Joey Gann

Some joke that Ho Chi Minh City (still widely known as Saigon) is one massive, sprawling food court, thanks to the sheer variety of options on every corner. However, that characterisation would do a disservice to the exciting things happening behind closed doors, up elevators, and through thick partition curtains all across the city. Where Hanoi might throw its most concentrated spotlight on perfecting centuries-old recipes, Saigon is restless, relentless, and forever thrusting forward – a city that treats its heritage as a launch pad rather than a landing strip. This dynamism isn't accidental. The median age of the Saigonese is just 28, and they're powering Vietnam's lightning-speed economic rise just 25 years after Bill Clinton finally normalised relations over a bowl of phở. Meanwhile, a reverse migration is welcoming home the Viet Kieu – those whose families left during the war – now returning with MBAs, Michelin training, and ambitious plans for Vietnam’s financial epicentre. All of this converges in a thrilling food scene. We’ve eaten all the way from suburban Phú Nhuận to District 1's knotty hẻms, through Saigon's endless maze of shophouses, market stalls, and growing roster of hot new restaurants. We’ve relied on tips exchanged on the back of a xe ôm, joined the longest local queues, and revisited each spot multiple times before inclusion, prioritising bold flavours, great value, and that indefinable Saigon energy.  Whether it's broken rice or breaking culinary bounda

Stopped at a red light, taking it all in, no place on earth feels more viscerally alive with possibility than Hanoi. The possibility of a great dinner, mainly. While high-rises increasingly puncture the skyline, Hanoi's soul remains at street level – on blue plastic stools, in the haze of charcoal smoke, as part of the morning ritual of having soup for breakfast. There's something profoundly grounding about a food scene that refuses to rise with the architecture.  But Hanoi's culinary ambitions aren't confined to the pavement. A new generation of chefs is taking those same time-honoured traditions and giving them space to breathe in dedicated dining rooms. These aren't betrayals of tradition but expansions of it. We've crowdsourced picks from readers and insiders, crossing the line from customer to furniture in more restaurants than we're proud to admit, and drunk so many cups of egg coffee that we're quivering as we write this guide. Every spot has been visited multiple times, often at different hours, to catch its different sides. We've prioritised tradition as much as innovation, a serene dining room as much as a spirited one, but good value and great flavour are non-negotiable. Budget or blow-out, it's got to be worth the money, and it's got to taste fantastic. If it’s made this list, both boxes have been ticked emphatically.

When French chef Julien Perraudin opened Quince in a renovated mansion in District 1 in 2018, he brought with him a philosophy honed in the kitchens of London, Melbourne and Bangkok - that fine dining needn’t equate to fuss or frippery. Instead, Quince is anchored by the ancient alchemy of wood and flame, where every dish emerges from ovens that have been burning since the doors opened. The vibe: Moodily lit to emphasise the glow of the grill, exposed brick walls and copper fixtures create a casual-luxe aesthetic that carries through in the service and dishes. French speakers will appreciate the wordplay of the neon 'Au bon coing' sign hanging above that counter - "au bon coin" (at the good spot) becomes "au bon coing" (at the good quince), and everything feels right with the world. Though there are larger tables in the warehouse-chic dining room, the best place to eat is without doubt on one of the six counter seats, overlooking the 500°C furnaces. Sure, you'll leave thoroughly seasoned with smoke, sure, but you won't regret a minute of it. The food: Neither salt nor fish sauce, wood is the primary seasoning at Quince, and Perraudin personally selects different log types—iron bark for high-heat searing, and fruit woods for slower roasts—to ensure that luxury ingredients are given the respect they deserve. So, that's barbecued Hokkaido scallops with morteau sausage cappelletti and a decadent Vin Jaune sauce, or grilled foie gras and bluefin tuna Akami with smoked vinaigrette.

One of Vietnam's leading vegetarian restaurants in a pretty setting, serving a majority of plant-based dishes with a focus on wellness and balance. While the mission statement could easily drift toward plain ‘health food’ in less judicious hands, the bold flavours and intricate plating make Chay Garden a destination for any diner, vegetarian or otherwise. The vibe: Opened in 2018, the villa has three distinct dining environments. The main entrance, featuring lounge seating, is ideal for kicking back. The formal dining room, often booked out for Buddhist holidays, and the covered garden patio are the star attractions.  Here, tropical plants and earthy, biophilic decor seem to have an almost symbiotic relationship with what's on the plate. Stylish rather than stylised, the whole thing is wrapped in fairy lights that create genuine enchantment and peaceful contemplation. Massive old-school propeller fans occasionally send napkins flying, adding the most gentle, charming unpredictability. The food: Vietnamese vegetarian cuisine sourced from traditional monastic cooking traditions, with thoughtful Thai flourishes throughout, and the odd fusion touch thrown in for good measure. Vegetables arrive twice daily from organic farms in Củ Chi, ensuring peak freshness. The kitchen excels at layered preparations. The signature eggplant-banana clay pot achieves a perfect sweet-savoury balance through careful coconut milk 'cracking', while six varieties of Đà Lạt mushrooms create remarkable u

