Maybe around two or three years ago, I was having dinner at a café when I randomly picked a dish from the menu. My choice landed on pho, and to my surprise, that Vietnamese noodle soup actually tasted quite good. My Indonesian palate could accept it pretty well. Perhaps it was because the café adapted the dish to suit local tastes, so even something foreign like pho had been Indonesianized. But that first experience left me curious: what does authentic Vietnamese food actually taste like?
Since then, I started looking for Vietnamese restaurants in Medan. Unfortunately, some of the recommended places served pho with meat options I couldn’t eat as a Muslim. Eventually, I came across a place that claimed to serve authentic Vietnamese cuisine. While they didn’t have a halal certificate from Indonesian Council of Ulama (MUI), they assured customers that their menu contained no pork, no lard, and no alcohol. My curiosity hadn't faded either, so I finally decided to give it a try.
The first dish we ordered, of course, was pho. We chose the Special Beef Pho—a big bowl filled with rice noodles, thin slices of beef and chicken, chicken and beef meatballs, and slices of onion. On the side, there were fresh bean sprouts, basil leaves, and wedges of lime—all neatly arranged and tempting to try.
My first reaction after taking a spoonful was: “So… is this what real pho is supposed to taste like?” I found it a bit hard to describe. The flavor was light, yet rich in aroma—savory, but not the kind of savory I’m used to in Indonesian cooking. It wasn’t spicy, not sweet, not overly salty. Everything felt balanced, but in a way that was unfamiliar to my tongue.
I tried to think: Is there any Indonesian food that tastes even slightly similar? But honestly, nothing really came close. Maybe that’s why I paused for a moment, trying to understand the layers of flavor while quietly asking myself: Is this the taste I’ve been curious about all this time? Or is it a taste I’ll need time to truly appreciate?
The next dish we tried was banh mi—a well-known Vietnamese sandwich. The baguette was crispy on the outside but soft on the inside, filled with seasoned beef, slices of onion, and fresh herbs that—whether mint or basil, I wasn’t quite sure—gave off a sharp, distinct aroma the moment it was unwrapped.
At first glance, it looked simple. But once I took a bite, the flavor turned out to be surprisingly complex. There was the savory taste of the meat, the freshness of the vegetables, and a hint of tanginess from the sauce—maybe a mix of mayo and Vietnamese vinegar. Still, just like with the pho, my reaction remained the same: Is this really what it's supposed to taste like?
Again, I was left guessing. The taste wasn’t familiar to me at all. I couldn’t think of any Indonesian dish that came close. There was a strange gap between "this is good" and "I understand this." It felt like reading a book in a foreign language: I could read the words, but I needed more time to truly grasp the meaning.
The last dish we tried was shrimp roll—a kind of fresh spring roll typical of Vietnam. The filling was simple: boiled shrimp, soft white vermicelli, and—once again—fresh mint leaves, all tightly wrapped in a nearly transparent sheet of rice paper. It was served cold, accompanied by a dipping sauce on the side that tasted a little sweet and tangy—perhaps a mix of fish sauce and vinegar.
As soon as I took a bite, the mint flavor burst through immediately. It was piercingly fresh, like a tiny herb garden had just exploded in my mouth. At that point, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh—not because it tasted bad or strange, but because my taste buds were simply not ready for something this raw—both literally and figuratively.
I chuckled to myself and thought, "No wonder Vietnam is known as the slimmest country." Their food is incredibly light, healthy, and natural. No heavy spices, no oil, no complicated cooking process. The flavors come straight from the freshness of the ingredients themselves—honest and nourishing, but definitely an adjustment for someone used to bold, layered flavors. Even though I can’t say I loved it just yet, I truly appreciated the experience. It felt like getting to know a whole new culture—and that, in itself, is always worth it.
For drinks, we ordered peach tea and vanilla tea. Fruit-flavored tea isn’t new to me—I'm pretty familiar with it, and I actually enjoy the sweet taste and refreshing aroma, especially when served cold on a warm afternoon. It was light, refreshing, and made a perfect ending to our Vietnamese food tasting.
As for the price, it was definitely a bit more expensive than our usual lunch spots. The location was quite far too—we practically made a special trip just for lunch. But in the end, it was all worth it for the experience. The flavors may take time to fully understand. My tongue, so used to richly spiced and bold-flavored dishes, still needs to adjust to the simplicity and freshness of Vietnamese cuisine. But maybe that’s the beauty of it.
I was glad I finally got to taste a more authentic side of Vietnamese cuisine—even if I didn’t completely “click” with all the flavors just yet. At the very least, this experience opened up a new window in my culinary journey—and maybe even shifted a little of how I see food as a part of a larger, living culture.
Trying food from another culture, I’ve come to realize, isn’t just about taste on the tongue. It’s also about the feelings it stirs—the curiosity, the appreciation, even the honest confusion that comes with something unfamiliar.
From a bowl of pho that was light but comforting, to a banh mi that was fresh and unfamiliar, to the shrimp roll that made me laugh quietly because my taste buds weren’t quite ready—all of it gave me something more than just flavor. It offered a new kind of experience, one that spoke to both my thoughts and emotions.
Maybe I haven’t fully embraced every taste. But that’s not really the point. What matters is being open—trying something new, and realizing that behind every dish lies a way of living, a way of thinking, and a way of loving that might be very different from my own. And that deserves to be respected.
