I’m calling all of these foods jellies - striking in appearance, ambiguous, glossy forms that were born from resourcefulness and craft, persisting in part due to their perceived benefits in traditional Chinese medicine. In the Eastern practice, balancing one's energy (qi) through cooling (yin) and warming (yang) foods aids digestion, skin health, circulation, and the like.

I was at a loss for words trying to accurately describe the spectrum of jellies in their chews, probably because the American vocabulary has few words to describe these textures. But in Cantonese, as I learned from a guy shotgunning grass jelly, one of many ways to represent this beloved niche of sensations is daan ngaa (彈牙), literally, ‘bouncing teeth.’

Braised Pomelo Pith

When landing at Hong Kong International Airport, spend some time in the arrivals terminal admiring the dim sum gallery of Ho Hung Kee--a restaurant that began as a street food stall 70 years ago, now an affordable 1-star Michelin establishment. Here, your first few bites in the country can be Cantonese braised pomelo pith with shrimp roe (虾籽油皮), an old-school dish that has become increasingly harder to find in a time with less scarcity mindset.

This might be because of the meticulous preparation: thick, fibrous sheaths of pomelo skin are first repeatedly soaked overnight, rinsed, and blanched to leach out bitterness. Then, the pith is braised in a deeply savory soy + red bean curd broth until it yields elegantly like sculpture medium to a spoon, saturated with comforting flavor to its brim.

In the words of Chinese food scholar Fuschia Dunlop, “It is hard to imagine how, or why, anyone thought of turning the unpromising middle layer of this fruit about as appealing in its raw state as cotton wool – into something so magnificent. But… in China such startling culinary imagination and technical ingenuity is typical.”

Double Skin Milk

The fogged-up windows of cha chaan teng (Hong Kong-style cafes) like Australia Dairy Company are stacked from head to toe with trays of double skin milk, shuang pi nai (雙皮奶), a warm-held jiggly pudding, doled out quickly to a constant stream of visitors. The pudding is a pearly white, loose set custard without a trace of egginess, made from just egg whites, fatty milk, and sugar. Its surface has a gossamer milk skin (the first of the ‘skins’; the second being the custard underneath), which ripples when jiggled, and a warm spoonful diving in barely holds together, giving off a concentrated, thick flavor of rich cream and the slightest sweetness.

To enjoy it, I’d actually suggest a day trip outside of Hong Kong to Macau, an hourlong ferry away. At Leitaria I Son (Yee Shun Milk Company), a pure canvas of milk pudding can be garnished to order in about twenty ways, from served warm with starchy lotus seed (pictured) to cold with apricot juice, all while contemplating Portuguese colonial influence.

Interestingly, this dish isn’t an Asian rendition of European custard, as egg tarts were; rather, double skin milk evolved independently as a way to extend the life of buffalo milk in Guangdong, the province of mainland China closest to both Hong Kong and Macau.

Osmanthus Jelly

Perhaps the right way to close out a succulent dim sum meal is with an equally bouncy dessert. An herbal tea jelly, such as from loranthus, osmanthus, or Chinese mesona (the ‘grass’ in ‘grass jelly’) is a beautifully sculptural choice.

In the osmanthus preparation, the amber, honeylike tea from the flower is gelatinized, stiffly suspending plump goji berries and, if you’re lucky, medlar--a resiny, fig-like, ochre fruit from the oak tree. Imagine the botanical sweetness of boba, sitting like a grand aspic centerpiece in front of you. Now, feel good seeing it: traditional Chinese medicine encourages osmanthus for dispelling heat and improving complexion.

Fish Maw

Fish have a little party trick: each one carries a balloon inside its chest. This balloon allows them to direct their motion while swimming, floating up and down, through inflation and deflation. This organ is called the swim bladder or maw (魚鰾), and when harvested from meaty fish like sturgeon and dried in neat stacks, can go for $1k a pound.

The elasticity of this muscle makes for a spectacularly spongy and tender guest star in steamed dim sum dishes--a shining, brothy, briney accompaniment to something as simple as chicken thigh and shiitake mushroom. Maw is said to support fertility, though Western medicine is unsure how; ironically, the bladders also were used as condoms in the ancient and Middle Ages.

Regardless of their health power, maw and jellies of a similar vein, like abalone, shark fin, bird’s nest, tortoise powder, and sea cucumber, have staying power. They’ve earned an unforgettable place in Asian hearts, palates, and yearly rituals. This taste has been blamed for overfishing, inflation, and endangerment of the species, and abroad, exoticized with distaste or bragging rights. I’m not sure what the solution is, or how to write about it as an outsider. One could argue the American version of this ended up resolved as factory farming and kids wrinkling their noses at lunchboxes that smell like anything other than chicken nuggets.

Braised Pig Fallopian Tube

You’ll remember it when you see it on streetcarts: neon orange, round, and as cute as giant, cartoonish macaroni shells. Google translate for sang cheong 生肠 returns raw sausage, but this characteristic shape is pig fallopian tube, or sometimes, uterus or womb, with amorphous probability. On a scale of offal gaminess, this cut is tamed to a surprisingly gentle, coffee-like sweetness, with help of a holy grail braise of cinnamon, star anise, and orange dye brine.

The braise tenderizes the chew as well; instead of the resilience of tripe, fallopian tube is somewhere closer to the snappy gelatinousness of tendon or cartilage. I’d call it a dessert if I could. It checks out that it’s said to support female fertility.

Snake Soup

As told by a beautiful girl I sat next to for claypot rice one night, the secret to youthful skin and warmth in winter is she geng (蛇羹), a seasonal snake soup. She pointed to me a stall across the street stocked with large glass jars, preserving coiled, army-green lengths, as thick as a forearm in some places and as thin as a pencil in others.

If you’re lucky, you’ll see the meat stripped by hand into long, yarnlike strands. The soup is glassy and viscous, like ‘ice jelly’, or bingfen (冰粉), both because of the meat and also to a starchy thickener, often water caltrop seeds. In taste, it’s serenely clean, yet savory, in part thanks to razor thin-cut lemon leaves on top. The meat, as diplomacy goes, ‘tastes like chicken’. Some versions use up to 5 types of snakes, making for a medley of pink, beige, tender, and dry. I have a phobia of snakes, but nothing is scarier than a life without vanity.

In Hong Kong in the 1900s, the soup was a popular delicacy. Today, there are fewer than 20 producers in the region. There’s an ongoing struggle to pass on the skills needed for an often-dangerous craft, in a world with people already eager to otherize cultures as dog-eaters.

Why do we travel, and how do we do it right? Is one not supposed to want to meet, hold onto, and celebrate all the undiluted colors and cultural vestiges of communities, especially the parts that aren’t in line with our own tastes?

The next time you find yourself in Hong Kong, I hope you feel your best and celebrate the bounce of doing so.

This piece was written by . Based in New York City, USA, Sangita is likely making a matcha latte at any given moment.

Funny Table is an independent food publication and video channel dedicated to teaching you more about what you eat. We’re a small volunteer team committed to telling stories that reflect the diverse voices, cultures, and communities that shape what’s on our plates. Every share, comment, like, and subscription helps us keep going.

