The Keeper of
Culinary Soul

I was born in old Hanoi, raised on authentic Northern Vietnamese dishes. But then, after my children grew up, I suddenly realized I had forgotten the taste of clay pot rice from my childhood, forgotten the flavor of fish soup with mustard greens my mother used to make. I started asking my mother again, but she was old, and she couldn't remember many dishes clearly anymore.

In 2015, I decided to quit my job in Hanoi and spent eight years traveling across Vietnam—from Hà Giang to Cà Mau, from city streets to remote villages. I stayed in local homes, entered kitchens with grandmothers and mothers, learned how they cooked. Not learning by writing down recipes, but learning with my hands, my eyes, my whole soul.

(Chef Hà smiles, her eyes softening)

I remember most clearly an 87-year-old woman in Hội An. She made cao lầu—a dish that people in Hội An say can only be properly made with water from Bá Lễ well. I asked her: "What's so special about this well water?" She said: "I don't know, but our ancestors have used this water for 400 years. So we just keep doing it."

Or in Huế, there was a couple who had sold bún bò for 50 years. They wake up at 3 AM every day to simmer the broth, never adding MSG. I asked: "Why not use MSG to speed things up?" She looked at me and said: "If I did that, would I still be myself?"

That question brought me to tears. I understood that for these people, cuisine isn't just a profession to make money. It's their identity, their pride, their way of existing.

Last year, I met Mr. Nhật at a culinary tourism conference. When he talked about the Bếp Củi concept, I cried. He said what I had been thinking silently for eight years: Vietnamese cuisine is gradually disappearing, not because there aren't people who love it, but because there aren't enough people who understand and preserve it properly.

I decided to join, not for the salary, but for the mission. At 63, I want what I've learned not to die with me, but to be passed on to the next generation.

When building the menu, we established three iron rules:

First, ingredients must be authentic. You see our lotus root salad with shrimp and pork? The lotus root must come from West Lake in Hanoi, because only Hanoi lotus has that distinctive crispness and sweetness. Shrimp must be fresh tiger prawns, never frozen. Pork belly must be from heritage pigs, sliced exactly 0.3cm thick, boiled in water with ginger and shallots.

Second, recipes must be traditional. The braised pork in clay pot on our menu—that's Mr. Nhật's family recipe, preserved for three generations. We tested it 17 times before achieving the exact flavor. The pork belly must have a 6:4 lean-to-fat ratio, cut into bite-sized pieces, blanched in boiling water to reduce fat, then simmered in a clay pot with Phú Quốc fish sauce, palm sugar, ground pepper, over low heat for three hours.

Why three hours exactly? Two hours and the meat hasn't absorbed enough flavor. Four hours and it becomes dry. Three hours is perfect—the meat is tender, deeply infused with caramel sauce, yet retains a slight chewiness when you bite.

Third, no shortcuts. Many people ask me: "Chef, pressure cookers are faster, why not use them?" I say: Some dishes need time to be delicious. Lemongrass chili chicken—if you use a pressure cooker, the meat will be tender but the lemongrass and chili won't penetrate to the bone. But if you braise it slowly over low heat, the chicken will absorb the seasonings from outside to inside, until even the bones are fragrant with lemongrass.

(Chef Hà thinks for a moment)

If I had to choose, I'd pick bánh xèo. Sounds simple, right? But to make an authentic Central Vietnamese bánh xèo, I spent six months researching.

It's not complex, dear—that's how Vietnamese people have always cooked. It's just that nowadays people are used to fast food, used to MSG, so when they eat properly prepared food, they find it "strange."

But you know what? Some diners cry after eating our bánh xèo. A Vietnamese woman who lives in America said: "It's been 40 years since I've had bánh xèo just like my mother used to make." A Korean tourist, after finishing, called me over and asked for the recipe because he wanted to make it for his Vietnamese wife.

That's when I know I'm doing it right.

Bamboo-tube grilled chicken—this is a dish I learned from the Tày people in Hà Giang. The chicken must be free-range, raised in gardens, with firm, sweet meat. After cleaning, marinate with lemongrass, garlic, mắc khén (a mountain spice), roasted rice powder, honey, and a touch of rice wine—marinate overnight so the meat absorbs the seasonings.

The next morning, stuff the chicken into fresh bamboo tubes that have been cleaned by fire—the bamboo must be young enough that when roasted, it releases fragrant sap. Roast over charcoal, turning evenly by hand, for about 45 minutes. When served, the bamboo skin is charred black, but split it open and the chicken is aromatic, tender and sweet, still retaining moisture inside.

This dish isn't just food. It's a story about mountains and forests, about ethnic minorities, about how Vietnamese people once lived in harmony with nature.

Or sour soup with snakehead fish—sounds simple, but to cook it well, you need to know many things. The snakehead must be fresh from rice paddies, cut into bite-sized pieces, lightly pan-fried for aroma. The broth uses naturally fermented rice water, plus tamarind, tomatoes, pineapple, okra, water spinach. Seasoning must achieve sour freshness, natural sweetness, just enough salt. Add herbs at the last minute, stir once and turn off heat—preserving the fresh flavor of vegetables.

This soup, in the old days, every family made it. But now, where do you find naturally fermented rice water? Who still has the patience to pan-fry fish before making soup? We do it, because we believe someone will appreciate it.

(Chef Hà's voice softens, becomes slower)

Dear ones, don't think cooking is just following recipes. Cooking is using all five senses and your heart.

When braising pork, you must listen to the bubbling of the liquid—if it boils too hard, the meat will be tough. You must smell the aroma of caramel sauce as it begins to thicken—that's when the meat starts absorbing the seasonings. You must watch the color of meat change from pink to reddish-brown. You must taste at each stage, adjusting saltiness and sweetness. And most importantly, you must cook with your heart—think of the person who will eat this dish, put all your love into it.

My mother used to say: "If a daughter doesn't know how to cook, that's fine, but she must know how to eat properly to preserve culture." I would add: Preserving culture isn't just about knowing how to eat, but knowing how to appreciate the effort of the cook.

I don't hope for Bếp Củi to become a famous restaurant or make lots of money. I only hope that everyone who comes here, after finishing their meal, will remember their grandmother, remember their mother, remember the flavors of childhood. They'll go home and call their mother, ask again for the recipe of the dish she used to make.

And if there's even one child who, after eating a meal at Bếp Củi, decides to learn cooking, to learn to preserve traditional cuisine, then I'll be completely fulfilled.

Bếp Củi isn't just a restaurant. It's a place to preserve memories, a bridge between past and present, a small flame that we hope will kindle love for Vietnamese cuisine in everyone's hearts.

(Chef Hà laughs, without hesitation)

Clay pot rice cooked over wood fire. That's our heart and soul.