Part of the beauty of living in Saigon is stumbling across one of its hidden gems. There’s a lot of them in the city, forgotten in the snaking alleyways, tucked away down broken roads that don’t look like they could lead anywhere. Finding one is akin to the unexpected joy of discovering loose change in the pocket of some trousers you hadn’t worn in a while. That pleasant surprise is a testament to why you love the city, why you want to stay in the hopes that maybe, one day, you’ll unravel its true mystery. The reality is, most of us never will. And that’s fine. We’ll have a nice time along the way, stumbling across all these hidden gems.
Recently, I found another one. I’d been going to Bel Coffee in Binh Thanh’s Phạm Viết Chánh neighbourhood every now and again, and after a few hours of on-off writing one afternoon, I scrolled through Google Maps and spotted Mowe Wine Space. The pictures and reviews were intriguing. Wine bar. Vinyl. Cool, friendly owners. I didn’t go right away. Several weeks passed with its name in the back of my mind, until one evening, after having a few drinks on PVC on a date, we made the walk over.
Mowe’s just around the corner from Bel Coffee. Down a side street which, at the hour we went, didn’t look like it had anything to it apart from a few non descript apartments. The sign for the place hung from the entranceway to the building, and walking in, a flight of stairs shot straight to the second floor. A woman in an orange t-shirt rushed down.
“Is this Mowe?” I asked.
“It’s open”—she paused, caught her breath—“I have to go get my friend.”
She left. We went up.
When you walk into Mowe, you’re greeted by Anne, the owner and the lady behind the bar. She smiles, welcomes you in, asks where you want to sit (counter or one of the tables?) and what it is you want to drink (white, red, rosė, orange?). To someone as uninitiated into the wine world as myself, at first glance, places like Mowe might seem like a bit much. People start throwing words like acidity, fermentation, tannin at you and while you might’ve heard of these before, all of a sudden you feel like a grade schooler learning the timetables—It’s all gibberish, hieroglyphics, and all that’s before you even get to descriptions of how the wine tastes… Anyone care for a strawberry shortcake white? Or how about a red so deep and moody not even the depths of the Pacific Ocean can begin to comprehend its flavour?
All of this is to say, I didn’t feel that way at Mowe. Anne walked us through our options and while she might’ve used a few of those big, winey words, there was zero pretense. She never made it feel like I had to know what she was saying, which, seeing as I had no clue, was reassuring. So a white wine for my date, a red wine for me, we sat at one of the tables as The Smiths blared on the speakers, Morrissey moaning about another love lost and how cruel it could be. We were already a few drinks down so it was easy to settle into the mood of the place. With its potted plants (most alive, one dead), posters on the wall, and a yellowish lamp shaped like the full moon dangling from the ceiling, Mowe gave me the impression I was sitting in the living room of some late twenties graphic designer.
Anne brought over our drinks. A white wine for my date, a red wine for me. They were in different glasses: mine with a flat bottom and hers with an ovular curve. I figured there was a reason behind the difference, though I didn’t care to ask. Having a sip, I couldn’t pick up any immediate notes. Really, I was more pleased by the temperature of the wine itself. It was actually room temp, which, growing up with parents who knew how to enjoy a drink, was something I’d heard them mention several times. Another sip. The Smiths' vinyl came off the record player and a quiet that reminded me of Saigon during Tet settled in the room. The woman in the orange shirt sat at one of the counter seats with her friend. They knew Anne, who joked about something in Vietnamese while she looked for the next record in a chest full of them. Another sip. She found one, went back behind the bar and placed it on the turntable. Jamie XX.
We didn’t stay for long. Went out onto a small balcony to smoke a cigarette, saw through the window of an apartment across the street a boy playing with his dog. Saigon at that hour is different. At that level of stillness and quiet it’s hard to believe this is the same place where only hours ago the streets were thick with exhaust fumes and the grumbling procession of motorbikes. You can’t help but sink into that midnight mood, that ease and tipsy drowsiness that gives you the sense you’re floating a few centimetres above the ground. Not a care in the world, not a world to care for.
