Can you name a Vietnamese animal that hasn’t been hunted to the precipice of extinction or become a commodified item whose flesh, fur, or feathers are only deemed significant in relation to their practical use by humans?
On September 9, 1883, ominous smoke hung over Huế. The sun was blue-green, and throughout the day, people on the streets had no shadows. As their legitimacy relied on maintaining the Mandate of Heaven, the Nguyễn royal court was alarmed. Three high-ranking mandarins rushed to advise the Emperor to change his ways to regain Heaven’s favor. While this strange incident can be easily dismissed as another case of outdated superstitions, a closer look reveals it as a rare conjunction of astrology, power, and — given the source of the smoke — volcanism, all set against the backdrop of France’s rapid incursion into Vietnam.
In the 2010s, my journey to study abroad took me to Singapore. Being a tiny person in an enormous city was a huge undertaking for a teenager, as I had to adapt to countless changes, from minute to major, at once: living in a different language, academic pressures, foreign customs and cuisines, and being away from my family. Gradually, things fell into place. The public transport worked well; the accent got more familiar; and I didn’t miss bánh mì and cơm tấm nearly as much as I thought I would; but there was one thing I never managed to entirely overcome — the bum gun-shaped void in my heart.
Walking through Saigon nowadays, you will notice that ice is so omnipresent, it’s part of the scenery. From trà đá, cà phê sữa đá to sinh tố, every drink is consumed with ice in order to combat the intense heat. Before the French brought ice factories to Vietnam, in hot, tropical cities like Saigon, you wouldn’t expect to find ice. Controlling the cold chain is now an important part of our logistics, be it for healthcare or food storage, opening the door for any cuisine to expand with new ingredients. A few centuries ago, however, it was once a thriving business catering to French colonists.
Melodic synth-lines and steady electronic drums. Today, the signature sounds of new wave music feel perhaps a bit old and outdated. During its high point during the 1980s, however, new wave was hailed as music of the future.
My favorite candy used to be Hershey’s Kisses. Wrapped in colorful, sparkling foil, these little nubs of decadence made me feel special as a child, not just because of their sugary sweetness, but also because, for much of Vietnam’s contemporary history, you could only enjoy them if you have relatives abroad.
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.
I almost never remember the faces of the employees at cafes that I’ve been to, but I am strangely attuned to the existence of their cats. I remember the textures of their fur when I gave them pets, the little squeaks when they jumped up and down the furniture, and the subtle ways they expressed their personality during our fleeting but memorable encounters.
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.
“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.
“They can do what they want. The city owns the zoo. They could sell all the animals here. They could turn it into a golf course. We’re just little people — you and me.”
If one day, the grains of rice that you frequently put in your mouth suddenly start to move, talk, and give you a rundown on how they were created on the field, would you believe it? This seemingly absurd scenario is exactly what happened to Minh, a little boy who's the main character of Con ăn hết rồi! , a children's book by author Đỗ Nguyệt Hà and illustrator Lê Phương Quỳnh, also known as Buffy.
It was an ordinary Saturday summer afternoon in the late 2000s, and I was sitting in my mom’s office while waiting for her to finish her work, watching YouTube on one of the computers in the room. It wasn't just any video for kids, but a scene where a wolf downs a whole pack of cigarettes at once and blows the smoke into a locked telephone booth to try to suffocate a hare inside. That seemingly absurd scenario came from none other than Hãy Đợi Đấy! , one of my favorite cartoon shows.
Bordering the Temple of Literature in Hanoi is Nguyễn Thái Học Boulevard, where a number of art shops sit side by side. Among them, tourists and visitors can find an endless supply of varying iterations of socialist iconography, gold-plated replicas of Đông Sơn drums, and faux-impressionist paintings of colonial Indochina. In Mũi Né, a 127-room resort unironically called The Anam Mui Ne boasts its Indochine allure with “Indochine Charm. Modern Luxury” on its home page. Throughout the resort are paintings depicting women in traditional áo dài and scenes of tranquil fishing villages, gesturing toward the bucolic past of Vietnam. In Saigon, numerous cafes and eateries are decorated in encaustic cement tiles with intricate floral, pastel designs, while brandishing French names and wrought iron railings on their balconies.
A drop of the animal’s blood renders the soil barren; entire mountains can crumble and collapse where it landed. Be wary of this slow wayfarer of the forest, for if you catch sight of its glowing eyes in the distant darkness, your trip is doomed and should be abandoned immediately. And if someone brings one back to the village, make all efforts to return it to the jungle, lest you invite sorrow and ruin into your home. Don’t let its meagre stature, a mere 500 grams, and slow, cuddly demeanor confuse you; the cu li guards the gates to hell.
Saigon is a cafe enthusiast’s paradise. A decades-old coffee culture fostered by previous generations is still alive and well, in addition to the latest global trends brought over by the younger generation of baristas. When it comes to interior styles and vibes, there’s a little something for everyone, from gritty industrial to spartan Japandi chic to Saigon’s very own southern modernist architecture.
This season, chò seeds drift through the air, their tiny wings twirling in the wind before settling softly onto pathways. It feels as if someone, unseen, has scattered a handful of memories across the breeze. I watch from under the eaves as each chò wing tilts and dances. The sight takes me back to a courtyard echoing with the laughter of children, caught up in the games we knew by heart — nhảy dây, bịt mắt bắt dê, ô ăn quan, bắn bi. Summer, in those days, wasn’t only about the blazing sun. It lived in the whirl of chò seeds overhead, the humming cicadas at noon, and the tender chaos of our childhood.
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.
Every year during this time, I can’t help but hanker for a taste of sugarcane infused with hoa bưởi, or pomelo blossom. Only hoa bưởi’s tender aroma can accentuate the flavor of this humble snack several folds.
When science and art commingle in a botanical illustration, it’s as if a magical world appears, where colors, brushstrokes, and lighting work together to not only replicate but also breathe life into nature’s best creations.
Towards the deep end of our home, several coconut trees’ fronds started browning and falling off, straight from the bud. For the last few weeks, tiny holes have gradually appeared on the coconut trunk and shoot, from a few to numerous, giving off an unpleasant funk of rotten sap. My dad says that these trees are infested with đuông, and we must chop them all down lest we lose the entire grove.
“I don’t make happy songs,” says Phúc, the lead singer and guitarist of Saigonese rock group COCC. He and I are sitting in the middle of the band’s “cave” — a homemade recording studio they began putting together ten years ago. “I dreamed about it for a long time,” Phúc says of the studio. “In 2015, when I finished this house, the vision came true. We invest in it all the time, buy a little bit here, buy a little bit there. We’re still adding and improving the system and the equipment.”