In Hue, under a clear sky, I stood before an old light blue car, parked in a corner of the Từ Đàm temple. It wasn’t abandoned but preserved like a treasure, protected from sun and rain, as a precious object. The license plate, DBA 599, probably references a South Vietnamese regime vehicle used before 1975. Next to it, a sign explains in Vietnamese and English:

“A relic. With this car, Thích Quảng Đức traveled from the Ấn Quang pagoda to the intersection of Phan Đình Phùng and Lê Văn Duyệt streets on June 11, 1963, in Saigon. Upon exiting the car, he sat in the lotus position and set himself on fire, dying to protest against Ngô Đình Diệm’s discriminatory policies.”

No further comment. Only those words were enough to awaken in me the curiosity and the need to understand who Thích Quảng Đức really was and what that journey from a Saigon pagoda to the place of a final appointment with life, on that blue car that moved without hesitation toward a fire destined to ignite the conscience of the world. I noticed it because it had nothing to do with the rest: no other vehicle, no sign of modernity. Only that old “Austin,” frozen in time.

The car did not belong to Thích Quảng Đức: it had been lent to him by a lay Buddhist for that dramatic move, and after 1963, it was taken to Huế, a city symbol of religious repression, and kept as a relic. An elderly monk, seeing me fixate on the car, approached silently. With a faint voice, in rough English, he told me:

“This car was used that day. It did not leave from here, but from Saigon. It was with this that Thích Quảng Đức arrived at the intersection… and sat in the fire.”

He said no more. There was no need. At that moment, I understood that I was not just observing an antique vehicle. I was looking at the means that had carried a man from a temple to a crossroads, and from there to eternity.
And I decided to retrace that journey.

The intersection of history

In Ho Chi Minh City, the intersection of Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám (formerly Phan Đình Phùng and Lê Văn Duyệt) is busy, noisy, full of motorbikes and cars. On the southeast corner of the intersection between Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám, there is today a stone monument dedicated to Thích Quảng Đức. It is not a temple, nor a monumental building, but a simple and well-maintained structure. On the façade, a white bas-relief depicts him in a meditative, serene pose, surrounded by lush leaves. In front, a richly decorated incense burner. The monument is enclosed between two yellow and red gates, with traditional Asian motifs, like those of temples, topped by two white lanterns. In front, fresh flowers, lit incense sticks, fruit offerings.

Across the street, along the sidewalk, there is a second monument, apparently made of bronze, more minimal. In the center, a figure depicts the monk engulfed in flames, seated in a lotus position, motionless. At the base, a clear engraved inscription in Vietnamese characters:

bồ tát

Thích Quảng Đức
1897 – 1963

Bồ tát is a Vietnamese word meaning “bodhisattva,” that is, “one who, having reached Nirvana, enlightenment, chooses to reincarnate again in the world not for himself, but out of compassion, to help others find the way.”

The Photographer Who Didn’t Want to Take the Shot

There was a witness. A man with a camera. Malcolm Browne, a photographer for the Associated Press, who received an anonymous phone call the night before:

“Tomorrow, at noon, a monk will set himself on fire in protest.”

He arrived at the scene with a colleague, and when the flames engulfed Thích Quảng Đức, Browne took eleven photographs. The first image was published worldwide. He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964, but throughout his life, Browne said:

“It’s the photo I wish I never took. But if I hadn’t taken it, no one would have believed it.”

The photograph shows not only a body in flames. It shows the now-famous Austin car stopped in the middle of the street with its hood open and a crowd of monks watching in silence and astonishment. It captures the weight of silence. And most importantly, it shows that sometimes, the truth needs a witness.

The Heart That Did Not Melt

I then went to the Xá Lợi temple, in the heart of Ho Chi Minh City, where a relic is kept. According to tradition, after cremation, an intact round object was found among the ashes: what many recognized as the monk’s heart. In Vietnamese Buddhism, a heart that withstands fire is a symbol of từ tâm bất diệt — the immortal heart of compassion that does not die. Today, the heart is kept in an inner room of the Xá Lợi temple, accessible to anyone who wishes to see it.

“The heart of Thích Quảng Đức… can I see it?”

A monk looked at me for a long moment, then gently shook his head.

“Not today. It is kept here, but it is not displayed every day. It is a sacred object.”

I didn’t insist. It wasn’t the right moment. But I understood. It’s an inner sign, more than an object to be shown. But the fact that it exists, that it is protected, that people speak of it softly… says everything.

What did that gesture truly mean?

Thích Quảng Đức was not a revolutionary. He did not want destruction. He wanted awakening. His act was neither suicide nor an act of hatred. It was a bài hương cúng dường — a fire offering — rarely practiced in Mahāyāna Buddhism, inspired by the Bodhisattva who sacrifices the body for the benefit of others.

