh snack, xì nách, sờ nách, or just simply nách.

Illustration by Vent Hoang.

How this came to be was directly linked to the introduction of the legendary green bag of crab-shaped rice crackers known simply amongst snack disciples as “Snack Cua,” produced by local company Vinabico.

Vinabico was a confectionery enterprise founded in 1974, widely recognized by a logo featuring a swan. It was nationalized in 1978. In 1993, the company entered a joint venture with Japanese firm Kotobuki, similar to that of Hải Hà.

Employing rice flour and a new technology to make durable aluminum wrappers, it launched the first snack product in the southern market called “Bánh Snack Cua” in the same year. Each piece was made of rice and corn starches, puffed into the shape of a crab complete with two pincers, and tossed in an umami flavor powder. The bag was brightly colored using a palette of turquoise and red. An orange boiled crab was featured at the bottom. The word “snack” in red was the most prominent in the center of the packaging, so it has stuck around in the collective consciousness as the common term to refer to packaged snacks.

A newspaper ad promoting Snack Cua when it first launched in the 1990s. Image via Instagram user nikoskhanh2022.

The original packaging of Snack Cua.

In 2003, Vinabico bought out the shares of Kotobuki and performed well in the confectionery market across the 2000s. Still, in 2012, Kinh Đô took over the control of the company with 51% of its shares and eventually bought it out. In 2015, Vinabico ceased to exist, absorbed completely into Kinh Đô. Snack Cua fell out of the popularity race during this period due to tough competition from local and foreign brands, but has since resurfaced under the Kinh Đô umbrella, albeit with a modified package design.

Oishi, the dark horse from the East

Much of the discourse surrounding bimbim versus snack tends to focus on Saigon and Hanoi, as they have always been the biggest markets of consumer goods in Vietnam. There exists, however, another contender in the race: Oishi. If you grew up outside of the two biggest metropolises, especially in more rural areas in Central Vietnam or the Mekong Delta, it’s likely that you’ve been calling packaged snacks “oishi.”

“Oishi” is a Japanese word meaning tasty, so it’s natural to assume that the brand hailed from Japan, yet few know that this household name today had origins in the Philippines.

Some of Oishi's most iconic snacks of our childhood.

In 1974, Carlos Chan, a Filipino entrepreneur of Chinese descent launched the Oishi brand in the Philippines, putting snack foods produced using Japanese technologies in the national market. Oishi expanded to China in the late 20th century and, in 1997, reached Vietnam for the first time. Vietnam has long regarded Japanese-made products as superior, so the name Oishi serendipitously was well-received by local snackers.

Oishi strategically made a move to enter the market via small-scale retailers like mom-and-pop shops and public school canteens, entrancing Vietnamese children one salty finger at a time. It worked, and today Oishi remains one of the country’s most prevalent snacks, especially in the countryside and second-tier municipalities, whose residents will use the term “oishi” to refer to packaged snacks.

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.

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

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh ú tro on the altar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to make bánh ú tro

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

Bánh ú lá tre.

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

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

How to wrap a bánh ú.

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

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

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

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

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

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

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

This 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.

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.

In Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, when the protagonist tastes a piece of tea-dipped madeleine, the flavor combination immediately transports him back to the childhood memories he’s buried deep inside. This involuntary experience is often called the “Proust Effect,” referring to shards of memory that reappear randomly thanks to olfactory and gustatory triggers; something that other senses can’t achieve.

At times, I find myself feeling envious of a friend who has an incredibly detailed memory of her formative years, as my recollection of events happening before the age of six is often murky to the point that I’ve wondered if those days were figments of my imagination.

My childhood (left) was defined by my grandfather's backyard and a nước mía cart opposite of it.

Still, one thing that I remember as clearly about my childhood and that I’m very proud to introduce to my friends is the peanut sugarcane juice from my father’s home province of Tiền Giang. I can recall its flavors with vivid details, much more than I can any story from childhood.

Sugarcane has long been a key cash crop in Vietnam’s sugar industry, bringing about many economic benefits as it can be utilized “from root to tip.” Ever since the very first sugar plants were established by the French in the 1870s, local canes were used as input materials. In Tiền Giang, for centuries, sugarcane has been a trusted companion to farmers. Not merely an agricultural product, sugarcane can be a refreshing afternoon snack in the form of peeled and segmented chunks, while the leftover pulp after juicing is repurposed as fuel or an ingredient for paper-making. Sugarcane juice is one of the most iconic thirst quenchers in Vietnamese history

Sugarcane juice is a staple thirst quencher of Vietnamese.

Before graduating from elementary school, a major chunk of my years was tied to Tiền Giang, to summers filled with the cacophony of cicadas in our backyard, to the fish pond toilet that used to terrify me every evening, and to the flock of shy chickens clucking by my grandfather’s mai tree. Of course, that childhood wouldn’t have felt complete without Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice. It’s simply juice with roasted peanuts, yet it never fails to stir up nostalgia whenever I reminisce about Tiền Giang.

To me, an ideal glass of sugarcane juice is sparkling yellow and stored inside a cloudy plastic glass. On top is a layer of froth, something that nước mía connoisseurs prize as a sign of high-quality juice. Last but most prominently, to complete a glass of true-blue Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice, a handful of unshelled roasted peanuts is sprinkled on top to round out the textures.

A good glass of sugarcane juice must be as frothy as possible.

Whenever I introduce this delicacy to my friends, to appease their skepticism about this rather unfamiliar addition, I often make the comparison to bubble tea: “So instead of milk tea with pearls, we Mỹ Tho folks slurp sugarcane juice while crunching roasted peanuts.” There isn’t a lot of information out there about how this quirky topping came about. Sometimes I wonder if that was because once upon a time, someone accidentally dropped a batch of freshly roasted peanuts into their nearby glass of juice; they simply craved a little bit of crunch in their beverage; or it’s just a way to save time by eating and drinking at the same time.

Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice often has roasted peanuts, jackfruit, and jelly as toppings.

No matter how it came to be, this drink has turned into a culinary icon and a crucial part of the life of Mỹ Tho residents, especially on sweltering days taking a break by Giếng Nước.

Giếng Nước is a large manmade reservoir right in the heart of the city, a witness to the land’s founding story. It was originally a moat just over 1km long, dug on order of Emperor Minh Mạng to protect Định Tường (the home province of Mỹ Tho back then). If Hanoi has lakeside ice tea, Đà Lạt has hot soy milk by the Hòa Bình Theater, Mỹ Tho has peanut sugarcane juice to snack on during the stuffy evenings when locals gather by Giếng Nước to shoot the breeze.

The best sugarcane juice in Mỹ Tho can be found near Giếng Nước. Photo by Hồng Lê via Ấp Bắc.

The version of Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice that defined my younger years was comprised only of juice and peanuts, but the variations of today can contain strawberry, orange, or pineapple. A glass of Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice retains the gentle sweetness of the sap, in addition to a whiff of toasty peanut notes, a nuttiness when one bites into the nuts, and a slight tannic aftertaste of the peanut peels.

Of course, things can’t stay that light and simple considering the creativity and prevalent sweet tooth of Mekong Delta inhabitants: be it the main course or side dish, everything must be candy-sweet. Some nước mía cart add coconut flesh and kumquats to the pressing step to enrich the juice, while others invent a smorgasbord of other toppings behind the basic peanuts — jackfruit, chunks of agar jelly, or even candied chùm ruột berries.

The only place in Saigon that I could find that features the closest taste to my hometown’s sugarcane juice.

Here in Saigon, the closest version to Mỹ Tho sugarcane juice I can find belongs to an assorted juice stand at 388 Lê Văn Lương, Tân Hưng Ward, District 7. Perhaps in a bid to satisfy the Saigon drinker’s propensity for excess, they provided a bunch of different toppings, including durian, water chestnut jelly, jackfruit, and of course, roasted peanuts.

The refreshing sweetness and coolness of the sugarcane juice, alongside that distinctive nuttiness of peanuts, brings me back to those summer days in Tiền Giang, just like how the tea-dipped madeleine transports Marcel Proust’s protagonist to his own childhood, a time he once thought to be forgotten.

[Top image via ZNews]

Step inside the kitchen of any household in Saigon and chances are that you will find one or two ready-made curry powder packets in a cupboard waiting for the family's next weekend treat of cà ri gà (chicken curry).

While one can easily find cà ri gà in food stalls around the city, unlike street dishes such as bún bò, cơm tấm or bánh cuốn, cà ri gà is more often eaten within the convenience of one's own home. Components of the dish sometimes vary between each household, but they always call for a curry powder mixture. Half of a typical serving of this mix goes into the chicken's marinade while the rest goes into the sauce, which is a combination of water, either milk or coconut milk, potatoes, taro, sweet potatoes and carrots. There are other variations of curry, but cà ri gà is the most common, and in some regions it is eaten with noodles or bánh mì.  

Ready-made curry powder in pre-mixed packets is sold at mom-and-pop grocery stores or supermarkets across the country, or straight from spice sellers in local markets. The easiest way to purchase is to simply tell the sellers how much meat or vegetable you're going to use, and they will do the rest. This highlights the varied nature of the dish.

In Curry: Eating, Reading and Race, a witty critique of the authenticity discourse in food writing and cultural identity, Naben Ruthnum eloquently captures the elusiveness and versatile character of curry:

Curry isn’t real. Its range of definitions, edible and otherwise, rob it of a stable existence. Curry is a leaf, a process, a certain kind of gravy with uncertain ingredients surrounding a starring meat or vegetable. It’s an elevating crust baked around previously bland foodstuffs, but it’s also an Indian fairy tale composed by cooks, Indians, émigrés, colonists, eaters, readers, and writers.

