Vietnam: Pho and Freedom
Vietnam: Pho and Freedom
Vietnam stretches like a ribbon along the eastern edge of Southeast Asia, pressed between mountains and sea, a land of flooded deltas, jungle highlands, and cities built on centuries of survival. It is a country shaped by water and war: monsoon rains that dictate planting and retreat, rivers that carry rice and armies, borders crossed again and again by empires that underestimated the people who lived there. For more than two thousand years, Vietnam has existed in a near-constant state of resistance, absorbing foreign rule, breaking it, and rebuilding itself in the aftermath.
Chinese domination lasted a millennium, resisted by revolts that became legend. Imperial dynasties rose and fell, consolidating power while peasants bore the weight of taxation and conscription. French colonization reordered the economy around extraction and hierarchy, binding rice fields to global markets and laborers to hunger. Japanese occupation during World War II tipped the countryside into famine. Then came decades of war against returning colonial powers and, later, the United States, conflicts that leveled villages, split families, and scarred the land. Yet at every stage, rebellion resurfaced: rural uprisings, guerrilla wars, mass organizing, and revolutions that refused to stay buried.
Through all of it, Vietnamese people cooked.
Food in Vietnam has never been separate from history. It is what sustained fighters in the hills, fed workers in colonial cities, and kept families alive during sieges and shortages. Meals carried memory when books were banned, morale when hope was thin, and identity when everything else was under threat. This post follows six dishes, each tied to a moment when Vietnam’s people pushed back against domination and reclaimed their future.
Xôi Xéo, sticky rice bright with mung bean and fried shallots, evokes the agrarian world that sustained the earliest rebellions, including the uprising of the Trưng Sisters against Han rule in the first century, a cuisine born of villages, shared labor, and collective survival.
Thịt Kho, pork and eggs slowly braised in caramelized sauce, reflects the endurance of the Lam Sơn Uprising against Ming occupation in the 15th century, a war fought by farmers whose food had to last as long as their resolve.
Gỏi Cuốn, fresh and portable, mirrors the speed and adaptability of the Tây Sơn Rebellion of the 18th century, when peasant armies overturned dynasties and foreign influence alike.
Phở emerged under French colonial rule, shaped by scarcity, migration, and working-class ingenuity. By the time of the Nghệ–Tĩnh Soviets in the 1930s, it had become a daily ritual for laborers organizing under repression; nourishment before factories, protests, and prison cells.
Bún Chả filled Hanoi’s alleys during the Japanese occupation and the rise of the Việt Minh, when famine stalked the countryside but revolution quietly gathered strength, culminating in the August Revolution of 1945.
Bánh Mì took shape during the First Indochina War, as French colonial power fractured and daily survival demanded adaptation. A reworked baguette filled with preserved meats, pickles, and herbs, it fed workers, students, and revolutionaries moving through cities under occupation, transforming a symbol of empire into a portable meal of independence.
And Bánh Xèo, sizzling and resilient, carries the memory of the long American war, cooked in homes and villages as bombers passed overhead and daily life persisted amid destruction.
Across centuries of invasion, famine, and war, Vietnamese food did what empires could not: it endured. It adapted. It carried history forward, one meal at a time. To follow Vietnam’s past, you follow its kitchens. To understand its resistance, you listen to what was eaten when survival was an act of defiance.
So light the burner and grab a ladle. This is Vietnam, told through the food that fed its rebellions.
Xôi Xéo: Grains of Uprising
Xôi Xéo, sticky rice colored with golden mung beans and topped with crisp fried shallots, originated in the rustic kitchens of the Red River Delta, specifically linked to the village of Tương Mai in Hanoi. Legend suggests its name, which translates roughly to "slanted rice", refers to the traditional technique of slicing the compacted mung bean balls at an angle over the rice. What began as a portable meal for farmers heading to the fields eventually transformed into a masterpiece of texture and color, earning its place as the "golden soul" of Vietnamese breakfast.
It also fueled the first recorded large-scale rebellion against Chinese imperial domination thousands of years ago, as banners of defiance raised across the Red River Delta, led by the Trưng Sisters, signaling hope amidst oppression.
Vietnam’s history stretches back thousands of years, long before the rise of the Trưng Sisters. Archaeological sites like Đông Sơn point to a sophisticated Bronze Age society, known for its drums, bronze tools, and rice cultivation along the fertile Red and Mekong River deltas. By the first century CE, Vietnam’s northern region, roughly today’s Red River Delta, was under Chinese control, incorporated into the Han Empire as the commandery of Jiaozhi. The Chinese imposed taxes, labor levies, and Confucian norms upon local communities, disrupting centuries-old village structures and demanding tribute in crops, labor, and military service.
In this context of growing resentment, a local noblewoman, Trưng Trắc, and her sister, Trưng Nhị, emerged as unlikely military leaders. Their family had suffered under Han officials: Trưng Trắc’s husband, Thi Sách, a regional lord, had been executed by the Chinese governor for resisting conscription and taxation. This personal loss became a catalyst for rebellion, but it resonated widely with the population. Farmers, artisans, and even local aristocrats who had been subjugated for generations rallied to their cause. Xôi Xéo, already a staple food for peasants and soldiers, sustained fighters on long marches and during communal gatherings where strategy and morale were bolstered. The sticky rice, easily portable, was ideal for provisioning troops, while its bright, eye-catching mung bean topping offered a symbolic reminder of unity and hope.
The uprising itself unfolded with remarkable speed and coordination. In early 40 CE, the sisters mobilized a multi-tiered network of villages and townships, amassing an army reportedly 80,000 strong. Unlike other rebellions of the era, the Trưng Sisters’ forces included women not just in supportive roles but as combatants, a radical departure from the era’s social norms. Local militias, peasants with farming tools adapted for battle, and disaffected nobles joined the ranks. Their early campaigns were astonishingly successful: within months, they liberated more than 65 citadels from Han control, asserting local authority and restoring a measure of autonomy to their communities.
