Day 3 in Hanoi and we’ve discovered it’s Vietnamese Women’s Day — which explains the sudden surge in flowers, ribbons, and men clutching bouquets like hostages. It feels perfectly fitting, given that today’s plans revolve around shopping and cooking, two of Dana’s absolute superpowers.

The morning will see us diving into Hanoi’s twin temples of temptation: the sprawling Đồng Xuân Market and the elusive Hàng Da Market. The former is a heady maze of fabric, food, and fake designer bags, and the latter, which looked closed yesterday, might just be resting. We’ll give it another go, this time arriving via cyclo rather than risking our lives on foot. Dana’s on a mission for shoes or handbags (possibly both), while I’m mostly there to carry the loot and admire the spectacle.

This afternoon’s main event, however, promises to be a true highlight: a cookery class with Rose Kitchen, starting at 3 p.m. sharp. Their motto should really be “Come hungry, leave smug.”

We’ll be picked up from the Old Quarter and whisked off to a local market, where our guide will teach us how to shop like true Hanoians, that is, confidently, loudly, and with plenty of haggling. Once we’ve secured our ingredients, it’s time to cook, cook, cook! under the watchful eye of our chef.

Our menu is nothing short of a Hanoi feast:

• Appetiser: Banana Flower Salad — a beautifully chaotic mix of crunchy blossoms, herbs, and peanuts that somehow tastes like sunshine in a bowl.
  
• Main Dishes: Fried Spring Rolls and BBQ Pork with Rice Vermicelli and Dipping Sauce — the kind of food that makes you briefly consider never leaving Vietnam.
  
• Dessert: Egg Coffee — Hanoi’s most decadent invention, part caffeine fix, part dessert, part miracle.
  

To top it off, there’s a local wine tasting, which we suspect means rice wine, otherwise known as “liquid courage.” Afterwards, Rose Kitchen will drop us back in the Old Quarter, hopefully upright and a little wiser in the ways of Vietnamese cooking.

So yes, on Vietnamese Women’s Day, Dana will be celebrated exactly as she deserves, surrounded by shoes, markets, flowers, and the scent of sizzling spring rolls. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to eat the results.

Cyclo, Chaos and the Case of the Overwhelmed Shopper

The plan was simple: get to Đồng Xuân Market — the grand dame of Hanoi’s indoor bazaars — in style. So, we hailed a cyclo, a gloriously impractical three-wheeled contraption where the passenger sits in front like royalty and the driver does all the hard work. Negotiations began the moment we smiled. He looked us up and down, grinned, and said, “You pay twice.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant double fare or double trouble. After a bit of friendly haggling, we agreed on 200,000 đồng for a ride around Hoàn Kiếm Lake and then straight to the market.

Off we went, Dana perched up front like a Czech queen, me beside her, while our poor driver puffed and wheezed like a steam engine climbing the Alps. Every small hill earned a theatrical groan, and at one point I considered getting out to push. When we finally arrived, slightly guilty but very impressed, we handed him 250,000 đồng for his efforts.

Đồng Xuân Market was an assault on the senses — a labyrinth of fabric, shoes, toys, fans, fake handbags, real handbags, and people. So many people. It’s a wholesale market, which means everything comes in bulk and everyone is in a hurry. Within minutes, Dana’s face said it all: total sensory overload. She took a few deep breaths of fresh air outside before braving the food section — where sizzling woks, fishy aromas, and mystery meats sent her anxiety spiralling again. After a brief sit-down and a cool drink, we headed upstairs to the fabric floor. There, we found every pattern imaginable — floral, striped, sparkly, even a few that defied logic entirely.

It was clearly a place for locals, not tourists. If you want something, you have to rummage, dig, and occasionally elbow your way through. Once Dana’s colour returned, we decided to stroll through the side streets instead. Every few metres, someone was cooking — noodles, skewers, dumplings, or something sizzling in mysterious oil. Vietnam seems to eat continuously; it’s less of a hobby and more of a national rhythm.

