Years ago, the first time I ate cao lầu , I committed a cardinal sin. As I gazed upon my freshly assembled bowl of noodles, without much thought, I asked the waitress for more sauce.
Not being a picky eater was somewhat of a personal point of pride for me growing up. I have my family to thank for this, as their immense patience and open-mindedness have encouraged me to explore as many eclectic delicacies and novel ingredients as possible during my formative years. So whenever a wild new dish comes along that challenges my palate so much I struggle to finish even one portion, I can’t help but consider it a personal blunder. Much apologies to bún cua Gia Lai, I have failed you.
There’s not much you can say about phở that hasn't already been said. From its complicated origin to its deliciousness to its ubiquity on Saigon’s streets, the subject has been covered ad nauseam. However, phở chua Lạng Sơn — mixed dry phở with sweet and sour sauce — is uncharted territory.
I took a deep breath, realizing that I was suspended in the midpoint of everything, above the calm, glassy surface of Trị An Lake and beneath the vast, enveloping azure sky that blanketed Mã Đà forest.
When Saigoneer first announced a few weeks ago that Vietnam’s railway network would be the centerpiece of our next themed article series, a number of readers joked in the comment section that who in their right mind would love Vietnamese trains.
In 2005, I was in middle school. I had never had a cellphone nor known what the internet was — our home didn’t have ADSL until ninth grade. Life as a fledgling pupil in Saigon revolved around homework, catching the latest That’s So Raven episode on Disney Channel, and riding behind my dad’s back on our family motorbike every day to and from school. But something was about to change: 2005 was the year I went to the movies for the very first time.
Nothing gets Saigon foodies up in arms faster than the ratio of 10 phở restaurants to zero bánh mì place, but this disproportionate phở favoritism is just one of many ways the Michelin Guide has fumbled in its recently published guide to Vietnam.
I was prepared to hate A Tourist’s Guide to Love on sight. As a movie setting, Vietnam has been burned by foreign productions one too many times, so I often find myself dry-heaving whenever any international project announces its intention of portraying Vietnam on screen.
Much like a stereotypical meet-cute in a romantic comedy, the majority of my most memorable food experiences often involve a faux pas of varying degrees of humiliation.
There’s not much you’ll need to do to persuade me to drive, walk, crawl, scuttle or skate along the Nhiêu Lộc-Thị Nghè Canal — I adore its shaded, tree-lined pavements that much.
One of my favorite parts about being in a new city is dropping by any random neighborhood and just walking around until my feet get sore. Walking affords me the leisurely pace and multi-dimensional freedom to look up, look down, peek at things and places, and stop along the track to let my senses be pleasantly overwhelmed by the onslaught of urban quirks.
An Duyên Chợ Lớn transcends Chợ Lớn quán stereotypes of rustic mom-and-pops with rickety amenities to provide a comfortable dining experience, made memorable thanks to aesthetically pleasing décor and well-crafted Hoa delicacies.
The most recent Tết holiday witnessed an outstanding performance by Vietnam’s domestic tourism sector, while international tourism had a year of underwhelming figures.
What brings you to coffee shops? Novelty beverages, mellow playlists, a feeling of home, proximity, or just simply convenience — all are valid attributes that have endeared me to many of my favorite cafes in Saigon. But what about those unnerving times when you’re out and about, minding your own business, when it quickly dawns on you that your business is about to become everyone’s business if you can’t find a bathroom, stat? Which cafes would you turn to?
In our years of writing about Vietnam, Saigoneer has had the pleasure to meet many passionate, inquisitive individuals whose creative and academic projects inspired us to appreciate the many facets of Vietnamese culture. Sometimes, we are lucky enough to see this labor of love being turned into physical books for us to cradle in our hands, delicately turn the pages, and heave in that heady aroma of freshly minted tomes.
When the parent ingredients are such top-tier performers in their respective categories, it’s natural to feel disappointed that the resulting combination is so subpar.
Have you ever wondered who named our food? Oftentimes I do, and I daydream of traveling back in time to those monumental moments in the past when a famous dish or ingredient earned its title to slap some sense into the people who named them.
In conversations surrounding Vietnam’s fashion history, it’s impossible not to discuss áo dài and its many iterations across the eras as symbols of Vietnamese femininity , but it would be amiss to leave out the local range of eclectic bracelets and bangles, hairdos and headdresses and the people who wore them.
When I begin my interview with Hồ Trâm Anh, a light shower starts sprinkling over Saigon’s overcast maudlin sky. I apologize if any errant pitter-patter might distract our call, but Trâm Anh brushes it off saying Hanoi has also been in a drizzly mood.