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From uncles smoking a cigarette in one hand and grilling pork patties for bun cha with the other or Aunties beating their fresh fish pulled to order for cha ca la vong, Hanoi, Vietnam is anything if not a a heaven for food lovers.

In this guide, I breakdown 21 of my favorite and most notable foods from the city: a little bit of history, cultural & social impact, the food itself and of course, where to get it.

I hope you learn something new and find something specifically for you to eat!

What to Eat

1. Bánh Cuốn

Bánh Cuốn, meaning "rolled cake" in Vietnamese (bánh refers to anything cake- or bread-like (sweet or savory) and cuốn means to roll), is one of the most quintessential dishes of Hanoi. These delicate, steamed rice crepes are typically filled with ground pork, wood ear mushrooms, and sometimes water chestnuts, seasoned with fish sauce and black pepper.

They're often served warm with a soft-cooked egg (trứng) and cinnamon-scented sausage (chả quế). Accompaniments include nước chấm (a dipping sauce made of fish sauce, sugar and water), chili, calamansi (a type of kumquat native to the Philipines) and a basket of fresh herbs and vegetables such as perilla, Thai basil & mint.

There are two common styles in Hanoi: the more modern version with meat fillings, and the Thanh Trì style—served cold and unfilled, often with fried shallots. Think of bánh cuốn to Vietnam as crêpes are to France, pan polay to India, or anjero to Somalia— a simple dish rooted in technique acting as a vessel for other flavors

Where to Eat it

Bánh Cuốn Bà Hoành for Thanh Trì style

Bánh cuốn Bà Xuân for the modern style

2. Bún Chả

Bún Chả is a beloved Hanoi specialty made with thin, round rice noodles (bún) and grilled pork patties (chả), served in a light, fish sauce-based broth. The dish comes with pickled green papaya, daikon, fresh herbs, lettuce, mustard greens, and often crispy spring rolls on the side (chả giò). Diners typically customize the dipping broth with chili, garlic, and calamansi juice.

Originating in Hanoi’s Old Quarter in the early 20th century, bún chả is traditionally eaten at lunchtime—usually between 12 and 3 p.m.—when many locals break from work or nap. It rose to international fame after President Obama and Anthony Bourdain famously shared a meal of it in 2016.

Unlike bún thịt nướng, which combines grilled meat, noodles, and sauce in one bowl (a dish famous in Saigon), bún chả separates the grilled pork into its own light, broth-like dipping sauce.

Northern Vietnam also experiences four different seasons, one of them being a very cold winter which is not conducive to growing chilies or spices – something you won’t generally find in their food. It was also the capital of Vietnam during the French colonization so the cuisine is more traditional – lighter and simpler, than the south which tends to involve more sugar, spices and overall diversity in their food due to exposure to Western culture.

Where to Eat it

Bún Chả Hàng Quạt

Bún Chả Hương Liên

Bún Ốc Chả Nem Bà Bẩy Đang

Phố Mã Mây, you’ll even see a rotation—phở in the morning, bún chả for lunch.

3. Phở Gà

Phở Gà, or chicken pho, is a Hanoi staple known for its lighter broth and affordability compared to beef pho. It typically includes white or dark meat chicken, with some versions offering bone-in cuts and a side of nước mắm gừng (ginger fish sauce) for dipping.

At the table, you’ll usually find pickled garlic, fresh lime wedges, sliced bird’s eye chilies, and fermented chili sauce – different from the toppings you’d find in southern Vietnam which includes sugar & hoisin sauce (similar to what you’d find in pho restaurants outside Vietnam due to the mass immigration of Southern Vietnamese after the fall of Saigon).

Many shops use free-range “gym chickens,” which are leaner and chewier, while factory-raised chickens offer softer, meatier bites. Optional add-ons include poached eggs (chicken ovaries) and quẩy (fried dough sticks) to soak up the broth.

Another variation, phở gà trộn, is a dry variation with chicken, herbs, peanuts, crispy shallots, and a soy-vinegar sauce, served with a side of broth and sometimes a poached egg. Vietnamese diners usually prefer dark meat, and this dish is more commonly eaten at dinner.

Where to Eat it

Phở Gà VM17

Phở Gà Tiến

Bún Thang Lan Lùn

4. Phở

Phở is Vietnam’s most iconic dish—built around bánh phở, flat, rectangular rice noodles made by steaming rice sheets and cutting them into strands (unlike extruded round rice noodles — bún). In Vietnamese meals, the main starch—rice or noodles—is paired with proteins, vegetables, and often a small side soup (canh). In phở, the soup itself becomes the centerpiece: noodles, meat, herbs, and vegetables all come together in one bowl.

The broth is typically simmered for hours using beef bones, charred ginger and onions, star anise, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and coriander. It’s traditionally eaten for breakfast, though now enjoyed all day. The best shops often specialize in just one style—phở bò (beef) or phở gà (chicken).

Phở Xào – Stir-fried phở noodles with beef, onions, greens, and a crispy-chewy texture. Cooked with wok hei using two woks—one for charring noodles with seasoning, the other for beef and vegetables in oyster sauce. Typically served with herbs (mint, perilla), chili, lime, fish sauce, and pickled vegetables.

Phở Thìn is a famous Hanoi shop using a unique method of wok-frying beef with garlic before adding it to the bowl, creating a rich, aromatic flavor with a heap of green onions on top.

Where to Eat it

Phở Bò Lâm for classic beef pho

Phở Xào Ba Thanh Béo for Phở Xào

Phở Thìn for Wok fried garlic beef pho

5. + 6. Bún Riêu & Bún Ốc

Bún Riêu is a tangy, umami-rich Vietnamese crab noodle soup with roots in the Red River Delta, Đồng Bằng Sông Hồng of Northern Vietnam. Traditionally eaten for breakfast, it’s believed to have developed during the French colonial period, when Vietnamese cooks adapted tomato-based French bouillabaisse into a lighter, localized dish. The broth is made by simmering pork or rib bones with tomatoes, and flavored with a distinctive crab paste (riêu) made from freshwater paddy crabs. These crabs are tiny, but deeply aromatic, giving the soup its signature flavor and a slightly spongy texture in the floating crab mixture.

The Northern version typically includes crab paste, tomatoes, fried tofu, cubed pork fat, and shrimp paste. In Central Vietnam, chả lụa (pork sausage) is often added, while Southern versions, especially from the Mekong Delta, get more elaborate with ingredients like blood pudding, pork ribs, pig’s feet, dried shrimp, squid, snails, and tamarind for extra tang.

Bún riêu is often compared to bún ốc (snail noodle soup), with the main difference being crab instead of snail—though snails are sometimes added to bún riêu as well. Compared to bún riêu, bún ốc is milder and simpler in ingredients. A similar dish called luosifen (snail noodles) is popular in Guangxi, China.

Toppings for both can include meatballs, fried tofu (đậu), banana (chuối), chả lụa, blood pudding, bean sprouts, banana flower, fertilized duck egg and morning glory. Common condiments include shrimp paste, chili sauce, and fresh lime.