We paused at a crossroads for fresh juice — mine was apple and pineapple, light and sharp, while Dana’s strawberry and banana blend looked suspiciously like a milkshake. Both were delicious, though probably too healthy for my liking.

By the time we reached the hotel, Dana had a familiar glint in her eye — the one that says handbag. “You could never have too many handbags,” she declared. I opted for a rest, so off she went alone, armed with determination and a set amount of cash, which I suspect was more of a suggestion than a limit.

And that was just the morning. Still to come: our afternoon at Rose Kitchen, where we trade shopping bags for chopping boards. Because in Hanoi, life never slows down — it just changes flavour.

Cyclo, Chaos and the Case of the Overwhelmed Shopper (Part Two)

Back at the hotel, I made what I thought was a sensible decision — a quick rest before our 3 p.m. cooking class. Dana, however, had other ideas. “I’ll just pop out for a handbag,” she said innocently, the way one might announce they’re nipping to the shop for milk. I nodded sleepily, half-listening, half-falling into a blissful post-market coma.

The room was cool, quiet, and mercifully free of honking scooters. Within minutes, I was out cold, sprawled across the bed in what can only be described as a snoring starfish position.

Meanwhile, Dana was having her own adventure. Hanoi’s streets don’t really believe in pavements, road rules, or personal space, and navigating them alone is not for the faint-hearted. At one point, she stepped out between two scooters and was nearly flattened by a moped carrying three people and a dog. “They didn’t even slow down!” she later exclaimed. “They just swerved like it’s normal!” It is, of course, completely normal.

Undeterred, she pressed on, darting between stalls, bargaining with steel-nerved traders, and emerging triumphant an hour later with not one, but two knock-offs, a Louis VuSomething that may have been assembled by committee. Both looked fabulous, naturally.

Then came the great return. Dana arrived back at the hotel, flushed with success and radiating the sort of satisfaction only retail therapy can bring. She rang the doorbell for our room. Nothing. She rang again. Silence. She knocked. Still nothing.

Inside, I stirred vaguely, convinced it was housekeeping wanting to change the towels. “Not now,” I muttered to no one in particular, rolled over, and returned to my very important nap.

After several failed attempts and a growing sense that perhaps she’d was with an actual log, Dana resorted to modern technology. Moments later, my phone buzzed violently against the bedside table. Groggy and confused, I answered the WhatsApp call.

“Bryan!” she hissed. “Open. The. Door.”

It’s remarkable how quickly adrenaline can replace sleep. I stumbled to the door, opened it sheepishly, and there she was, handbags in hand, glaring with the sort of look that could melt glass.

“I’ve been ringing for ten minutes!”

“Oh,” I said, blinking. “I thought it was the maid.”

She held up the bags. “Does the maid carry Louis bags?”

Fair point.

Ten minutes later, she was inspecting her new purchases on the bed, and I was trying to convince her that my strategic nap had been essential for the cooking class ahead. She didn’t buy it, of course, but then again, she’d already bought enough for both of us.

Wok This Way: Our Afternoon at Rose Kitchen

At exactly 3pm, Aroma appeared outside the Oriental Jade like a Vietnamese Mary Poppins, cheerful, efficient and armed with an apron instead of an umbrella. She waved us toward a dark, blissfully air-conditioned minibus where our driver beamed like he’d just eaten a plateful of happy water.

Inside, the cool darkness was a welcome relief from Hanoi’s humidity. The tinted windows turned the chaos of scooters and street vendors into a silent movie, like someone had pressed mute on Vietnam. We picked up a few more culinary comrades along the way, all of us pretending we weren’t slightly terrified of sharp knives and raw meat.

Our first stop: Nhà hàng Nhật Bản Fuji Market. Imagine an explosion of smells, colours, and shouting, and then throw in a roasted dog on a spit for good measure. About the size of a beagle, it rotated slowly in the background like some horrific rotisserie screensaver. We all instantly discovered a deep interest in cucumbers. Aroma, ever the pro, distracted us with Vietnamese 101:

• Hello: Xin chào

• Thank you: Cảm ơn

• How much?: Bao nhiêu tiền?

