In a quiet kitchen above a Saigon street, Chef Hậu Trần redefines fine dining— not with imported truffles or rare caviar, but with the soulful, often overlooked ingredients of his homeland. At The Monkey Gallery DINING, every dish tells a story. A spoonful of fermented paste, a trace of hand-ground salt—these are his brushstrokes, painting Vietnam not as a destination, but as a memory.
Tucked away on the third floor of a fading Indochine-style building in Ho Chi Minh City, the restaurant hums with intention. There is no grand entrance. No pretence. Just the quiet conviction that beauty lies in the overlooked. Behind the open counter, Chef Hậu holds a modest jar of mắm tép—fermented shrimp paste from Bình Định. There’s no label, no packaging, just the scent of the sea and a story passed down. In his hands, it becomes alchemy.
In today’s world of competitive gastronomy, luxury often means the rare, the imported, the unattainable. But Chef Hậu has chosen another path. “Luxury,” he reflects, “is believing in the value of the ordinary.” This philosophy—rooted in respect, patience, and provenance—has shaped a restaurant that quietly commands international recognition. From MICHELIN Guide to other accolades, The Monkey Gallery DINING has drawn acclaim not because it shouts, but because it listens.
Nothing here is rushed. Condiments are made in-house, from scratch. His chẩm chéo, a once-simple northern herb paste, is now layered with the smokiness of binchotan charcoal and the complexity of muối kiến vàng, a rare salt made with yellow ants from Gia Lai. His mắm tép is fermented under meticulous conditions, with reduced salt and extended time—coaxing the umami to rise gently, like a whispered memory.
Even the boldest dishes carry the soul of restraint. A smoky chẩm chéo meets ostrich tartare in a delicate interplay of heat and iron. The flavours clash, then calm, then resolve in unexpected harmony. The mắm tép, sourced through a colleague’s hometown connection, becomes more than an ingredient—it is a tribute to friendship, to shared roots, to the unspoken ties of the kitchen.
Among the rarest ingredients is hàu điếu, a wild oyster harvested from rocky coastal crevices. It cannot be farmed, only found. Cleaned with Japanese sake to bring out its sweetness, then paired with sea cucumber and spirulina, it is at once marine, earthy, and ethereal. “It’s a dark ingredient,” the chef says, “but even darkness can shine.”
Even dessert dares to challenge. Durian, often banned in hotels and airlines, is embraced here. Reimagined as a crème brûlée, it is rich yet refined, softened by coconut sorbet and a whisper of smoked coconut oil. It’s French technique meeting Southeast Asian soul, with nothing lost in translation.
At The Monkey Gallery DINING, ingredients aren’t just prepared—they are understood. The team studies them, observes their behaviour, lets them rest, breathe, bloom. Flavour, here, is not forced. It is nurtured. Even family meals serve as inspiration. Staff bring regional treasures: chilli pastes from the coast, dried fish from the Mekong, sauces that taste like home. These exchanges—quiet, generous, genuine—become the seeds of the next creation.
In the end, this isn’t a story about one man. It’s a chorus of memories, of places, of people. “It’s not just mine,” Chef Hậu says. “It’s ours.”