Saigon, 10 Years Later

As the plane descends over southern Vietnam, I observe braided rivers weaving across a canvas of mangroves and fish ponds, their silty waters glinting in the late afternoon sun. The semi-wild landscape below gives way to paddy fields, then the warehouses and factories of an industrial estate, a squiggly-shaped golf course, and expanding suburbia: empty plots of land bounded by small roads that carve out man-made patterns in asphalt.

It’s the end of March 2023, and Bama and I are bookending a trip to Quy Nhon on the country’s south-central coast with four nights in Saigon. This was where I made my first brief foray into Vietnam a decade earlier on a spontaneous family trip. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about the place instantly captivated me at the time. It may have had something to do with Saigon’s mercantile nature and inherent dynamism—I have a soft spot for bustling port cities—or the striking juxtaposition of old and new. Between the historic architecture dotting District 1 (the downtown area), the unexpected friendliness we encountered at every turn, and crispy Mekong Delta–style bánh xèo, I was certain it was only a matter of time before I came back.

At nightfall, Bama and I check in to a tiny hotel slash AirBnB at one end of a T-shaped residential alleyway. There are no staff members on duty inside the ground-floor communal lounge. Using the free Wi-Fi to check my phone, I find direct messages about our room number with instructions on where the key has been left for us to pick up. I’m also given a passcode for the front door and a separate key to open an outer steel gate should we wish to go out before 8 a.m., which we do.

Our first full day in Saigon begins with an early morning stroll through Lê Văn Tám Park, once a prestigious European cemetery for military men, wealthy civilians, and the colonial elite. After Vietnam was partitioned in the wake of the 1954 Geneva Accords, it was the place of choice to bury the who’s who of South Vietnamese society. Eventually the post-reunification government decreed in 1983 that all human remains would be disinterred and tombstones cleared from the site. And thus the city’s most distinguished resting place for the dead became a recreational zone for the living. Sure enough, we witness Saigon residents both young and old getting their fill of exercise: women jogging on shaded pathways circling the park, teenagers shooting hoops with friends, middle-aged men practicing the Southeast Asian sport of sepak takraw.

Lunch at Quán Bún Thịt Nướng 88; Saigon’s French-colonial City Hall

A lotus in bloom on pedestrianized Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard in front of City Hall

Plates of fresh herbs and vegetables at casual local eatery Mợ Út

Bún chả cá—soup noodles with snakehead murrel fillets and fishcakes at Mợ Út

Saigon residents enjoying the greenery of Lê Văn Tám Park

Having arrived from Jakarta less than 24 hours ago, we can’t help drawing immediate comparisons between the two cities. Saigon is blessed with plenty of green spaces in the older central districts, which are far more walkable and easier to navigate, thanks to a street grid laid down by French colonial administrators. Bama and I agree that the French put more effort into creating beautiful civic buildings than the Dutch ever did in Jakarta, where older structures tend to be whitewashed with little in the way of ornamentation. No Dutch-era place of worship back home can match the fairytale vision that is Saigon’s Tân Định Church, an 1870s landmark famed for its flamingo pink–and-white color scheme. Non-parishioners, understandably, are not allowed inside; we’re content with admiring the exterior details as a local couple stands on the porch for their pre-wedding photos. Over in District 1, another soon-to-be-married pair poses against the backdrop of a vintage convertible and the flamboyant facade of the Municipal Theater, originally the Opéra de Saïgon. They smile for the camera just as a bus disgorges a gaggle of European tourists in shorts and T-shirts.

