Discover the stories and emotions behind Vietnam’s most inspiring healing food

Can you share a particular dish that touched your heart, or one you’ve seen “heal” someone?

Chef Long Cuong: I once served Oleron oysters with tomato vinaigrette to a guest. She cried when she tasted them, it was so moving for her. That became a huge motivation for chefs like me.

Chef Thao Na: Some of the dishes I prepare seem very ordinary, yet they can evoke unexpectedly strong emotions in diners. Take Boeuf Bourguignon, beef stewed in red wine, a classic French dish. Once, a guest asked the waiter, “Please send a message to the chef: this dish touched my heart.”

There are also moments when I naturally shed tears at the sincere compliments and respect diners show for my dishes. It reminds me that every plate I create has the potential to touch someone’s heart.

When you cook, do you focus on technique, perfecting the recipe, or on the emotion and story you want to convey? Does this change when cooking for someone who is tired, grieving, or unwell?

Chef Thao Na: Technique is fundamental, but emotion gives the dish its soul. I cook instinctively, with the hope that each dish is not only delicious but also brings happiness. Only later, when many customers shared their stories, did I realise that my dishes had “comforted” them during difficult times.

From your perspective, what are the most powerful “healing” ingredients?

Chef Thao Na: Vietnam has many ingredients with restorative properties, from herbs to traditional spices. As chefs, we must use both knowledge and intuition to select the right “healing” ingredients for each guest.

I particularly love the aroma of perilla leaves. During the Covid-19 pandemic, chefs would prepare pots of perilla leaf water for the restaurant, as it was believed to boost immunity. I also favour the warm, spicy taste of ginger. When someone is unwell, I often cook beef or chicken porridge with a touch of ginger and onion, simply hoping that it will bring comfort and warmth to the person eating it.

What role does traditional culinary culture play in healing? Are there folk dishes associated with comfort, helping us recover physically and mentally, Chef Sam Tran?

Chef Sam Tran: Traditional culinary culture is about more than food; it is the flavours embedded in the life of every Vietnamese person. We grow up nourished by family and these dishes. That is why, after a year of hard work, gathering for Tet with banh chung, pork jelly, bamboo shoot soup… becomes medicine for the soul.

I still recall a business trip to Canada. All week I ate wagyu beef and high-end dishes. Yet the moment the event ended, I sought out a Vietnamese restaurant. I ordered roasted pork rice, and the first bite made me feel reborn. Sitting alone in a crowded restaurant, I cried while eating. That was when I realised how vital a simple Vietnamese meal was to me.

Have emotions like loss, loneliness, or longing for love ever inspired you to create healing dishes?

Chef Long Cuong: That’s a fascinating idea. I’ve never thought of cooking in quite that way. Connecting emotions to a dish is challenging, and creating healing food from feelings that need to be healed is even harder. I’ll keep this question in mind as a creative theme and hope to explore it when the opportunity arises.

Read more: “U” – When fermentation tells stories in the Vietnamese kitchen

If you had only one chance to cook a healing meal for the person you love most, what would you make to convey all your care?

Chef Sam Tran: Honestly… I’d probably have to prepare a whole feast (laughs). I love being in the kitchen, arranging dishes as the old ways suggest. But if I had to choose, I’d stick to simple, familiar home-cooked meals, because I believe in the healing power of familiarity and sincerity.

There are many people I care for, not just my family, but friends, colleagues and those I work alongside daily. Sometimes a meal is my way of thanking them, of offering comfort, not with words but through taste.

For instance, just today, after a hectic period of work, shifting menus and business trips, I decided to cook a Hoi An chicken rice meal and invite some of the “kids”, as I affectionately call my kitchen friends, over. It’s simple, but it allows everyone to sit, breathe, and feel lighter.

Chef Long Cuong: The people I love most are my family. At home, I cook rice, sour soup, and braised fish.

Chef Thao Na: Every dish carries its own story and meaning. At the same time, it can soothe us because healing food holds memories, love, and the things we never truly lose.

If I could cook one meal for the person I love most, and hope it could heal them, I would make my mother’s beef noodle soup and fry some bananas using my grandmother’s recipe.

Bun bo is not only my favourite dish, one I could eat every day, but also the dish that started our family business. When my family went bankrupt and had to leave Da Nang to start over in Saigon, my mother chose a pot of bun bo as something to hold onto. I clearly remember the dark mornings: my mother waking at 4am, my brothers and I rising at 5am to help. She tended every slice of meat, every stalk of lemongrass, every layer of shrimp paste, while we helped with vegetables, tables and chairs, learning to watch and listen without speaking. Gradually, I saw the customers go from strangers to regulars, drawn by a hot, flavoursome bowl of bun bo, cooked with my mother’s love and perseverance.

Fried bananas are a childhood memory linked to my grandmother. On rainy days in Da Nang, she would go into the kitchen to make them, the scent of eggs and vanilla filling the small space. The recipe was simple: soft ripe bananas, flour, vanilla and a touch of sugar. Yet every time I recall it, a sky of childhood memories comes flooding back. Perhaps those afternoons inspired my love of the kitchen, the joy of cooking to care for and show love to someone.

From the emotional stories of these three chefs, we are reminded that food’s healing power may lie in small moments: when a hot bowl of soup warms a sick person, when a slice of cake comforts a weary afternoon, or when everyone gathers around a table, laughing, eating, and feeling they are not alone.

Food may not be magic, but the love and story behind it are potent medicine. Amid life’s hustle, a meal prepared from the heart is enough to pause, breathe, and find calm. Perhaps this is how food quietly heals.

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