The same could be said of examining the history of how curry and curry powder became prevalent in Vietnam. The story is one of nuances and complexities that transcend binary perspectives of colonial legacies and anti-colonial movements, appropriations and reappropriations, authenticity and inauthenticity, the global and the local. 

The colonial invention of curry

Historian Lizzie Collingham writes in Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerers about how the establishment of the British East India Company (EIC) in India gave rise to the invention of curry. Central to the experience of employees of the EIC was the burra khana, or big feast. In between different types of meat, the British were served Indian dishes to alleviate the otherwise bland meal of boiled and roasted protein. Replicating British dishes proved difficult for a variety of reasons, hence the need to incorporate local cuisine. While the Indian dishes served on the British colonial tables varied and have their own names, the British lumped everything under the name “curry,” which was anglicized from the Portuguese terms “carree” and “caril,” generalizing terms that refer to Indian broths. These words were themselves derived from the Kannadan and Malayalam word karil and the Tamil word kari, both of which meant spices and sauteed dishes.

‘Our Burra Khana,’ one of 40 lithographs from Captain George Francklin Atkinson's 1860 satirical book on the lives of British colonists in India. Photo via The Internet Archive.

Indians were expected to adjust dishes to the tastes of EIC employees as well. One example Collingham provides is the Lucknavi quarama, which was transformed into kormas by altering the traditional recipe and adding coriander, ginger and peppercorn, which laid the foundation for the basic ingredients of a British curry.

Collingham contends that this period started the transnational spread of curry, as the British brought it with them wherever they went. Wealthy EIC members returning to England brought a desire for the dish with them, however the curry they ate in London was a mere recreation of the dish they consumed in India. Victorian cookbooks further promoted curry's presence, advertising it as an Indian staple that was easy to prepare in the convenience of one's home, despite the concept of an “Indian curry” was nonexistent in India.

Curry was eventually brought to France through the British and French colonies in La Réunion and Pondicherry, according to food historian Erica J. Peters in Appetites and Aspirations In Vietnam. By the time France established its colonial project in Vietnam, curry was already familiar to French colonists, but it remained foreign to their Vietnamese and Chinese subjects. Antoine Beauvilliers' famous 1814 cookbook, L'art du cuisinier, mentions curry several times and provides a recipe for curry and curry sauce. Meanwhile, French chef Auguste Escoffier's 1907 book A Guide to Modern Cookery offers many recipes that call for curry powder.

A Malabar chicken curry from Kerala. Photo via But First, Chai.

The French colonists in Vietnam maintained the diet they were familiar with in their home country, except that most of the cooks were Chinese. As French colonial administrator Charles Lemire writes in Cochinchine Francaise et royaume de Cambodge: “There are Annamese [Vietnamese] cooks, Tagals, even Indians; but the Chinese seem to be born for this job.”

When it came to actually eating the dish, Peters argues in her book that while the French generally stayed away from eating Vietnamese white rice, they would eat it with curry.

“As in all hot countries, the Indian curry is a dish that appears very frequently on the European tables [in the colony]. Spiced with stimulating condiments, cooled down with coconut milk, colored with turmeric or saffron, prepared with chicken or shrimp, it is an excellent dish, which one serves with Vietnamese steamed rice of dazzling whiteness,” exclaimed Lemire, as translated by Peters.

The role of South Indian migrants in forging Vietnam's middle-class identity

When the French settled in Vietnam, South Indians from the French colonies in Pondicherry and Karikal, most of them Tamils, also migrated for trade and job opportunities and mainly lived in Saigon, Chợ Lớn and the Mekong Delta.

Later waves of settlers came to Saigon as the city's status as a commercial center grew, while during the interwar years, there were roughly 2,000 Indians living in the city. 

Rue Ohier (modern-day Tôn Thất Thiệp Street) used to be an Indian enclave. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

While the relationship between Vietnamese and these migrant Indians is often portrayed as antagonistic due to discrepancies in political privileges, economic power and beliefs regarding social order, historians argue that this antagonism didn't prevent many Tamil migrants from forming marital ties with the Vietnamese and Chinese communities.

Lâm, a Saigon native who operates a spice shop in Bến Thành Market, told Saigoneer about his family's history as it relates to curry. His maternal grandfather, who was Indian, moved to Vietnam as a teenager, where he worked as a cook and later married a Vietnamese woman. Not long after they married, he opened a shop selling imported spices such as cardamom, cumin and ready-made spice mixtures for curry, bò kho and ragout.

Lâm, who is in his forties, is the third generation to run the family business, which continues until this day. “You know, many Indians who came here were mostly cooks,” Lâm said in Vietnamese.

Vietnamese chicken curry is made with coconut milk and can be eaten with rice, bún, or bánh mì. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Occupying a humble corner inside the busy market, Lâm's spice shop, Cà Ri Anh Hai, has been around for over 70 years. It's not hard to tell that this a spot frequented by many — as we were about to start our conversation, a man in a chef's uniform appeared and asked to get his curry powder order. On the shelves and the counters sit a smorgasbord of jars and containers of different spices and mixtures that could double as a museum.

Lâm's paternal grandfather is a Cantonese expatriate who also married a Vietnamese woman. According to Lâm, his family's partial Chinese identity played a crucial role in shaping Cà Ri Anh Hai. Like many Indians who came to Saigon under the French administration, most of his maternal family members left Saigon in 1978 for France, except for his mom.

When the spice shop was passed down to his father, whose nickname Anh Hai is the shop's namesake, Lâm's father started to experiment and incorporate more flavors adapted from Chinese and Vietnamese cuisine to develop more mixtures. Today, one can find almost anything here: from ngũ vị hương (five-spice) and rare spices to ready-made powder for phở, bò kho, bún bò, kebab mixes or Thai hotpot, although curry powder remains the shop's forte.  

Many curry powder producers today are still run by children of migrant Indians, or developed from Indian businesses in Saigon in the early 20^th century. Cà Ri Bà Tám, a popular brand in supermarkets and local grocery stores, is another example. Its website suggests that the brand was established in the 1940s by Indian spice sellers in Vietnam. Việt-Ấn, which has now become Vianco, was started as a joint business between an Indian migrant named Hari who came to Saigon in 1950 and a Chinese-Vietnamese man named Châu Vĩnh Cơ. Their website claims that its curry powder has been adjusted through several rounds of integration with local spices, giving its flavor a Vietnamese essence. 

“Different from the ‘original’ Indian version, [our] curry isn't too spicy and is less strong because it was toned down to suit the Vietnamese palate,” the website reads.

Curry powder packets. Photo by Thi Nguyễn.

Demand for curry and curry powder among the Vietnamese public was consistent with the emergence of a modern Vietnamese middle-class starting at the dawn of the 20^th century. Although the middle class didn't fully develop until the 1920s, a sense of modernity emerged at turn of the century through literature, public discourse, print capitalism and fashion. In Reinvention of Distinction, Erica Peters states that the consumption of foreign cuisine and food products was a major aspect of embracing concepts of modernity.

Indian spices and ingredients were also popular. Natasha Pairaudeau points out that in Franco-Tamil press at the time, “[for] an Indian, or more often specifically Tamil, cultural allegiance was openly displayed, in notices advertising everything from the latest Tamil music [that] just arrived at Saigon’s biggest department store, to troupes of visiting Tamil performers, to local Indian restaurants and suppliers of curry powders, chutneys, and palm toddy." In the early 1930s, Au Comptoir Hindou at 139 La Grandière (Lý Tự Trọng) was already selling “Garouda curry powder” and arrack, an Indian distilled spirit.

Not only did curry and curry powder enter Vietnamese public life, but it also entered cosmopolitan Vietnamese homes. For example, in one paragraph of a short story published in 1931 by Phụ Nữ Tân Văn, meals prepared by a “Europeanized” Vietnamese woman are described:

In the middle of the table, foods like cà ri chà (Indian curry), Chinese fin soup, Western rotis, Thai braised meat in coconut milk are served in between small plates of Phú Quốc fish sauce...Nearby the flower vase sits beside two brands of wine, one reads Haut Sauterne and another Ngũ Gia Bì.

Another clue to the growing popularity of curry among Vietnamese bourgeoisie households is the modern cookbook Bổn Dạy Nấu Ăn Theo Phép Tây (Western Cooking for Annamites), written in 1889 by an anonymous author. It contains four recipes for curry, including kari créole,kari parisien, kari de crevettes and canard au kari.

Many recipes published in print media aimed at women also called for curry powder, such as thịt cua đinh xào lăn (stir-fried spiced crab meat), bộ lòng cua đinh chưng (braised crab innards), vịt nướng (roast duck), and lòng vịt chưng (braised duck offal).

In this sense, the meaning of curry and curry powder shifted away from a flavor enjoyed exclusively among the French as a marker of difference from their subjects towards a manifestation of Vietnam's middle-class identity. 

From home to nation to diasporas

Considered the first Vietnamese cookbook, Madame Lê Hữu Công's Sách nấu ăn theo phép An Nam (Cooking the Vietnamese Way), includes recipes for Vietnamese dishes, as well as Chinese and Chăm recipes. Historian David Marr cited the cookbook in his book, Vietnamese Tradition On Trial, 1920-1945, as an example of “self-conscious assertion of a Vietnamese identity.”

Besides familiar recipes, the book includes two recipes for cà ri lươn (swamp eel curry) and cà ri ếch (frog curry) in the Vietnamese section. Oddly, they are placed in a category of “different types of nem” (spring rolls). While this may seem trivial, it shows that curry powder, once a commodity associated with other cultures, had been absorbed as Vietnamese. In fact, cookbooks like Công's were later banned because the French authorities feared that their underlying nationalistic messages were harmful to the colonial regime. Similar cookbooks also acted as platforms for the anti-colonial writings of the revolutionaries such as Phan Bội Châu, Đào Duy Anh and Trần Huy Liệu.