Where to Eat it

Bún Riêu Sườn Sụn Trang for classic bún riêu

Bún Ốc Thanh Hải for the snail-crab combination

Bún Ốc Thúy for bún ốc

7. Cháo

Cháo is Vietnamese rice porridge, a simple, comforting dish often eaten for breakfast or when someone is feeling unwell. Made by simmering rice until it breaks down into a thick, soupy texture, it’s typically served with toppings like ground or shredded pork, quẩy (fried dough sticks), and pork floss. Known for its soft texture and mild flavor, cháo is considered the essence of home-cooked comfort in Vietnam. It’s part of a larger family of rice porridges across Asia, similar to Indian kanji, Chinese congee, or Cantonese jook.

Depending on where you eat it, you may either find that the texture is more grainy or entirely smooth depending if it’s made with whole rice grains or rice flour.

Where to Eat it

Cháo Sườn Bà Lợi Còng

8. Bánh Đúc

Bánh đúc is a sticky rice porridge made from glutinous sticky rice and stickier in texture compared to cháo (rice porridge). It is typically seasoned with fish sauce, pork, and black pepper, and topped with fresh herbs and chili for added flavor and freshness.

If you’re a fan of anything QQ texture, it is akin to eating a bowl of mochi.

Where to Eat it

Quán Bánh Đúc Nóng

9. + 10. Bánh Giầy & Bánh Giò

Bánh Giầy is a chewy Vietnamese snack made from glutinous rice, similar in texture to mochi, often enjoyed alongside chả lụa (pork sausage). It’s loved for its dense, sticky chewiness and is related to other traditional snacks like bánh chưng (sticky rice with mung bean and pork) and bánh giò. Served with either a spicy or sweet chili sauce, bánh giầy is the ultimate snack for qq lovers.

Bánh Giò is a traditional Vietnamese pyramid-shaped dumpling made from rice flour, filled with ground pork, mushroom, and shallots. The texture of the exterior is softer than bánh giầy – jelly like and disintegrates with the touch of your tongue.

Wrapped in banana leaves, it takes on a pale green hue and a subtle grassy, tea-like aroma. Its name comes from “giò,” a mortadella-like pork sausage, as leftover pork scraps and banana leaves from giò production were repurposed to create these dumplings. Skilled preparation is required, so bánh giò is typically found at specialized vendors rather than mainstream restaurants. Common toppings include quick-pickled cucumbers, pork or beef sausage, hot sauce, soy sauce, and pepper.

Where to Eat it

Bánh Chưng Cô Mai

Bánh Giò Miss Béo

11. Bún Đậu Mắm Tôm

Bún Đậu Mắm Tôm is a traditional Vietnamese dish featuring vermicelli noodles served with fried tofu and the pungent fermented shrimp paste called mắm tôm, which is considered the soul of the dish. Its exact origin is unknown but it’s a staple rural lunch meal. Early versions were simple—fried tofu, vermicelli, and herbs with a cup of shrimp paste. Today, it includes a variety of toppings like boiled pork, pig tripe, and nem rán (fried spring rolls), all arranged on a flat bamboo tray in a circle. Common herbs and vegetables include fish mint, perilla leaf, basil, oregano, and cucumber. The noodles often include bún lá—firm rice noodles cut into chunks.

Mắm tôm is strong and pungent, sometimes tempered with sugar, calamansi juice, and chili whisked until bubbly; for those who find it too intense, fish sauce (nước mắm) can be used instead. Traditionally, mắm tôm is avoided on the 1st and 15th lunar calendar days by superstitious people and business owners due to bad luck beliefs. After eating bún đậu, gum is often offered to help neutralize the strong odor.

Meat accompaniments include fried or boiled pork sausage (dồi rán), boiled pig trotter, fried and boiled pig intestines, blood sausage, and boiled pig tongue.

Where to Eat it

Bún Đậu cô Tuyến

12. Xôi Xéo

Xôi Xéo is a Northern Vietnamese breakfast dish made with sticky rice, steamed mung bean paste, fried shallots, and scallion oil. The name “xéo” refers to the slicing of the mung bean paste over the rice. It's commonly served with add-ons like braised pork, pork rolls, pork floss, or chicken stir-fried with mushrooms. The base dish is vegetarian, but most street vendors offer meat options. It’s packed in banana leaf or paper and eaten on the go.

A sweet version also exists, where the sticky rice (and optionally mung bean paste) are topped with sugar and a splash of coconut milk instead of savory toppings. This variation is often eaten as a snack or light dessert. Both sweet and savory versions use the same core ingredients but differ in how they're dressed.

Where to Eat it

Xôi Yến

13. Bánh Tôm

Bánh Tôm is a crispy Vietnamese shrimp cake made from a batter of wheat flour (sometimes corn and / or rice starch are added for extra crispness) mixed with shredded sweet potatoes and whole fresh shrimp. The mixture is deep-fried until golden and crunchy, creating a delightful contrast between the crispy exterior and tender shrimp inside. Typically served with a side of fresh herbs, lettuce, and a tangy dipping sauce (nước chấm). It is similar to Korean pajeon and Indian pakora.

Where to Eat it

Bánh Tôm Cô Ầm

14. + 15. Chè & Thạch Găng

Chè is a Vietnamese sweet dessert soup or pudding made from ingredients like beans, glutinous rice, tapioca, coconut milk, jellies, and fruit. It can be served hot or cold and comes in many varieties, such as mung bean chè (chè đậu xanh), three-color chè (chè ba màu), and banana tapioca chè (chè chuối). Chè is commonly sold by street vendors and enjoyed as a snack or dessert throughout Vietnam.

Thạch Găng is a Vietnamese jelly dessert made from the leaves of the Găng plant, which give it a dark green to black color and a slightly herbal, bitter taste. The jelly is usually cut into cubes or strips and served chilled, often with sweetened coconut milk and crushed ice. It’s valued for its cooling properties and unique flavor. Thạch Găng is popular in southern Vietnam and often eaten as a refreshing treat, especially in hot weather.

Chè is to Vietnam as falooda is to India, Cendol is to Malaysia and Ice Jelly is to China – a refreshing, cooling dessert with multiple textures and flavors.

Where to Eat it

Chè Yến

Chè Gỗ - Số 9 Trần Phú

16. Nem Chua

Nem Chua is a sour fermented minced pork snack, originally developed to make raw meat safe for consumption through fermentation. The meat is seasoned, wrapped, and left to ferment, developing a tangy, slightly spicy flavor.

You’ll often see a variation known as nem chua rán, a fried minced pork snack that does not go through a fermentation process. It’s commonly eaten as a snack or appetizer and is popular during the holidays or special events.

Where to Eat it

Nem Cuốn

17. Trà Đá

Trà Đá is Vietnamese iced tea, typically made from brewed green tea served cold over ice. It’s a ubiquitous, refreshing drink commonly offered for free or very cheaply at street food stalls, cafes, and restaurants across Vietnam. Trà đá is a staple for cooling down in the heat and often accompanies meals or casual gatherings.

You’ll find trà đá sold genuinely, everywhere. Some classic orders are lemon (trà chanh), sweetened (trà ngọt) and calamansi (trà cây quất).

