I, myself, do not regular the goggle review function. However, a recent experience of mine at Loving Hut Da Nang (please note: do not assume a warm and “loving” experience as the title suggests) has resulted in me reconsidering the popular function.

My partner and I arrived at the restaurant wide eyed, naive, and hungry, assuming that, being a self-titled “restaurant” - or so they say - that the food would be enjoyable, if not at least edible. Reviews we had previously seen for the establishment were optimistic, hailing the 4 star cafe with positive reviews. This is a moment I look back on in admitted shame. Hitler had relatively positive reviews before the beginnings of the Third Reich. Many had faith in Lenin before the penultimate start of one of the worst eras in Russian history. Nietzsche would have looked upon my partner and I in disgust as we stood outside Loving Hut Da Nang- we were unquestioning cogs in the machine not daring to doubt the herd mentality of google review.

Our first impressions as our Grab car pulled up outside of Loving Hut- I shiver typing the name- were of generous optimism. The lights were completely shut out, resembling a cold and bottomless void. Even our Grab driver looked at us in confusion as we requested to be dropped off at the front. I felt I needed a leather trench coat and weapon to enter. The only evidence of the owner’s passion for interior décor in the damp room was the dozens of rusting fans arched menancingly toward each table, all of which were rimmed in a suspicious mould like substance. The owner was wrapped in what appeared to be a sleeping bag of sorts, what I can only assume was a means of surviving the small scale nuclear winter that existed within the cold vacuum of the restaurant. Please note that the use of the word “vacuum” is purely metaphorical, as, judging by the floor, I’m not certain that this particular establishment has ever witnessed a literal representation of one.

The only attendant’s interests were occupied not by customers - of which we were the only ones, and yet we naively pressed on - but by a small plasma screen in the corner of the room. The hallowed halls of the restaurant (although the name seems unfitting) boomed with the static of some kind of Mongolian soap opera. This seems to run counter to the descriptions of other reviews on google, which purport a “nice” ambience. Who’s paying you?

The owner awoke from her slumber, surprised by the presence of new life now evident in the cryochamber. She clambered out of her sleeping bag and proceeded to turn on the lights, which achingly flickered as though dormant for several years. I preferred them off, when they were not highlighting the copious stains and mould caking the table.

Noticing the two westerners looming at table 3, and most likely realising that either the Americans had won or the war was over, she proceeded to hand us two menus. The prices had been hastily scrawled out and changed, most likely when she noticed new life in the restaurant, and had to quickly adjust for recent inflation in a post- war economic climate.

After perusing a menu of which consisted of mostly empty plastic slips, my partner and I proceeded to order the three least threatening items on the menu- the spring rolls, the crispy noodles, and the fried rice. The owner, clearly disgruntled and seeking revenge for the interruption of her soap opera, replied with a terse “no,” when we requested the noodles. I did not know what to say to this. She loomed over the table and stared at us for several moments. The tense silence was akin only to the announcement of my parents’ divorce over Christmas dinner. If you’re reading this, mum, when is dad coming hom

After not being offered an alternative and several elongated moments of silence, we settled on the vegetable noodles instead. The owner then meandered to the back of the restaurant and disappeared for a few moments. After five to ten minutes filled only with the sound of a passionate fight between two lovers blaring from the corner television, and mine and my partner’s confused murmurings, a man riding a motor scooter hastily arrived at the front door. Door is a strong word in this context- it was mostly a large gape in the wall.

At this stage, we assumed the man to be one of the staff who had been summoned from their underground bunker, as we had to not heard any indication of cooking or preparation as of yet, and the kitchen was within the dining area. The man then, in his excitement, tipped his bike, and was attended to by none other than the owner, who desperately attempted to reaffix the mirror, which had snapped off of the bike as a result of the crash. This crash had also sent various groceries rolling across the filthy pavement and even filthier restaurant floor. The owner proceeded to pick these items up and, to our horror, carry them into the kitchen with a gleeful look.

Amid our confusion, we had forgotten about our friend who had crashed his bike, who then began to roll large pink gas canisters through the restaurant on his hands and knees. There was no attempt to conceal this, as he continued to roll the canisters directly between the tables within the dining area, depositing them about a metre away from where were sitting.

At this stage we had figured that this was either the gas that was going to be harnessed to cook our meal, or an obscure attempt at in-dining entertainment. However, this was clearly not the Ritz, and so we safely assumed the aforementioned.

His motorcycle still lay, abandoned, on the floor outside.

After an uncomfortable amount of time waiting, the owner brought out a plate of oil garnished with some spring rolls that in no way justified the wait time in its appearance. I wish that for the sake of my readers I could describe their contents, however I am sad to report that their substance remains unknown to this day. All I can comment on is that they were safely obscured beneath several layers of something that appeared to be deeply deep fried. I love spring rolls. I did not love these. They were an injustice and do not deserve to operate under the spring roll title. We could take only one bite each before having to wave the white flag.

Next appeared something that was facading as rice. I assumed that this congealed substance was taken directly from the imperishable stock used to feed the staff within their bunker. It was thick, gloopy, and tasted uncomfortably sweet. I decided to play along with its games and sample it, however immediately regretted the choice. My partner, who can finish an impressive amount of food in a short span of time, had now finished 0/2 dishes.

At this stage, we had opted to cut our losses, pay upfront, and go search for something to salvage our digestive systems. After unsuccessfully trying to hail the owner in order to pay, my partner stood up and entered the bowels of the establishment to conduct a search and rescue mission for the MIA attendant. When he emerged, it was all but too late. I looked at him, my eyes glazed over in panic, as the dish of noodles arrived at our table, directly in front of me.

Digging deep within our hearts, and in the spirit of its name, we decided to give Loving Hut one final chance. The dish itself actually appeared deceptively average in comparison with the quality we had witnessed so far from the restaurant. One bite in and we knew we were fools, fools, fools. It tasted like canned spaghetti that had accidentally caught some bok choy on the way out of the kitchen.

We urge you, learn from our mistakes. I have actually had good experiences at other Loving Hut stores, in particular the Richmond chain in Melbourne, Australia. However, this experience has tarnished their name for me forever. Those who fail to learn from history’s mistakes are bound to repeat them. This is no exception. Please, for your sake, avoid Loving Hut Da Nang. It appeared that everyone else in Vietnam does anyway.