The rebellion, however, faced inevitable challenges. The Han dynasty, unwilling to tolerate the loss of their commandery, dispatched a professional army to crush the uprising. By 43 CE, the sisters’ forces, though courageous and numerous, were defeated. Trưng Trắc and Trưng Nhị chose to die rather than surrender, committing suicide to avoid capture. Their deaths did not erase their impact. The rebellion became a symbol of Vietnamese resilience, commemorated in folk songs, local rituals, and communal gatherings.
The immediate aftermath of the uprising saw harsh reprisals by Han authorities. Villages were punished, local leaders executed or displaced, and Chinese control reasserted over the Red River Delta. Yet the memory of the Trưng Sisters’ revolt persisted in the collective consciousness. Over the centuries, the story of the Trưng Sisters was mythologized, inspiring successive generations to resist domination, whether by foreign empires or internal tyrants
I love sticky rice, and this is a simple and flavorful way to elevate it.
Xôi Xéo (Sticky Rice with Mung Bean and Fried Shallots)
Serves: 4
Ingredients:
2 cups glutinous rice (sweet rice)
1 cup split mung beans (hulled, yellow type)
½ teaspoon salt
2–3 shallots, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons oil or rendered chicken fat
Fried shallots (for garnish, optional)
Instructions:
Soak the glutinous rice and mung beans separately in water for at least 4 hours or overnight.
Drain and steam the mung beans for 20–25 minutes until soft. Mash or blend into a smooth paste and season lightly with salt.
Drain and steam the glutinous rice for 25–30 minutes until tender. Mix with salt and a bit of oil for sheen.
Shape the mung bean paste into a flat disk (optional for easier slicing), let cool slightly, then slice or crumble over the steamed rice.
Fry the sliced shallots in oil until crispy, then drizzle the hot oil/fat over the rice and top with the fried shallots.
Serve hot, optionally with soy sauce, pâté, shredded chicken, or Chinese sausage.
Tips:
Keep rice grains distinct but tender—avoid overmixing.
The mung bean layer should be fluffy and light.
Thịt Kho: The Long Simmer
Thịt Kho, the slow-braised caramel pork and eggs simmered in fish sauce, is most often associated with the Lunar New Year (Tết), where families make it as a celebratory dish. However, it very much evolved from necessity. The combination of salt, sugar, and fish sauce acted as a preservative allowing pork to remain edible for days in the tropical climate of Vietnam’s coastal region and the Mekong River Delta. It also would reclaim its place as a necessity during the Lam Sơn Uprising against the Ming Dynasty from 1418 to 1427.
Vietnam’s northern and central regions had endured intermittent foreign domination for centuries. Following the Trung Sisters’ uprising in 40 CE and subsequent centuries of brief independence, the country experienced alternating periods of native rule and Chinese conquest. By the early fifteenth century, the Ming Dynasty of China had reasserted direct control over Vietnam, following the collapse of the short-lived Hồ dynasty. Ming governance, established in 1407, brought bureaucratic centralization, heavy taxation, forced labor, and attempts to once again impose Confucian cultural norms, threatening local traditions and autonomy. The Vietnamese peasantry and aristocracy alike found themselves subordinated to a foreign administration, with resistance deemed treasonous and punishable by death. It was a situation that demanded careful planning and endurance.
The seeds of the Lam Sơn Uprising were sown in this climate of oppression. Lê Lợi, a minor noble from Thanh Hóa province, became the figurehead of resistance, drawing on family ties, local networks, and the lingering memory of past rebellions to rally support. By 1418, Lê Lợi had retreated into the mountainous terrain of Thanh Hóa, assembling a force of villagers, scholars, and disaffected soldiers. These forests and river valleys became the proving grounds for a long guerrilla war, echoing, in scale if not method, the earlier grassroots mobilization of the Trưng Sisters’ rebellion nearly fourteen centuries before. Small victories, careful raids, and the ability to evade the better-equipped Ming forces defined the strategy. Supplies, particularly food, were a constant challenge. Families contributed pork, fish, and eggs preserved in clay jars to feed fighters, ensuring that morale remained high despite harsh winters and relentless pursuit by Ming armies.
The Lam Sơn Uprising was not merely a military campaign but also a statement of Vietnamese identity and continuity. Local villages contributed not only food but intelligence, shelter, and manpower. Lê Lợi’s forces employed hit-and-run tactics, ambushes in narrow passes, and small-scale sieges to erode Ming authority. Over years of simmering conflict, they gradually expanded their control from Thanh Hóa into the Red and Ma Rivers’ fertile deltas.
By 1425, Lê Lợi’s forces were strong enough to challenge Ming garrisons directly, reclaiming towns and citadels that had been under foreign rule for nearly two decades. The final years of the uprising, 1426–1427, saw a concentrated series of offensives, culminating in the decisive Battle of Chi Lăng and the subsequent recapture of Thăng Long (modern Hanoi). Lê Lợi’s victory did not emerge from brute force alone; it was the product of meticulous strategy, local knowledge, and the sustained support of ordinary villagers who provided shelter, intelligence, and food, much of which included the humble yet sustaining Thịt Kho.
The aftermath of the Lam Sơn Uprising was transformative. In 1428, Lê Lợi ascended as the first emperor of the restored Lê dynasty, establishing a renewed Vietnamese state with administrative reforms, strengthened local governance, and revived cultural traditions that had been suppressed under Ming rule. Families continued to prepare Thịt Kho, not only as nourishment but as a celebration of survival, continuity, and independence.
Thịt Kho seems daunting, but is worth making, and just requires a bit of patience. The deep, braised flavors are simply delectable and among the best in Southeast Asian cuisine.