At mealtimes, Google Maps points us the way to two excellent no-frills eateries a short walk from the hotel. Open to the street and marked by a bright yellow signboard, Mợ Út specializes in snakehead murrel (a freshwater fish) from the town of Châu Đốc beside the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. Breakfast here is a hearty bún chả cá—soup noodles with fishcake slices alongside a plate full of herbs, beansprouts, banana blossom, and lotus stem. (Bún đầu cá, noodles featuring meaty fish head served in another bowl, becomes our choice the next morning). After wandering down to City Hall and back, we duck into Quán Bún Thịt Nướng 88 for its heavenly namesake dish. This southern Vietnamese favorite is popular across the country for good reason: bún thịt nướng comprises an assortment of grilled pork, roasted peanuts, crispy spring rolls, and pickled carrot and radish, all placed atop cold rice vermicelli heaped over fresh greens. Lashings of fish sauce complete the mélange of flavors, and I also order freshly made gỏi cuốn (fresh spring rolls) to share.

Bama and I spend the afternoon at the Museum of History, whose galleries are filled with precious archaeological finds. There are Bronze Age Đông Sơn drums; classical Khmer relics taken by French colonialists from the temples of Angkor; and a preserved wooden stake driven into the riverbed to trap enemy ships at the 1288 Battle of Bạch Đằng, which halted the Mongol invasion of Vietnam. We admire intricately carved Cham statuary and artifacts from an ancient culture known today as Óc Eo, named after a village in the Mekong Delta where excavations have yielded Southeast Asia’s oldest surviving wooden sculptures.

The 1920s Hùng King Temple outside the Museum of History; a Cham statue of Shiva in the museum

A Garuda sculpture from the fallen Cham temple of Tháp Mẫm; ancient bronzeware on display

Like Hùng King Temple, the Museum of History was the work of French architect Auguste Delaval

A café in a French-era building; this statue of the sun god Surya dates from the 6th–7th centuries

Food and heritage continue to be dominant themes when we move to District 3 upon returning from Quy Nhon. Just around the corner from the French-colonial Archbishop’s Residence, Cơm quê Mười Khó is a rustic, semi-outdoor restaurant specializing in the rural cuisine of central Quảng Nam province. Its clever use of the leftover space between two buildings draws us in for a fabulous lunch centered on rice-flour pancakes from the district of Đại Lộc. Softened in a bowl of water, they morph into a wrapping for DIY rolls stuffed with barbecued pork, herbs, and vegetables (thịt xíu cuốn bánh tráng Đại Lộc). We also order stir-fried pumpkin flowers with garlic (bông bí xào tỏi), fig salad (gỏi trái vả), goby braised in a claypot (cá bống kho tộ), and bowls of fluffy white rice. All this is washed down with nước sả tắc đường phèn—a thirst-quenching iced drink of kumquat, lemongrass, and rock sugar.

One of the great joys of running a travel blog is meeting like-minded bloggers in real life. Len, the prolific writer-photographer behind Len Journeys, has graciously taken a day off work to show us around his home city. He picks us up at the hotel in a Grab car for an excursion into Districts 5 and 6, where we’re deposited in the heart of Cholon, the city’s centuries-old Chinatown. Though Len was born and bred in Saigon, he sheepishly admits that he’d never set foot inside the landmark market whose predecessor gave the area its Vietnamese name (Chợ Lớn literally means “Big Market”).

An influential figure who shaped the district’s development was Chinese entrepreneur Quách Đàm, who arrived in French Indochina in the 1880s as a young immigrant with hardly a penny to his name. His sharp business acumen and early investments eventually paid off over the subsequent decades. By 1916, Quách had risen to become a hugely successful rice merchant who owned three rice-husking mills around town and a fleet of Phnom Penh–based steamships plying the Mekong River. But he never forgot his humble roots and the poverty he endured during his early life. Apart from funding schools and hospitals, the millionaire philanthropist was instrumental in creating Cholon’s central Bình Tây Market: he donated the land alongside 58,000 francs (the equivalent of about US$204,000 in today’s terms) for its construction from 1926–28. Sadly, Quách never lived to see the finished building, as he died a little over a year before its inauguration.

