In our interview with Chef Tu David Phu, the Oakland-born, Emmy-nominated chef shared how his culinary journey began not in restaurants, but in his family kitchen, guided by the ethos of making something meaningful out of very little. Known for his “authentically inauthentic” approach to Vietnamese food, Phu reflects on how scarcity, storytelling, and memory shaped both his cooking and identity. From home-cooked meals rooted in survival to his latest cookbook collaboration with Soleil Ho, Phu spoke with us about honoring tradition while pushing boundaries—and why the heart of his work will always be community.

How would you describe the Vietnamese food scene when you were growing up in Oakland? You learned a lot about cooking from your mother, and I’m curious if you were surrounded by Vietnamese food inside and outside the home or frequented any pho restaurants in the neighborhood. What sorts of training and knowledge did you receive or continue to learn from this community?

Growing up in Oakland, the Vietnamese food scene was like a hidden treasure—deeply rooted in the community but not necessarily in the spotlight. Inside my home, food was an unspoken language—a way to connect to our heritage, even when we were navigating new realities as immigrants. My mom taught me how to cook as an act of survival and love. She’d say, “Don’t waste anything,” and that mindset shaped my approach to cooking.

Outside the home, it wasn’t about going out to pho spots as much as it was about sharing meals with other families, pooling ingredients, and exchanging stories through food. It wasn’t until later that I started to see how pho and other dishes were getting mainstream attention. I didn’t grow up eating in Vietnamese restaurants—it was all home-cooked meals, often adapted to whatever we could afford or find at the market.

What I learned from my community was resilience and resourcefulness. Oakland’s Vietnamese community taught me that food doesn’t have to be elaborate or expensive to be meaningful. It’s about taking what you have and making it into something nourishing—not just for the body but for the spirit, too.

You’ve described the recipes in your cookbook as “authentically inauthentic” Vietnamese cooking and a “celebration of scarcity” that is central to your family’s legacy of cooking. Can you share more about what this means? What are you interested in passing down to the next generations of the communities you’re a part of?

“Authentically inauthentic” is my way of acknowledging that my food doesn’t fit the traditional mold, but it’s still deeply rooted in the essence of Vietnamese cooking. Growing up, scarcity was just part of life. My mom would make something out of nothing—turning scraps and seconds into dishes that were somehow still flavorful and comforting.

The idea of celebrating scarcity is about honoring that ingenuity and survival instinct. It’s not about romanticizing struggle, but about respecting the creativity that emerges from it. I want to pass down the idea that cooking doesn’t have to follow strict rules or stay within rigid boundaries. Food should reflect your reality, your history, and your story.

For the next generation, I want to emphasize that being “authentically inauthentic” doesn’t make you less of who you are. In fact, it makes you more human, more honest. I want people to know it’s okay to cook food that’s influenced by different cultures and contexts. It’s okay to adapt and evolve—that’s how food traditions survive.

As a top chef of Vietnamese American descent, you’ve worked on multiple creative projects to tell your family’s culinary story, from your Emmy-nominated film Bloodline to hosting weekly pop-up dinners Ăn. This cookbook is another storytelling medium. How does publishing a cookbook compare to all your other projects? What was it like working with writer and restaurant critic Soleil Ho on this cookbook, and getting this to publication?

Publishing a cookbook is a different kind of storytelling. With the film and pop-ups, it’s about creating an experience in the moment—seeing reactions, sharing conversations, and connecting directly. The cookbook, on the other hand, is more intimate and lasting. It’s a way for people to hold a piece of my story in their hands and engage with it on their own terms. Equally, the project was my attempt to archive my own family stories, captured in time.

Working with Soleil Ho was a gift. They understood the nuances of my story and knew how to give it dimension on the page. It wasn’t just about translating recipes—it was about telling the story behind each one. Soleil challenged me to dig deeper, to be honest about my journey, and to be unapologetically vulnerable. Getting it to publication was a labor of love, but knowing that it’s out there now, accessible to people who might find a part of their own story in it, makes it all worth it.

Have your parents read your cookbook? Any recipes that you think your friends and family might be surprised by, or some they’ll recall exactly?

Yeah, my mom’s definitely seen it. She doesn’t necessarily read it cover to cover, but she flips through and points out what she recognizes—or what she doesn’t. I think there’s an avoidance for certain chapters and recipes; to avoid certain stories of the past. But the thing that I am most proud about is the shared memories of those dishes, in those moments where she whispers to me, “you remembered that…?” And I affectionately respond, “I do.”

I think my friends and family might be surprised by some of the dishes where I take liberties—like adding unexpected ingredients or blending techniques from different cultures. At the same time, there are recipes that are almost identical to what I grew up eating—those ones are more like an homage to my mom and her cooking. It’s that balance of honoring tradition while also making it my own.

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This interview was conducted by Cathy Duong as part of the Author Spotlight series. All featured authors participated in Viet Book Fest 2025, a literary event presented by the Vietnamese American Arts and Letters Association (VAALA). Held on Sunday, April 6, 2025, at the Bowers Museum in Santa Ana, the all-day festival celebrated Vietnamese diasporic voices in literature, culture, and storytelling.