Thịt Kho (Caramelized Braised Pork with Eggs)
Serves: 4–6
Ingredients:
1.5 lbs pork belly, cut into 2-inch cubes
6 eggs
¼ cup fish sauce
3 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 small onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup coconut water (or substitute with water)
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp black pepper
2 star anise (optional)
2 green onions, chopped (for garnish)
Cooked jasmine rice (for serving)
Instructions:
Hard-boil the eggs (8–10 minutes), peel, and set aside.
In a large pot, heat oil and sugar over medium heat until it caramelizes to golden brown (3–4 minutes). Add pork cubes and stir to coat.
Add onion, garlic, fish sauce, soy sauce, coconut water, black pepper, and star anise. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer.
Add the boiled eggs, ensuring they are submerged. Simmer uncovered for 1.5–2 hours, stirring occasionally, until pork is tender and sauce thickens (add water if needed).
Garnish with green onions and serve with jasmine rice.
Tips:
Use uniform pork pieces for even cooking.
Coconut water adds authentic sweetness.
Gỏi Cuốn: Rolling into Motion
Originating in the fertile Mekong Delta, Gỏi Cuốn began as a practical solution for the mobile populations of Southern Vietnam, requiring neither a hearth nor a permanent kitchen to prepare. Wrapped in delicate rice paper, it is often called a “summer roll”, and by the late 18th century, was a symbol of southern identity. This made it a food that was perfectly fit to be brought to the front lines in a late 1700s southern uprising, the Tây Sơn Rebellion.
The centuries following the Lam Sơn Uprising in 1427 were characterized by relative stability under the restored Lê dynasty, but beneath this veneer of peace, fractures persisted. While the northern regions remained under the nominal authority of the Trịnh lords and the south under the Nguyễn family, these divisions created a quasi-federal structure that often left peasantry and lower-ranking military forces vulnerable to exploitation. By the seventeenth century, trade and diplomacy had begun to draw European powers, particularly the Dutch, Portuguese, and French, into Vietnam’s coastal ports. Missionaries, mercenaries, and merchants brought with them new technologies, firearms, and ideas, subtly altering the balance of power. Economic growth in the south, particularly in rice cultivation and international trade, created both wealth and inequality. While some villages prospered, many peasants endured heavy taxation, forced labor on irrigation projects, and periodic conscription. Discontent simmered quietly at first, only occasionally erupting in localized revolts.
By the early 1770s, these longstanding grievances became a catalyst for a more dramatic upheaval. Three brothers, Nguyễn Nhạc, Nguyễn Lữ, and Nguyễn Huệ, originating from Tây Sơn village in Bình Định province, emerged as charismatic leaders among the marginalized. The Tây Sơn Rebellion was not merely a peasant uprising; it was a revolution of mobility and opportunism. The Tây Sơn forces unified disparate groups under a shared vision: the dismantling of corrupt feudal authority and the establishment of a more equitable social order. Their forces were small at first, relying on speed, knowledge of the terrain, and popular support, yet their impact would reverberate throughout the peninsula.
Foreign influence played a paradoxical role in the conflict. European traders and mercenaries provided both arms and tactical guidance to rival Nguyễn and Trịnh lords, inadvertently strengthening the rebels’ cause. Siamese forces attempted to intervene in the south, while Qing China monitored events with both concern and opportunism. The Tây Sơn armies, however, skillfully navigated these foreign pressures. Nguyễn Huệ’s legendary campaigns, culminating in his swift march northward to defeat the Qing army at the Battle of Ngọc Hồi-Đống Đa in 1789, demonstrated an understanding of logistics, timing, and diplomacy that was as precise as the assembly of a perfectly balanced Gỏi Cuốn. Troops moved quickly, supplied themselves with local provisions, and integrated local militias into larger strategies, sustaining a rebellion that spanned decades.
The rebellion’s success rested as much on morale and provisioning as on battlefield brilliance. Gỏi Cuốn, portable and easy to prepare, was the ideal sustenance for Tây Sơn soldiers on long campaigns. Families contributed rice paper, fresh herbs, pork, shrimp, and pickled vegetables from village markets, allowing units to maintain strength without relying on fixed supply chains.
By the 1780s, the Tây Sơn brothers had overthrown both Trịnh and Nguyễn lords in a stunning reversal of Vietnam’s feudal order. Nguyễn Huệ, crowned Emperor Quang Trung, enacted reforms to centralize governance while rewarding merit and service, rather than birthright, echoing the inclusive coalition-building that had fueled his rise. His victories were not only military but also symbolic: the expulsion of Qing forces from the north reinforced Vietnam’s sovereignty and inspired a brief period of cultural and administrative unification.
Yet, the rebellion’s aftermath was as complex as its rise. While the Tây Sơn dynasty initially implemented progressive taxation, reduced corruption, and encouraged local self-governance, internal factionalism and succession disputes soon threatened stability. The northern and southern regions had long-standing loyalties to rival elites, and external pressures, particularly renewed European trade and military involvement, continued to complicate governance.
By 1802, the rebellion concluded when Nguyễn Ánh, a surviving member of the Nguyễn lords, consolidated power with external support from French advisors and European weapons, establishing the Nguyễn dynasty. The Tây Sơn were defeated, yet their imprint endured: their campaigns had permanently disrupted the feudal order, exposed vulnerabilities in regional governance, and demonstrated the efficacy of rapid, mobile military tactics.
Gỏi Cuốn can now be a found as a staple dish of Southeast Asian Cuisine throughout the world. Make sure you let it BRIEFLY soak, just enough to get it pliable. Then roll like a burrito.