From the upper level, we watch traders in the central courtyard lighting incense sticks and paying their respects in front of Quách Đàm’s bust. The sculpture is a more recent addition to an ornate marble fountain commissioned by his family in 1929. In contrast to my own whistlestop tour a decade ago that did not include any of the nearby temples, Len has budgeted ample time for us to soak up the feel of a neighborhood that, in his opinion, has changed little despite Vietnam’s ongoing economic boom.

Our lunch spread at Cơm quê Mười Khó (the signature rice-flour pancakes are out of frame)

The restaurant takes up a relatively narrow space between two buildings

The rooftops of Bình Tây Market in Cholon

A marble fountain graces the market’s central courtyard; street art near our hotel

The nave and pastel-yellow facade of St. Francis Xavier Parish Church in Cholon

The interior of Bình Tây Market; architectural details on Quan Âm Pagoda

A lantern and dragon mural at Hà Chương Assembly Hall; Bình Tây Market’s clock tower

The lotus bud–inspired Bitexco Financial Tower; raising an incense coil at Thiên Hậu Temple

In the streets I overhear snippets of Cantonese being spoken by elderly residents, spot signs in traditional Chinese characters, and pass air-dried lap cheong sausages strung up outside open storefronts. The familiarity reaches its peak when Len brings Bama and I to Quán chè Hà Ký, an old-school dessert spot known for zimaawu, the thick black sesame soup I grew up eating at big family dinners in Hong Kong. “This tastes like my childhood,” I tell Len. Tacked to the wall above our table is a laminated menu written in Vietnamese and Chinese, chock-full with classic Cantonese sweet treats whose ingredients I instantly recognize: jujube, lotus seed, water chestnut, and snow fungus. “I’m the only one here who can’t read this menu,” Bama jokes. Bánh ích trần mặn, the final item listed under what Len describes as the snack section, piques my curiosity. It turns out to be savory-sweet sticky rice dumplings of mung bean paste and dried shrimp. Topped with chopped scallion and cut into quarters, the morsel is served alongside fish sauce with thin crinkle-cut slices of pickled carrot and radish—a reminder of exactly where we are in Southeast Asia.

While in Cholon, the three of us hop between five historic places of worship. Most are within a few short blocks of one another. Bama and I wait for the sun to break through the clouds and light up the pastel-yellow facade of St. Francis Xavier Parish Church. It opened in 1902 for the local Chinese Catholic congregation, and while the church itself is neo-Gothic, there are also classical Chinese flourishes like a paifang gateway and a hexagonal pavilion for a statue of the Virgin Mary. Inside, the vaulted nave was where the unpopular South Vietnamese President Ngô Đình Diệm and his younger brother (both practicing Catholics) sought refuge before their assassinations during the CIA-backed coup of 1963.

The neighborhood’s temples traditionally doubled as meeting places for southern Chinese immigrant communities, each of which spoke different languages and brought their own customs and architectural traditions to Vietnam. Hokkien settlers from Fujian established both Hà Chương Assembly Hall (a Mazu temple) and the colorful, ornately decorated Quan Âm Pagoda dedicated to Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of compassion and mercy. Perhaps the most well-known religious site in Cholon is the Cantonese-style Thiên Hậu Temple, which dates to the early 19th century (though a sanctuary has stood on this site since around 1760). Stylistically, it’s a doppelgänger of the temples in Hong Kong’s older neighborhoods, where local fishermen have worshipped Tin Hau—the same sea goddess revered as Mazu by the Hokkien—for many generations. We wander below spiraling coils of incense, admiring the weathered ceramic dioramas on the roofs depicting Chinese mythology and scenes of city life in the Qing era. Inscribed on the sculpted base of a timber column is the old Cantonese name for Cholon, “Tai Ngon” (literally “Embankment”), and “Ox Horn Street.”