18. “Chicken Feet Street,”

Ly Van Phuc Street in Hanoi, known as “Chicken Feet Street,” is a lively culinary hotspot famous for its grilled chicken feet and other barbecued meats. About 200 meters long and close to Hoàn Kiếm Lake, the street comes alive each evening from 4:30 PM to midnight. Vendors grill chicken feet, wings, and sausages over open flames, filling the air with smoky, mouth-watering aromas. The chicken feet, prized for their unique texture, are tender and chewy beneath crispy, smoky skin. They’re served with spicy dipping sauces and balanced by pickled cucumbers and morning glory to cut through the richness.

Where to Eat it

Gà Nướng Thịnh Vượng (and every shop along the same street)

19. Worm Cakes

Worm Cakes are a traditional snack found in some regions of Vietnam, made from ragworm (rươi), a marine annelid that lives in brackish water. It's a highly prized, seasonal delicacy in Northern Vietnam, particularly in Hanoi and some coastal provinces. It's harvested only for a short period, typically in late autumn (October-November)

These cakes are typically pan-fried or grilled, offering a crispy exterior with a savory, earthy flavor inside. They are considered a specialty and reflect the use of unique local ingredients in Vietnamese cuisine. Worm cakes are often enjoyed as a street food snack, showcasing the country’s diverse food culture.

Where to Eat it

Cửa Hàng Chả Rươi Hưng Thịnh

20. Đồng Xuân Market

Đồng Xuân Market is Hanoi’s largest indoor market, located in the Old Quarter. Built in 1889 with French colonial architecture, it serves as a major trade hub. After a fire in 1994, the market was rebuilt in its original style. Today, it covers about 14,000 square meters over three floors with around 2,000 stalls selling clothing, electronics, fresh produce, and more. It’s a lively spot offering an authentic glimpse into Hanoi’s daily life and commerce, popular with both locals and tourists.

Where to Find it

Đồng Xuân Market

Honorable Mentions

Some stores and local shops that I loved!

• Gói Gém Cafe & Local Art Store

• Tranquil Books Coffee

• Curious About Vietnam - Vietnam Street Food Tours

• Phúc Lợi Stamps

• X Cameras

• Tired City

I would love to hear of the foods you loved in Hanoi that I missed on this list! Leave a note in the comments.

Leave a comment

This piece was written by , researched by with the help of .

Rachel and Ava are sisters and lifelong foodies based SF Bay Area and Los Angeles, respectively. If you ever see the two of them cook together, pigs are probably flying.

Rachel met Ovia on her first day in Vietnam in August 2024 where Ovia was her tour guide through Curious About Vietnam – it’s safe to say they became fast friends.

Funny Table is an independent food publication and video channel dedicated to teaching you more about what you eat. We’re a small volunteer team committed to telling stories that reflect the diverse voices, cultures, and communities that shape what’s on our plates. Every share, comment, like, and subscription helps us keep going.

Enjoy educational media and stories about food? Check out our videos on YouTube and Instagram for more.

It’s a mild afternoon on Yen Phu street in the Old Quarter, the heart of Hanoi. The air is humid and thick; you can see the droplets of water surfacing on your skin. “Chaotic” is an understatement as the noise of motorbikes weaving through traffic, horns being honked and the chatter of people fill your ears. The street is scattered with colorful buildings decorated with vendors selling anything from fruits to clothes.

Next to the Phuc Lam temple, Ms. Thinh is stationed with a couple of plastic chairs and stools selling trà đá, just as she’s been doing for the last 20 years. Trà đá is a refreshing, strongly brewed tea chilled with ice. Unlike sweeter iced teas found elsewhere, trà đá is usually unsweetened, allowing the natural and slight bitter flavor of the tea to shine through. While trà đá is typically made with green tea, the tea base itself is made from chè – dried or fresh tea leaves that are mostly jasmine.

Green tea has a long history in Vietnam, dating back over 4,000 years and was traditionally, only served hot on the family table. After the war, Vietnam entered the Subsidy Era, where shortages of basic necessities like food, potable water, and economic opportunities were limited and heavily controlled by the government. As unemployment rates skyrocketed and poverty peaked at an all time high, the government changed their economic system from government-centered to a free market economy in 1986. The Renovation, also known as Đổi Mới, allowed Vietnamese citizens to have more freedom to do their business and as a result people started selling their goods on the street: green tea became part of this phenomenon.

As Ms. Thinh, now 65, pours me a cup of iced tea after serving 2 Grab drivers (equivalent to Uber but with motorcyclists) taking a break in her shop. She tells me about the early years of her business: just finishing service from the military and unable to find a job, she rented a shop near her house to sell both food and drinks but couldn’t handle everything herself, so she decided to sell tea only: “I used to carry the whole shop on my shoulders, selling around the Long Bien market. I would run away every time the police caught me selling drinks on the sidewalk. Now I am old, so my sister and I take turns running the shop next to the temple as my health doesn’t allow me to walk too much.” I could not imagine how her small body could handle the weight of everything; it was not just her shop but also the responsibility of a mom doing her best to raise her two daughters, and now, she is carrying a part of the culture on her tiny shoulders.

Ice was starting to be used during that time as the global trend of cold beverages grew; since fridges were not common in the city during that time, only rich people could afford them. As the country was still recovering from the war, an electricity shortage led to ice scarcity and as a result, iced tea became even more desirable. Vendors started buying ice from people who had refrigerators and selling iced tea on the road. It continued to be a luxury drink until the 2000s, when access to ice became easier due to economic growth and many people started to sell trà đá to make a living, the cost reduced significantly. After this, trà đá became a cheap, easy, and common drink for all people, especially on a hot day in summer.

To attract more customers, vendors would usually sell on the sidewalk in front of crowded places like stations, markets, and schools – something that was illegal at the time. To allow them a quick getaway in case the police decided to stop by, they had simple setups with plastic chairs and stools.

With the new generations introducing additions of new flavors in iced tea such as lime, tangerine, or dragon plum – Ms. Thinh makes sure to be in tune with what her customers want to attract more business. “Trà đá is probably still the most popular drink. Other canned drinks like Coca Cola or sweetened lemon tea are also favorites of kids, especially in summer. I couldn't make those drinks, so I just bought them from the grocery store, and the price could be a little bit higher, which allows me to make a living.”

It is not hard to catch a group of friends, family, neighbors, or colleagues sitting, chatting and enjoying tea in front of universities, offices, or shopping malls. They seem to be unbothered by the noise of traffic or the heat of the sun, only the slightly bitter flavor of the tea and the jokes of a friend catch their attention. Trà đá is a reflection of Hanoi street food culture centered around its accessibility and affordability; it is cheaply available to anyone, just 3,000-5,000 VND (0.12 - 0.20 USD) for a cup. Students, workers, officers, celebrities...all can drink and enjoy as access to this social experience is not limited by class or wealth.

Trà đá vendors are called "Vietnamese Street Press Agency" not by chance. “Most older people gather here in the afternoon or evening after they go for a walk or play sports, as they love chatting with each other about many things in life. I think trà đá brings people together and it belongs to ‘the street culture.’ People meet warmly, sit, and talk happily while having iced tea,” Ms Thinh says.

