‘Travelling – it leaves you speechless, and then turns you into a storyteller.’ – Ibn Battuta
Business travel rarely leaves room for leisure.
Istanbul almost did until protests broke out, and I ended up watching from my hotel window.
The past few weeks in Indochina were spent working behind the scenes as the quantitative backbone of tactical trade negotiations—building models, pricing risks and stress-testing each variable individually to pinpoint which shifts would move the numbers most under tight deadlines.
When a meeting was called off at the eleventh hour, I finally had a whole day to myself.
The relief was instant.
With that sliver of time, I wandered Hanoi.
Well, the capital of Vietnam doesn’t quite wake up the way other cities do.
It just … continues.
A city without an “off” switch, a restless current flowing from one breath to the next.
Even at 3 am, the current hums — a phantom scooter delivering eggs, a lone woman sweeping ghosts from her pavement, the low thrum of a broth pot bubbling under a single, naked bulb.
By dawn, the city isn’t roaring, it’s a furious, unholy symphony.
Motorbikes swarm like agitated hornets, a metallic tide.
Street vendors, ancient and unhurried, squat on sidewalks, their ladles dancing through breakfast bowls with the effortless grace of women who have done this for a thousand years.
This isn’t a city you visit; it’s a city that devours you whole.
I hit the street before the sun even dared to show its face, making a beeline for Hoan Kiem Lake, the jade-coloured green lung in the Old Quarter’s chest.
They told me that Emperor Le Loi got a magic sword here and kicked out the Chinese.
A golden turtle then rose from the depths to reclaim it, resetting the cosmic balance.
Myth or not, locals believe that the turtle still lurks, a silent guardian of Hanoi’s chaotic fate.
At dawn, the banks erupt: Grandmothers executing tai chi with surgical precision, teenagers busting out K-pop moves under weeping willows, old men chain-smoking in a stoic, unspoken brotherhood.
This, right here, is Hanoi’s raw, untamed soul, humming beneath the bedlam, refusing to be civilised.
Just a few minutes from the lake, the city’s true religion unfolds.
Forget some sanitised “Asian fusion” joint — you find yourself pulled, almost by instinct, to where the real alchemy happens.
The world outside screams with the sound of motorbike horns, but here, families gather after the temple, their chopsticks clattering rhythmically against bowls of bun cha.
Think chargrilled pork patties, smoky and sweet, drowning in a clear, sweet-sour broth, served with vermicelli and baskets of herbs so impossibly fresh they still smell of raw earth.
This isn’t just food, it’s a communion.
Backpackers slurp mango smoothies, eyes glued to screens, missing the real show.
And the pho?
A masterpiece of deceptive simplicity: Broth so clean it tastes like pure intention, beef so tender it melts, rice noodles that slide down your throat like silk threads.
Then there’s the egg coffee, Hanoi’s liquid sin, or so my J.P. Morgan (Vietnam) mathematician Truong claimed.
Dark, bitter Vietnamese brew, crowned with a whipped egg yolk custard so impossibly rich and frothy, it’s like tiramisu had a passionate short affair with an espresso shot and they fell madly, deeply in love.
This is a secret handshake, an indulgence.
At one point, I got lost in the Old Quarter for hours.
Each impossibly narrow street still screams its former trade — Hang Bac for silver, Hang Gai for silk, Hang Ma for ceremonial paper, ghost currency.
Colonial shop houses, weary and stoic, lean on each other like old drunks, their balconies sagging under tangles of vines and faded memories.
Above, power lines droop in menacing black nests, an electrician’s nightmare.
Below, the pavement is a living, breathing stage.
Barbers are giving shaves right there on the sidewalk, shoemakers are hammering out lives and the women are hunching over bubbling pots, their faces obscured by steam.
Motorbikes, driven by people who never learned to fear death, weave through it all with a balletic, lethal grace.
Then, I stumbled upon it — a street cart.
