A Noodle Legacy Endures in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta
In the riverside city of Rạch Giá, a modest stall run by an 80-year-old matriarch has served traditional fish noodle soup for over half a century—and still draws crowds each morning.
In Vietnam’s southwestern Mekong Delta, a local adage remains common parlance: “Rạch Giá for noodle soup, Hà Tiên for fish.” The saying carries more than culinary weight. It signals the importance of regional identity, where meals are made from memory and steeped in local pride.
In Rạch Giá, the capital of Kiên Giang Province, the city’s signature fish noodle soup—bún cá—has become harder to find in its original form. But one stall, Hai Tầm’s, continues to serve the classic version, much as it has since the 1970s. It is not a restaurant in the modern sense. There is no sign. Yet customers across generations know exactly where to go.
At a narrow storefront on Trần Quang Khải Street, 80-year-old Viên Thị Liên—known to all as “Hai Tầm”—sits beside a pot of steaming broth, ladling it into porcelain bowls with practiced precision. Her hair silvered and neatly tied back, she inspects each serving with quiet care. While stainless steel tables fill the tiled shop, longtime regulars still prefer the low wooden table where she sits. The atmosphere is warm, unhurried. Lemongrass wafts through the air, mingling with steam and the sound of spoons on bowls.
A Morning Routine that Built a Family
Each day begins at 4:00 a.m. when Hai Tầm and her family prepare the ingredients. She insists on using cá lóc, or snakehead fish, sourced from the freshwater streams around Phú Quốc Island. The fish must have a dark, even skin—she considers it a mark of freshness and flavor. After cleaning and filleting, it’s gently parboiled to maintain its firmness and integrity in the soup.
The broth is simmered for hours, made from fish bones, lemongrass, fried shallots and fermented nước mắm, or fish sauce. The result is a light but full-bodied stock that balances savory depth with a subtle sweetness. “People often ask for the recipe,” she says. “I give it. But not everyone can match the flavor. The seasoning depends on the hand.”
The bowl comes together quickly at the counter: rice noodles, several pieces of fish, and 4–5 sea shrimp rimmed with natural roe, their crimson hue a natural highlight. On top, diners add bean sprouts, cucumber shreds, mint, and a spoonful of house-made pickled shallots. A crispy bánh cống—a fried fritter of mung bean and shrimp—is usually served on the side.
Low Prices, High Loyalty
For all its care and quality, the dish remains affordable. A small bowl costs 30,000 Vietnamese dong, or roughly $1.20. Medium and large portions run 35,000 and 40,000 dong, with modest surcharges for extra fish or shrimp. “We have workers, teachers, families. We can’t charge high prices,” she says.
The shop opens at 6:00 a.m. and regularly sells out before 9:00. Some mornings, the line starts forming just after sunrise. The clientele ranges from schoolchildren and retirees to curious tourists. Many arrive as strangers and return as regulars.
A Business Rooted in Routine
Hai Tầm learned to cook bún cá at age 16, apprenticing under her aunt. After decades of early mornings and manual preparation, she now shares the daily work with her daughter-in-law, Mỹ Linh, who wears a red-and-black shirt and is often seen at the stove. The two women work side by side, ensuring consistency in each bowl.
“If it doesn’t taste right, people won’t come back,” says Hai Tầm. It’s a simple truth, refined over years of repetition. While she’s passed down the techniques, she still oversees every bowl served.
The shop has done more than serve breakfast. It helped raise a family. Hai Tầm and her late husband used the business to support their six children, all of whom earned university degrees and have stable careers today. “They’re successful now,” she says. “And that makes all the hard work worth it.”
Today, the family owns the building—two adjoining shop-houses purchased by her son. They also lease out roughly 50 acres of farmland outside the city. Despite now having the means to retire comfortably, she has no plans to step away. “I come here for the joy,” she says. “I don’t know what to do at home.”
What Endures
A bowl of fish noodle soup at Hai Tầm’s is more than sustenance. It is a family’s story in edible form, a recipe handed down and held tight. It is also a link to a city’s culinary identity that might otherwise be forgotten. “Try it once,” she says, setting down a bowl with a quiet smile. “You’ll remember it.”