Young people in Hanoi, just like the elders, flock to trà đá vendors for a quick cup of iced tea. Their relationship with trà đá is not just as a tool to quench their thirst, but goes beyond that as a break from their busy lives as a peaceful afternoon talking with friends about social problems, stresses from work, and other issues. What can be better than spending two hours next to a lake, taking a sip of cold tea and sharing your laughter with your favorite people? According to Ms. Thinh, her young customers tend to come in the morning before going to work. After having breakfast, such as a bánh mì or a bowl of phở, a cup of tea is ideal. She mentions those who needed to go to work wouldn’t stay for long, but if they could, they would be there for hours.

The simple and familiar image of the tea touches people and reminds them about the simplicity of life. Trà đá, in those photos, represents Hanoi itself- lively, casual, and welcoming. Lately, images of trà đá were included in some popular music videos, indirectly promoting the culture, allowing for a huge influx of the younger generation. Ms Thinh expressed “I hope young people can keep the culture of trà đá alive through times, but I know it depends a lot on our society. Life is so developed now and they have many choices, people spend more time on the phone, and I am grateful for every customer visiting my shop.”

As life keeps modernizing, trà đá finds its way to weave into youth culture. Appearing frequently on social media, it has become a symbol of Hanoi’s charm. The simple image of the tea among the chaos of Hanoi touches people and reminds them about the simplicity of life in this modern world. It reminds you to take a break, take a deep breath, and allow yourself to forget all the troubles. Trà đá represents Hanoi itself: lively, casual, and welcoming.

From its humble beginning as a simple tea to a beloved part of people's life in Hanoi, trà đá offers a shared zone for conversation, laughter, and community, bringing people together beyond their class, age, or walk of life.

Ms Thinh with her tiny trà đá shop has become an integral part of Hanoi’s street culture. Her role is not just about selling tea, but also about preserving and passing on cultural heritage through the test of time. Whether it's the older generations who gather at her shop to chat about life or the young people who post their moments on social media, Ms. Thinh’s humble corner stall remains a place where the rhythms of the city meet the warmth of community.

As Hanoi keeps growing and modernizing, the future of trà đá and many of its vendors is uncertain. Younger generations may no longer see selling tea as a viable way to make a living, and the city’s efforts to reclaim sidewalks for pedestrians could gradually push these street-side stalls out. Yet, people like Ms. Thinh who keep selling this tea give us hope. Trà đá with its amazing journey, remains a timeless part of Hanoi’s rhythm and will always stay in the heart of Hanoi culture.

This piece was written by . Born and raised in Quang Binh, Vietnam, living in Hanoi and now Da Nang, Ovia writes both in her native language, Vietnamese, and English.

Sources

https://daidoanket.vn/tra-da-via-he-thuc-uong-binh-dan-cua-nguoi-ha-noi-10255547.html

https://luhanhvietnam.com.vn/du-lich/tra-da-via-he-ha-noi-noi.html?utm

https://hanoilanguage.vn/tra-da-dac-san-cua-nguoi-ha-noi/?utm

https://hanoionline.vn/ben-ly-tra-da-via-he-co-mot-ha-noi-binh-yen-276736.htm

https://vinpearl.com/en/vietnamese-iced-tea-a-wonderful-part-of-the-local-culture?utm

https://vitas.org.vn/vi/blog/van-hoa-tra-viet-nam.html

https://haithuy.vn/van-hoa-tra-da-chill-cung-net-dep-gian-di-cua-gioi-tre-viet/

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With some auspicious scheduling, my family and I flew to our South Indian motherland to attend three Tamil1 weddings over the span of 8 days: two of my first cousins’ and one dear family friend’s. Those familiar with Indian weddings know this triple threat of multi-day festivities was packed in duration and attendance (3000+ people).

What I didn’t conceptualize, having not been to a proper wedding in India in years, was how much emotion and drama was wrapped up into the food that would fuel this fervor. Virundhu: the name of this type of feast in Tamil, can be translated to a meal that is both well prepared and well enjoyed.

Each marathon of a ritual-packed day, we were corralled by eager family members every few hours to the basement of the event hall, affectionately and functionally called the ‘mess’. First, we were led to a room with a basin and multiple faucets lining its perimeter for soapless hand rinsing. Then, once we passed that stage, the room opened to pandhi-style seating: paper-lined Olympic-lap-long tables dressed with open banana leaves, spread wide and green with barely two inches between them, and seats beckoning diners even closer.

Imagine this: the second you sit down, rubbing shoulders with neighbors on both sides, hands still wet, you’re overstimulated. The leaf is open, with just a white crystalline powder, a square beige cake, and radioactive orange oil dotting the corners, and before you can register what they are, a consecutive series of seven men with pails quickly plop various curries and porridges, one after another, Jackson Pollock-style, onto the bare leaf as you fight with inertia to keep them from running onto your sari-clothed lap.

“Eat!” an auntie cries.

It took me 4 corrallings like this until I finally could recognize patterns in what was happening in a virundhu. The chastising of my cousins for the way I was bumbling around, trying to interpret the onslaught served, began to make sense.

Setting Tableware: Elai and Your Hands

The banana leaf (elai) itself is about a foot long and always placed with the tapered end on the left. The right hand is always for eating and gifting, so the leaf is positioned with most of its surface area to accommodate this. The left hand, as in many Asian cultures, is of course for washing the butt.

The banana tree is sacred to Tamils and South Indians, as almost all parts of it are used in some capacity (more to come!). But perhaps its greatest use is preventing a dishwasher from needing to hand-scrub some 3,000 plates from an event – the task is to clear and compost, instead.

The meal begins by drizzling a bit of bottled water (Bisleri brand is iconic for out-of-towners with weak stomachs) on the elai, because often, the fresh-cut leaf’s last wash was the tropical rain.

“Elai touching the food helps you absorb iron,” my doctor aunt tells me, and it seems to be the case that polyphenols, fiber, and antioxidants await its eaters. The aroma of the leaf itself, when steaming under one of the various warm porridges, is green and slightly fruity. Using your hands to eat off of the elai - the fruit of our thorough washing stage at the beginning - gives a bit of tannic tang to the bite as well.

That astringency is not an afterthought, but rather, the very structure of the abstract palette slopped in front of us. In fact, the driver of all of the variety - 23 different elements placed on one elai in the photo above - is called arusuvai.

Derived from aru, meaning six, and suvai, meaning tastes: this Tamil word predating Greek and Latin refers to a well-rounded experience having sweetness, sourness, saltiness, pungency / spice, bitterness, and astringency. I use the word ‘experience’ vaguely; this idea was explained to me emotionally, both in food and life.

Each taste carries a sentiment with it, and in doing so, the need to have all of these tastes on the elai is mandatory at a life event to set the tone for the future, like a wedding.

Amuse Bouche: Salt, the Opener Sweet, Oorga

Remember those three obscure characters sitting on the elai at the start?

• Salt (ooppu)

• a little milk or nut-based sweet to open the meal, like cashew katli

• tangy, fermented pickle (oorga), often mango imbued with mustard seed, chilly, and turmeric, seeping bright scarlet into the elai. Perhaps a little raita - onion and yogurt relish - too.