Despite this ingrained nature of curry in Vietnam, there was still a distinction between an “Indian curry” (cà ri chà) and the curry which Vietnamese ate in the public consensus. A recipe for cà ri chà in Phụ Nữ Tân Văn suggests that Indian curry was a different breed, and that “to recreate the true flavor of Indian curry proves difficult, because its spices and ingredients are tough to make; Indians who eat curry won't ever touch [ready-made] curry powder, the type sold in markets,” which shows that Vietnamese curry employs curry powder. 

A recipe for “Indian curry” in Phụ Nữ Tân Văn. Photo via National Library of Vietnam.

“Vietnamese can't eat curries like Indians. Indian [curries] have to be thick, aromatic, rich, creamy and spicy. But here we put lemongrass, add sweet potato and taro because [Vietnamese] have a sweet tooth. So the curries we eat here are a hybridized taste, completely different from ones eaten in [India],” Lâm, the spice vendor at Bến Thành, said.

The role of curry powder in Vietnam is constantly changing, especially now that it is sold in neat packets that can be stored for up to two years. According to Lâm, this form of packing curry powder is not only convenient, but it also helps with exports.

“In the past...we only sold these spice mixtures within the country or to tourists and expats who came here wanting to find Indian flavors," he said. "Now, we can't just wait for shoppers to come anymore, we have to bring ourselves to them.”

The curry packets now travel the world, especially to where there are sizable Vietnamese diaspora communities. Lâm has shipped products to Vietnamese areas in Orange County, Texas, Atlanta, Hong Kong and Singapore, as well as to a number of Vietnamese cooks in Cambodia.

Here in Vietnam, curry powder and Vietnamese curry continues to evolve. Midway through our conversation, Lâm shared that while the powder caters to Vietnamese tastes, Lâm often offers cooking tips so that home cooks can improve their curry.

“For example, if someone wants to prepare it with sweet potatoes, I'll suggest using [white] potatoes and replacing lemongrass with ginger to make the dish more aromatic,” he said, explaining that lemongrass' strong aroma can overpower the powder.

This shows how curry, as a concept, a dish and a cultural category in Vietnam, can be diverse and ever-shifting within its own geographic sphere. With each path it takes, bounded by social, political and cultural currents, there is always assimilation at every corner, welcoming new layers of meaning stacked above the complexities of its birth.

This article was originally published in 2019.

Hometown treats encapsulate within them the flavors of memories, reminding us of a land we haven’t visited for a long time. I open the jar of coconut candies from my mother and my hometown, and immediately breathe in a familiar scent reminiscent of our kitchen back then. I thought to myself: so this is the feeling of yearning people often talk about when referring to home. 

To me — and perhaps many other “former children” hailing from Vietnam’s capital of coconut, who grew up under the shade of coconut fronds — coconut candies, or kẹo dừa, are not just a piece of home, but also the life force of a craft village and an icon of Bến Tre Province. Even after decades, that rustic treat is still the same, just as decadent, fragrant, and extremely likely to stick to your teeth, so much so that you’ll remember it forever after trying it once. Only after I delved deeper into this traditional craft, one that once seemed all-too-familiar to me, did I fully grasp how much it contributes to the pride of my hometown.

Kẹo dừa is the symbol of Bến Tre. Photo via Dân Trí.

Across the Rạch Miễu Bridge into the plantation

Kẹo dừa first made an appearance in Vietnamese historical texts at least several centuries ago. In Xiêm La Quốc Lộ Trình Tập Lục (A Chronicle of National Routes in Siam), an excerpt reads: “[In 1810 CE], a delegation assigned by Emperor Gia Long reached Bangkok. The group was divided into two groups, one headed to the palace to pay respect to the passing of the king, bringing with them funeral offerings comprising 100 rolls of Guangzhou silk, 100 rolls of white Tonkin textile, 5 boxes of beeswax, 5 boxes of sugar, 10 boxes of coconut candies, 10 boxes of rock sugar [...]” Therefore, one could surmise that a type of sweet made of coconut has existed in the country since the 18^th–19^th century.

Nonetheless, to trace the roots of coconut candies as we know today, we have to travel downstream to visit Bến Tre, the province that’s nicknamed “Three islands of green coconuts.” Thanks to the fertile alluvium from four distributaries of the Mekong River — including the Tiền, Ba Lai, Cổ Chiên, and Hàm Luông rivers — the land here is very suitable for the proliferation and spread of coconut via local waterways. For the longest time, this endemic tree has made its way into local culture here, becoming the inspiration for the sweet candy that perfumes our childhoods.

Coconuts are interwoven with life in the delta. Photo via VOV.

According to local stories passed down after generations, kẹo dừa is a Bến Tre delicacy that was created nearly a century ago in 1930 by Nguyễn Thị Ngọc, a woman who lived in Mỏ Cày Township. This was why the confection was first known as kẹo Mỏ Cày (Mỏ Cày candy). The recipe to make this sticky sweet was passed around the region, and over time, it even entered local pop culture in the form of folk songs and poetry. Residents of Bến Tre might have heard these melodies before:

“Bến Tre nước ngọt sông dài / Bến Tre, the land of welcoming waters and long rivers
Nơi chợ Mỏ Cày có kẹo nổi danh / Home of Mỏ Cày Market and its famed candy
Kẹo Mỏ Cày vừa thơm vừa béo / Mỏ Cày candy smells amazing and tastes rich
Gái Mỏ Cày vừa khéo lại vừa ngoan. / Mỏ Cày ladies are both talented and well-mannered.”

Around the 1970s, Nguyễn Thị Vinh founded the Thanh Long coconut candy manufacturing facility, the first of its kind in Bến Tre Township. At first, the Thanh Long company collected local coconuts to make candy using very rudimentary methods and basic equipment. As time went by, the candy became more well-known and profitable, so Vinh upgraded her production with machines to match the increase in demand.

In 1989, Nguyễn Thị Vinh migrated to Australia to be with her family, leaving the coconut candy production to his brother, Sáu Tảo. His management provided the push the family brand needed to become the province’s most well-known kẹo dừa. The business model that the family operated became a blueprint for many other enterprises across the Mekong Delta to follow to get the coconut candy industry to the level it is today.

Munching on coconut candy and sipping hot tea are part of an elegant pastime. Photo via Instagram user @duythanhxk.

From a time-honored taste to brand-new flavors

The coconut candy craft has been around for approximately a hundred years. My grandma used to tell me that even when she was a little girl, she was taught how to make this unctuous treat, the very thing that has grown up alongside generations of Bến Tre inhabitants. Those were the days: whenever Tết was inching closer on the calendar, villagers started reminding one another to pick coconuts, dry firewood, and purchase sugar. Wood-burning stoves started firing day and night and whenever my mom caramelized her kẹo dừa, the irresistible aroma of sugary coconut hovered in the air, making us salivate in anticipation.

Every kid in town couldn’t wait to get their fingers on those rectangular lozenges of coconut candy to fold in paper. We used to compete on who could fold the best candies in the fastest time. Such was the delight of homemade kẹo dừa, not merely a familiar Tết snack, but a tangible proof of our family culture and the talent of Bến Tre women of the time.

Our moms and sisters all knew how to make traditional kẹo dừa. Photo via YouTube channel Hương Vị Đồng Quê.

My mother taught me how to pick the best coconut for candying: it must be dry enough, golden enough, with thick enough meat. This coconut will produce the thickest milk and won’t go rancid easily. To make malt sugar, she chose the best type of sticky rice with fat, uniform grains. The sugar used to flavor the candy is brown sugar, as this hue will produce the unique golden color of the candy when done.

Everybody told me that in the making of kẹo dừa, stirring is the most strenuous task for one’s hand muscles and eyes. It must be done constantly so the sugar doesn’t burn and the color is uniform. Temperature control is equally crucial because candy-making used to be done on firewood stoves, which required experience in fire control and time precision. Once the coconut syrup thickens and darkens, the hot, viscous mixture is spread out on an oiled surface for easy removal. After it’s cooled down, the final task is to slice it into small chunks and wrap the chunks in paper.

Kẹo dừa is hand-cut and hand-shaped. Photo via Instagram user @va.o.ry.

That was the entire process of candy-making from the memories of my youth. Later, I got a chance to learn how big facilities make kẹo dừa too, which involves machines to help with arduous steps like browning the coconut and stirring. Of course, nowadays, many other iterations of kẹo dừa were invented like durian, peanut, pandan, cocoa, strawberry, gấc, etc. The diversification of flavor gives snack eaters new experiences, taking the culinary development of Bến Tre and Vietnam to a higher level.

There are many flavors of coconut candy to choose from today. Photo via VnExpress.

The treat that nourishes the land of the coconut

My grandmother believes that we can only find true-blue authentic kẹo dừa from Bến Tre. It’s the best representation of the coconut fruit, of the creativity of a craft village, and of the meticulousness of the people of the province. One must eat kẹo dừa slowly, so the decadent richness of coconut milk can melt on the tongue.

Mekong inhabitants often reserve an important space on their welcome tray for kẹo dừa before any guest visits. The image of a teapot, a dry coconut, and a small plate of coconut candies is a familiar sight in southern living rooms. Munch on coconut candy and sip hot tea — these are such rustic but inviting rituals.

An old photo showing candy maker Phạm Thị Tỏ, the founder of the Bến Tre coconut candy brand, inside one of the first modern coconut candy plants in the province. Photo via the Bến Tre Coconut Association.