Gỏi Cuốn (Fresh Spring Rolls / Summer Rolls)
Serves: 4 (makes about 12 rolls)
Ingredients:
Rolls:
12 rice paper wrappers (8–10 inch)
½ lb shrimp, peeled, deveined, and cooked (halved lengthwise)
4 oz rice vermicelli, cooked and drained
1 cup lettuce, torn into strips
1 cup bean sprouts
½ cup fresh mint leaves
½ cup Thai basil leaves
½ cup cilantro leaves
1 cucumber, julienned
Peanut Dipping Sauce:
¼ cup peanut butter
2 tbsp hoisin sauce
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tsp sugar
1 garlic clove, minced
2–4 tbsp warm water (to thin)
1 tbsp crushed peanuts (for garnish)
Instructions:
Cook shrimp (boil 2–3 minutes until pink) and halve. Cook vermicelli, rinse, and drain.
Dip one rice paper in warm water for 5–10 seconds until pliable; place on a damp surface.
Layer near the bottom: 2–3 shrimp halves, vermicelli, lettuce, bean sprouts, cucumber, and herbs. Fold bottom over filling, tuck sides, and roll tightly. Repeat.
For sauce: Whisk all ingredients until smooth; garnish with peanuts.
Serve rolls fresh with sauce.
Tips:
Work on a damp surface to prevent sticking.
Avoid overfilling to prevent tearing.
Phở: Broth of Solidarity
French tastes), and perhaps the influence of Chinese water buffalo soup. Originally a humble street food sold by mobile vendors carrying poles called đòn gánh, Phở was the fuel of the nascent working class. It was a dish of the docks, the factories, and the shadows of the colonial railway, a meal defined by its ability to transform discarded beef bones into a rich, sustaining elixir for those navigating a rapidly changing world. At these bustling street-side stalls, laborers, students, and revolutionaries alike gathered, traded news, and plotted action. By the early twentieth century, as the shadow of French colonialism stretched over Vietnam, these stalls became a place for planning and organization, especially in the 1930s.
Following the fall of the Tây Sơn dynasty and the consolidation of the Nguyễn dynasty in 1802, Vietnam entered a period of centralized rule under Emperor Gia Long and his successors. Though political order was restored, social hierarchies remained rigid, and rural communities continued to bear the brunt of taxation, forced labor, and land scarcity. The northern Red River Delta, in particular, was a densely populated agrarian landscape where smallholder farmers struggled against landlords who often collaborated with local mandarins to extract rent, rice, and labor. Meanwhile, the French, having established a foothold in Cochinchina in the mid-nineteenth century, gradually extended their influence over Tonkin and Annam, cementing Vietnam as part of French Indochina by the 1880s.
French colonization reshaped Vietnam’s economy, infrastructure, and social fabric. Railways and ports linked production zones to export markets, particularly for rice, coal, and rubber. While a small elite, including landowners, urban merchants, and French collaborators, benefited handsomely, the rural majority endured dispossession, debt, and economic precarity. Colonial policies disrupted traditional village governance and communal land tenure, while the French monopoly on cash crops forced peasants into cycles of production they neither controlled nor fully benefited from. At the same time, French schools, newspapers, and print culture introduced new ideas: nationalism, Marxism, and syndicalism began circulating, particularly in cities and along transport corridors where urban workers and intellectuals congregated.
The early twentieth century witnessed a string of peasant and labor uprisings, foreshadowing the larger, more coordinated movements that would shake central Vietnam. The Red River Delta and northern highlands became hotbeds of ferment, with strikes, riots, and clandestine organizing gradually linking urban proletariat discontent with rural grievances. Revolutionary thought, particularly inspired by Marxism-Leninism after the 1917 Russian Revolution, found its way into Vietnamese publications and secret societies. By the late 1920s, the Communist Party of Vietnam, newly formed and clandestinely operating, began fostering localized cells aimed at challenging colonial extraction and landlord domination.
It was in this context that the Nghệ-Tĩnh Soviets erupted between 1930 and 1931, primarily in the provinces of Nghệ An and Hà Tĩnh. These uprisings were not isolated incidents; they represented a coordinated, quasi-governmental assertion of authority by peasants and workers. “Soviets”, borrowed terminology from the Russian Revolution, denoted councils that organized land redistribution, tax resistance, literacy campaigns, and cooperative labor. In villages and towns, revolutionary committees assumed control of local administration, often expropriating rice, livestock, and tools from landlords and colonial collaborators to sustain community needs. Schools were opened or repurposed, cultural activities were promoted, and peasants, artisans, and dockworkers began experiencing forms of self-governance denied to them for decades.
Phở, sold at street stalls and small eateries throughout the region, became intertwined with this movement, both practically and symbolically. For insurgents, Phở was an inexpensive, hearty, and fast meal, providing energy for long days of organizing, secret meetings, and confrontations with colonial forces. Market vendors sometimes offered discounted bowls to supporters or provided intelligence on French troop movements, turning food stalls into subtle nodes of revolutionary infrastructure.
The Soviets, however, faced immense challenges. French authorities, alarmed by the rapid spread of communist ideology and the apparent organization of the peasantry, responded with brutal suppression. Troops were dispatched, armed uprisings crushed, and leaders executed or imprisoned. Mass shootings and scorched-earth campaigns devastated villages. Yet despite the immediate military defeat, the Nghệ-Tĩnh Soviets left a lasting imprint. They demonstrated the potential for collective governance, popular education, and agrarian reform, planting seeds that would later nourish the broader Viet Minh and, eventually, the national liberation struggle against both the Japanese and returning French forces.
In the culinary sphere, Phở’s growing popularity paralleled these social currents. While originating in northern Vietnam in the late nineteenth century, its street-side consumption during the early twentieth century reflected both urbanization and the blending of rural and proletarian cultures. Laborers, intellectuals, and peasants shared bowls in bustling markets and near railway stations, forming networks of conversation, rumor, and planning. The communal nature of Phở, with diners sharing tables and broth simmering over hours, symbolized the cooperative spirit of the Soviets: sustained, deliberate, and resourceful. Just as revolutionary committees relied on pooling resources, skills, and local knowledge, a good Phở required careful layering, timing, and balance.