Salt, sweet, and sour, astringent, bitter, pungent, all before you even sit down, to prime the palate. An amuse bouche, in fine dining lingo - both acting as stimulants to begin the feast and a tuning for the seasoning of the entrées to come as to your own personal taste.

Desserts: At Least 3

A second round of richer sweets (at least three different varieties) are often served early in the elai as well, eaten in beginnings, interludes, and/or ends of digestion. To name just a few: milk and wheat-based truffles steeped in rose and saffron syrups & creams (gulab jamun, shahi tukda); ghee-laden taffies of kaleidoscopic colors (barfi, halwa); mangoes dried into painstakingly-layered cakes of fruit leather (aam papad).

You may recognize some of these. These desserts aren’t indigenous to Tamils; they’re adapted from our Northern Indian neighbors, riffed on with twists and styles, but widely beloved throughout the regional cuisine diversity of India, like chocolate chip cookies in the US.

When my uncle noted in wedding #1 that most people didn’t finish their 5 sweets, a town hall was called amongst our family. He, a businessman, argued we should keep all the sweets in a separately standing stall on the side of the mess, people could take what they want, and we could then donate the excess to prevent food waste. For 4 hours, every traditional, liberal, and Green party streak within my relatives was brought up in a heated Tamil debate on whether leaving sweets off of the elai would be inhospitable and preordain the couple for a life without joy. After lengthy negotiations, they landed on a compromise: leave the opener sweet on the elai as normal, and let people pick up the rest to their desires. Some relatives still groaned.

Appetizer: Appalam, Bajji, Thovayils, Chutneys

There is a surprising amount of food thrown onto the bride and groom by each other and family during the marriage rituals, in full glam. Your hands will smell like onions at the end of eating the virundhu, but the newlyweds will find raw rice and lentils in their hair for the next month.

Readily available comic relief for the tension of in-laws and the occasion, food’s prominent role in these rituals feels like Tamil culture’s way of acknowledging our everyday rice and lentils as part of our lifeblood.

In any virundhu, and in many ordinary Tamil meals, you will likely see appalam – often Northernized or Westernized as papad or poppadom – a thin, popped crisp made from rice and urad bean that resembles chiffon suspended in the wind.

Around six appalam, from the very same batches prepared for the virundhu, are taken for a particular wedding ritual, in which the bride and groom loudly shatter them over each other’s heads, in a symbol of what to do with the everyday frustration or problems that come to them. They can’t help but laugh as they’re covered in a shower of appalam confetti.

Along with appalam, early bites to start the savory courses include other crispy items made with our legume lifeblood, like chickpea flour-battered fritters of potatoes or plantains (bajji). To dip, you’ll be often provided with tangy chutneys and thovayil – a thicker, chunkier cousin to chutneys, in which the star ingredient is, again, ground urad beans.

Entrées: Rice-based Dishes, Curries, and Vegetables

With all this lead up, the truth is, my mother even calls these entrées ‘ordinary food,’ as they are often just the heart of everyday Tamil home cooking: more hearty rice and legumes, many ways.

Often for breakfast virundhu, but also served at all times of day, iconic South Indian rice-lentil dishes include:

• idli, white, palm-sized rounds of steamed, fermented rice-urad bean batter

• dosa, ‘pancakes’ made over a griddle with the same batter as idli

• uttapam, thicker dosas seasoned with onions, curry leaves, and mustard seed

• idiyappam, vermicelli tangles, often served doused in coconut milk

• upma, a rice and chickpea or urad-bean porridge

There are at least five types of curry-esque liquids to serve alongside these dishes, or over rice, or with chapati / paratha / poori (the Tamil names for different preparations of roti, or wheat flat bread, whether dry cooked / layered / fried):

• sambar, a translucent vegetable-pigeon pea soup often jazzed up as “kalyanam (marriage) style” with eggplant, unripe mangoes, pumpkin, okra, etc.

• kootu, a chunkier stew of mung bean, chickpea, pigeon pea, or field bean dal and gourd vegetables

• kurma, probably the most directly translation of ‘curry’, and a general name for a lighter, thinner, vegetable and coconut-based soup

• kuzhambu, or often, kara kuzhambu, a richer, fattier, spicier, darker stew made with plenty of garlic

• rasam, a transparent, deeply umami broth made from tomatoes, cilantro, and black peppercorn, often drunk or eaten with rice at the end for digestion.

Mandatory sides to round out the above include:

• poriyal, vegetables stir-fried with roasted lentils

• varuval, starchier, softer vegetables pan-fried after being marinated in spiced oil

• thayir or mooru, yogurt or seasoned buttermilk

Meat is usually absent at this type of feast, in respect to the life of the animals that helped the rice, vegetable, and pulse-growing farms Tamil families historically thrived on (and likely, also, for cost).

If not the dishes themselves, the specialness of the virundhu comes from the sheer variety the hosting family offers, saying, “come, eat how you’d like, rejoice in this abundance of celebration we’d like to share”.

It was fascinating: the scale of serving 300 people at a time, through these highly efficient, comically impersonal men with pails. As I watched dozens of courses accumulated on my elai and even more in pails went by, all without a menu, I wondered, how much would this meal have cost in the US?

The feeling, significance, and intention of this food reminded me of my time working in a kaiseki restaurant. The Japanese ‘fine dining’ meal, often spanning over twenty courses (and costing on the order of $500+ in the US), is meant to celebrate the seasons at their peak and the harmony of sharing energy with them. These courses are cleanly, peacefully plated, in ritualistic formats, and served in small-scale settings in pottery chosen specifically to synergize with the dish. Kaiseki’s roots are tied to the cuisine of Buddhist monks who pioneered meatless menus (shojin-ryori), to serve people without harm to other lives, much like in the virundhu.

How different, yet how similar, these cuisines and heritages are. I feel Eurocentric trying to translate its many parts into neat categories of “courses” in the French vocabulary we’re used to; to put a price tag on the immense intentionality and ceremonial spirit in every set of hands that came together to produce the meal; to both look down upon the white tablecloth-less style of service as impersonal or unrefined and, at the same time, exoticize its luxury such that if this concept did indeed come to the USA, it would likely only be found in the hands of those with a lot of money. Virundhu feels noteworthy because it does not fit neatly into our existing, prevailing notions of ‘fine dining’ -- its value, like that of many cultural heritages, feels both incredibly special and shareable.

A trope that comes up in our existing American discourse of “Indian food”, is the reductive division into a popular ‘North’ (think paneer tikka and butter chicken with naan bread) and lesser known ‘South’ Indian cuisine.

While the prevalence of wheat in the former and rice in the latter can be a helpful axis to begin to understand India’s geographical agricultural differences, in a population of 1.2 billion and 120+ languages, language can be a powerful key to understanding the heart of the cuisine of a sub-region. Take brinji elai foods, “made with bay leaves”: a Tamil category of garam-masala-seasoned curries served alongside parathas and pooris. These wheat-based breads and spice profiles may seem, at face value, more readily as ‘North Indian’--but they are often served as a specialty in Tamil virundhu.

