Stepping through the door, you see the former Soviet Union in the heart of Saigon.

The place to unlock the memory region.

Stepping through the doors of the CCCP Saigon, one feels as if they have left the bustling city and wandered into a small house somewhere in distant Russia. Warm yellow light falls on the pale floral wallpaper, where framed pictures and photographs from the Soviet era hang, not in a fixed pattern, but according to the memories of the person who arranged them.

At each corner of the table, a lampshade casts a warm, golden light onto the classic tablecloth, the neatly arranged cutlery, and the glass cups. The light glides across the dark wood chairs, touching the stationary wheels at their feet. The entire room thus feels as if time has stood still, leaving only warmth, light, and a hint of memory lingering in the space.

On the shelf, a few bottles of wine, a blue enamel plate, and a tiny Matryoshka doll are placed side by side, like a collection of memories gathered over many years. Beside them, a clump of red maple leaves covers a corner of the first floor, evoking a winter of yesteryear.

Related articles

Soviet architectural heritage in Georgia

The magnificent Soviet metro stations

A red-carpeted staircase leads to the second floor, where two areas are connected by a small corridor, like a bridge spanning the valley of red leaves below. Here, the tables are placed closer together, the warmth spreading between people, creating the image of a small, close-knit community, much like the spirit of the Soviet Union.

Stepping onto the third floor, the space subtly narrows, golden light blanketing the walls and drifting slowly over the red and yellow checkered curtains. There are no windows, only warmth gathered between the four walls, making the room seem to shrink to its own rhythm – a secret place where people can share private stories.

Preserving the memory of the Soviet Union in the heart of Saigon.

The story of CCCP began 20 years ago, when the first restaurant was opened on Ngoc Khanh Street in Hanoi in 2005 by Ukrainian chef Svetlana Nguyen. Sharing a deep connection with Russia, Nguyen Duy Thanh's family also had many years of ties to the country, as his parents studied and worked there, and he himself lived in Moscow for over 10 years. Therefore, after meeting his wife, Suzan, Svetlana Nguyen's daughter, they decided to bring that spirit to the South, opening a restaurant to share their belief that Soviet culture can still thrive in modern life.

He recounted that the early days of opening the restaurant were difficult, with many people offering advice and even trying to dissuade him, because they had never seen a Soviet-style restaurant in Saigon. But he believed that the authentic flavors would tell their own story. Seven years have passed, and the restaurant still stands strong not only because of its delicious food, but also because of its richly emotional atmosphere, where those who studied in Russia can rediscover a part of their memories, and young Vietnamese people are curious to explore a distant yet strangely familiar culture.

Every corner of the restaurant is meticulously arranged and cared for by Mr. and Mrs. Thanh, from selecting the patterns on the tablecloths to changing the shapes of the napkin trays on each table: teapots, hedgehogs, butterflies… Mr. Thanh's hands had previously handled the simplest tasks: cleaning, washing dishes, cooking… before taking on the role of media, telling the story of the USSR through short films, flavors, or simply details that subtly reflect Russian culture in the restaurant's space, so that diners can fully feel the spirit of the place.

“CCCP Saigon is not simply a restaurant, but a place for people to remember, to tell stories,” said Thanh, his gaze directed towards the wall displaying a photograph of Red Square. “Everyone who lived, studied, or dreamed in Russia has their own story, and we simply keep that story in a place to reside in Saigon.”

The taste of the Soviet Union lingers on the dinner table.

On the table, the aroma of butter melting gently on slices of dark bread, mingled with the warm scent of beetroot soup and the smoky notes of grilled meat, enveloping the murmuring conversations of the diners. The slightly sour, slightly salty taste of the dark bread begins the meal with a simple rhythm, its rich aroma wafting up like a warm greeting before leading the taste buds into a deeper experience.

The crisp, refreshing vegetable salad, tossed with mayonnaise, takes the palate to a new level of freshness, lightness, and balance. The aroma of Borsch (beetroot) soup fills the table, the distinctive red color of the beetroot, each spoonful of handmade Smetana (cream) dissolving into the broth, leaving a light and creamy taste, reminiscent of winters in a warm kitchen with this signature Soviet soup.

As the warmth of the soup lingers on the tongue, the pelmeni appear, their thick, white, soft wrappers encasing the meat filling. Interspersed on the table are thinly sliced ​​pieces of salted pork fat served with garlic and the restaurant's homemade yellow mustard; the richness and saltiness intertwine with the sharpness of the garlic, a perfect complement to the simple conversations shared over a glass of vodka.

The aroma wafts from the shashlik tray, with lamb and pork marinated in imported spices and grilled over charcoal, their tenderness and natural sweetness bursting forth with each slice. Crispy chebureki (a type of fried pastry) and stretchy cheese suddenly evoke the bustling atmosphere of old Soviet street markets, simple yet warm dishes that capture the essence of everyday life.

As the feast drew to a close, the pastries appeared like a gentle final note in the symphony. The Napoleon cake, with its crispy, flaky crust and subtly sweet vanilla cream filling, is considered the "royal cake" of Russian cuisine. The chocolate flavor of the Praga, topped with a glossy dark ganache, followed, spreading through the mouth with hints of rum and apricot jam, both deep and warm. A pot of black tea with lemon was poured, its delicate aroma complementing the sweet aftertaste, concluding the meal in a peaceful feeling, like sitting in a grandmother's warm kitchen on a Russian winter's day.

“We try to keep the recipes intact, from how we bake the bread and cook the soup to how we make the sauces, because Russian cuisine is only truly authentic when you feel its simplicity and warmth,” Thành shared. The ingredients are carefully selected, many of the flours and spices are imported from Europe, but he doesn't aim for "fine dining." For him, Russian cuisine doesn't need to be luxurious, just authentic, like the people who created it.

As the lights in the café dimmed, Russian melodies began to fill the air. Every Tuesday evening, the voice of Oksana – a Russian woman with a deep love for traditional classical music – resonated in the cozy atmosphere. Familiar tunes from the Soviet era touched distant memories, making diners feel as if they were sitting in a small café in Moscow. On Thursday evenings, the sounds of guitar and saxophone blended together, performed live by two Russian artists. The melodies floated gently through the air, subtly mingling with the aroma of hot soup and pastries, evoking a gentle nostalgia, as if someone had just reopened an old memory.

Amidst the interwoven conversations echoing from every corner of the restaurant, the aromas of beetroot soup, baked goods, and coffee mingled in the air, making one feel as if they were somewhere in winter in Moscow. But instead of the biting cold, the place radiated warmth from the wood, the light, and a sense of intimacy created by the meticulous attention to detail that the owner poured into every aspect. The restaurant didn't try to recreate a "showcase" of Russia, but rather a Russia of memory – where everything was handcrafted and memories that had existed for decades were preserved.

Text and photos: Quynh Mai