A low wooden table placed on the sidewalk. Two glasses of iced tea shimmering next to a glass of iced coffee. One person puts their feet on a chair, one person swipes their phone, the conversation continues slowly. The city has not necessarily fully woken up, but coffee has kịp flowed into every rhythm of life.
Some people sit alone on a low chair, red shoes stand out on a gray brick floor. The spoon rotates in a small porcelain cup, creating a dark brown vortex. In Saigon, people can sit for so long, just to stir a cup of coffee and think about something. No one urges. No one sees waste.
The "proper style" of Saigon coffee lies in that simplicity.
It could be a plastic cup of coffee held in hand in the middle of a light rain intersection, brown foam rolling on the stone surface. In front is a stream of vehicles with dim lights, behind is the sound of the city that never goes out. People stand leaning against the eaves of shops, taking a sip of bitterness, and then blending into the common flow. Coffee is not separated from life, it follows the rhythm of the street.
I also remember the image of a man patiently filtering coffee through a dark cloth racket, water vapor rising blurring the entire frame. Behind him are old photos hanging all over the wall, memories of an old Saigon. Racket coffee in the old days was called sock coffee, with a very unique taste: Thick, deep, and as if carrying the story of generations that have passed through. Each drop of coffee falls is a slow rhythm of time.
In another corner of Saigon, yellow lights embrace the wooden bar counter. The barista quietly behind the mixer, preparing glasses one by one. Outside the glass, vehicles glide through like a river of light. A young person sits in front of a laptop, a latte lychee placed next to it, hands holding their chins looking out at the street. Coffee at this time is the space of plans, ideas that have not yet taken shape.
Old and new Saigon in the same morning.
And somewhere, a man leans against a picture of the old and new Ben Thanh market. Next to him is an unfinished cup of iced coffee. Behind is the image of the city of 1962, ahead is the sound of the current car. He smiles, as if all changes can be accepted, as long as there is still a cup of coffee in the morning.
The true style of Saigon coffee does not lie in the brand or price. It lies in the way people raise their glasses, let the bitterness touch the tip of their tongue, and then exhale slowly. In the patience to wait for each drop to drop. In the silence between two stories. In the moment we realize we truly belong to this place.
A glass of ice black. A low chair. A Saigon that is both bustling and very gentle.
And the flow of life just kept flowing.