I grew up under the shade of coconut fronds, so much of our lifestyle was intertwined with the coconut, from the roof above to the columns holding our home up to the food we consume. I still remember the many Tết past when I hopped into the kitchen to help my mom create kẹo dừa. We got up when the sun was barely above the horizon to prepare the ingredients. She always made an unbelievable amount of kẹo dừa — at least a few giant pans. She said we must make a lot of tasty candy to give to our relatives and neighbors. Making kẹo dừa with her was how I learned the importance of fostering a bond with my community.

A graphic design project of new packaging for traditional kẹo dừa using pop art. Image via Behance user Lê Hùng.

Protecting coconut trees is no cakewalk. After years away, with every return trip, I notice that my hometown has changed a lot. Prices drop and pests are abundant, so a plethora of farm owners are increasingly frustrated with maintaining the province’s signature plant. Many have switched to new cash crops in hopes of improving their family situation. It goes to show that tales about the coconut don’t always involve nostalgic memories, but also countless concerns.

Still, the people of Bến Tre have never turned their back on coconut, especially in the realm of food. Thanks to the growth of coconut farm tours, this time-honored confection has become a culinary icon of the province, something that anyone who visits can’t help but bring home to give to friends and family. Coconut candy is a shining example of how artisanal products can both instill cultural values and facilitate economic growth, playing a part in improving the livelihood of the people who created them. As long as farmers can afford to keep coconut farms, coconut trees will continue to take root all over the Mekong Delta.

Kẹo dừa is a Bến Tre icon. Photo by Xuân Hương Hồ.

Towering coconut trees and their ample fruits, the Mekong Delta’s hard-working farmers, and the skills of confectioners — every factor plays a part in lifting kẹo dừa up from a humble countryside treat to the region’s delicacy. For me, coconut candy today is no longer just a childhood treat, it’s taken on new meanings as an anchor of wistfulness and appreciation of my hometown’s flavors. It represents my affection for where I was born, an affection that flows within my blood and across generations.

You know a dish is special when it can spark conversation with a stranger on a bus. Halfway through the scrumptious bánh củ cải (radish cake) from our last-minute trip to the market, I shared the other half with my mom. "You're full?" asked a lady in the bunk next to us, which was then followed by a long discussion. I came home with several handy tips on how to recreate and elevate the already flavorful treat.

If one ever find themselves in Bạc Liêu Province, the name bánh củ cải points to two different things: bánh củ cải Tiều, which was the radish cake I had on the bus, also known as sái thào cúi; and another type of bánh củ cải that resembles a vegetable-forward hybrid between a dumpling and a bánh cuốn dish, referred to as bánh củ cải, bánh củ cải Bạc Liêu or bánh củ cải xếp. To make matters even more complicated, bánh củ cải is also what many people in southern Vietnam with Teochew origins call youtiao, giò chéo quẩy or giò cháo quẩy.

Bánh củ cải Tiều

At 6am, the big Bạc Liêu market, more commonly called chợ lớn by locals, is bustling with people and motorcycles. The usual business might have been escalated by thanh minh, or tomb-sweeping day, as many families are making trips to markets to get flowers, fruits and food for ancestral offerings. The Chinese ancestor memorial tradition is one of Bạc Liêu's largest holidays, due to the large population of Teochew (Han Chinese people native to historical Chaozhou Prefecture) descendants here, of which my family is one.

In the front yard of a gold shop, a stall sells various types of bánh, including bánh bò, bánh bông lan, bánh tổ, bánh xôi vị, etc. As soon as one of the owners bring out a tray full of round bánh củ cải Tiều, motorcycles and people from different directions hurry towards it. Besides having a reputation as the go-to place for bánh củ cải in Bạc Liêu, a crowd gathers because there are only two vendors that sell it in the market, and possibly in the whole city. Most bánh củ cải appearances in Mekong Delta occur within the walls of Teochew homes.

A typical batch of bánh củ cải Tiều is made with a combination of shredded radish and rice flour combined with fillings such as dried shrimp, lạp xưởng, dried shiitake mushroom, peanuts and small shrimp that have been seasoned and sauteed. The mixture is then steamed with added coriander leaves. Some cooks might add chicken broth or other types of stocks to add flavor to the rice flour batter. When ready, bánh củ cải Tiều can be enjoyed immediately, or saved in the fridge to be fried up later. While the cake is often steamed in a round pan and then cut up to slices, it also exists in spherical form, with each cake about the size of a fist.

Making and consuming bánh củ cải Tiều is an important marker of the Teochew identity in Bạc Liêu and other provinces in the lower parts of Mekong Delta, such as Cà Mau and Sóc Trăng. A quick scan through a Facebook group that connects Teochew people in Vietnam demonstrates this point. The keyword bánh củ cải brings up plenty of photos of people showcasing their bánh củ cải creations and micro-entrepreneurs selling homemade bánh củ cải. Minh Cúc, a journalist from a Teochew family, once writes in her book Pà Pá Mình Kiếm Món Gì Ngon Ăn Đi about feeling ashamed when she was young because she didn't know what bánh củ cải was, despite her family background. 

Since Teochew people in Southeast Asia originate from Shantou, Jieyang and Chaozhou cities, which make up the Chaoshan region in China's Guangdong Province, Teochew cuisine shares some similarities with its Cantonese counterpart. The ingredients and recipes for bánh củ cải Tiều are strikingly similar to Cantonese lo bak go. One could also make the connection to the Teochew s taple chai tow kway, or fried radish cake cubes.

Bánh củ cải xếp

Neither Ly or Mai remembers exactly when they started making bánh củ cải xếp, beyond “some long time ago.” Both women also expresse nonchalance towards my praise of what they're making, since according to them, bánh củ cải xếp is just an ordinary treat. However, for people who used to live in Bạc Liêu and fell in love with the dish but now live in other parts of the country, bánh củ cải xếp remains an item of nostalgia, as the dish is nowhere to be found outside of the area.

Mai, who has a Khmer grandmother and a Teochew grandfather, learned how to make bánh củ cải xếp by helping her mom, who also used to sell the dish in a small market. For Mai, making bánh củ cải xếp is just one talent among the various cooking and baking skills and knowledge that female members of her family possess and pass on to younger generations, as long as one is open to learning. Similarly, Ly also learned from her sister. When I ask about the dish's origins, Ly says: “I saw someone in my house make it and then I learned and made it, I don't know the origins.” She then laughs out loud.

While bánh củ cải Tiều is eaten inside the home, bánh củ cải xếp is Bạc Liêu's quintessential street food. Despite carrying the name bánh củ cải, which literally translates to radish cake, the dish doesn't contain radish. Mai tells me that there was a time when people did use radish in the fillings, but many switched to jicama, or củ sắn, for a sweeter flavor. The filling is made with sauteed, grated jicama, pork and shrimp, all wrapped in a flat rice flour noodle sheet akin to bánh cuốn and hủ tiếu, and then served with a generous amount of raw vegetables and sweet fish sauce.

Making the wrappers is an art in and of itself. Mai and Ly are both against using rice flour for the dish and stick to using bột gạo nước, which is milled rice. According to Mai, rice flour isn't fresh enough and will make the batter sour. To make the batter, rice has to be soaked first, before it is milled. Every day, Ly and Mai wake up at sunrise to grind rice into a liquid and use all of it within the same day. The right ratio of rice and water is crucial for the batter texture. The freshness of the milled rice will also produce a better flavor. Because of this involved process, many bánh củ cải vendors are only open for a brief window from opening time until they run out of bánh củ cải.

The origins of the dish are unclear. One writer, however, associates bánh củ cải xếp to many quang gánh by Khmer vendors: “The Khmer made the wrappers for bánh củ cải using only rice flour, with minimal fat from oil and lard and thus it is very light ... The most crucial element that dictates whether the Khmer-style bánh củ cải is delicious or not lies in the milling and how you steam it. If the wrappers come out thin and chewy, its maker is dexterous.”

This article was originally published in 2019.

When the word phá lấu is mentioned, two genres of dishes will appear in the mind of Vietnamese. One is a small bowl of orange broth that sings of coconut milk, another is slices of caramelized offal awash in a translucent shade of brown. Both these forms of preparations speak volumes about the growth of local street food through episodes of history.

For the longest time, phá lấu has been an essential piece in the life of generations of Saigoneers. At Tâm Ký, a Hoa Vietnamese eatery specializing in phá lấu, diners munch on slices of simmered pig’s ear, often enjoyed with bánh mì, pickled bok choy and cucumber. Alumni of Gia Định High School will fondly remember the times when they sat on the sidewalk in front of the school gate to relish the coconut-y decadence of a bowl of mì phá lấu.

Though phá lấu has amassed a cult following, not many are aware of the dish’s rich history, one that stretched across three cultural exchanges.

Going back 2,000 years

The first episode in the timeline of phá lấu was closely interwoven with the migration of Teochew people, người Tiều in Vietnamese, in southern Vietnam. Over centuries, from the original Teochew recipe, phá lấu has undergone a transformation as it integrated elements of Vietnamese culture.

In Teochew, lấu (滷) is used to indicate the red-braise cooking technique, one that features several differences compared to Vietnamese’s kho dishes. To make lấu, chefs incorporate five-spice powder, cooking wine, oil, and soy to preserve the meat. The protein is then cooked after the aromatics are well-marinated. This cooking method is common in Chinese provinces like Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Fujian, Guangdong, Sichuan and Hunan.

Phá lấu in China.

Delving into the ancient texts of Asia, one will come across a mention of this preparation method in ‘The Summons of the Soul,’ a poem in Chu Ci, a Chinese poetry anthology compiled in the 2^nd century: “Braised chicken, seethed pork livers, highly-seasoned, but not to spoil the taste.” According to Chinese historian Guo Moruo, this chicken could be interpreted as going through the process of lấu. This could serve to prove that this way of braising has existed from at least before the Qin Dynasty, in 200 BCE.