The suppression of the Nghệ-Tĩnh Soviets by 1931, though devastating, was not the end of Vietnamese revolutionary ambition. The memory of these councils inspired future generations of organizers who would link agrarian revolt to urban labor militancy, eventually forming the backbone of the anti-colonial struggle that culminated in future revolutions. Phở, by then firmly entrenched as a northern specialty, evolved alongside these movements, crossing regional and social boundaries, and becoming a metaphorical, and literal, sustenance for a nation in flux.
By the mid-twentieth century, Phở had transitioned from street fare to national emblem, celebrated as one of the most well known, if not the most well known, dish from Vietnamese cuisine.
The trick to making pho is the long simmer. Really let those flavors sink in.
Phở (Beef Noodle Soup)
Serves: 6–8
Ingredients:
Broth:
5 lbs beef bones (marrow and knuckle)
1 lb beef brisket
2 large onions, halved
4-inch piece ginger, halved
1 daikon radish, peeled and chunked (optional)
1 tbsp salt
2 tbsp fish sauce
1 tbsp sugar
Spices: 1 cinnamon stick, 3 star anise, 6 cloves, 1 tsp fennel seeds, 1 tsp coriander seeds
For Serving:
1 lb dried flat rice noodles (bánh phở)
½ lb beef sirloin or eye of round, thinly sliced (raw)
Thinly sliced onion, chopped green onions
Fresh herbs: cilantro, Thai basil, mint
Bean sprouts, lime wedges, hoisin, sriracha, jalapeños
Instructions:
Char onions and ginger; peel and rinse.
Parboil bones 5 minutes; drain and rinse.
Simmer bones, brisket, aromatics, and 6 quarts water for 6–8 hours; skim foam. Add seasonings and toasted spices (in bag).
Remove and slice brisket after 2 hours. Strain broth.
Cook noodles; assemble bowls with noodles, meats, onions. Ladle hot broth over.
Serve with herbs and condiments.
Tips:
Simmer gently for clear broth.
Prep broth a day ahead.
Bún Chả: The Quiet Burn
Bún chả, with its smoky grilled pork, cool vermicelli, sharp fish sauce, and baskets of fresh herbs, feels deceptively simple. Emerging in northern Vietnam, particularly Hanoi and the Red River Delta, bún chả developed not as palace cuisine or ritual food, but as street fare; portable, adaptable, and deeply embedded in everyday life. It would continue in this role in an era shaped by colonial repression, foreign invasion, famine, and finally, mass insurrection.
The defeat of the Nghệ-Tĩnh Soviets in 1931 marked a brutal turning point. French authorities intensified repression across Indochina, dismantling revolutionary networks, executing leaders, and forcing surviving activists underground. Yet the ideas seeded during the Soviets, land reform, mass participation, popular governance, did not vanish. Instead, they adapted. Throughout the 1930s, Vietnamese revolutionaries shifted from overt uprisings to clandestine organizing. Cells were rebuilt quietly, often through village kinship networks, labor associations, and informal urban spaces. Street life remained crucial. Markets, food stalls, and communal eating spaces, once hubs of Soviet-era mobilization, now became places of coded conversation and quiet survival.
It was during this period that bún chả began to solidify its place in northern Vietnamese food culture. Bún chả was both fast and flexible. Pork patties or slices could be grilled quickly over charcoal, noodles prepared in advance, herbs foraged or grown locally. The smoke from the grill blended seamlessly into village and neighborhood rhythms. A stall grilling pork was unremarkable; it drew no attention. That ordinariness would soon become politically significant.
In 1940–1941, Vietnam’s fragile colonial order fractured. France’s defeat by Nazi Germany weakened its authority in Indochina, opening the door to Japanese occupation. Japan entered Vietnam not as a liberator, but as a new imperial power, exploiting the country’s rice, labor, and strategic position while allowing French colonial administrators to remain as junior partners. For ordinary Vietnamese, this “dual rule” was catastrophic. Taxes increased, rice was requisitioned, infrastructure was redirected toward Japan’s war effort, and rural communities were squeezed from all sides.
In response, Vietnamese resistance reorganized. In 1941, Hồ Chí Minh and other revolutionaries founded the Việt Minh (League for the Independence of Vietnam), explicitly linking national liberation with social justice. Learning from the failures of the early 1930s, the Việt Minh emphasized mass participation, flexible guerrilla tactics, and deep integration into everyday life. Villages, forests, and urban neighborhoods became overlapping theaters of resistance.
Food was central to this strategy. Partisan fighters relied on villagers not only for shelter and intelligence, but for meals that could be prepared discreetly. Bún chả fit this need perfectly. Grilled pork required no large kitchens, no conspicuous stockpiles. Charcoal fires were common; herbs grew everywhere. A gathering around food could double as a planning session, a recruitment meeting, or a supply exchange. The smoke that rose from grilling meat masked the far more dangerous fires of insurgency beneath.
As Japanese exploitation intensified, the consequences became deadly. By 1944–1945, northern Vietnam descended into one of the worst famines in its history. Rice was diverted for export or left to rot to meet Japanese fuel demands, while floods and colonial mismanagement destroyed local harvests. An estimated one to two million people died. Entire villages starved. Bodies lined roads. This famine radicalized millions who might otherwise have remained passive. Hunger stripped away any remaining legitimacy of both French and Japanese rule.
Bún chả became a dish of survival. Pork was scarce, portions shrank, noodles stretched, herbs substituted for protein. Yet even in reduced form, the structure of the meal remained: fire, starch, greens, balance. It was a reminder of normalcy amid collapse, a small bit of evidence that community still existed. The Việt Minh understood this deeply. They organized rice seizures, communal kitchens, and relief efforts in famine zones, often gaining more loyalty through feeding people than through armed action alone. Food, once again, became politics.
