Bún Cá Sâm Cây Si

Joshua Zukas

I went for an early lunch to avoid waiting in line, seized a little plastic stool at the head of the table, and ordered my bún cá with one nem cá on the side. While the noodle soup is good, Hanoians have told me that the highlight is this side dish — a deep-fried breadcrumbed fish cake.

Facing me was an ancient tree and a glitzy shrine.

Hanoi is known for its spectacular street food, but sometimes learning the stories behind the street kitchens can be as nourishing as the dishes they serve. I love Bún Cá Sâm Cây Si not just for the food, but for the mystery that shrouds the neighborhood.

Joshua Zukas

The street kitchen sits before a haggard tree next to a shrine festooned with fruit, flowers, and incense. On each of my visits, I’ve asked about the tree’s age — a disfigured Chinese banyan — and how long the shrine has been there, but nobody would ever answer.

The shrine has always appeared immaculate and was even remodeled a few months ago. It has been here for as long as anyone can remember.

I heard legends each time I visited.

A few years ago, I was eating here, and a neighbor who lived in the alley told me that the tree is home to spirits.

Legend has it, he said, that many decades ago, a cyclo driver was cruising the Old Quarter on a foggy evening when a beautiful woman appeared from the mist and flagged him down.

He was captivated by her porcelain skin, lacquerlike hair, and ghostly white áo dài, Vietnam’s national dress. The woman ascended the cyclo, seemingly weighing nothing, and requested to go to this very alley. The cyclo driver was skeptical: this apparition looked like she belonged in a fine French townhouse, not down a dark, dank alleyway.

After arriving at the Chinese banyan tree, the woman asked to get off, much to the cyclo driver’s surprise. It was late, and there were no houses — just shuttered market stalls. She insisted she was in the right place, floated off the cyclo, and paid for the ride. After counting the cash, the driver looked up to thank the woman, but she had vanished. When he looked back down at the cash, the notes had transformed into leaves.

“Chinese banyan tree leaves, I assume?!” I’d asked at the time.

“Correct!” The storyteller replied, and we both laughed into our noodles.

This time, I wanted to get to the bottom of the story.

After finishing my meal, I asked the woman serving the bún cá about the tree, but she shooed me away. The lunch rush was just beginning and she was struggling to keep up with the orders. Besides, she needed my little plastic stool to help ease the line that was starting to form.

Joshua Zukas

I shuffled over to the drinks stand, which is set up even closer to the tree and shrine, to see what I could find out there. I ordered a glass of iced green tea and chatted with the woman who brought it over.

She told me her sister can talk to dead people.

“It’s not a spirit,” Lê Thanh Vi told me. “It’s a goddess. Her name is Bà Đông Cuông.”

Lê grew up in the house behind the tree and shrine and said they’d both been there for generations. She told me that when her sister, Sâm, reached middle age, she developed the abilities of a medium — someone who could communicate with deities, spirits, and deceased ancestors. Their mother — who lives in the room next to the tree — tasked Sâm with caring for the shrine.

Joshua Zukas

She said that a few years later, under the protection of the goddess, Sâm started selling bún cá and she set up the drinks stand next door.

“That’s Sâm’s daughter,” Lê said, pointing at the woman who had served me brunch. She ignored us and instead focused on fabricating bowl after bowl of noodle soup for the growing number of customers.

Even disbelieving doctors prayed at the shrine.

I told Lê about another story I’d heard from one of her neighbors a few years ago. The woman told me that the tree was becoming too unruly and blocking light to the alley, so the neighbors decided to cut it back. However, they failed to ask the goddess for permission first, and a few days later a toddler fell from a balcony.

“I’d rather not talk about that, but it is true that we need to be respectful,” Lê said.

She recalled a family that lived in the alley over 30 years ago. Both parents were doctors, and when their teenage son was climbing on the tree, he fell and crippled his legs, she said. The parents tried every treatment they could think of, but nothing seemed to work.

It looked as if he might never walk again. Eventually, the neighbors persuaded the disbelieving doctors to pray to Bà Đông Cuông at the shrine, and only then did their son start to recover.

Cutting back the tree isn’t easy.

Lê explained that if it’s just a trim, a small prayer to formally ask for permission is enough. But whenever they need to cut the tree back, the neighborhood needs to perform an elaborate ceremony, which involves offering fruit, flowers, and other goodies. As the caretaker of the shrine and tree, Sâm, Lê’s older sister, always leads these ceremonies.

Joshua Zukas

Over decades, the family seems to have formed a symbiotic relationship with Bà Đông Cuông. They believe that if they worship her and maintain the shrine, the goddess will continue to bless them and their business.

I looked at the swelling line of lunch-goers. Whether I believed in the family’s piety or not, I had to admit that something seemed to be working.

Address: Ngõ Trung Yên, Hoàn Kiếm

Opening times: 8 a.m. – 5 p.m.