An old woman, her hands scarred by decades of work, sliced open a fresh baguette.
The crust shattered like glass — an audible crack — the inside airy and soft like cotton candy spun by angels.
This is banh mi.
She smeared homemade pate, stuffed it in pickled daikon and carrot, crisp cucumber slivers, cilantro, thin slices of pork and a wicked smear of chilli.
I bit into it and everything just exploded at once — the crisp bread, the sweet-sour pickles, the earthy, feral richness of the pate and the fresh herbs.
Anthony Bourdain once called Vietnam his soul food — I swear this sandwich alone is enough to convert any sceptic, any snob.
Here, US$1 (RM4.25) buys you humility in its most delicious, unpretentious form.
Michelin stars? They feel like a scam after a sandwich like this.
Lunch, if you can call it that, unfolds at Madam Hien, a colonial villa transformed into a culinary love letter.
Chef Didier Corlou dedicated it to his wife’s grandmother, and by extension, to every Vietnamese woman who dragged this country through famines and wars with nothing but a ladle and fierce will.
The air inside is thick with lemongrass and star anise, a fragrant embrace.
Crab spring rolls arrive, impossibly crisp and delicate, the crabmeat so sweet it could make you weep.
The pho here is restrained, almost austere, a masterclass in quiet power.
Each dish doesn’t just taste good; it weaves Vietnam’s landscapes onto a plate — highland spices, delta herbs, coastal seafood — and each mouthful whispers of resilience, a secret recipe for survival passed down from grandmother to granddaughter.
Afterward, a pilgrimage to the Temple of Literature, built in 1070 as Vietnam’s first university.
Stone turtles, ancient and wise, bear the stelae of scholars who aced imperial exams centuries ago.
Students flock to the temple before their exams, hoping a whiff of Confucian wisdom might stick.
I stood there, dumbfounded, wondering what the old scholars, with their handwritten characters on bamboo slips, would make of us today — flicking through TikTok, chasing meaning in hashtags.
There’s a humility here that scrapes away all your arrogance and leaves only what truly matters: the discipline to think, the unquenchable hunger to learn.
Dinner is at La Badiane —French for star anise — a place that effortlessly bridges continents.
Down a corridor lined with tropical plants, you enter a glass-roofed patio bathed in candlelight, a sanctuary.
Chef Benjamin Rascalou’s menu is where French technique gets down and dirty with Vietnamese soul.
Seared duck breast, glazed in a five-spice honey, is impossibly tender and fragrant atop pumpkin purée laced with lemongrass.
Bouillabaisse is reimagined, reborn with Hanoi’s freshwater prawns and fish, the broth rich with saffron, a deep, resonant hum.
Coconut-lime panna cotta finishes you off.
This place has racked up awards like a collector but it wears its excellence with a quiet confidence, the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are, without needing to shout about it.
Night descends but Hanoi, true to form, doesn’t sleep.
Back in the Old Quarter, I find myself on a tiny, blue plastic stool at 2 am, slurping pho from a pot that’s been bubbling since dusk, absorbing the city’s very essence.
Around me, drunk students stumble, old men play Chinese chess under flickering street lamps, lovers share ice cream, motorbikes buzz past into the humid dark.
I sip bia hoi, the city’s daily-brewed beer, so fresh and light it vanishes from memory almost before you swallow.
Vietnam is a place that eats you alive, spits you out and feeds you back to yourself cleaner, sharper, hungrier than ever.
Hanoi is humility served straight up — in a bowl of broth, in a cheap sandwich, in a city that will never, ever apologise for what it is.
Come hungry.
Leave humbled, with strong clarity on what next week’s business column needs to say, for example.
And always, always save room for banh mi — sandwiches baked by angels, served on a sidewalk, reminding you that life’s finest pleasures are found crouched low, bread cracking under your teeth, as a thousand motorbikes roar past into the beautiful, chaotic dark.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at med.akilis@gmail.com
