Noodles are the most versatile element in Vietnamese cuisine and the perfect vessel for myriads of local dishes, from classics like phở bò to regional specialties like cao lầu. For the first time our history, Saigoneer is dedicating all our editorial content to food as part of our #NoodlesChapter: 9 different types of noodles and 9 dishes where they are the stars. These unique dishes hail from all corners of Vietnam, but are available for your slurping pleasures right in Saigon.
In the memory-scape of children growing up in the countryside like me, there always exists the familiar sight of old wet markets and the mornings we spent there, toddling behind our moms on the hunt for snacks, CDs, and lollipops. In the afternoons, I often tagged along with my grandma to buy meat and veggies, sneaking a toy or two inside her basket. Sometimes, if I was particularly sweet, she would allow us to have lunch there instead of at home.
When I was growing up in California, every couple of months, plastic containers of sliced fried egg, chicken, and chả lụa would line the kitchen counter. This medley of ingredients would usually mean bún thang for dinner — which, in turn, signaled that the dinner was a special occasion.
“O” is the affectionate way central Vietnamese call their sisters and aunties. For children of Central Vietnam like me, it has taken root in me like the most natural anchor of home. Sometimes when I’m out and about, glimpses of the accent of my hometown would pull me back home.
Ever since I was a kid, I have had a general dislike towards vegetables, but green onion has always been an exception. I regard green onion as a garnish that can lighten up the whole dish, and it seems like whenever it’s absent from my cơm tấm or xôi mặn, I will instantly lose my enthusiasm to eat. But during my teenage years, my affection for scallion was challenged for the first time, when I encountered a photo of Phú Yên’s bánh canh hẹ online.
Every time I depart from Vietnam to study abroad or travel, on the way to Tân Sơn Nhất International Airport, I stop by the Bàu Cát area in Tân Bình to stuff myself with at least two bowls of bún mắm nêm heo quay .
On the way to Phú Thọ Indoor Sports Stadium in District 11, make a turn off 666/74 Ba Tháng Hai, go all the way to the far corner, and you’ll discover Triển Chiêu Quán’s bright yellow sign. Park underneath the canopy, walk up the ramp, and you’ll notice something stands out, but you might not know why — bunches of caramel-colored noodles in the kitchen area waiting to be enjoyed.
There’s a commonly acknowledged nugget of folk wisdom amongst foodies that hole-in-the-wall eateries almost always have the best food. In the context of Vietnam’s street food landscape, this concept could extend to cart on the pavement, table in the hẻm, coffee on a bike, and even wackier contexts. The star of today’s Hẻm Gems feature, however, is a true-blue hole-in-the-wall, both in physical manifestation and in spirits.
Upon finding out that I’m a student at the University of Architecture HCMC, people tend to bombard me with a barrage of questions: if my coursework is tiring, if my school fees are skyhigh, and what my plans for after graduation are. These curiosities are understandable, but in the past years, one peculiar query has popped up more frequently: “I heard there’s a really good miến trộn place outside your school, is it true?”
Plastic stools circling low metal tables. Staff wearing pajamas and street clothes that match patrons welcomed from all walks of life. Meagre and/or mismatched decor. Views of street traffic with motorbike engines as soundtrack. Brief menus sometimes consisting of a single dish. A strict cash-only policy (until recent years, at least). Minimal concern for health-safety regulations. No artifice of chef as artist or meal as a masterpiece. While we can quibble over a specific, all-encompassing definition for streetfood restaurant, there are many qualities most will agree they share.
On the transient days when Hanoi’s weather morphs from winter to summer, the monsoon winds carry with them the drizzles of an in-between time. This cool climate evokes within me a yearning for some warm steam from boiling vats of soup stock, so on a rare chilly morning, I wandered around and stopped by Triệu Việt Vương Street for a distinctly morning treat in Hanoi.
Bánh canh is a quintessential Vietnamese dish. Its chewy rice noodle strands and light broth full of umami thanks to simmered pork, beef, chicken and seafood have stolen the hearts of generations of Vietnamese.
As a little boy, there were nights when I would burst into tears upon waking up suddenly and not seeing mom around, because I missed her and needed her. One night, I even crawled under the bed and threw a tantrum, demanding her to be by my side immediately. My dad and brother told me that she was off selling bún riêu and would be back later. In the mind of a four-year-old, it didn’t matter what kind of noodles and where she was selling them, he only cared about when she would return. At the time, I don’t recall ever trying her bún riêu.
A whiff of the ocean hits you before you even step foot onto the street. In this curious corner between Quang Trung and Nhà Chung, a new form of restaurant exemplifies the vitality and variety of Hanoi’s street food.
If I have to use one word to describe the food philosophy of Saigoneers, it would be maximalist. Those who have had the gluttonous joy of hunkering down on a plastic chair on the sidewalk and demolishing a giant tumbler of full-topping bubble tea will know what I’m talking about.