Guerrilla resistance intensified between 1941 and 1945. Việt Minh units sabotaged railways, attacked outposts, and spread propaganda, while avoiding direct confrontation with superior Japanese forces. The struggle was slow, hidden, and patient.
Then, in August 1945, everything changed at once. Japan surrendered following the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Suddenly, imperial authority evaporated. French administrators were disarmed, Japanese troops were demoralized, and a power vacuum opened across Vietnam. The Việt Minh moved immediately. Years of underground organizing now became public mobilization.
In Hanoi and other cities, crowds flooded the streets. Markets, squares, and food stalls became rallying points. The same spaces that had sheltered whispered conversations now hosted mass assemblies. In Hanoi, the aroma of grilled pork filled the air as vendors cooked continuously to feed swelling crowds. Bún chả, once eaten quietly under occupation, now became fuel for revolution. Its smoke no longer needed to hide; it announced presence, numbers, momentum.
On August 19, 1945, Hanoi rose. Government buildings were seized, colonial symbols dismantled, and Việt Minh flags unfurled. Two weeks later, on September 2, Hồ Chí Minh declared independence in Ba Đình Square, proclaiming the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. The revolution was remarkably swift, not because it was spontaneous, but because it had been prepared for years in kitchens, markets, villages, and forest camps.
The immediate aftermath was fragile. Independence was declared, but not secured. French forces would soon attempt to return. Internally, Vietnam faced famine, economic collapse, and political uncertainty. Yet for a brief moment, the balance shifted decisively toward the people. That moment belonged not to armies alone, but to networks of everyday life that had sustained resistance through the darkest years.
Bún chả gained fame as the dish that both President Obama and Anthony Bourdain ate in a small, unassuming Vietnamese noodle restaurant for their historic interview. Try making it for yourself, and see why it is the go to for presidents and master chefs.
Bún Chả (Grilled Pork with Noodles)
Serves: 4
Ingredients:
Pork:
1 lb ground pork
½ lb pork shoulder, thinly sliced
3 tbsp fish sauce
2 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp honey
2 tbsp minced shallots
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp black pepper
Dipping Sauce (Nước Chấm):
¼ cup fish sauce
¼ cup lime juice
¼ cup sugar
½ cup water
1 garlic clove, minced
1 Thai chili, minced
For Serving:
8 oz rice vermicelli, cooked
Lettuce, mint, cilantro, Thai basil
Pickled carrots and daikon (optional)
Instructions:
Marinate ground pork into patties and sliced shoulder separately (1 hour+).
Whisk dipping sauce ingredients.
Grill pork until charred and cooked.
Serve with noodles, herbs, pickles, and sauce.
Tips:
Use grill pan if needed.
Adjust chili to taste.
Bánh Mì: Borrowed Bread on Reclaimed Land
Bánh mì is often described as a sandwich, but that word flattens its meaning. At its core is a French baguette; long, airy, crackling, and an artifact of colonial rule. Yet what fills it is unmistakably Vietnamese: pickled carrots and daikon, cilantro and chilies, pâté reworked to local taste, grilled pork or cold cuts seasoned with fish sauce, soy, and sugar.The story of bánh mì begins not as a sandwich, but as a symbol of exclusion. When the French introduced the baguette to Vietnam in the mid-19th century, it was known as bánh tây (Western bread), a luxury item reserved for the colonial elite. Vietnamese locals were largely barred from the French cafes where it was served with butter and jam, and they were discouraged from eating "European" wheat, which was seen as superior to "indigenous" rice. However, during World War I, two major shifts occurred: the arrival of wheat shipments spiked, and the French colonial government, desperate for labor, allowed local bakeries to flourish. Vietnamese bakers began to experiment, lightening the dense French dough with rice flour to create a fluffier, cheaper loaf. By the 1950s, the "sandwich" as we know it emerged in Saigon, as vendors did away with the French plate and knife, stuffing the ingredients directly into the bread to create a portable, affordable meal for the masses. As France tried to reclaim its colony, the masses would respond, sandwich in hand.
The August Revolution of 1945 shattered the colonial order, but it did not erase it. When Hồ Chí Minh proclaimed the Democratic Republic of Vietnam on September 2, he spoke into a void of power created by Japan’s sudden surrender. That void closed quickly. British troops arrived in the south to disarm the Japanese, and promptly rearmed French forces. In the north, Chinese Nationalist troops entered to oversee the Japanese withdrawal, bringing inflation, corruption, and political pressure of their own. Vietnam was nominally independent, but in reality encircled. The revolution had succeeded politically before it could succeed militarily or economically.
Urban life reflected this uncertainty. In Hanoi and Saigon, colonial infrastructure still dominated daily rhythms. Bakeries continued to produce baguettes, remnants of a system that had not yet been dismantled. For ordinary people, bread was cheap, filling, and portable, qualities that mattered in a city facing food shortages, unemployment, and political instability. Vietnamese vendors began adapting the baguette more aggressively, stuffing it with whatever protein or vegetables were available, seasoning it boldly, making it theirs. Bánh mì, which had existed in earlier forms, became ubiquitous in these years precisely because it was flexible. It could be sold quickly, eaten while walking, carried to a meeting, or taken on a journey.
Politically, negotiations between the Việt Minh and France briefly offered hope. In early 1946, Hồ Chí Minh signed agreements recognizing Vietnam as a “free state” within the French Union, betting that compromise might prevent renewed war. But this was a fragile truce built on incompatible goals. France sought to reassert imperial control; the Việt Minh sought full sovereignty. By the end of the year, tensions erupted into open conflict. In December 1946, fighting broke out in Hanoi. The First Indochina War had begun.