Though Ốc Đào is nominally a snail restaurant, it's so much more than that - scallops, shrimp, clams, and all manner of curious cephalopoda (octopus teeth, anyone?) are here to be picked over and washed down with copious cold beers and bawdy, boisterous conversation. This represents Vietnamese nhậu (drinking and eating culture) at its most visceral, where playing with your food becomes part of the pleasure. The vibe: Two floors of metal tables and plastic chairs cascade into the building's forecourt, where shell debris crunches underfoot like gravel. Rather than be confined indoors, the open air is where you want to be - legs stretched out, head thrown back, fully committed to the messy ritual. There's a miasma of aromas - garlic, butter, oceanic spray, fish sauce, charcoal and cigarettes. For the uninitiated, it can leave you reeling.  Back inside, ceiling murals of flying seagulls (real ones would have an absolute field day here!) and painted palm tree scenes give 'Mykonos in Manchester' energy. The stark, clinical lighting proves useful when picking at shells, though. The food: Fresh shellfish arrive daily from Phan Thiết. Big fish tanks display massive live lobster and crab plotting their escape, while fridges stock a dizzying range of snail species.  The kitchen treats everything four ways: grilled, stir-fried, roasted, and steamed. Palm-sized ốc hương (babylon snails) remain the most popular order, a signature satay-adjacent sauce pooled in their spirals. Other standout

When Malaysian chef Adrian Chong Yen opened Sol in 2018, he had never actually visited Latin America. He had, however, noticed a connection between the region’s cuisine and South East Asia’s, through shared ingredients and techniques, and decided to follow that observation to its natural conclusion. 7 years later, and Sol delivers on that connection with ever greater clarity. The vibe: The architectural drama hits immediately - high ceilings and soaring arched windows give views of Bến Thành Market's bustle while flooding the dining room with light.  A soundtrack of hip hop and reggaeton provides the perfect backdrop for the mixed expat and local crowd that swells during happy hour. Abundant succulents further build that mental bridge between the cross-continental climes of HCMC and CDMX. The food: This isn't about disappointing takes on 'fusion' food that have you wishing for one or the other. Chef Adrian has over a decade of experience cooking in Singapore and brings a precise touch to the proceedings. The focus falls most firmly on Mexican food. The signature crab chicharron trades traditional tortilla chips or pork rinds for - hear us out -  deep-fried soft-shell crab, the crab designed to be the scooping device for guacamole. The cochinillo asado is our favourite dish at Sol; hunks of suckling pig with dramatic shard-like crispy skin that rise from the plate like limestone karsts emerging from Hạ Long Bay's emerald waters. If those waters were a BBQ corn purée, of course

Bún Thịt Nướng Chị Tuyền has commanded a corner of foodie thoroughfare Cô Giang for three decades, representing the purest expression of Vietnamese street food philosophy: master one dish completely rather than dilute focus across dozens. It's a pursuit of perfection that has led to immense popularity. Peak consumption reaches 500 bowls on busy days. The vibe: Rendered in what can only be described as 'grandma lavender', this 30-year-old shophouse was doing statement pastel tones long before millennial pink took over Tumblr. Or, indeed, before Tumblr even existed. Clinical stainless steel tables and stools keep things churning, everything as efficient as possible, with no unnecessary frills or flourishes. The ground floor fills with locals during the lunch rush, and there's serious spillover on the street, with makeshift dining tables forming on scooter seats. The fact that there's no air conditioning is a blessing; it makes for quicker turnover. Wearing flowing, breathable clothes is essential survival gear. The food: A bird's-eye view of the dish may look bland; it consists of cold, barium sulfate-white noodles, some foliage, and grilled pork. You have to muddle it, really toss it, to reveal the dressing that sits at the bottom of the bowl and all the delightful gubbins hidden beneath the noodles. Do so, and you'll find crushed peanuts, a tangle of pickled carrot and daikon, even little cubes of pork crackling. Then a server arrives at your table with freshly fried spring r