He did it not to attract attention, but because attention had been denied. For months, Buddhists had been humiliated: flags banned, temples closed, arbitrary arrests. Ngô Đình Diệm’s government, Catholic, ruled a majority Buddhist nation as if it were a diocese. A letter he wrote before fulfilling his destiny ends with these words:

The Journey Continues

Practical Information for Visitors

• Từ Đàm Temple (Hue):
  Address: 29 Phan Đình Phùng, Hue
  Hours: 5:00–18:00
  Thích Quảng Đức’s car: visible in the courtyard (not always accessible)
  Dress code: cover shoulders and knees
• Quán Thế Âm Pagoda (Ho Chi Minh City):
  Address: Corner of Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám
  Monument: open 24/7
  Dress code: respectful; remove shoes inside
• Xá Lợi Temple (Ho Chi Minh City):
  Address: 89 Bà Huyện Thanh Quy, District 3
  The heart of Thích Quảng Đức: kept in a sacred room, not regularly on display

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto) 

The post The Journey and Memory of Thích Quảng Đức in Vietnam appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

There’s a coffee you don’t expect. Not because of its color or its aroma, but for what it hides inside: an egg yolk whipped into a sweet, creamy cloud. You discover it while walking through the streets of Hanoi, in Vietnam, among the scents of a city that never sleeps. Plastic tables take over the sidewalks, stools sit low to the ground, and everywhere people sip something dark, topped with a pale yellow, almost golden foam. It doesn’t look like coffee. And yet, it is.

Café Giang, at 39 Nguyen Huu Huan Street

Cà phê trứng, Vietnam’s egg coffee, is neither a tourist gimmick nor a modern culinary experiment. Its story begins in wartime, when milk was scarce and hunger outweighed tradition. It was 1946 in Hanoi, and Nguyen Van Giang, a bartender at the Sofitel Legend Metropole — then an elegant French colonial residence — faced empty shelves. Coffee was plentiful; Vietnam, though not yet the global giant it would become, had inherited coffee cultivation from the French in the Central Highlands. But fresh milk was nowhere to be found. And without milk, there was no café au lait for European guests who demanded it every morning.

Giang glanced at the kitchen, spotted the eggs — always available, even in the hardest times — and thought: why not try? He beat an egg yolk with sugar and condensed milk, added a touch of butter, until he achieved a thick, velvety cream. He poured it over a cup of hot, bitter Robusta coffee, served in a glass. The result was astonishing: not a compromise, but a revelation. That golden foam softened the bitterness of the coffee, transforming it into something new, almost dessert-like. At first the guests were surprised, then intrigued, and finally enchanted.

Thus, in the heart of a war-torn city, one of Southeast Asia’s most iconic drinks was born. Giang left the hotel and opened Café Giang, at 39 Nguyen Huu Huan Street. It still stands today, on the second floor of a modest building, with worn walls and windows open to the city. No flashy signs are needed: just follow the aroma in the air, the sound of egg yolks being whisked by hand, and the waiters rushing up and down with steaming trays. Giang’s son, Tri Hoa Nguyen, still prepares the coffee using the original recipe, with a secret ingredient never revealed. Perhaps a touch of brandy, perhaps a special honey. Or perhaps it’s just time itself, turning necessity into legend.

I wasn’t looking for this drink. I didn’t even know it existed. After a bowl of phở, sitting on a chair far too low, I just wanted a coffee. A real coffee. For us Italians, it’s a matter of principle: coffee is not a break, it’s a ritual, a pleasure.

The author with a good cup of egg coffee

And yet, too often while traveling I’ve had to give it up. In many countries it’s too long, watered down, lukewarm. Or it’s instant — that gray broth “not even fit for dogs.” So I learned to make do, reluctantly, with whatever was available. But in Hanoi, things were different. On the menu I read simply cà phê trứng. I asked what it was, hesitated: a raw egg in coffee? It could have been a gastronomic nightmare, if I hadn’t already tasted something similar in Bologna. Then I thought: if you’ve come all this way to explore local cuisine, you can’t stop at the threshold of taste. You must cross it.

The first cup arrived hot, steaming, with that yellow cream trembling slightly. I stirred it slowly with a spoon, watching the dark coffee rise to the surface. Then I tasted. A cautious sip, and immediately I understood: it wasn’t just coffee, it wasn’t dessert, it wasn’t liquid or solid. It was a unique balance of bitter and sweet, warmth and creaminess. It recalled a liquid tiramisù, a coffee zabaglione, a crème brûlée you could drink. But most of all, it was good. Deep. Comforting.