The idea that a food is ‘indigenous’ is often not true: even a food that feels quintessentially Tamil, like idli, may have been inspired by Indonesian steamed rice cakes, kedli, shared by traders as early as the 8th century, according to T.C. Achaya, scholar of Indian foodways. What we really celebrate, then, is the variety and emotion we create from these things, the “decoloniality” of taste not having one perfect, platonic ideal-- says Krishnendu Ray, professor of Indian Food Studies at NYU.

Wedding feasts, let alone everyday foods, go by slightly different names and procedures depending on who you ask, inspired and shared throughout history. The diversity of central, Eastern, and in-between regions of India are even unknown to Indians from the poles—for example, I doubt my grandma has tried Assamese food, from the bordering region of Bhutan, but I hope we can learn more at baseline as our generation mingles farther from our homelands.

Within Tamil Nadu (the southernmost state of India, where Tamil is the mother tongue) itself, vestiges of caste differences exist: Brahmins, Gounders, Palakkad, with familial traditions and lines of respect that still may not be crossed out of fear. These groups may do things differently on and off the elai, but an invitation to the wedding is an invitation to a democratized feast. In pandhi-style seating, everyone rubs shoulders and eats the same items together, all under the mercy of the men with the pails: your house help, drivers, neighbors from a different part of town, rich government officials you’re a 4th cousin of, screaming children, grandmothers who can’t use the restroom alone. Even the men with the pails and the cooks of the event eventually sit down to take part in the feast. That feeling of looking around the mess, filled with different walks of life after all the messes of the day, is something that I couldn’t help but feel love for, and is something I want to embody as part of the Tamil diaspora. It’s the same energy that fills the plastic tables of hawker food stalls in Singapore, with signs in both Tamil and Mandarin; the Michelin tables of Semma and Copra across America; and the verse of one of my favorite Tamil song, “Baleilaikka”, by A.R. Rahman:

Pakkathu veetukum
Sethu samikira
Anbu ingu vaazhum

The love of cooking for your neighbor alongside yourself thrives [in Tamil culture].

Digestif: Leave Leaves and More Leaves

At the end of the meal, whether or not you’ve made a dent in your 20+course spread (in fear of saying no to the men with pails), you’ll be instructed to fold the elai closed towards you: bring the top half of the leaf to meet the bottom half, along its middle stem.

You will get yelled at if you mess this up (speaking from experience). The thought is that you want to welcome more happy events like this in your life. In turn, when fed at funerals, you close the elai away from you.

Then, you’ll get up, leave your leaf to be cleared, grab a paan to chew on your way out (betel leaf-wrapped digestives like candied fennel, coconut, clove, rose jam, and camphor), say thanks, and wash your hands, again, soaplessly.

I wish you fullness, six tastes and emotions, and the courage to embrace the multitudes of slop on an elai soon.

This piece was written by . Based in New York City, USA, Sangita is likely making a matcha latte at any given moment.

Just off Jalan Gurdwara in Georgetown, Penang, you will find a row of preserved shophouses with an ornate exterior; intricately molded arches, shutters with gilded carvings, and hand-painted tiles. This is a common type of architecture found in Penang, with the ground floor functioning as a store, and the top floor providing the living space. Today, many of them have been converted entirely into homes, hotels, and even restaurants1. In the early evening, the local street is quiet; guests of nearby boutique hotels have likely stepped out of the night. However, by following inconspicuous signage you can find a dining experience known as Little Kitchen @ Nyonya (referred to onwards as Little Kitchen).

Arriving at the venue and milling around the front of the home, unsure of where exactly we should be, a staff member emerges to show us through the turquoise side gate of the property, through a small enclosed courtyard, and then into the home through a side door. The home, which has been in the host's family for generations, is typical of the Peranakan ‘shophouse’ architecture seen across Penang, Malacca, and Singapore. The first room, acting as a foyer, is museum-like - filled with dark, wooden furniture with carved floral detailing and metallic tone accents. Turning into the dining room, we are greeted by the host, who calls himself ‘Baba Jay,’ in a warmly lit interior. The warm lighting is complemented by a tiled wainscot bordering the room in a shade of butter yellow, accented by a green trim and floral motifs. A collection of photographs and memorabilia in the same dark, wood frames cover the walls, filled with images and artifacts of the past, family portraits, and paintings.

Little Kitchen is not your typical restaurant - it is reservation only, which can be done via Instagram DM or telephone, and there is no menu. Instead, you are served a multi-course selection of food from Baba Jay’s family recipes. With the introduction of each course, Baba Jay takes care to spend time with each table, explaining the origins and influences of each dish, and making use of visual aids he has collated into a booklet. The diners are invited to take part in preparing one dish in particular, nasi ulam. A table in the centre of the dining room is equipped with cutting boards, knives, and all one would need to create their mise en place.

Baba Jay instructs us to slice torch ginger and kaffir lime leaf into razor thin threads for addition into a mix of dried shrimp and toasted coconut. The result is an incredibly fragrant and colorful mix of rice and aromatics, which, in a single bite, is extraordinarily herbal, vibrant, and umami. Other dishes include kari kapitan, a chicken curry flavored with turmeric and lemongrass, and a selection of nyonya kuih, referring to a category of sweets generally made with glutinous rice and a mix of other ingredients like pandan, coconut, and palm sugar.

The experience is a delightful contradiction; the setting is extremely intimate given the limited seatings offered (there were only two seated tables at the time of my visit) and the elegance of the serving ware, yet Baba Jay’s casual demeanor and witty conversation makes one instantly feel comfortable. During the sitting he plays his favorite music - Lost in Paradise by Joanna Wang.

The dishes served at Little Kitchen have a common origin, which can be traced to the Peranakan people. The Peranakan people - also known as ‘Baba’ and ‘Nyonya’ meaning man and woman, respectively - are the descendants of migrants from China to the Malay Peninsula between the 15th and 17th centuries2. The designation of Peranakan Chinese does not only fall to those who settled in the Malay Peninsula, but also across other parts of South East Asia3. This article focuses primarily on the history of those in Malaysia, specifically Penang.

Typically attracted to Penang and other Straits Settlements by economic prospects (referring to the British colonies which were established on the east coast of the Malay Peninsula - Penang, Labuan, Malacca and Singapore), the diverse influences of the Penang Peranakan are evident in both their language and cuisine. Penang Hokkien is a fusion of the Malay and Hokkien languages which were historically spoken by this population, and still are today - albeit to a lesser degree, as dialects continue to lose their foothold across the Chinese diaspora4.

I was first acquainted with this culture by my mother-in-law, Poh Wan. Now residing in South Sydney, she was born in Kuala Lumpur (KL) in 1965, and was raised in Kampung Attap - a neighbourhood in central KL, just south of Chinatown. Her grandparents migrated to Kuala Lumpur from Penang in the early 20th century to seek employment opportunities, but she recalls being aware of her Peranakan ancestry due to her grandfather’s attire, and the fact that their vernacular featured both Hokkien and Malay words: “my grandfather [would] use a little bit of Malay [and] no matter where he [went] he always [wore a] sarong.”