Lấu also made an appearance in Qimin Yaoshu (Essential Techniques for the Welfare of the People), the most completely preserved agricultural text from ancient China. The book archives the folk knowledge in agriculture and animal husbandry of the Chinese working class living along the Yellow River before the 6th century. The text references a cooking recipe involving square-cut pork, chicken, and duck that’s blanched and braised with spring onion, ginger, orange, coriander, garlic, and vinegar.

In later times, Tang-era writer Han Yu wrote a chapter introducing the culinary delicacies of ancient Teochew communities in China. The text heralds the cooking skills of Chaoshan people as being of high proficiency. Teochew cuisine had developed over thousands of years by this point, producing myriads of popular dishes both in and outside of China.

Nonetheless, lấu dishes were still the cornerstone of Teochew banquets and cooking, showcasing how lấu has always been an intricate cooking technique of the people, and not just merely a name for a simple meat dish.

From nature to culture

Claude Lévi-Strauss's cultural triangle. Graphic by Hannah Hoàng.

French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss first brought up the concept of a “culinary triangle” in the 1960s to describe the dynamics between the natural and cultural sides of food, especially meat, preparation. Each corner of the shape corresponds with “raw,” “cooked,” and rotten. Shifting from raw to cooked, the meat is processed using very “natural” methods like grilling on open fire. On the other hand, boiling meat can be seen as a “cultural” form of cooking as it involves a receptacle to hold the liquid.

According to Lévi-Strauss, treating food by braising and stewing, employing ample liquid is seen as an expression of the development of the culinary arts, epitomizing an “endo-cuisine,” food cooked for domestic use in a closed group, compared to “exo-cuisine,” which is prepared for guests. He also believes that dishes in the endo-cuisine category encompasses elements of femininity. Teochew phá lấu is an example of such.

Cultural exchange right on the sidewalk

Transcending the confines of Teochew cuisine, modern phá lấu is the result of a cultural blend of three major ethnicities in southern Vietnam: Hoa, Kinh, and Khmer.

If Chinese lấu is often prepared with duck and rabbit meat, Vietnamese cooks only use pig and cow intestines. During the early decades of the 20th century, cow innards started gaining popularity as the choice protein for street-side phá lấu because they were much cheaper than that of pigs and ducks.

In Khmer communities, like in Cambodia, there’s also a similar dish to phá lấu, called pak lov (ផាក់ឡូវ), using pig intestines, tongues, and noses. The making of pak lov shares many similarities with how Hoa and Kinh Vietnamese make phá lấu, such as the addition of star anise and cinnamon. Still, the Khmer recipe includes palmyra sugar, an important local species and also Cambodia’s main source of sweetness.

The making of pak lov.

Another question that deserves exploration is why pork became the protein of choice in the preparation of these versions of phá lấu? In consideration with American anthropologist Marvin Harris’s cultural materialism theory, the reason perhaps lies in the region’s economic and environmental landscapes. At the time, ungulates like buffaloes had major roles in the rice-cultivating traditions of Southeast Asian countries, so it was unwise to slaughter them for meat. Meanwhile, the omnivorous pig flourished with the biodiverse food sources of riverine southern Vietnam. This abundance in natural resources meant pigs were as happy as can be, and their thriving translated to an abundance of protein for humans.

Pak lov in Cambodia.

These might be the contributing factors behind the prevalence of pork in phá lấu versions of Vietnamese and Khmer people. Another school of thought believes that the use of pork originated from the Teochew’s practice of offering pork during important occasions. The leftover meat is then braised as phá lấu to preserve it, to be eaten over a span of days.

Just take any sip of phá lấu broth from a bowl sold on Saigon’s pavements, one will immediately register the unmistakable richness of coconut milk. To southern Vietnamese, using coconut milk or coconut water to boost the depth and sweetness of soups is commonplace. Still, coconut is not just a trusted ingredient in Kinh Vietnamese cooking, but also Khmer communities in the south. Perhaps, during the age of exploration, they inevitably met and exchanged cooking tips like the magical touch of coconut milk in food?

Over generations of cooks and eaters, phá lấu has crossed over numerous cultural borders that once limited it to micro-regions in Asia. From an ancient Teochew recipe, during eras of expansive migration and urbanization, “lấu” has turned into a street treat adored by many Vietnamese young and old. And just like that, the staple ingredients and spices of Vietnamese and Khmer people have come together to morph into a distinctive delicacy of Saigon’s street culture.

As the cicadas begin to sing in the tamarind canopies along Pasteur Street after the first monsoon rain, vivid scenes from my formative years flash by in my mind. My cheeks became flushed and my eyes teary, but not from the harsh sun and wind, nor the frustration of losing multiple marble games; it was the sight, or rather, the scent of a papaya salad enveloped in Cô Ri pungent anchovy sauce.

After leaving my hometown in the western part of Quảng Trị, I had a chance to sample similar papaya salads in Laos and later in Saigon, a city teeming with vibrant, diverse cultures. It was by traveling that I realized how my rustic childhood treat contains multitudes, encapsulating the nature, lifestyle, and culinary artistry of the vast Mekong Delta.

The staple treat of a region

Thailand is widely regarded by food enthusiasts as the birthplace of papaya salad. On any busy street, you can hear the rhythmic pounding of mortars and pestles. Papaya salad, or som tum, is registered by the Thai Department of Cultural Promotion as an intangible cultural heritage dish. Google also honored this dish on December 14, 2021, with a special doodle on its homepage.

Google’s homepage honors papaya salad with a doodle. Image via Google.

However, like many beloved dishes worldwide, the exact origin of papaya salad remains unclear. Most historians believe it originated in Laos, as it was a common dish in the Isaan region, which borders Laos in northeastern Thailand. The name “som tum” combines two Thai words meaning “sour-spicy” and “pounded” — the key elements that create its distinctive flavor.

Another version of papaya salad, tam mak hung, is popular in traditional Lao cuisine. The Rough Guide to Laos summarized: “Another quintessential Lao dish is tam mak hung, made from shredded papaya, garlic, chilies, lime juice, padekp and sometimes dried shrimp and crab paste. One variation is tam kûay tani, which substitutes papaya with bananas and eggplants.” Although tam mak hung looks similar to som tum, its essence lies in the use of padekp (Laotian fermented fish sauce) which boasts a much stronger aroma.

Lao's tam mak hung is made from shredded papaya, garlic, chili, lime juice, and padekp. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Meanwhile, Cambodia's bok lo hong utilizes tamarind, galangal, and prohok fish paste, while the usual fish sauce is replaced by salted crab, giving the dish a splendidly salty and umami flavor. Similarly, thin baw thee thoke from Myanmar, is made with shredded papaya, onions, and cilantro mixed with a fragrant tamarind sauce. And in many other locales, creative ingredient pairings have brought about countless interesting twists on the salad.

The offering from Mekong's bountiful nature

The main ingredient of the dish, papaya, originated from the Americas and was brought to Asia by Spanish colonizers. Papaya grows quickly but is highly sensitive to frost, thriving best in tropical climates. It’s no surprise that it is widely distributed in Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, and beyond.

The tropical monsoon climate features high temperatures year-round. Following the seasonal principle of “nurturing yang in spring and summer, and nurturing yin in autumn and winter,” papaya salad is considered an effective cooling dish due to its refreshing and nutritious qualities. The spiciness of the salad also helps cool the body by inducing sweat.

A plate of papaya salad showcases the colorful and amicable nature of the delta. Photo via Traveloka.

The Mekong River, the tenth largest in terms of discharge volume, not only provides abundant water resources but also supports ample biodiversity. It nurtures and fosters the economic, cultural, social, and ecological values of the region. Here, agriculture flourishes with an abundance of fresh produce: from long beans, tomatoes, and limes to aquaculture crops like shrimps, snakeheads, and red-clawed crabs. A single plate of salad encapsulates the vibrant and intimate riverine environment. In Laos and Thailand, tam mak hung and som tum are often enjoyed with sticky rice, a signature crop of the region’s long-standing agricultural tradition.

Seasoned with local beliefs and customs

The cuisines of Indochinese countries are characterized by a harmonious and distinctive style preserved over centuries. Firstly, it emphasizes a combination of flavors: sourness, sweetness, saltiness, bitterness, and spiciness; secondly, it adheres to the principles of the Five Elements, which include cold, heat, warmth, coolness, and neutrality.

Papaya salad reflects the culinary philosophy of Southeast Asian countries. Photo via Aday Magazine.

Why the focus on flavors? The region rarely features overly complicated recipes or elaborate cooking process, instead prioritizing taste and ingredients. When it comes to the art of seasoning, Cambodians are masters, often using ingredients like clove, cinnamon, star anise, garlic, shallot, lime, and cilantro to create a complex mixture known as kroeng, which is difficult to replicate without a recipe.

Dishes are skillfully prepared to balance the yin-yang elements. For papaya salad, tomatoes and vegetables (yin) are mixed with warming ingredients (yang) like dried shrimp, garlic, and chilies. To harmonize with the cooling (yin) fermented fish sauces, diners can pair the salad with sticky rice or regular rice, warming (yang) foods. The acidity of lime juice also softens the strong salty flavors of the sauces.

Are mortars and pestles what make papaya salad papaya salad? Photos by Alberto Prieto.

Living off the river's resources, locals have long relied primarily on agriculture. They hold a deep reverence for nature, especially through the practice of fertility worship (tín ngưỡng phồn thực). As author Hồ Thị Hồng Lĩnh explains, “People pray for abundant crops to sustain life and for proliferation to ensure survival and growth [...] worship begins with belief; ‘phồn’ means many, and ‘thực’ means flourishing. Thus, fertility worship is the belief in the flourishing of all things.”