• Goodbye: Tạm biệt

Dana practised each phrase with her usual Czech precision, while Bryan’s attempts had the vendors in hysterics. One woman handed him a chilli for free, possibly as payment to stop talking.

Groceries secured, we weaved through the madness of Ngọc Hồ, Ba Đình, where Rose Kitchen hides behind a leafy gate. The streets outside were a scooter ballet performed to the soundtrack of honking horns, but inside the courtyard, calm returned, clean floors, gentle chatter, and the faint perfume of lemongrass tea.

We slipped on aprons, each of us immediately looking ten percent more professional, and took a seat at a long wooden table that gleamed with possibility (and imminent chaos). The colour-coded cleaning cloths impressed Dana immensely. “Very organised,” she said. Bryan nodded solemnly, “Yes, they’d never survive a British kitchen.”

Aroma introduced the menu, explaining that every dish told a story of Vietnam’s history, its people and its love affair with herbs. Our line-up for the afternoon:

• Gỏi Xoài Xanh — Green Mango Salad
  
• Nem Rán — Vietnamese Fried Spring Rolls
  
• Bún Chả — Vermicelli Noodles with BBQ Pork & Pork Belly
  
• Phở Bò/Gà — Traditional Rice Noodle Soup (ours was the pork belly remix)
  
• Cà Phê Trứng / Ca Cao Trứng — Egg Coffee or Chocolate
  

No coconut coffee here, we like to keep our caffeine free of tropical distractions.

We started with Green Mango Salad, a sweet-tart concoction of shredded mango, herbs, chilli, and the holy trinity of Vietnamese flavour: fish sauce, lime, and sugar. The greener the mango, the better, said Aroma. Bryan shredded his with the focus of a man performing surgery, while Dana looked on like a Michelin inspector. The result was crunchy, tangy and refreshing, the kind of dish that makes you feel instantly healthier and smug.

Next came Nem Rán, the fried spring rolls. Traditionally made for Lunar New Year, they represent reunion and prosperity, though Bryan’s early attempts represented more of a desperate cry for help. While everyone else’s rolls were neat and plump, his looked suspiciously like hand-rolled cigarettes. Dana’s, naturally, could have been used in a food magazine. Once fried, they turned perfectly golden, crisp on the outside, tender inside, and dangerously addictive.

We washed it down with shots of happy water, plum liquor with the kick of a small explosion. One sip and we were all on first-name terms and ready to adopt each other.

The star of the day was Bún Chả, affectionately known as Obama Noodles after the former U.S. President’s Hanoi lunch. We marinated pork patties and pork belly in fish sauce, lemongrass, and a suspicious amount of garlic before grilling them over red-hot coals. The smell was divine, smoky, sweet, and meaty enough to make the nearby vegetarian tourist group look nervous. Served with vermicelli noodles and our homemade dipping sauce (Nước Chấm), it was pure heaven.

And just when we thought we couldn’t eat another bite, Aroma unveiled the finale: Cà Phê Trứng, the legendary egg coffee. A rich espresso topped with a frothy, custardy mix of egg yolk, condensed milk, and honey, sweet, creamy, and slightly alarming when you think about it too much. Bryan described it as “like drinking dessert and breakfast at the same time.” Dana nodded approvingly, “Like tiramisu, but cheaper and better.”

By the end, our aprons were splattered, our bellies were round, and the bus’s air-conditioning had never sounded so inviting.

As we waddled back to the hotel, Dana sighed, “It reminded me of cooking at home, except with more herbs and fewer potatoes.”

Bryan grinned, “And fewer arguments about washing up.”

Final score: one fantastic afternoon, two full bellies, and three shots of happy water that may or may not have made Bryan fluent in Vietnamese for a full ten minutes.