By the time I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City and checked into my hostel, it was already past midnight. My hope for a decent meal faded. I looked at my “must-eat” list and consoled myself that everything would be checked off soon, albeit after a night’s wait.

　　With that hope, I began searching for places that guaranteed I wouldn’t head to bed on an empty stomach. Decisions had to be made–my options were limited to McDonald’s or instant noodles from a departmental store around the corner. Instant noodles were it. McDonald’s, I decided, was my last resort–as it often is in a new country.

　　After a five-minute walk, I found myself scanning the shelves of a 24/7 convenience store. Bright blue, yellow, and red packs with bold illustrations of shrimp, squid and fish screamed at me, and before I knew it, my basket was full.

　　I quickly returned to the hostel and, in the dimly lit community kitchen, made my first meal in a destination famous for kerbside pho. After slurping up the last noodle and braving the tongue-numbing heat, my first meal came to an underwhelming end.

　　How could I tell my mind, after it had conjured up images of everything I’d be eating in Vietnam that this was how it had to begin? And in that moment, my otherwise cautious mind gave way to the impulse of being in a new country—a place known for neon-coloured lanes and tiny plastic stools pouring out on the streets—and ordered, “No way! You’re in Vietnam!”

　　And there I went, at 2 am, in search of a meal that deserved to inaugurate the epicurean journey the trip came to be. After walking a few miles towards the centrally located City Hall, a French colonial-style building completed in 1908, I came across a scene straight out of the countless pictures I’d drooled over.

　　A long lane with eateries on each side spread itself in front of me. Their starkly lit LED signboards beamed the same warm glow that welcomes a dreamy-eyed kid into a magical world in comic books. My moment of silent serendipity was interrupted suddenly by the loud hip-hop music blasting on the stereo in one of the eateries.

　　Convinced by the muddled chatter, loud calls for more pints, and smoke infused with the sting of spice, I grabbed a street-side spot at Quan An Bac Hien. I was promptly handed a three-page menu with everything written in Vietnamese. My bleak understanding of what a dish could be was pegged on the tiny, blurry images next to it. Luckily, a kind gentleman from the table beside took note of our confusion and called for nghêu hap sa ot (steamed clams with lemongrass and chilli), nem nuong (smoky and sweet pork skewers), and cha giò (crispy Vietnamese spring rolls)–all his favourites. Cans of Bia Saigon were added to complete the order–my only contribution.

　　What arrived on the table were simmering pots of Vietnam’s regional diversity. Smoky, sweet, sticky and yet meaty–the sharp flavours of nem nuong are typical of the coastal Khánh Hòa Province in the south, where the influence of Khmer (Cambodian) cuisine seeps through the border. Even the subtly fragrant aroma of the nghêu hap sa ot, rising with the heat, is redolent of the southern region’s food culture–where the seafood is available abundantly, and spices are used generously to beat the topical heat.

　　Street Finds

　　Awoken by the memories of the meal I had the night before, I hurried out in the sunlit streets, searching for the next. Whether you walk aimlessly, in a particular direction, or take the wrong turn, in Vietnam, the next best meal awaits at every turn. That’s how I stumbled upon mine, a soothing hot bowl of bún riêu cua–a traditional tomato-based broth served with rice noodles, fried tofu, huyet or congealed pig’s blood, and sliced cha cá or fish sausage with a side of greens. It was an explosion of contrasting textures and flavours–fried mingled with the crunch of fresh herbs and the tang cut through the salty, meaty broth. Each bite was washed down with a sip of the faint yellow-coloured iced tea that comes unsaid with every order.

　　As I ate and looked around, even Monday morning seemed as easy as Sunday–people, old and young, crouched on tiny stools covered every inch of the sidewalk. Eating local is the Vietnamese way of life. And not just for those toiling in laborious jobs.

　　In Hanoi’s Old Quarter, also known as the Hoan Kiem District, this way of life only became more vivid. The neighbourhood is made up of crammed lanes housing aged buildings, old shops, and small bún cha and pho joints at every ten steps. At the same time, these ancient streets are also littered with happening cocktail and wine bars hidden in plain sight.

　　A walk around the Old Quarter is a sensorial adventure. At once, I was dodging mopeds coming in from two directions, convincing the old lady with a kind smile selling bánh rán (a deep-fried rice ball with sesame seed crust and sweet mung bean filling) that I’ll be back for more, and fighting the urge not to grab a stool by the road for a second pho of the day. I obviously gave in. There I was again, by the road, with a bowl of pho.

　　Nothing encapsulates the country like this traditional noodle soup with red meat. It’s unapologetic and in-your-face but somehow so familiar that it makes you its own–a lot like Vietnam. But there’s more to it that makes it so symbolic–its history reflects Vietnam’s.

　　Some believe that although it was created between the late 19th to 18th centuries in northern Vietnam, it borrowed the inclusion of red meat from the French colonisers and the use of spices and rice noodles from the Chinese settlers.

　　Even the name “pho” is believed to have been derived from the name of a French dish, “pot-au-feu”–a dish consisting of broth served with slow-cooked meat and vegetables.

　　The story of pho has many versions, just as the dish does–from north to south of Vietnam, pho takes on different flavours and ingredients.

　　Served Chilled... And Hot

　　But in Hanoi itself, it takes on a completely different avatar, and I devoted my last night in the city to searching for it. After giving up on maps and my shoddy internet connection several times, I finally found my way to Tong Duy Tân, where Nê Cocktail and Wine Bar, known best for the unique pho cocktail, stood hidden in the dark. Behind the doors, jazz music filled the tiny, dimly-lit space.

　　Imagined by Phan Tan Tiep for the Diageo World Class Competition in 2012, the cocktail has become Hanoi’s culinary treasure and not just for its whacky concoction.

　　Anybody who orders the pho cocktail is given a front-row seat right at the bar, where the action is, and so was I. They let me settle down and strap myself in for a show that the making of this cocktail involves.

　　When the bartender sees I am ready and my attention is all theirs, they begin. First, the concoction of gin and Cointreau is flambéed. Then a stand is brought in, in which three cups are fixed above each other at an equal distance, each containing spices central to pho–cinnamon, cardamom and star anise.

　　After the concoction is slightly warm, it is torched again, and the show begins. The heated concoction is poured from above, passing through each cup and lighting it up in electric blue flames, ensuring it’s infused with the fragrance of the spices.

　　This is repeated five times and is then finally strained over ice. For the final touch, a cinnamon stick and herbs are added. The drink is then served with a side of chilli and lime wedges.

　　After that set-up, I was ready for the main act–my first sip. At first, the freshness of the herbs soothes your palate, setting it up for the kick of spice that follows. Then, there’s a hint of sweetness warming you up for the sharp tartness that lingers till you go in for another sip, then another till it’s your last, and you hear yourself say, “I’ll take another one.”

　　And as I did, too, my “must eat” list popped up in my mind again. It never had the pho cocktail, nghêu hap sa ot, or bún riêu cua–those were all surprises Vietnam offers, and there is so much more. And even though a lot from my list wasn’t checked off, unlike my first night, I didn’t mind, for it meant I had a reason to return.