The mortar and pestle, traditionally used for pounding, grinding, and crushing, have evolved into symbols of fertility worship, with the pestle representing the male phallus and the mortar the female yoni. The act of pounding embodies copulation and procreation. Nguyễn Quang Long's verse captures this essence: “In summer’s heat, pounding with glee / In winter’s chill, pounding with spree…” From the sunny fields to busy modern streets, just as in my childhood memories, an ever-present rhythmic pounding echoes through the making of sumptuous papaya salad feasts.

And perhaps, its delightful essence can only be captured when prepared the old-fashioned way, with a good old mortar and pestle?

What's in a Vietnamese papaya salad?

In Vietnam, papaya salad recipes vary depending on the geographical region, incorporating seasonal elements from each province.

In the north, beef jerky and pig ear papaya salad is the most common variation. Simple and elegant, this dish consists of shredded papaya mixed with pig ear, beef jerky, and herbs like mint and basil, all thoroughly infused with a tangy sweet-and-sour fish sauce. Meanwhile, the central region focuses more on depths of flavor without being too ostentatious; most dishes here are characterized by their spiciness and saltiness. Papaya salads in this region, though uncomplicated, are in no way lacks in flavor, as locals believe that a dish must be able to vigorously “wakes” your palate to be truly delicious.

The Hanoian version of papaya salad is served with large slices of beef and beef jerky. Photo via aFamily.

Why do they prefer spicy food? A theory from the Hue Cultural Research Center suggests: “Living in an environment full of ‘treacherous terrain and hazardous conditions,’ the hot chili has helped them withstand nature's challenges, fight off the cold, and cope with the various harmful elements prevalent in their new surroundings.”

In the south, papaya salad reflects the seasonal abundance of ingredients. In May, as the summer breeze sweeps across the Hậu River, shrimps are plentiful in canals, ponds, and lakes, so they are prominently featured in the cool and nutty papaya shrimp salad of the Mekong Delta. In the lunar September, when anchovies are caught, the papaya anchovy salad mixed with morning glory emerges. The delta's waterways also facilitate the spread and mix of different cultures, as evidenced by the Khmer-style papaya salad from Tri Tôn (An Giang), or the pairing of papaya salad and phá lấu, a dish of Chinese origin, which is becoming popular in Saigon's street food scene.

Khmer-style papaya salad from Tri Tôn is served with grilled beef and half-hatched egg. Photo via Sài Gòn Tiếp Thị.

Culture-wise, papaya salad highlights a notable feature of the delta's cuisine: its inclusiveness. Home chefs eagerly observe and learn from the culinary traditions of neighboring communities, transforming these influences into varieties that suit the local palate and reflect the distinct flavors of each region.

As time goes by, papaya salad may extend beyond the confines of the Mekong Delta's nature and culture. However, it's that earthly and heavenly combination of salty, sweet, sour, spicy, and bitter taste central to the dish's identity that shall remain, wherever it goes and whatever new form it might take on.

There’s a kind of sweet, sour, and slightly tannic fruit that never fails to make our mouths water every summer.

The sweltering heat has begun to spread across the atmosphere. Under the fluttering lilac petals of bằng lăng blossoms, I walk amid a sunset awash in crimson and summer showers that peter out as fast as they arrive. That’s how I realize that we’re really in the thick of summer. I listen to the sounds of the season in my surroundings: the chirpings of cicadas and quiet clinks of ice cubes rattling inside refreshing tea glasses on sun-soaked pavements.

Apart from the shifts in natural elements, summer also comes to me in the colorful blocks of fruits that have inundated local markets and mobile vendors who slowly spread the summer spirits all over town. On Hanoi’s fruit-laden bikes, there’s the pinkish red of lychees, the golden yellow of pineapples and melons. However, more popular than most is probably the crimson shade of mận hậu, a treat from the highlands.

Naturally, whenever plum season is here, mận hậu immediately climbs to the top of the list of office workers’ most favorite snacks. It’s hard to rationalize why this humble stone fruit can connect with people’s palates that well. People gather around baskets of red plums to banter cordially while gnawing on fresh, crunchy fruits. Mận hậu is present in rustic wicker trays in the center of the living room or dinner platters.

When the time comes, it’s near impossible to stop snacking on these tiny sour fruits if you’ve been bewitched by their flavors. It’s partly because they can be found at any fruit seller from supermarkets to street corners, but the main factor, I think, is probably because mận hậu is just so damn tasty. Its flesh has a juicy crunch, holding its texture better than other stone fruits. That heady mix of sweet and sour and tannin is so powerful that you might already start salivating just looking at them.

The allure of mận hậu also lies behind the cascade of building anticipation, because it’s only available during the plant’s fruiting season. When I was staying in the south, every time my friends sent down some plums from home, I was overwhelmed with joy. Just a bite with a bit of chili salt makes me happy for the whole day. The presence of mận hậu is the harbinger of the northern summer, just like how green cốm signals the advent of Hanoi autumn. The vast geographical distance it has to travel only serves to amplify my excitement.

There are many cultivars of plums in Vietnam. Mận tam hoa might sport a deep purple coat while mận cơm is perpetually lime green. Mận hậu, on the other hand, looks deep red and glossy on market displays in the summer sun. The more profound the color, the sweeter the fruit is. The mận flesh is yellow and quite sour if not fully ripe and those with specks of green are predominantly tannic.

Mận often goes better with shrimp salt than any other condiment. The combination of juicy sweetness, sourness and the umami spiciness of muối tôm is impossible to resist. A fancier way of consuming these plums involves peeling the skin, dicing the flesh and giving it a thorough shake with salt, chili flakes and sugar.

Mận hậu’s mystifying lure compelled me to visit Sơn La. Just 175 kilometers from Hanoi, the province is widely considered the national capital of stone fruits. Here, mận cultivation is spread across districts like Mộc Châu and Vân Hồ. Thanks to the natural presence of plum trees, for the past 40 years, the livelihood of local farmers has significantly improved.

Originating in China, mận hậu was first grown in Sơn La in the 1980s at the Cờ Đỏ Military Subdivision, in today’s Mộc Châu Farming Town. The history of how plum trees took root in Mộc Châu bears the mark of Lê Văn Lãng. In 1981, Lãng, the then director of the state-run Cờ Đỏ Dairy Cattle Farm, was visiting Lạng Sơn Province in the northern border when he ha the chance to try a delicious local plum. He took some cuttings back to the subdivision and encouraged farmers to experiment with the new tree. Only Nguyễn Tiến Dũng, a local farmer at Pa Khen Subdivision, took the leap to try with some success. Dũng then expanded the plum-growing area and became the first household to own a plum plantation in Pa Khen.

Thankfully, Sơn La’s climate and soil proved to be conducive to the proliferation of mận hậu, which is relatively hardy, can withstand droughts and frosts, and bears ample fruits every year. Many locals started seeing the value in growing plums and asked Dũng to share his cuttings. Gradually, Pa Khen has become a famous plum-growing region today.

Apart from the fruit’s commercial potential, Nà Ka Valley in Mộc Châu has turned into a popular tourist destination thanks to mận hậu. Tourists from all over Vietnam flock to the area every plum season to see blossoms and sample fresh fruits. From those first cuttings 40 years ago, Sơn La today has Vietnam’s largest mận hậu-growing area with over 3,200 hectares. From mid-May to the end of June, Mộc Châu buzzes with activities during plum harvest season. Piles of freshly picked plums dot the town, waiting to be boxed for shipping across northern Vietnam and even down south. Plums dominate streetside stalls and overflow trucks. Of course, nothing is fresher than plums ripening right on the trees, vying for the hands of visiting tourists.

Strolling along the dirt path, I walked by many plum plantations in Tân Lập Commune. True to the moodiness of summer weather, it started raining even though the sun was blasting just minutes prior. After the shower, the atmosphere was cleansed of any dust, replaced by the smell of plants and wet soil. Not as fiery red as lychee or rambutan plantations, mận hậu gardens still looked quite lush and green from afar. Hidden beneath bushes of emerald leaves were bundles of blushing plums covered in a layer of white wax.

When it’s harvesting season, plantations are filled with the bobbling nón lá of farmers. To grow a batch of tasty plums, caretakers must channel a lot of time and effort into the fruit trees. My visit to town included meeting Nguyễn Duy Hận, a resident of Tân Lập, while he was in the process of picking and arranging the plums into a basket.

As he was painstakingly plucking and handling the fruits, Hận told me: “In order to ensure the trees bear lots of fruits, I have to trim frequently and apply organic fertilizers. If I don’t, the plums will still be abundant, but tiny. I also have to monitor them for pests and weeds.”

Bigger and prettier plums will fetch more money, he shared. Thanks to a high level of care, Hận’s fruits were all plump and elegant, some as big as a child’s fist. “A few days ago, a wholesaler came to place an order and my plums measured 20 fruits per kilogram,” Hận couldn’t hide his giddiness to see that his garden was still bountiful despite the year’s fluctuating weather. Each year, their mận hậu trees could bring back hundreds of millions of dong to the family.

After sitting down for a quick chat with me, Hận returned to his task for the day: removing weeds from his garden. I left his cozy garden, left Sơn La with my luggage several kilograms of mận heavier and my lungs filled with the pristine air of the Mộc Châu Plateau.

I first knew dried fruit as a category of munchy snacks that had my parents’ approval.

As a child, like many others, I loved junk food, especially crispy potato chips. My parents weren’t fond of me consuming ultra-processed snacks with through-the-roof salt levels, but they couldn’t forbid me as I usually bought them at school. Instead, they devised a tactic to encourage me not to eat junk food: they bought dried fruit.