After the family’s move to KL, however, she believes that their connection to Peranakan culture diminished over time, mostly due to the predominance of Chinese culture in their neighbourhood. Sitting at her dining room table, sipping green orange and Pu’er tea, I asked her if there was a particular reason for the waning of Peranakan influence on her upbringing. “In KL there are not many [Peranakans]… eventually they [phase out] the culture”, she says, referring to the fact that her parents did not take after her grandparents, preferring to speak Hokkien or Cantonese only. Considering this, she says, “sometimes when you are the minority in the majority… in order for you to get business, to work, you need to be like them too”.

The Peranakan cuisine is also varied, with influences from Chinese, Malay, Indian, Thai, and even British cooking. It developed out of necessity, as Chinese migrants learnt to work with what was available in their new environment. Poh Wan reflected on this:

“[The] Chinese that migrated to Malaysia, brought their own stuff with them, but when they arrived… they found that there were so many things they [did not have in China]. So they [said], ‘Oh, there are so many coconut trees - maybe I can make use of the coconut tree’. They found that there were lots of spices and types of herbs, so they [made something from] their own imaginations… a little bit of coconut, a bit of spices”– resulting in the mix of cultures that is Peranakan cuisine.

Assam laksa, a popular dish found in Penang, is an example of this. Starkly different from the more commonly known curry laksa/curry mee found in the nation’s capital, assam laksa is marked by a punchy, sweet and sour flavour, with inclusions of tamarind, galangal and pineapple5. In recollection, Poh Wan speaks about some of the typical dishes she would enjoy with her family as a child, such as salted vegetable and duck soup or kiam chye ark, chicken curry, and stir-fried vegetables. Peranakan food is known for its use of aromatic and pungent flavours, such as a deeply-coloured paste of chilli and fermented shrimp called sambal belachan. “My father used to tell me his [uncle] made the best sambal belacan”, says Poh Wan.

Peranakan cuisine is known for its’ laborious preparation methods; from painstakingly grinding spices to a paste or rempah, or picking out only the most perfect candlenuts for a particular dish6. This exertion displayed in their method of cooking is reflective of the cultural and economic context of the time. The Peranakan Chinese (in Penang and elsewhere) historically adhered to patriarchal values, hence the skill displayed by women through preparing food was heavily linked to their perceived value7, as explained by Lee Su Kim;

“A Nyonya’s cooking ability could be assessed in the old days from the rhythm of the way she pounded the rempah to make sambal belachan”8.

Poh Wan mentions her mother using a similar technique with a mortar made of hard granite. Fittingly, the cuisine is known widely today as ‘Nyonya food’.

The dish achar is an intersection of cultures, from the techniques involved to the ingredients used. The dish itself is seen across South East Asia in different forms - from the atchara of the Philippines to acar in Indonesia. The nyonya achar is distinctive for its use of pineapple, roasted peanuts, and sesame, creating a sweet, vinegary, nutty, and ultimately addictive side to any meal. It was a dish prepared on special occasions for Poh Wan and her family, like Chinese New Year, and eaten as an appetiser. I had the privilege of preparing this dish under her instruction recently, which involved slicing vegetables into neat strips and preparing a paste of shallot, garlic, ginger, turmeric, lemongrass, and dried chili. Usually one would also include belachan (fermented shrimp paste) in the paste, however, we prepared a vegetarian version on this day to accommodate the dietary needs of the family. Walking me through each step of the dish, Poh Wan was mindful to facilitate experimentation, encouraging me to use my own judgement and taste when deciding how much of something to add, or how to slice a particular ingredient.

Once these components were prepared, the vegetables were blanched briefly, “to kill all the germs”, and the paste was fried in a neutral oil, adding vinegar and sugar once the paste had reduced slightly. Everything was done according to taste and appearance - as Poh Wan says, “we need to agak agak, which means to guess our cooking.” We toasted sesame seeds and crushed peanuts until golden and fragrant as the oils were released, bringing everything together for assembly. Mixing the vegetables, paste, and nuts together, it became clear to me why it should be served in celebration; like confetti, it was bright and colourful when tossed in the air.

To go alongside the achar, Poh Wan had prepared a few accompaniments which built the foundation of a simple nasi lemak - a popular Malay dish of coconut and pandan infused rice, served with accompaniments. In its most simple form, this includes sambal belachan, fried anchovies and peanuts, cucumber, and a boiled egg. Instead of coconut rice, she had steamed rice with cloves, cinnamon, and star anise, and had bought a caramelised onion sambal in place of the traditional sambal belachan. To our amusement, she had also had my father-in-law pick up some KFC fried chicken to pair with the meal, for omnivores like myself at the table. Unsurprisingly, the fried chicken, aromatic rice, and lightly pickled vegetables from the achar were a magical combination of sweet, sour, salty, and umami, with the sambal bringing a satisfying hit of spice.

Similar to what I experienced with Baba Jay, Poh Wan expresses pride in sharing her recipe, but more so humble satisfaction in observing our enjoyment. Sharing recipes allows them to hold onto memories, even as people grow old, pass on, or move across continents. At the conclusion of our conversation, Poh Wan portrayed a degree of melancholy both through words and countenance; this act of recollecting the past called attention to the many things she could not remember. As a member of her family, I feel a strong sense of responsibility in acknowledging this ancestry and finding ways to build fragments of it within my own life, and that which I share with my partner. Even with something as simple as learning to make achar, one can build cultural dexterity which can’t be easily taken away.

Reflecting on the state of Peranakan culture in Malaysia today, it is observable how Peranakans have made their mark on the national identity, most saliently through food - Laksa, one of Malaysia’s most recognisable dishes, would not be what it is today without Peranakan influence. Their distinctive identity, however, has significantly declined over time due to the modernisation of Malaysian society - traditional dress and methods of preparing food have largely gone out of fashion with younger generations. It should also be acknowledged that the prevalence of “ethnic demarcation”9 in Malaysia has reduced the attractiveness of a multicultural identity for the Peranakan. Shaqil Aqil touches on this:

“The Babas and Nyonyas are a sociological phenomenon that occurred because of British colonization… With the passing of the colonial regime, the Babas were left feeling isolated, unable to represent themselves as fully Chinese for numerous cultural and linguistic reasons and yet, not able to be assimilated into Malay culture, since religion was a barrier.”10

This notion is reminiscent of the experience of Poh Wan’s family, finding themselves wanting to fit in with the predominantly Chinese community in Kampung Attap.

As tourism tends to glorify Peranakan culture in Penang and Malacca (tourists can even pay to rent a traditional garment, the Nyonya Kebaya, and pose for staged photography, not unlike what is seen in Japan with the Kimono), these perceptions don’t necessarily reflect the truth. The carefully curated images of Peranakan life seen in tourist attractions offer a window into a specific set of socio-cultural circumstances which were facilitated under the British colonial empire, but do not reflect the current lifestyle of many descendants. Representations of the Baba and Nyonya may waver over time, but what remains true is a story of a people who, despite changing circumstances, continue to make use of and be inspired by new surroundings.

This piece was written by . Living in Sydney, Australia, Chloe spends her weekend gardening and making sourdough bread.