Hà Chương Assembly Hall has been propped up by temporary steel frames

Sticky rice dumplings of mung bean paste and dried shrimp at Quán chè Hà Ký

A scene from Quan Âm Pagoda; the sculpted base of a pillar at Thiên Hậu Temple

The facade of the Cantonese-style Thiên Hậu Temple

Inside Thiên Hậu Temple; the image of Guan Yu at Nghĩa An Assembly Hall (Guan Di Temple)

Details on a door god at Guan Di Temple; the newly renovated building’s front entrance

Guan Di Temple (Nghĩa An Assembly Hall) has the finest woodcarvings of Cholon’s places of worship

Just a few minutes’ walk down the road lies the newly renovated Guan Di Temple (a.k.a. Nghĩa An Assembly Hall). Built in 1819 by Teochew émigrés from the region around Chaozhou in eastern Guangdong province, the structure enshrines a red-faced statue of Guan Yu, a deified general who lived during the twilight years of the Han Dynasty. Schoolchildren across modern-day China know him as a powerful hero in the 14th-century historical novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms. After strolling past discarded timber beams piled up in the courtyard out front, the telltale smell of fresh paint greets us as we step over the temple’s threshold. Bama and I crane our necks at the exquisite woodcarvings now gleaming in vibrant colors, and take in intricately painted door gods that look as good as new. The time-worn Thien Hau Temple could do with a similar facelift.

As much as we love Cholon, lunch is waiting for us elsewhere. Len finds a Grab car to drop us outside Cục Gạch Quán, a cozy restaurant split between two French-colonial houses on a quiet street in the northern fringes of District 1. Created by local architect Trần Bình, it specializes in honest home-style Vietnamese cooking from the countryside. (Barely two months after our visit, Cuc Gạch Quán is recognized with a Bib Gourmand in the inaugural Michelin Guide to Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City.) The menu here offers a dizzying variety of mostly vegetable dishes, with a whole page dedicated to different kinds of flowers that are steamed, sauteed, or cooked in soups. We’re soon introduced to canh chua, a well-balanced sour soup with a clear, tamarind-flavored broth sweetened by pineapple. The one Len orders for us to share has smooth fish balls and thick slices of spongy bạc hà (Indian taro) stalks. Porous and mild, the latter soaks up the soup’s addictive flavor.

We spend most of the ensuing afternoon at the Museum of Fine Arts. An air of neglect pervades the 1930s mansion originally built for the wealthiest family in town—the progeny of Chinese-born businessman and philanthropist Hui Bon Hoa. I can’t help noticing the stained-glass windows with broken panels and missing wrought iron frames by the beautiful spiral staircase in the annex. Inside the main building, dust gathers on a non-functioning vintage elevator, the first one ever installed in Saigon. This place has such good bones; a proper restoration in tandem with a more up-to-date rethink of the galleries would go a long way.

Then, from the museum’s front gate, Len takes us down what he calls a typical Saigon street. It’s lined with narrow multistory buildings housing walk-up apartments, potted plants on their balconies providing a welcome burst of green; the shops at ground level deal in antiques and other curios like replicas of Óc Eo and Cham statues. An older woman, shielded from the sun in a conical nón lá hat, carries a sagging bamboo pole across her shoulders. Hung from either end are baskets heaving with ingredients for a local dish I can’t identify. On the far side of a busy seven-lane boulevard, we amble through a rambling street market whose future is in doubt. “Land prices in this area are very high,” Len says with a hint of resignation. “The next time you come back, this might not be here anymore.” In business-minded Saigon, the wheels of progress never stop turning. ◊

Tân Định Church in the early morning sun; the lotus is Vietnam’s national flower

A soon-to-be-wed couple at Tân Định Church; the cupola of a side chapel

The courtyard at the Museum of Fine Arts; a view of the institution’s annex

The marble and wrought iron staircase in the museum annex

The Museum of Ho Chi Minh City occupies a historic French-colonial palace

The Municipal Theater originally opened in 1900 as the Opéra de Saïgon

This museum was the former home of South Vietnam’s Supreme Court

A typical Saigon street; taking pre-wedding photos outside the Municipal Theater