Parent-approved snacks for chip-addicted teens.

The water content can be removed from fruits via various methods that have been employed worldwide for thousands of years. One of the most globally famous examples is raisins, which are common here, particularly as Tết snacks.

There are two common types of dried fruit: air-dried and freeze-dried. While both types maintain the fruit’s sweet flavor, they differ in texture. Air-dried fruit is crunchy, while freeze-dried fruit is soft and chewy. To relate them to other snacks, one could say that air-dried fruit tastes like potato chips with the sweetness of candy, while freeze-dried fruit is akin to an organic version of gummy candy.

A mosaic of suspiciously colorful dried fruit at Bình Tây Market. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

My personal favorites are air-dried jackfruit, mango and banana. I already like them in their original form and their yellowish hue reminds me of potato chips. Even though dried fruit didn’t completely replace my craving for crispy junk food as they lack the extreme saltiness of potato chips, they are not without their charm.

Dried fruit reaches its maximum appeal during a road trip. Sitting in a vehicle and watching the scenery drift past for long hours can make anyone peckish. And on journeys like this, by minibus or a large coach car with other passengers, one doesn’t often get to stop for a meal according to one’s own schedule. Food options become limited and nibbling on junk food in a moving car can irritate one’s digestive system. Dried fruit becomes a much safer snack choice in such situations.

Who's salivating just looking at these?

When preparing for a trip, my family typically pours many types of dried fruit into one or two large bags to share. When we arrive at a rest stop along the way, we take some time at the shops to buy new and interesting dried local fruits. As we get closer to our destination, our bags of dried fruit become more colorful and diverse, saving us from the boredom of sitting in place for hours on end.

When we arrive at our destination and enjoy a splendid trip, we often seek to bring back some souvenirs as a way for us to remember the fun trip and also to share as gifts with our friends who didn’t join. In a country as bio-diverse as Vietnam, surely we’d love to bring some fresh fruits home, but that can be a great challenge. Many of us have experienced the disappointment of bringing back fresh strawberries purchased from Đà Lạt, only to find that they’ve become squished and rotten by the time we get back to Saigon, for example.

Dried seafood and fruit ready to become road trip snacks.

Because dried fruit has a long shelf-life, it is an easy and tasty travel souvenir. My family often receives bags of locally sourced dried fruit from our relatives after major Vietnamese holidays when everyone ventures out of town. And during my school days, when classes resumed after the two-week Lunar New Year break, we usually brought in jars of local fruit snacks to secretly munch on during class time, savoring a hint of holiday adventures.

Aside from being a parent-approved snack, dried fruit is also a tasty archive of the places we’ve explored. If you experience post-vacation blues and want to retell the fond moments of your journey to someone, sharing a bag of dried fruit is a great way to open a conversation that includes travel stories.

Although both durian and mangosteen are native to Southeast Asia, their reputation — especially from a western point of view — leads two very contrasting fates: the latter is considered a luscious delicacy while the former usually finds itself at the center of many insult-throwing contests.

These contrasting attitudes can be easily spotted in hundreds of travelogues written by Europeans, both colonizers and non-colonizers, who traveled to the “Far East.” Henry Adams, an American historian, wrote in 1891 in Letters to a Niece and Prayer to the Virgin of Charters, documenting his trip to Java, part of modern-day Indonesia: “The durian is, in my opinion, a fraud. I can see nothing to recommend it. Walnuts and very bad cheese, in a soft paste, with a horse-chestnut inside, would be as good.”

When it comes to mangosteen, Adams praised: “It is like a Japanese purple-lacquered fig, with a ball of white sherbet inside. From a sense of duty — because I may never have another chance — I have eaten as many as I could.”

Illustration by Hannah Hoàng.

As Pierre Bourdieu points out in his 1987 book Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, taste is not simply defined by matters of physiology and personal preference, but is also shaped by social relations. Sampling fruits and documenting their characteristics, therefore, could also be viewed in this way.

Much of Asia's fruit history is less often written by natives of the places where the fruits are consumed and understood, but documented by incomplete empirical accounts. These stories are often influenced by a heavy dose of exoticism and xenophobia and thus, usually serve to reinforce an imperial gaze and western imaginations. Hence, it's safe to say that one's attitude towards fruit — or food in general — in contemporary everyday life carries freckles of the history of a colonial past.

Plants of an imagined geography

Most of the historical knowledge about durian and mangosteen originated from Europeans who traveled to Southeast Asia with the purpose of collecting information about the region's botany. In the 15^th century, Portugal, the Netherlands and Spain gained more economic power to build their empires and thus expanded their territories eastwards.

A map of Asia by Dutch voyagers. Photo via Rare Maps.

An important concept in post-colonial expert Edward Said's 1987 opus Orientalism is imagined geographies. Said argues that western thought, rooted in binary logic, often projects a monolithic image on the “Orient” — which mostly refers to Islamic and Confucian states — as a way to differentiate other geographic locations from the western hemisphere. The so-called “Far East” is thus imagined as untamed, irrational, unruly and feminine, as opposed to rational, scientific and masculine. This logic of “othering” becomes the justification for imperialism.

Under the imagined geographies mentality, there is the notion of the “tropics.” According to historian David Arnold, the idea of tropicality is a western ideology fixated on articulating tropical climate as an inherent characteristic that set the East apart from the West. Thus, the locations that are deemed tropical need to be civilized.

Renaissance notions of Eden, or paradise helped reinforce this thinking. The idea that there exists an exotic paradise in the tropical islands of the Far East that needs to be searched for and tamed fits European imaginations and aspirations. 

This idea of tropicality goes hand-in-hand with the emergence of botanical science and botanical gardens during this early colonial period. The plants and fruits native to the tropical islands in the East become a subject of interest, which soon gave rise to botanica empiricism — the practice of collecting and studying Asian plant samples. Europeans were advised to travel to the eastern part of the world to observe and collect materials to build and enrich the western wealth of knowledge on Asian botany. These observations were documented in travelogues and botanical illustrations.

Albert Eckhout, East Indian Market Stall in Batavia (1640–1666), oil on canvas. Image via Rijks Museum.

Commercial pressure also drove empiricism. After all, collecting plants from a foreign place solely for study could be a wasteful pastime in the eyes of the state. Botanica empiricism was therefore used as a way to serve a means: commodifying and exploiting others' plants for profit. According to Syed Hussein Alatas's The Myth of the Lazy Native, when European colonialism entered the region, it destroyed the indigenous trading class in the Philippines, Java and Malaya. Peach, mango and pineapple are examples of colonial commodities that were gathered and sold back home for great profit.

As Garcia de Orta, a famous Portuguese naturalist once described: “The Portuguese, who navigate over a greater part of the world only to procure a knowledge of how best to dispose of that merchandise of what they bring here and what they shall take back. They are not desirous of knowing anything about the things in the countries they visit.”

Durian and mangosteen, however, never really became major colonial commodities.

The lusciousness of the mangosteen

A still life of mangosteen by Trần Đình Nghĩa. Image via Trường Vẽ Gia Định.

Mangosteen's true origin remains unknown. Many believe the fruit is native to the Maya Archipelago and the Moluccas in Indonesia. 

The first appearance of the fruit in European botany documents dates back to 1753 when Carl Linnaeus — a Swedish botanist, physician and zoologist — included mangosteen in Species Plantarum. Linnaeus also coined the mangosteen's scientific name, Garcinia mangostana, after Laurentious Garcin, a French-Swiss explorer and botanist who listed the description of mangosteen in Philosophical Transactions.

It is unclear when and how the fruit made its entrance into Vietnam, since different documents suggest different stories. Although most agree that the southern region of Vietnam was the first home of the fruit, the question of who brought it here is more contentious.

Manuel de conversation Francaise-Annamite suggests that mangosteen was first brought to Vietnam via Lai Thieu by a French bishop named D'Adran, a member of the De La Salle Brothers congregation. Another source suggests Pierre Pigneau de Behaine — a French Catholic priest whose Vietnamese name is Bá Đa Lộc — was the first person to bring it to Vietnam. Another account contends that mangosteen was introduced to Saigon through river trade routes, where many non-native plants were introduced under the rule of Nguyễn Ánh during the late 18^th century.

Botanical print in Lamarck Histoire Naturelle. Image via Panteek.

Mangosteen is the symbol of an untapped part of the exotic East that the western hemisphere lusts after. Despite being praised for its rosy smell and simultaneously sweet and sour taste, mangosteen's cultivation rarely goes outside of tropical borders as it takes only a few days to go bad, making exports difficult.

On occasions, the plant was grown in English greenhouses in the 1880s and its population reached the West Indies. Eliza Scidmore, an American geographer, noted that it cannot survive long voyages, “not even with the aid of modern ships' refrigerating-machines and when coated with wax – as in less than a week after leaving the trees the pulp melts away to a brown mass. [sic]”

Tasting mangosteen then becomes a sensory privilege because of its inability to travel outside of Asia, a privilege even the Queen couldn't experience.

The odorous durian and unruly natives

If the mangosteen is the luscious fruit representing the gifts that the tropical garden has to offer in European imaginations, the durian is a danger it has to overcome. It is common knowledge that most people in Southeast Asia enjoy the delightful aroma and the taste of durian, while most westerners shiver in disgust.

Even today, durian is the subject of many reaction videos where ethnic food is often removed from context and put under the microscope of the white gaze. Being Vietnamese with access to the English-language internet means many things; one of which involves being exposed to a culture where the fruit one and one's family holds dear is constantly ridiculed. A sense of otherness, ironically, can even be felt in the convenience of one's own country. The attitude of disgust against durian is not a recent phenomenon. In fact, it's a remnant of a colonial ideology.