The story of Ănăn is inextricably linked to chef Peter Cường Franklin's remarkable personal journey. Born near Đà Lạt, where his mother ran a noodle stall, Franklin was airlifted from Saigon at age 12 in 1975 and adopted by an American naval family. He graduated from Yale and built a successful finance career in New York, but in 1995, when a childhood friend located his birth mother, Franklin returned to Vietnam for an emotional reunion. Abandoning finance to pursue his culinary calling, he worked in prestigious kitchens including Alinea in Chicago and Nahm in Bangkok before returning to Vietnam in 2017 to open Ănăn, winning a Michelin star in the inaugural guide for Ho Chi Minh City. The vibe: Ănăn’s ambitions keep shooting skyward, with new concepts built onto the flagship restaurant, and the atmosphere shapeshifts as you ascend. The ground floor maintains an intimate fine dining ambience, while the second floor Nhậu Nhậu’s speakeasy vibe and drinking food captures Saigon's after-dark spirit. The third floor specialises in noodle artistry, and the rooftop offers stunning city views for outdoor dining and drinking. This vertical progression creates distinct moods within a single address, and it's easy to imagine yourself losing a weekend in here, bouncing between venues like a pinball. The food: Franklin calls his approach 'Cuisine Mới' (New Cuisine), applying French techniques to Vietnamese street food. At Ănăn, Chef Peter's Tasting Menu is the main event, detailing a culin

Cơm tấm (broken rice) emerged from resourcefulness in early 20th-century Saigon when fractured grains from processing were relegated to animal feed. Saigon's labourers discovered these broken grains absorbed flavours better and had a unique, satisfying texture. By the mid-20th century, these fractured grains had become an iconic dish enjoyed across all social classes; cơm tấm, a complete meal where broken rice serves as the foundation for all sorts of goodies, from grilled meats to pickled vegetables, fried eggs and more.  Cơm Tấm Ba Ghiền is widely considered as one of Saigon's finest purveyors of the good stuff. The vibe: Accessible via a narrow alley adjacent to a prominent Catholic church (the restaurant arguably has an even larger following), Cơm Tấm Ba Ghiền occupies a traditional shophouse in the laid-back Phú Nhuận District.  Large menu posters with photos and prices cover the walls in lieu of art or decor, and there’s no air conditioning here - just fans pushing around the aroma of continuously grilling pork. The clientele remains predominantly local, comprising office workers and families, although food pilgrims have increased since Michelin's nod in 2023. The food: Owner Trương Vĩnh Thụy, who inherited the recipe from his mother, oversees production of over 3,000 plates of cơm tấm daily.  The highlight: mammoth pork chops that sit next to the grill in deep plastic buckets full of a sweet, viscous secret marinade. They're grilled with a massive fan propeller blowing

Forget everything you think you know about hotel restaurants – and traditional izakayas, for that matter. Two floors below the Capella's marble lobby, behind a velvet curtain that smells faintly of binchotan smoke, sits Hanoi's most sophisticated Japanese kitchen, where 70% of ingredients arrive on twice-monthly cargo flights from Japan and the sake selection is Vietnam's largest. The vibe: No red lanterns and tables sticky with spilt Asahi here - this is an izakaya in name only. Choose from a variety of seating options, depending on the level of intimacy you're after: the sushi counter for solo dining, semi-private booths separated by sliding screens, or the beautifully lit, spaciously appointed main dining room. Service operates on an almost telepathic level - your water glass never empties, your wasabi is grated fresh without asking. The food: The menu is vast and at times intimidating, with the grill section living up to the izakaya promise – from yakitori to premium wagyu, all kissed by charcoal. Don't miss out on the unagi. Lacquered in a tare sauce that's been coaxed and reduced until it tastes like the very essence of umami, the eel is soft enough to cut with chopsticks.  If you’re among friends, focus your mind further and go for their shabu shabu set, which features premium Yaeyama Kyori beef from Okinawa. Swish it briefly in kombu broth until it melts into silk. The drinks: Skip the wine list and surrender to the sake selection. Their house-exclusive Izumi by Koki

Self-taught chef Sam Tran spent nearly a decade in Melbourne's restaurant scene before returning home to prove a point: that a Vietnamese restaurant can achieve fine-dining status without genuflecting to foie gras, caviar or other imported luxuries. In 2023, Vietnam's first Michelin Guide handed Gia - meaning ‘home’ - a star, recognising not just culinary excellence but cultural reclamation. The vibe: Golden alcoves depicting Vietnamese daily life illuminate a dimly lit dining room. Through a wall of windows, the open kitchen blazes bright, while the fermentation laboratory displays mason jars bubbling with tomorrow's umami bombs. Everything feels considered: the evening starts in the lounge with chilled oolong tea and 'guess the ingredient'; handwritten cards describing each dish form the roof of a miniature model of the restaurant on every table; dessert is served in a separate space below, creating a physical journey that mirrors the tasting menu's emotional arc (and gives you a very brief chance to walk off your mains). The food: The 12-course tasting menu at Gia changes with Hanoi's weather patterns, ever-shifting topography and lunar celebrations. Dishes showcase remarkable purity, celebrating a single crop, grower, or even geographical feature. Key ingredients are brought to the table throughout the evening - whether that’s Tú Lệ rice that’s been cooked in pure Mường Lộ stream water, or prized H’mong chicken that forages all day before dutifully returning home (pure po