Since then, every time I’ve returned to Hanoi, egg coffee has been a ritual I never miss. A mandatory stop was Ciao Coffee, connected to the tour operator Ciao Travel, which until my last visit stood just beyond Chuong Gate. Despite its Italian-sounding name, it was a purely Vietnamese place, where skilled hands offered true delights to my palate.

various qualities of coffee you. an find in Hanoi

Watching Ms. Nhung whisk an egg yolk, even now with the help of an electric mixer — an inevitable concession to modern times — remains a gesture of resistance against the rush. It’s a ritual, slow and meditative. And as I wait, I think about the strange destiny of food: how often what is born from scarcity becomes a symbol of abundance.

Today, the tour operator I collaborate with has moved about a kilometer away and closed its restaurant section. But Ms. Nhung is still there, and she promised me that every time I return to Hanoi, she’ll prepare her unmistakable, exquisite egg coffee.

Coffee, after all, is a story of adaptation, ingenuity, and dignity. It’s proof that when what you think is essential is missing, you can create something new, even better. It’s no coincidence that Vietnam, now one of the world’s top three producers, is home to such a unique specialty. Here, coffee is not a borrowed culture but a living part of national identity.

antichi macina caffè

Condensed milk, another symbol of this tradition, was introduced by the French during World War I to compensate for the lack of fresh milk. The Vietnamese adopted it and made it their own: today a simple cà phê sữa means black coffee, brewed with a phin filter, blended with a generous spoonful of condensed milk.

But cà phê trứng goes beyond. It’s a poetic evolution of the same principle: turning what you have into something memorable. Today, there are versions with coconut milk, cocoa, or served cold with ice. I myself tried to make it at home. I followed every step of Ms. Nhung’s ritual. Decent, yes. But it’s not the same. It lacked the trained, skilled hand. It lacked the air of Hanoi, the noise of traffic, the feeling of being in a place where time moves differently. It lacked the barista who looks at you and smiles, as if knowing you’ve just crossed an invisible border.

Today, egg coffee is no longer just Hanoi’s treasure: you’ll find it in Saigon, Hue, Hoi An. In trendy cafés it comes in elegant glasses, ready for Instagram. But the heart remains in the old quarter, where someone walks in every day, looks at the cup with suspicion, and then says: “It’s good. I don’t know what it is, but it’s good.”

vietnamese egg coffee

And that, perhaps, is the true miracle of cà phê trứng: it doesn’t win you over immediately; it challenges you. But once you try it, you realize it’s not the flavor that changes you, but the very idea of coffee. That doesn’t have to be bitter, quick, and functional. It can be soft, slow, and complex. It can be a moment you don’t fully understand, but one that feels right.

Because sometimes, the most authentic pleasure doesn’t come from what you know, but from what you don’t expect.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

Click HERE and enjoy our video on Vietnamese egg coffee!!

The post The rite of Egg Coffee of Hanoi appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

There is a city that welcomes you not with order, but with a loud embrace full of sounds, smells, and intertwined movements. Hanoi is like that: it never reveals itself in silence. The first impression is a symphony of honking motorbikes, constant chatter in narrow alleys, the smell of broth boiling on gas stoves along the sidewalks, and the thin smoke of nighttime barbecues rising among the trees. It’s not chaos; it’s life—a fast-flowing life, woven with ancient gestures, as if time here isn’t linear but circular.

Wandering Through the Old Quarter

Walking through the Old Quarter, where streets are named after the goods once sold there — Silk Street, Iron Street, Hat Street — you feel like moving inside a living map. This neighborhood, over a thousand years old, was designed as a vibrant commercial organism, a maze of narrow streets and tube-shaped houses built to maximize space and reduce street-front taxes. These are called tube houses, where the front is for work and trade, the back for living, and hidden between thin walls, there’s a courtyard letting in light and rain. Every corner tells a story: a hidden temple behind a fruit stand, an old man repairing fountain pens, a woman serving phở from a pot on the ground, with precise gestures like a ritual. The buildings are often tall and narrow, built during the French period, with rusted balconies and colorful curtains fluttering in the warm wind. They seem more like people—each with its own story, breath, and way of existence.

The Origins of Hanoi

It all began in 1010 when King Lý Thái Tổ decided to move the capital to Thăng Long, the “Flying Dragon City,” choosing a strategic location between rivers and trade routes. Since then, the city’s heart developed into two parts: the Imperial Citadel, enclosed within walls and symbolizing imperial power, and the bustling trading city, open and lively, meant for exchange. Over the centuries, artisans from nearby villages moved here, bringing crafts and traditions. Every street became a district of workshops, governed by a guild, with a temple dedicated to the guardian spirit of the trade. They were called the “36 Guilds of Arts,” though today many more exist, and the number has become more of a symbol than an exact figure.

