At six in the morning, two days before Tet, the lights flicker on at Ba Hoa Market in HCMC, and the day begins not with a shout but with a murmur. For much of the year, Ba Hoa is a neighborhood market. But in the days leading to Tet, it becomes something else: a living ledger of migration, memory and trade.
Motorbikes line the entrance in organized chaos. Plastic stools scrape against concrete. Bundles of herbs, still wet with dawn, are untied and fluffed into green clouds. In this modest stretch of former Tan Binh District, far from the polished downtown storefronts, the spirit of central Vietnam wakes up again inside southern soil.
Nowhere is that bridge more visible than in the mornings before Tet, the Lunar New Year.
Written by migration
The story dates back to the 1960s, when thousands of families from Quang Nam and other central provinces migrated south to what was then Saigon, seeking work and safety. They settled in what was then a quiet pocket of Tan Binh District. They arrived with little capital, but with tastes shaped by wind, salt and hardship.
They carried recipes spoken more than written.
At first, there were a few improvised stalls. Women sat behind wooden tables selling central-style noodles and rice paper. The goods were modest; many were produced in family kitchens. But demand rose steadily. Migrants longed for flavors that could collapse distance. A bowl of mi Quang (Quang noodles) could do what remittances could not: it restored a sense of belonging.
By the 1980s and 1990s, the cluster of kiosks had coalesced into a recognized market. It took the name “Ba Hoa,” after the woman associated with its early formation. Over time, it gained a reputation across the city as the most reliable place to find central Vietnamese specialties: turmeric noodles, leaf-wrapped cakes, pungent fermented sauces, herbs that southern humidity could not quite tame.
What began as nostalgia matured into an ecosystem.
Today, Ba Hoa functions as both a supply hub and a living cultural archive. Trucks and buses travel daily from Quang Nam in the center of Vietnam to Ho Chi Minh City. Many vendors still rely on relatives back home to oversee the production of specific items.
In economic terms, it is a tightly knit distribution network. In human terms, it is a bridge that never fully retracts.
The accent of central Vietnam
By 6 a.m., the market is already thick with movement and purpose.
Vendors straighten their displays with deliberate calm. Cakes wrapped in green banana leaves are stacked into small geometric towers, tied with bamboo strings. The air holds a quiet tension.
In Vietnam, the first sale of the day carries symbolic weight. A smooth, generous exchange at dawn is believed to bring good fortune. A harsh negotiation could cast a shadow.
“Don’t bargain too hard now,” a woman murmurs. “Wait for the first buyer.” The superstition moves beneath the surface like an undercurrent.
On low tables sit cylindrical sticky rice cakes — not everyday food, but ceremonial offerings. In two days, they will rest on altars of families from Quang Nam origin. Normally, during Tet, families invite their ancestors home; the dead are given a place at the table, as if absence itself could be fed.
“For the ancestors,” a seller says. The price of the cylindrical sticky rice cakes — VND110,000 with meat and VND100,000 without — hovers in the air. It is not insignificant. But on mornings like this, the arithmetic recedes. Ritual overrides thrift.
By 7:30 a.m., the first sales are done. Smiles grow wider. Laughter fills the air. The new year, at least in spirit, has already begun.
In much of the Western world, price is just a number to calculate. Here, in the days before Tet, it is a symbol.
Unlike sprawling commercial hubs such as Ben Thanh Market, Ba Hoa is specialized. It does not aim to represent all of Vietnam. It represents Quang Nam in the central part of the country.
You hear it in the speech. The Quang Nam accent cuts sharply, consonants clipped, vowels tightened. It is not the rounded sweetness of the south.
Thick and flat
At one stall, a woman prepares mi Quang (Quang noodles), the dish that has come to symbolize Quang Nam identity. It defies easy classification. Often described as a noodle soup, it is defined as much by absence as presence.
The noodles are thick and flat. They are piled high in a bowl. A small ladle of intensely flavored broth — extracted from shrimp shells or pork bones — is added, just enough to coat, not to drown. This is not abundance by volume but by concentration.
Slices of pork and shrimp rest on top. Sometimes chicken. Roasted peanuts offer crunch. Fresh herbs — basil, perilla, coriander — are layered generously. A toasted sesame rice cracker is broken into shards and pressed into the mix. A squeeze of lime sharpens the edges.
The dish reflects a region shaped by scarcity and resilience. Central Vietnam has known drought, flood and war. Its cuisine learned to be disciplined — strong without excess.
“I come here for the real mi Quang,” I tell the vendor.
She nods without flourish and ladles the broth with practiced precision.
Many sellers insist their herbs come from Tra Que Vegetable Village, a centuries-old farming community near Hoi An renowned for aromatic greens grown in soil enriched with river algae. Basil and coriander from Tra Que carry a fragrance that central cooks describe as unrepeatable.
Even in the dense humidity of Ho Chi Minh City, that scent cuts through: green, sharp, almost briny. It lingers long after the bowl is empty.