The durian is believed to have originated from Borneo and Sumatra and holds a noble place in Southeast Asian and South Asian countries. The local trading network of durians has always been busy, even before the colonial period. In Vietnam, similar to the mangosteen, some contend that the fruit was brought to the country through the riverine network. Another theory suggests that durian was popularized by the Hoa community in Lái Thiêu and the French priest Pierre Pigneau de Behaine.

Despite local admiration, the fruit drew curiosity from colonizers. Contrary to popular beliefs, the attitudes of early colonizers in Southeast Asia — the Portuguese and the Dutch — towards durian, albeit heavily exoticized, were very positive.

A durian illustration by Hoola van Nooten (left) and an illustration by unknown artist published in Văn Hóa Nguyệt San (right). Photo via Wikipedia and Tri Thức VN.

The first writing about durian was attributed to Nicolo de Conti, an early 15^th-century Italian merchant who traveled extensively from Venice to the Cham Kingdom, which is part of southern Vietnam today. In his writing, Conti equates the taste of durian to that of cheese, which was highly regarded back then. This comment, printed in De varietate fortunae, had a foundational influence on early conceptions of western perceptions of the durian.

According to the sociology scholar Andrea Montanari, Europeans first encountered durian in Portuguese Malacca, where the fruit was a subject of scientific interest. The fruit entered Western culture as the “king of fruit,” a title that still exists today. Portuguese apothecary Tome Pires used to regard the durian as charming, handsome and "the best fruit in the world."

The growing sense of disgust directed at the durian among Europeans didn't start until the 17^th century when colonizers were starting to place an emphasis on smell. Yet, accounts during this time were still even-handed, positioning the smell as offensive to the nose but praising the taste. However, this growing sense of nausea shifted to disgust when the British overtook the Dutch and Portuguese in the region.

According to Montanari, during British rule, the durian — which once “tasted like fine cheese” — disappeared from the colonial table and was positioned as a disgusting and uncivilized fruit. As social class and structures grew more rigid and natives were classified as odorous, durian was articulated as a mark of difference between the elite class and the unruly natives.

Durian illustration by William Farquhar, early 19th century, National Museum of Singapore. Image via Roots.

At this time, durian was deemed as not having much commercial potential, as it was only tasty to natives, which resulted in European colonizers missing out on an untapped market as the result of their own social prejudices. Cultural tourism, however, thrived on this: scenes of natives enjoying durians became a spectacle many tourists and travelers found amusing. In the eyes of western tourists, natives were akin to animals savagely fighting over durian.

However, this spectator experience gave way to culinary tourism and the notion that overcoming the durian stench, like extreme sports and horror movies, is an “achievement, a growth of ego.” 

According to history professor Daniel Bender, there are subtle ways in which native people resisted the visitors, noting that “service brought a comforting sense of power to visitors. It also gave them the uneasy realization that as they tasted, savored, or rejected strange foods they were being watched, often with amusement.”

Indeed, a short story in Vietnamese published in Văn Hóa Nguyệt San in 1955 recounts how this oppositional gaze played out. The article tells a story about a French scientist who visited a Vietnamese household in the early 19^th century and was invited to taste durian for dessert. As the French visitor, who had never tasted durian before, was panicking and sweating profusely while eating the fruit out of politeness to the host, the hosts watched with amusement.

“The encounter around durian, the explanation for the fruit’s aromas, the experience of westerners as they forced themselves to overcome its stench, and the way natives openly enjoyed watching a stranger’s first taste of the fruit all encapsulated in the sensorium the pleasures and challenges of imperial rule: conquest, the articulation of difference, and the careful hidden ways colonized peoples could laugh at their rulers,” Bender adds.

This article was originally published in 2018.

Sometimes, when I hear the distant sound of a tinkling bell, fond memories of summer days from my wonder years come flooding back to me.

Like many children who grew up in the city, I greeted the summers of my childhood with a sense of dread and boredom. The relentless extension of the urban sprawl had robbed us of the joy of flying kites in a field, or splashing in a cool pond. Instead, we endured the scorching heat in our concrete cocoon, our little bodies drenched in sweat if we dared venture outside to play. When it was high noon, our alleyway fell quiet and deserted, everyone sought refuge indoors to escape the punishing sun.

Kem ốc quế (ice cream cones).

Amidst that stifling atmosphere, the only sound that could break the silence was the gentle, rhythmic ringing of a bell. My eyes, momentarily drooped due to midday drowsiness, would suddenly open wide. My ears would strain to locate the source of the sound and I would quickly slip on my flip-flops and scurry along the sizzling asphalt road to follow the fading echo. Slowing down to a complete stop at a corner of the alley, an old motorbike stood, resting on its seat was a metal freezer box.

"Ice cream...here comes ice cream!" — the driver, a man whom I would later only know as “the ice cream uncle,” belted enthusiastically, bringing out all the children in the neighborhood. In my memory, the ice cream uncle was a hot-season version of Santa Claus — he was not plump, jolly-looking, nor bearded. Rather, the uncle was a scrawny and tan-skinned figure, his complexion darkened from hustling under the sun all day long. But calling him Santa Claus wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, as every time he came, he brought with him joyful and refreshing treats to share with us.

Kem đá bào (Shaved ice with syrup).

From the icebox at the back of his carriage, the uncle scooped out small balls of ice cream, placed them on crumbly waffle cones, and sprinkled some crushed peanuts and Ông Thọ condensed milk on top. There was even a house special, where three ice cream scoops were rolled into a sweet bread roll, priced at only VND2,000–5,000. In the hot Saigon noontime, a bite into these frozen sorbets felt like being transported to a distant oasis, where gentle breezes and calm blue lakes and seas awaited us urban-bound children.

Those were the years when I was in elementary school. I would pocket every bit of loose change around the house just to experience that fleeting moment of coolness and sweetness. On days when I couldn't manage to scrape together any money, I would stand by the door, peering for a long time until the shadow of the vehicle disappeared and the tinkling sound faded away, as if summer had left me behind.

By today's standards, my childhood treat is not considered fancy or even exceptionally delicious. The texture is airy rather than creamy, and as it is mostly made of ice, it melts more quickly than one could have enjoyed. The flavors were simple — strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, and if one was really lucky, taro or coconut. Sometimes, the only difference was in appearance, as they most probably all used the same flavoring agents. Food safety was also not ideal back in the day, so unexpected bowel movements were always a likelihood, a cautionary tale that the media would often warn children about to deter consumption.

Kem ống/kem que (popsicles).

The Vietnamese word for ice cream, kem (or cà rem in the Southern dialect) originated from the French word “crème” as the dish was introduced to Vietnam during the French colonial period. Crème refers to creme fraiche or fresh cream, an essential ingredient for making a true gelato as the west would define it.

Kem ốc quế, the version that I indulged in as a child, however, only constituted powdered milk and sweetener, thus lacking the rich and creamy flavor its western counterpart possessed. It was an adaptation by Vietnamese society in a period of economic hardships after Đổi Mới. Fresh milk and pure cream were still considered luxury items, and their preservation was costly. Thanks to simple, makeshift freezer boxes, children from working or middle-class families like mine could still taste the flavors of summer.

Kem bòn bon (ice pop).

I came to realize that our subsequent summers were filled with many “ice cream-like but not actually ice cream” treats similar to this. They arrived on bicycles and motorcycles, carried by tan-skinned Santas, characterized by the tinkling sound of bells, or even accompanied by a loud pre-recorded announcement from blaring speakers.

A favorite of mine was a dessert called xi rô đá bào. The vendor, with a cloth in hand, would hold a large block of ice and scrape thin ice shavings onto a cup. Colorful syrups and condensed milk were drizzled over the ice to create a sweet and fancy flavor. To add a touch of sourness, slices of fruits like oranges or limes could be sprinkled on top. The syrup, stored in a green glass container without a label, was a good indicator that it was a reliable, authentic xi rô đá bào cart.

Frozen yogurt.

Kem ống emerged as an upgrade from kem ốc quế, featuring a wider variety of flavors like mung bean, black bean, or jackfruit. In a stainless steel container, each ice cream stick was placed in a long, pointed iron tube. The pre-mixed powdered milk was poured into the tubes, which were then shaken, rotated, and sealed. Inside the container were large trays of ice covered with salt to ensure maximum coldness. After a few minutes, the liquid had frozen, and each ice cream stick emitted a plume of smoke when placed in my hand.

Later on, as household appliances became more affordable, even the neighbors in my community could participate in the homemade ice cream industry. I no longer had to wait for the tinkling sound of bells at the end of the alley. I could simply visit the local tạp hóa whenever I craved bòn bon, ya-ua, or kem chuối.

Bòn bon was made with fruit-flavored syrup poured into plastic tubes, while ya-ua was frozen in pouches, and kem chuối was a mixture of coconut milk, condensed milk, and mashed plantains. My joy during summer days revolved around standing in front of the freezer section, feeling lightheaded from the cool air, and carefully selecting the largest ice cream bars or pouches, just like how my mother picked vegetables at the market.

Kem chuối (banana pops).

I have since grown up and ventured far from the old alley. The sound of bells rarely echoes in the city, and I don't know where to find many of the old-fashioned ice cream flavors anymore. Rapid economic development has allowed people to enjoy ice cream made from actual dairy and fruits, of various flavors and origins. On a scorching summer day, I can treat myself to an organic Italian gelato, an avocado frozen treat from Đà Lạt, or a bowl of Korean bingsu. And yet, a taste of childhood lingers in the back of my mind: that powdery, artificial sweetness that made the hot noons less oppressive, enough to make one feel instantly like a child again upon hearing the fleeting sound of bells passing by on a summer day.