Street Food of Saigon

Three bites from the Hồ Thị Kỷ Flower Market

Hồ Thị Kỷ Flower Market - June 21, 2023

In a state of osmosis, motorbikes pulse through the crowded alleyways with spontaneous movement, circulating in fluid chaos. Moving between the mopeds, as if in a trance, the smell of flowers and fried fish lure me in, hook, like, and sinker. Chaos, overwhelm, indigestion, sweat, and spice; this is why I’ve come to Hồ Thị Kỷ Flower Market.

FIRST BITE: street meat, which is, in my opinion, the amuse-bouche of any travel-eating adventure. It only takes a few bite-size pieces of charred-to-perfection protein to wake up the taste buds and prepare your gullet for what is to come. At the Hồ Thị Kỷ Flower Market, I bite into a sweet and savory pork sausage patty, grilled until slightly charred and draped with a cute slice of American cheese. Served with a side of a sweeter ketchup-ish sauce, and a stripe of mayonnaise, these few bites are the perfect way to occupy your hunger while wandering the gauntlet of street food options. 

Next up, bánh mì. Regional sandwiches are my love language that borders obsession. They represent portable microcosms of a community, usually made by and for the laborers of a region to have as their first meal of the day. In a single bite, you can taste the history of a nation. The bánh mì sandwich was first assembled in Saigon in the late 1950s. French colonialism on the outside, robustly Vietnamese on the inside. Within the sensory overload chaos of Hồ Thị Kỷ Flower Market, I was admittedly intimidated, and nervous for my first bánh mì. Like butterflies before a first date. What if I don’t like it? What if this isn’t the place, the person to order from? Anxiety masking my excitement. My Americanized lens of a bánh mì is a stereotypically oversized one, made with multiple types of meat varieties and overflowing with toppings. This abundance, I realize, is to mask the lack of flavor. Here in Ho Chi Minh City, the opposite is true. Two modest skewers of grilled marinated pork are prepared as my sandwich maker delicately trims off the burnt ends with a pair of scissors. He gently places the pork between a lightly toasted French baguette that has been brushed with just a whisper of hoisin and chili sauce. Then, a blanket of sweet and acidic pickled daikon and carrot is added which creates the textbook definition of perfectly balanced flavors: savory, spicy, sweet, acidic, and filling all within a soft and crunchy bread. The sandwich is then tucked into a plastic bag and ready to go. 

With each bite, flavorful grease from the pork sausage begins to steep through the flaky baguette until drips of red are sliding down my chin and hands. The bright flavors bleed throughout the bread which creates a culinary magic trick, giving the sandwich the illusion that there is more filling than bread. The unignorable heat and vibrancy of the marinated meat and veggies take command of each bite. The way these traditional flavors permeate through the white bread is the perfect allegory for Vietnamese tenacity, perseverance,  and will for independence. Cultural dominance from the inside conquers its colonial baggage, or baguette in this case. 

Before we leave the market, I see a dance that I cannot ignore. It is the dance of the frying baby squid. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, six squid legs on a skewer gracefully glide across a lake of hot oil and it reminds me of watching ice skaters twist and spin across the ice. Like a dancer, the squid's legs begin to twist and curl up with each brush of movement across the griddle, all controlled by their grillmaster-maestro.

The squid legs are covered with three different types of chili salt, getting a bath of hot oil between applications of chili salt to lock in and deepen the spice. The result is a beautiful rose of red and purple tentacles served with scallions and a side of hot chili sauce. Spicy, salty, and mildly chewy, this dish would be the perfect side piece to a frosted beer.