From Bun Cha to fruity iced tea, here’s what Hanoi tastes like at 40km/h
Words & Images Kate Gazzard
From Bun Cha to fruity iced tea, here’s what Hanoi tastes like at 40km/h
Words & Images Kate Gazzard
I’m sitting in a moody, old-world bar called The Alchemist in Hanoi’s Old Quarter with my Vespa Adventures tour guide, Kevin, when he divulges that information. The bar feels like a cosy speakeasy; a local singer is crooning Alicia Keys’ If I Ain’t Got You, while the bartenders shake cocktails with a furious rhythm. I let out a small laugh (mostly to humour him) and tell him I’ll take a “Pearl of the Oriental.”
This is the fourth and final stop on my Hanoi After Dark tour, a tour that began a few hours earlier.
I’m sitting in a moody, old-world bar called The Alchemist in Hanoi’s Old Quarter with my Vespa Adventures tour guide, Kevin, when he divulges that information. The bar feels like a cosy speakeasy; a local singer is crooning Alicia Keys’ If I Ain’t Got You, while the bartenders shake cocktails with a furious rhythm. I let out a small laugh (mostly to humour him) and tell him I’ll take a “Pearl of the Oriental.”
This is the fourth and final stop on my Hanoi After Dark tour, a tour that began a few hours earlier.
This cocktail bar was a BIG mood.
It started with a helmet, a handshake, and the faint feeling that I should’ve worn something other than my slightly-too-tight denim shorts. My driver grins, pats the back of his bright red vintage Vespa, and barely has time to tell me where to hold on before we’re already in the thick of Hanoi traffic: me, him, the bike, and what feels like the entire population of Vietnam, all hurtling in different directions.
Hanoi’s streets are not so much ‘clearly marked lanes’ as they are ‘suggestions.’
Hanoi’s streets are not so much ‘clearly marked lanes’ as they are ‘suggestions,’ and my Vespa pilot is fluent in this beautiful chaos. We weave between scooters stacked with crates of live chickens, grandmothers pedalling rickety bicycles, and tourists who clearly made the rookie mistake of trying to cross the road without a local guide.
It’s not scary, exactly. There’s no aggression, no road rage, just a mutual understanding that we’re all part of the same swirling, honking dance.
It’s only been five minutes, but I already have a huge smile on my face. From my vantage point, Hanoi doesn’t pass by, it comes at me in bursts: the scent of sizzling meat smoke from a roadside grill, the neon flash of a shop sign, the cool brush of night air carrying snippets of street music.
The Hanoi traffic? Not so much.
Our first stop is a tiny, unassuming Bun Cha restaurant that might be easy to miss if it weren’t for its claim to fame as the very spot where President Barack Obama and Anthony Bourdain once shared dinner. Their photograph hangs on the wall, immortalising the moment two global icons leaned over plastic stools and slurped noodles just like everyone else.
I follow their lead. Two bowls of smoky grilled pork arrive, flanked by a mountain of vermicelli rice noodles, fresh herbs, some garlic, and a whole lot of chilli. The Bun Cha is rich, sweet, savoury, and sharp all at once; every bite is a perfect balance of chaos and order, much like Hanoi itself.
Then come the spring rolls: crisp on the outside, pillowy on the inside, stuffed with fragrant herbs, meat, and shrimp. By the time I’m halfway through my bowl, I’ve decided I want another, but Kevin wisely warns, “Don’t finish it all.” Damn.
I can taste this pic.
Nothing beats a lantern-lit street.
Back on the Vespa, we rejoin the city’s current. I’m starting to get into the rhythm: the gentle lean into a turn, accelerating into impossibly small gaps, the constant chorus of beeps that somehow never sounds angry. It’s strangely meditative if you don’t think too hard about how close your kneecaps are to the bumpers beside you.
Our Vespa veers into a narrow alley that opens onto Hanoi’s famous Train Street.
The track runs so close to the houses on either side that residents can reach out their doorways and touch a passing train.
Just as I settle at a trackside café, a distant rumble turns into a metallic roar.
Locals casually pull in their chairs, tourists press against the walls, and the air thickens with anticipation. Then it appears - headlights blazing, steel screaming on steel - thundering down the narrow track like a mechanical beast with zero regard for personal space.
The whole street vibrates, my heart leaps, and yet the woman across from me doesn’t even stop stirring her coffee. In less than a minute, it’s gone, swallowed by the night, leaving only the scent of diesel behind and my utter disbelief that I’d come that close to a moving train and survived. But not just survived, I’d loved it.
Back on the Vespa, we rejoin the city’s current. I’m starting to get into the rhythm: the gentle lean into a turn, accelerating into impossibly small gaps, the constant chorus of beeps that somehow never sounds angry. It’s strangely meditative if you don’t think too hard about how close your kneecaps are to the bumpers beside you.
Our Vespa veers into a narrow alley that opens onto Hanoi’s famous Train Street. The track runs so close to the houses on either side that residents can reach out their doorways and touch a passing train.
Just as I settle at a trackside café, a distant rumble turns into a metallic roar. Locals casually pull in their chairs, tourists press against the walls, and the air thickens with anticipation. Then it appears - headlights blazing, steel screaming on steel - thundering down the narrow track like a mechanical beast with zero regard for personal space.
The whole street vibrates, my heart leaps, and yet the woman across from me doesn’t even stop stirring her coffee. In less than a minute, it’s gone, swallowed by the night, leaving only the scent of diesel behind and my utter disbelief that I’d come that close to a moving train and survived. But not just survived, I’d loved it.
Or a street that a train runs through.
Next, a different street-side café beckons (the kind with plastic stools low enough to have me questioning my flexibility), where tall glasses of lemonade and fruity iced tea accompany plates of Phở Cuốn. Unlike steaming bowls of phở, these are silky rice noodle sheets wrapped around fragrant herbs, tender beef, and crisp lettuce, served with a dipping sauce that’s sweet, sour, and hella addictive.
I dare you to find a cuter street-side cafe.
I can taste this pic pt. 2.
There’s a freshness to each roll that cuts through the humid night air, and I find myself wondering how something so simple can taste like the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Scooters hum past metres away, their headlights sweeping across our table, but here in this little pocket of Hanoi, time slows to the pace of the last bite, which I devour eagerly in anticipation of our final stop.
Hanoi at night is a sensory feast. Pavement radiates the day’s heat. The air is thick with lemongrass and frying garlic.
Somewhere, traditional strings and pop beats tangle with the whirr of engines. Just when you think you’ve taken it all in, a woman in a conical hat pedals by with baskets of fresh flowers, and you realise the city still has surprises tucked into every corner.
Somewhere between a side street smelling of crispy Bánh Gối and a roundabout that has my stomach plummeting, I stop thinking about where we’re going. I just let Hanoi carry me.
I understand now why locals say the city is best seen from the back of a motorbike. It’s not just about the view (though West Lake looks stunning at 40km/h); it’s about immersion. You become part of the city’s fabric, even if only for a night.
There's a whole lotta pink peppercorns on this drink.
Vespa is the only way to get around.
And as I walk away, I know for certain I’ll never forget this experience - the food, my guide, and the driver with his shiny Vespa. Bun Cha and Phở Cuốn might be my excuse, but exploring this vibrant city on the back of a bike, just like the locals do? That’s the reason I’ll keep coming back.
get in the know There are about 7 million motorbikes in Hanoi, meaning you're basically swimming through a metallic school of fish whenever you try and cross the street.
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