Etēsia is what happens when the crew behind Hanoi cocktail legend Polite & Co decide to tackle premium wine and Coastal European food - they go full throttle, importing a Coravin system to pour everything from crisp albariños to 40-year-old Burgundies by the glass, and pairing them with light, bright, Michelin-approved small plates to match. The vibe: It’s Greece meets Hanoi. The sophisticated wine bar aesthetic is tempered by playful design choices: huge woven basket lights cast honeyed shadows, and walls are carved with backlit, organic alcoves to evoke a Cycladic cave house after dark.  The happy hour crowd tends young and international; post-8pm brings the wine cognoscenti. Of course, you can still drop by solo, rest your elbows on that counter, and enjoy some grilled sardines on toast and a kombucha. It’s that kind of place: convivial and inclusive. For the stool-averse, there are a smattering of four tops in quieter corners.  The food: The menu leans Mediterranean but incorporates Pan-Asian touches – wagyu carpaccio on chilled Himalayan salt blocks with crispy beef tendon, or pastis-flambéed prawns with yuzu and finger lime.  While the ingredient lists read as complex, the combinations land with surprising poise. These are complete, composed plates built to pair with wine The drinks: This is where Etēsia flexes hardest, with 350 labels heavy on Old World nobility. Burgundy dominates (they've got verticals of Chablis going back to '83), but there's serious Rhône represen

The story behind Tầm Vị is a satisfying one: a mother-daughter duo without formal culinary training open their doors in 2019 to share family recipes, earning a Michelin star in 2023 simply by cooking “like a mother to their children.” This translates into a seasonally changing menu of subtle, home-style Northern Vietnamese cuisine. That it’s one of the world's most affordable Michelin experiences seems beside the point; there's something more transcendent at work here. You leave Tam Vi feeling wholly nourished, like you’ve just finished a round of mantra meditation, only if the mantra was “ăn ngon nhé”. The vibe: The wooden ancestral home transports guests away from the frenetic Nguyễn Thái Học thoroughfare into a quieter epoch. The atmosphere feels quite sacred, and voices rarely reach full pelt. Of course, there is the suave aroma of incense. The food: The extensive menu focuses on Northern Vietnamese home cooking without fuss or frippery. Standout dishes include the deceptively simple fried tofu with spring onions, the clay pot fish braised in fish sauce with peppercorns, ginger, and lemongrass, and fried pork rinds with tomato sauce. No trendy techniques or architectural plating here. Just expertly seasoned, graceful cooking.  Seasonal sweets excel, too: summer brings iced longan and lotus iced ‘soup’, garnished with coconut ribbons. In winter, it’s warm ginger syrup with black sesame dumplings. The drinks: They don't stock wine (you can BYO), but they’ll bring you a Hano

For two decades, Quán Ăn Ngon has served as something of a culinary embassy in Hanoi, its distinctive yellow awnings sheltering a magnificent villa that's welcomed everyone from North Korean delegations to international film crews. Yet on any given evening it's still 90% Vietnamese diners – families sharing hot pot and beer, business dinners unfolding (and unravelling, quite frankly) over rice wine, and friends catching up in an atmosphere where you simply won’t be served unless you deliver your finest “em ơi” with a real flourish.  The vibe: Through the pretty, lantern-lit entrance, the onslaught of traffic noise fades, replaced by the clattering of woks, the hissing of coals, and the intoxicating din of 500 diners across multiple levels. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed. The heart of it all: a vast brick-paved courtyard where chefs work at open kitchens along the perimeter. Servers thread between sharing tables, trays loaded high. Everything is full-on here. Pick your poison: the atmospheric courtyard, the air-conditioned indoor rooms, or the upper levels, where you can survey the beautiful chaos below. The food: An all-star roster of street food specialities from across Vietnam, all in one place. Directly to your left as you enter, the snail and shellfish station fills the air with the clatter of cockle shells hitting hot woks. From the grill corner, roasting chim quay (pigeon) sends ‘come hither’ smoke signals across the courtyard. There’s a lot to be said