The opening phase of the war was urban, chaotic, and desperate. Việt Minh fighters barricaded streets, sabotaged infrastructure, and fought house to house against better-armed French troops. Civilians fled en masse from cities into the countryside, draining Hanoi of much of its population. In this moment of rupture, bánh mì again served a practical role. Vendors fed fighters, refugees, and workers alike. A loaf of bread stuffed with meat or pickles could sustain someone for hours while moving through a city under fire. It was food for transition—between home and exile, between peace and war.
After the initial urban battles, the war shifted decisively to the countryside. The Việt Minh abandoned the cities to preserve their forces and retreated into rural base areas and mountainous regions. What followed was not a short war of maneuver, but a long war of attrition. The French controlled major cities, ports, and roads. The Việt Minh controlled villages, forests, and the loyalty, often coerced, often genuine, of much of the rural population. This division shaped every aspect of life, including food.
In French-held cities, bánh mì continued to circulate as street food for workers, dockhands, and clerks. It was cheap fuel for people caught between colonial administration and revolutionary pressure. In Việt Minh zones, the baguette itself became rarer, but its logic persisted: portable starch paired with protein and sharp flavors. When French flour or bread made its way into liberated zones, through capture, trade, or smuggling, it was transformed immediately. Colonial bread, once reserved for Europeans, now fed guerrillas. Like rifles taken from French depots, baguettes were seized, repurposed, and stripped of their original meaning.
The war itself was brutal and uneven. French forces relied on firepower, fortified positions, and mobile units supplied by air. The Việt Minh relied on mass mobilization, political education, and patience. Villages were taxed, conscripted, and politicized. Roads were sabotaged. Supply lines were harassed relentlessly. This was not a war of glorious charges, but of hunger, disease, and exhaustion. For fighters and civilians alike, food was more than food, it was strategy.
Bánh mì’s portability mirrored the structure of the war. The Việt Minh emphasized movement: dispersing when necessary, concentrating when possible. Fighters marched long distances carrying minimal supplies. Anything that could be eaten quickly, without utensils, mattered. Even in areas where baguettes were scarce, the idea of food as something that could be carried, hidden, and shared quietly shaped daily practice. In cities, vendors selling bánh mì often operated in a gray zone, feeding both sides, navigating curfews, checkpoints, and suspicion. To sell food was to survive; to survive was, in its own way, resistance.
As the war dragged on into the early 1950s, it internationalized. China’s communist victory in 1949 transformed the conflict. The Việt Minh now had a secure rear base, training, and supplies. France, increasingly stretched, relied more heavily on U.S. support. What had begun as a colonial reconquest became a Cold War battlefield. Yet on the ground, the struggle remained profoundly local. Villagers hid rice. Porters carried ammunition on bamboo poles. Street vendors continued to sell food amid uncertainty.
The climax came at Điện Biên Phủ in 1954. The French, seeking a decisive engagement, established a fortified base in a remote valley, confident in their airpower. The Việt Minh, under General Võ Nguyên Giáp, responded with a feat of logistics and endurance that stunned the world. Tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians hauled artillery through jungle and mountains, piece by piece, by hand. Trenches crept closer day by day. Supply lines stretched impossibly thin. Hunger was constant. Victory came not from superior technology, but from collective sacrifice and persistence.
When Điện Biên Phủ fell, the colonial war effectively ended. The Geneva Accords later that year divided Vietnam temporarily at the 17th parallel, setting the stage for another, even larger conflict. But in 1954, the meaning was clear: a peasant army had defeated a European empire. The aftermath was complicated, mass migrations, political repression, unfinished promises, but the psychological rupture was irreversible. Colonial power had been broken.
Bánh mì, in the years that followed, carried this history quietly. Once a symbol of French presence, it had been absorbed into everyday Vietnamese life so completely that its origins no longer mattered. It was no longer foreign bread; it was Vietnamese food. Its crust cracked differently now, its fillings spoke a different language. Like the war itself, it showed how colonial tools could be turned against empire, how survival could become defiance.
By the time the First Indochina War ended, bánh mì had become inseparable from Vietnamese identity. Now it is a symbol of the Vietnamese diaspora and cuisine overseas.
What can I say. Banh Mi is the king of sandwiches, and you should make one immediately.
Bánh Mì (Vietnamese Sandwich)
Serves: 4
Ingredients:
Pickled Vegetables:
1 cup shredded carrots
1 cup julienned daikon
½ cup rice vinegar
¼ cup sugar
½ tsp salt
Sandwich:
4 small baguettes
½ lb pork pâté
½ lb Vietnamese pork roll (chả lụa), sliced
½ lb grilled pork (or ham)
Cucumber slices, jalapeño slices
½ cup cilantro
4 tbsp mayonnaise
Soy sauce or Maggi seasoning
Instructions:
Pickle vegetables 30 minutes+; drain.
Toast baguettes lightly.
Spread mayo and seasoning; layer pâté, meats, pickles, veggies, herbs.
Serve immediately.
Tips:
Use fresh, crusty baguettes.
Variations: chicken or tofu.
Bánh Xèo: Sizzle at the Breaking Point
Bánh xèo, meaning “Sizzling Cake”, is a unique creation. Though its soul is deeply rooted in the rice paddies of Central and Southern Vietnam, the form of bánh xèo is often viewed as a colonial leftover. During the era of French Indochina, the crêpe arrived in the kitchens of the elite. But as the technique trickled down to street vendors and rural mothers, it underwent a radical transfiguration. The wheat flour, an expensive import, was discarded for local rice flour; the dairy milk was replaced by the fatty richness of coconut; and butter gave way to the high-heat sizzle of pork fat. Even the iconic yellow hue is a playful subversion: it isn't the gold of eggs, but the stain of turmeric. It is a dish that took the colonial silhouette of a French crêpe and filled it with indigenous substance, making it lighter, crispier, and inseparable from the nước chấm dip often served with it. Cooked over open flames in villages, towns, and makeshift kitchens, it was the perfect dish for the national nightmare that was the second Indochina War.