That day, I didn’t just come home with a full stomach—I came home with a slightly wider perspective. And for someone who loves finding stories in small things, that was more than enough.
Since then, I started looking for Vietnamese restaurants in Medan. Unfortunately, some of the recommended places served pho with meat options I couldn’t eat as a Muslim. Eventually, I came across a place that claimed to serve authentic Vietnamese cuisine. While they didn’t have a halal certificate from Indonesian Council of Ulama (MUI), they assured customers that their menu contained no pork, no lard, and no alcohol. My curiosity hadn't faded either, so I finally decided to give it a try.
The first dish we ordered, of course, was pho. We chose the Special Beef Pho—a big bowl filled with rice noodles, thin slices of beef and chicken, chicken and beef meatballs, and slices of onion. On the side, there were fresh bean sprouts, basil leaves, and wedges of lime—all neatly arranged and tempting to try.
My first reaction after taking a spoonful was: “So… is this what real pho is supposed to taste like?” I found it a bit hard to describe. The flavor was light, yet rich in aroma—savory, but not the kind of savory I’m used to in Indonesian cooking. It wasn’t spicy, not sweet, not overly salty. Everything felt balanced, but in a way that was unfamiliar to my tongue.
I tried to think: Is there any Indonesian food that tastes even slightly similar? But honestly, nothing really came close. Maybe that’s why I paused for a moment, trying to understand the layers of flavor while quietly asking myself: Is this the taste I’ve been curious about all this time? Or is it a taste I’ll need time to truly appreciate?
The next dish we tried was banh mi—a well-known Vietnamese sandwich. The baguette was crispy on the outside but soft on the inside, filled with seasoned beef, slices of onion, and fresh herbs that—whether mint or basil, I wasn’t quite sure—gave off a sharp, distinct aroma the moment it was unwrapped.
At first glance, it looked simple. But once I took a bite, the flavor turned out to be surprisingly complex. There was the savory taste of the meat, the freshness of the vegetables, and a hint of tanginess from the sauce—maybe a mix of mayo and Vietnamese vinegar. Still, just like with the pho, my reaction remained the same: Is this really what it's supposed to taste like?
Again, I was left guessing. The taste wasn’t familiar to me at all. I couldn’t think of any Indonesian dish that came close. There was a strange gap between "this is good" and "I understand this." It felt like reading a book in a foreign language: I could read the words, but I needed more time to truly grasp the meaning.
The last dish we tried was shrimp roll—a kind of fresh spring roll typical of Vietnam. The filling was simple: boiled shrimp, soft white vermicelli, and—once again—fresh mint leaves, all tightly wrapped in a nearly transparent sheet of rice paper. It was served cold, accompanied by a dipping sauce on the side that tasted a little sweet and tangy—perhaps a mix of fish sauce and vinegar.
As soon as I took a bite, the mint flavor burst through immediately. It was piercingly fresh, like a tiny herb garden had just exploded in my mouth. At that point, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh—not because it tasted bad or strange, but because my taste buds were simply not ready for something this raw—both literally and figuratively.
I chuckled to myself and thought, "No wonder Vietnam is known as the slimmest country." Their food is incredibly light, healthy, and natural. No heavy spices, no oil, no complicated cooking process. The flavors come straight from the freshness of the ingredients themselves—honest and nourishing, but definitely an adjustment for someone used to bold, layered flavors. Even though I can’t say I loved it just yet, I truly appreciated the experience. It felt like getting to know a whole new culture—and that, in itself, is always worth it.
For drinks, we ordered peach tea and vanilla tea. Fruit-flavored tea isn’t new to me—I'm pretty familiar with it, and I actually enjoy the sweet taste and refreshing aroma, especially when served cold on a warm afternoon. It was light, refreshing, and made a perfect ending to our Vietnamese food tasting.
As for the price, it was definitely a bit more expensive than our usual lunch spots. The location was quite far too—we practically made a special trip just for lunch. But in the end, it was all worth it for the experience. The flavors may take time to fully understand. My tongue, so used to richly spiced and bold-flavored dishes, still needs to adjust to the simplicity and freshness of Vietnamese cuisine. But maybe that’s the beauty of it.
I was glad I finally got to taste a more authentic side of Vietnamese cuisine—even if I didn’t completely “click” with all the flavors just yet. At the very least, this experience opened up a new window in my culinary journey—and maybe even shifted a little of how I see food as a part of a larger, living culture.
Trying food from another culture, I’ve come to realize, isn’t just about taste on the tongue. It’s also about the feelings it stirs—the curiosity, the appreciation, even the honest confusion that comes with something unfamiliar.
From a bowl of pho that was light but comforting, to a banh mi that was fresh and unfamiliar, to the shrimp roll that made me laugh quietly because my taste buds weren’t quite ready—all of it gave me something more than just flavor. It offered a new kind of experience, one that spoke to both my thoughts and emotions.
Maybe I haven’t fully embraced every taste. But that’s not really the point. What matters is being open—trying something new, and realizing that behind every dish lies a way of living, a way of thinking, and a way of loving that might be very different from my own. And that deserves to be respected.
That day, I didn’t just come home with a full stomach—I came home with a slightly wider perspective. And for someone who loves finding stories in small things, that was more than enough.
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