Pluto and Alis on a traditional rikshaw

In the 17th century, Chinese merchants brought new momentum to the economy, and the neighborhood grew and adapted. Then, at the end of the 19th century, the French arrived. They changed the city’s face: widening streets, draining lakes, demolishing gates that separated districts, erasing the village-like charm that had persisted for centuries. Yet, they couldn’t break the soul of the place. Colonial facades appeared—arches, rectangular windows, pediments—but behind, in interior courtyards, life went on just as before.

Even during wartime, the Old Quarter persisted. In the 1960s, with the policy of collective housing, many homes were nationalized and divided among large families. Courtyards filled with makeshift structures, spaces grew narrower, but the community endured. After 1986, with the Đổi Mới reform, the push towards the market revived the neighborhood’s original spirit: people opened new shops, revitalized their crafts, and took control of their future. Today, amidst tall buildings and tangled wires, the neighborhood’s identity still survives: the urban fabric, hidden temples, tube houses, artisans’ streets. It’s a fragile but resilient balance.

Hoan Kiem: Lake of the Returned Sword

In the midst of all this is Hoan Kiem, the Lake of the Returned Sword. An oasis of calm, almost detached from the world. Legend tells that an emperor received a magical sword in a dream from a turtle god to free the country from Chinese invaders. After victory, while sailing on the lake, a giant golden turtle emerged from the waters and took back the sword. Since then, the lake bears that name, and the tower on an island at its center seems to guard a collective memory that needs no words. In the evening, as lights turn on and young people sit on the steps chatting, the lake reflects the city like a tired yet proud mirror.

The Temple of Literature and Millenary Culture

A short distance away, the Temple of Literature opens into a series of peaceful courtyards, like a deep breath after the bustle. Founded in 1070 and dedicated to Confucius, it housed Vietnam’s first university. Stone steles beneath trees bear the names of distinguished students from centuries past, carved carefully, as if to say knowledge deserves remembrance. Even today, students in school uniforms burn incense at altars, praying for good exams. They don’t seem like tourists—they’re part of the place, as if the past is just another room in the same building.

Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum 

Hanoi cultural and historical city

Further north, the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum rises with a solemn architecture inspired by Eastern European monuments. Here, “Uncle Ho,” as he is affectionately called, rests in a glass coffin, wrapped in the simplicity that defined him in life. Surrounding gardens are spacious and orderly, and just beyond is the stilt house where he lived—a humble, functional dwelling. No luxury, no exaggerated celebration. Everything speaks of sobriety, almost resistance to grandeur. Yet, his figure continues to walk the city’s streets, in history books, and in guidebooks.

Hanoi’s Flavors and Surprises

But Hanoi isn’t just history. It’s also taste, and sometimes surprise. In a corner of the Old Quarter, follow the line of people standing in front of a small table to discover a famous spot known only to those who seek. Here, the cà phê trứng — egg coffee — is born, a seemingly contradictory drink: whipped egg yolk with condensed milk placed on a strong, bitter Robusta espresso. You try it hesitantly, then understand: it’s neither sweet nor salty nor liquid nor solid. It’s a balance—a velvety cream softening the bitterness, warming without heaviness. You drink slowly, sitting on a plastic chair amid the bustling traffic. It’s a moment of peace won.

And then there’s the food. Always, everywhere. Phở, the noodle soup with clear broth and thin slices of meat, served at dawn or midnight. Bún chả, cold noodles with grilled pork and sweet-sour sauce. Bánh mì, crispy bread stuffed with pâté, vegetables, and spices, bought for a few cents and eaten while walking. In Hanoi, eating isn’t separate from life—it’s life itself, seasoned with coriander, lime, and chili.

In the evening, in a small theater with a wooden stage, you can watch a water puppet show. Wooden figures dance on a pond’s surface, moved by hidden sticks beneath the water’s surface. They tell stories of plowing, battles, deities, and talking animals. This ancient art, born in lakeside villages, feels modern and poetic. Spectators laugh, applaud, children gaze in wonder. No one considers it folklore; it’s just a well-told story.

Hanoi doesn’t try to please everyone. It’s not as elegant as Kyoto or as efficient as Singapore. It’s irregular, sometimes uncomfortable, often noisy. Yet, after a few days, it starts to feel familiar. Its beauty isn’t in order but in vitality—its ability to hold sacred and ordinary, past and present, noise and silence. It’s a city that reveals itself slowly—through a smile, a cold beer at sunset, a bite of something new that already feels like yours.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

The post Hanoi: A City of Roaring Embrace appeared first on Asian Itinerary.