The defeat of France in 1954 did not bring peace. The Geneva Accords temporarily divided Vietnam at the 17th parallel. In the north, the Democratic Republic of Vietnam consolidated power under Hồ Chí Minh, implementing land reform and rebuilding after decades of war. In the south, the State of Vietnam, soon replaced by the Republic of Vietnam, was backed heavily by the United States, which viewed the country not as a post-colonial nation seeking reunification, but as a domino in a global Cold War struggle. What had once been a colonial war became an ideological one.
This division reshaped daily life. Families were split by migration; nearly a million people fled south in the mid-1950s, while others moved north. Foodways shifted with them. Northern migrants brought dishes south; southern abundance influenced northern cooking when ingredients could be found. Bánh xèo, already popular in central and southern Vietnam, took on new resonance in this fractured landscape. Its ingredients were flexible, rice flour, water, turmeric, whatever protein was available. It could be cooked in large pans, feeding many with limited resources. Like the country itself, it adapted.
By the late 1950s, the political situation deteriorated. Ngô Đình Diệm’s government in the south, authoritarian and rigid, alienated large segments of the rural population. Land reform stalled. Repression intensified. Former Việt Minh networks, especially in the Mekong Delta and central regions, went underground again. By 1960, these forces coalesced into what became known as the National Liberation Front, the Viet Cong. The Second Indochina War had begun, though Americans would later call it simply “the Vietnam War.”
Unlike the First Indochina War, this conflict was not defined by clear front lines. It was a war of villages, jungles, and cities that were never entirely secure. Guerrillas moved at night. Governments controlled territory by day and lost it by dusk. In this environment, food was both sustenance and signal. Communal cooking mattered. Bánh xèo, often prepared in large pans and eaten collectively, reinforced bonds in villages under constant pressure.
As U.S. involvement escalated in the early 1960s, the war intensified. American advisors gave way to American troops. Bombing campaigns expanded. Herbicides stripped forests bare. The countryside was remade into a battlespace. Yet even as technology and firepower grew overwhelming, the social fabric of Vietnam did not simply dissolve. People cooked. They gathered. They adapted old dishes to new realities. In contested zones, ingredients were scarce, but the act of cooking remained. A bánh xèo might be thinner, sparsely filled, stretched to feed more mouths, but it still sizzled.
By 1967, the war had reached a grim equilibrium. The United States claimed progress through body counts and territory secured. South Vietnamese cities appeared stable, especially during holidays. Many American officials believed the enemy was weakening, incapable of large-scale coordinated action. This belief shaped expectations going into Tết, the Lunar New Year, a time traditionally marked by ceasefires, family reunions, and food prepared in abundance.
Tết is inseparable from cooking. It is a time of communal labor in kitchens, of anticipation and noise, of dishes prepared not quietly but joyfully. Bánh xèo fits naturally into this soundscape: the hiss of oil, the scrape of spatulas, voices rising around the pan. In early 1968, that familiar rhythm masked something else entirely.
On January 30–31, 1968, during Tết, coordinated attacks erupted across South Vietnam. More than one hundred cities, towns, and military installations were struck simultaneously by Viet Cong and North Vietnamese forces. Saigon, Huế, Da Nang, places long considered secure, were suddenly battlefields. Even the U.S. Embassy compound in Saigon was breached. The offensive was a shock precisely because it contradicted everything the American public had been told.
The Tết Offensive was militarily costly for the communists. They suffered enormous casualties. Many units were effectively destroyed. But strategically and psychologically, it was devastating for the United States and its allies. The image of war, previously distant, managed, supposedly under control, collapsed overnight. If the enemy could strike everywhere, at once, during a holiday meant for peace, then victory was not near. The war was not winding down. It was exploding outward.
Nowhere was this clearer than in Huế, where fighting lasted weeks rather than days. The ancient imperial city was devastated. Thousands of civilians were killed. The scale of destruction shattered any remaining illusion that the war could be clean, limited, or morally simple. After Tết, public opinion in the United States shifted decisively. Trust in official statements eroded. Protests intensified. President Lyndon Johnson would soon announce he would not seek reelection.
In Vietnam, the aftermath was brutal and complicated. The Viet Cong infrastructure in the south was badly damaged, leading North Vietnam to take a more direct role in the fighting in later years. South Vietnamese cities were militarized further. Bombing escalated. Yet something irreversible had occurred. The psychological balance had tipped. The war could continue, but it could not return to what it had been before.
As the war dragged on into the early 1970s, Vietnam was exhausted. Negotiations began, stalled, resumed. Bombs fell even as talks progressed. When Saigon finally fell in 1975, ending the war, it was less a moment of triumph than of profound reckoning. The country was reunified, but deeply scarred.
Bánh xèo is something you should definitely try if you like crepes or Asian flavors.
Bánh Xèo (Vietnamese Crispy Sizzling Crepes)
Serves: 4–6 (makes 6–8 crepes)
Ingredients:
Batter:
1 cup rice flour
2 tbsp cornstarch
½ tsp turmeric powder
½ tsp salt
1½ cups cold water
½ cup coconut milk
2 green onions, sliced
Filling:
7 oz pork belly or shoulder, sliced
7 oz shrimp, peeled
½ onion, sliced
1 cup bean sprouts
For Serving:
Lettuce, herbs (mint, cilantro, basil, perilla)
Nước chấm: 3 tbsp each fish sauce, lime juice, water; 1 tbsp sugar; garlic and chili
Instructions:
Whisk batter; rest 30 minutes.
Cook pork, add shrimp and onions; set aside.
Heat oil in pan, pour thin batter, add filling and sprouts on one half.
Cook covered then uncovered until crispy; fold.
Wrap in lettuce/herbs and dip in sauce.
Tips:
Thin batter for crispiness.
Use nonstick or seasoned pan.
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