Eating subsidized rice, remembering grandparents' time

A corner of Lang Dong restaurant.

In Dong Village, Linh Son Ward, there's a simple eatery, without flashy signs or loud music, yet it's enough to make young people stop, sit down, and suddenly remember their grandparents' time with meals of cassava-based rice, fish stew simmered over a fire, and nights out with electricity spent huddled around flickering oil lamps…

One afternoon, we returned to Dong Village. A gentle breeze rustled through our hair, carrying the scent of straw, smoke, and the faint aroma of hot rice, braised fish, and boiled mustard greens… stirring in my heart a rhythm reminiscent of the past.

"Subsidized meals." That name evokes a time when our grandparents lived on ration coupons, queuing in long lines to buy even a small amount of meat, butter, and rice. As we stepped into the restaurant, it felt like stepping through a time portal, back to the 70s and 80s, years of hardship but also overflowing with human kindness.

The tables and chairs in the shop are made of old mahogany, the paint faded, some areas worn smooth, others bearing nail marks. The bowls and plates are glazed porcelain in a sand-colored hue, the kind my grandmother used to keep carefully in a glass cabinet. Oil lamps, hand fans, a National radio, a pendulum clock, and even an old sewing machine table are repurposed to create a vibrant space of memories, of the subsidy era.

The owners are a young couple who dared to take on a difficult task, as the dishes cater to a niche clientele. They said that opening the restaurant wasn't just about selling food, but "to preserve a little bit of the old spirit so that future generations know how their grandparents used to live."

The meals here aren't fancy or elaborate. But it's precisely that simplicity that evokes such emotion. The rice is cooked with potatoes, cassava, and corn – the kind of mixed rice that the whole family used to long for just to fill their stomachs. The nutty, sweet taste of the cassava and the fragrant stickiness of the corn blend together in each grain of white rice, reminding us of the time we sat around the dinner table, listening to Grandma tell stories of "how hard life was in the old days, my child..."

These bowls evoke many memories of a bygone era.

The clay pot braised fish is the heart of the meal. Black carp is braised until tender in a clay pot over a low, simmering fire for several hours. When the pot is opened, a fragrant aroma rises, a blend of fish sauce, pepper, ginger, scallions, and a hint of wood smoke. The fish meat is soft and melts in your mouth, soaked in the rich, golden braising sauce; eating it with rice is truly a "gift from heaven."

Then there's steamed chicken with lime leaves, stir-fried eggplant with pork cracklings, crispy fried fish wrapped in betel leaves, boiled mustard greens with boiled egg and fish sauce dip… Each dish is a memory, a story. Some things are so simple that they were once forgotten in the flow of modernity, but now they are recreated, giving people a chance to look back, understand, and be grateful for the days gone by.

As I sat eating, I could almost hear my grandmother's soft voice calling, "Eat another piece of fish, child," and my father's words, "Back then, just having some rendered fat drizzled over rice and a few grains of salt was considered a luxury." These sounds, seemingly lost in my memories, now flooded back along with the warmth of this simple yet meaningful meal.

The cafe's space is small and cozy, with a dim yellow light reminiscent of power outage nights of the past. Black and white photographs hang on the walls, along with old-fashioned items—from worn-out carrying poles and thin-strapped shirts, to rustic wooden trays, baskets, fishing nets, and even a "lightning-proof" bicycle—all evoking a sense of nostalgia. An entire era unfolds—not noisy or glorious, but simple, rustic, and profoundly meaningful in every detail.

No one is in a hurry here. People eat slowly, speak softly, as if afraid of disturbing memories. One child, while eating, innocently asked, "Why did people have to eat rice with cassava in the old days, Mom?"

Leaving the restaurant, I could still taste the slightly bitter flavor of the pickled cucumbers, the pungent spiciness of the black pepper wrapped in the steamed pork leg, and the feeling of fullness without being heavy. Full in the stomach and warm in the heart.

Perhaps each of us has a memory associated with family meals, a place that is not just a place to eat, but a place to cherish love, share hardships, and pass on profound values. The subsidized meal at the small eatery in Lang Dong village is not just a meal, but a journey back to better understand our grandparents and parents, to those days of scarcity but filled with love and hope.

That restaurant doesn't just sell food; it sells a time of childhood, a time long gone. Amidst today's hurried pace of life, such quiet moments for remembering and cherishing are places many people long to return to.

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