Expat Regrets French Influence Resulting In Restaurant Reservations
HO CHI MINH CITY—Pierre Dupue, a French expatriate, revels in the French influences that have sprinkled their essence across Vietnam. The architecture of Ho Chi Minh City captivates him; every colonial building stands as poetic evidence of French ingenuity and artistic ambition. Eating snails (escargots) is a genuine pleasure he enjoys, pairing them with a glass of wine secured under his beret. The Thai-style toilet bidet is now his closest ally in hygiene, while French bread banh mi fills his belly with worthy sustenance.
Yet, on a fateful sunny day, Pierre’s bravado met its match as he approached the doors of “Oc Gay” he was met with a bold proclamation: “Monsieur, désolé, we are fully booked!”
Confused, Pierre squinted through the vast, unoccupied dining area with only a lone table for two. “Fully booked? But it’s so empty!” he exclaimed, incredulous and slightly agitated. The staff, clad in crisp aprons, maintained a stoic demeanor reminiscent of a Parisian museum guard, firmly repeating their unyielding policy: no reservation, no entry, regardless of the physical capacity of the room.
“I could fit a whole family of five at that table!” Pierre argued, his bemusement turning to utter frustration. After all, he had entered this space with the swagger of someone accustomed to the laid-back charm of French dining etiquette, where spontaneity is key and reservations are for those who lack the joie de vivre.
As he exited, Pierre mulled over the paradox of French restaurants abroad that seem to embrace rigidity over the relaxed charm that characterizes much of French life. “Here I am, defending the great French legacy! But why must I navigate these bureaucratic hoops?” he lamented.
Despite his outrage, Pierre remains hopeful for a culinary revolution within Ho Chi Minh City. Perhaps one day, the French attribute will reclaim … Read more

Cafes in town that have elevated emotional distress into an art form. Its playlist is the poor soul’s calendar: every song insists the seasons are changing — always spring-to-summer, autumn-to-winter, the whole metaphorical bingo. You cannot sit here in peace. The city’s noise palette has a new worst instrument: a steady stream of syrupy lines about falling leaves, thawing hearts, and smiling like summer, looped until your eardrums beg for asylum.
