As the coronavirus outbreak stretches its treacherous tendrils across all aspects of our society, the lives of Vietnamese are gradually becoming more confined to the four walls of our home.
‘Trong Com’ is unassuming; ‘Trong Com’ is simple and easy to memorize; much like its namesake — a small drum played during traditional ceremonies, the song evokes an idealized image of Vietnam, one that’s enveloped in bucolic pastures and lined by verdant fields.
Growing up with the touching stories of Walt Disney Studios, many Saigoneers have formed a personal connection with the cheery tunes of songs like The Little Mermaid ’s ‘Under the Sea’ or the iconic opening to The Lion King ’s ‘Circle of Life.’
With lush landscapes of the Mekong Delta as the background, Bắc Kim Thang is surprisingly wicked and intelligent, but most importantly, it provides feminist advocates a new way to topple the patriarchy: becoming a blood-spattered specter and haunting misogynists to death.
From covers of old songs from the 1960s and 70s, Saigon Soul Revival now presents their own original music in an exciting debut album, a continuation both in spirit and execution of the silvery vein of nostalgia dominating Vietnamese music in recent years.
Gone were the days of timing one’s bathroom dash exactly during commercial breaks and gathering around a neighbor’s old television set, the only one in the entire alley, to relish every minute of a hot soap opera.
Right in the middle of frenetic hospital crowds, imposing pharmacies and peak-hour traffic, Hue Ky Mi Gia stands out, its indoor dining area seemingly unaffected by the commotion that’s going on just a few footsteps away.
In today’s aggressive stream of Marvel blockbusters, doll- and shark-themed horror flicks, and gratuitous comedies, Troi Sang Roi, Ta Ngu Di Thoi (Good Morning and Good Night) is like a stubborn wild salmon trying to defy the strong current. But is it succeeding?
Varying climate patterns and geographical topography have bestowed Vietnam with an impressive biodiversity. From temperate fare hailing from the Central Highlands like avocados, coffee and strawberries to the Mekong Delta’s smorgasbord of tropical snacks, the country is a veritable paradise for fruit lovers.
During the day, the dining area at 89 Nguyen Du houses a bún bò restaurant, but once the afternoon comes to an end and the sun starts to set, the area turns into a boisterous nhậu spot filled with northern fare and jug after jug of bia hơi .
At daybreak, when crickets croon and Tan Xuan Commune is still awash in darkness, Chung is already awake. “We will support you in getting access to funding,” she chants several times in front of a mirror while holding a brochure. Once the sun is up, she heads out to start a typical workday of trying to convince her neighbors to construct proper toilets in their homes.
Rarely has there been a Vietnamese film that ignited such impassioned, polarizing responses from the public. During its four days in theaters, The Third Wife awed, inspired, saddened, charmed, flustered, inflamed and enraged its audience (and non-audience) like never before.
“Here we go, I’m gonna do it,” I proclaim to a table of eight friends. On the tip of my chopsticks is a single ant egg, the “pearl of the forest” as some call it. Instead of ending in a dramatic burst like Japanese salmon roe, the egg deflates on my tongue with a distinct rich taste. The flavor of the protein is neither as pronounced as fish roe nor as unfathomably fatty as a coconut worm, but it’s without a doubt something unique.