My final evening in Hanoi turned out to be one of the most memorable nights of my entire Vietnam trip. My friends and I had mapped out a simple plan: dinner, the water puppet show at Thang Long Theatre, then a proper night out. For travelers used to cities that stay alive into the early hours, that might sound ordinary. In Vietnam, where many places close by midnight, the logistics felt a little more urgent. We even had a brief run-in with a moody woman at the theatre ticket booth who insisted most performances were sold out and that only the very last showing had any availability. In the end her warning proved unfounded: we arrived just before the performance and walked straight in. Still, the late finish at the show—well after dinner—left us worried that there wouldn’t be much time left for a proper night of drinking and live music.
We were trying to get to a reggae bar recommended in our guidebook, but the streets of the Old Quarter are a maze and we lost our bearings. Time was ticking, and the idea of missing out on the night’s music and atmosphere felt like a real loss. By luck, we stumbled across another recommended place, Le Pub, and decided to go in for a few drinks. The first round was straightforward—bottles of beer all around—and we relaxed into the evening. That sense of calm didn’t last long: on the blackboard behind the bar a list of “Rocket Fuel” shots caught our eye. The concept was equal parts intriguing and terrifying.
Rocket Fuel, the board explained, came in a range of unpredictable flavours: coffee, aniseed, garlic, soy sauce among them. It felt a bit like those novelty jelly beans—you might get something pleasant or something shocking. The pub added a cheeky incentive: order ten shots and you could choose a free t-shirt from their range. I’d noticed a provocative slogan tee near the door—an obvious souvenir—and suddenly a challenge had been set. There were five of us, and we agreed to take two shots each. How hard could it be?
The shots arrived in tiny glasses and the first impression was enough to make us hesitate: a pungent mix of aromas that promised that this would not be a gentle experience. I drew the short straw and ended up with soya sauce and garlic flavours—hardly the most appealing combination. Others in the group got aniseed, coffee, or still more garlic. Two of the men kindly swapped with me so I could get a coffee shot instead of one of the garlic ones, which improved my chances of survival, at least emotionally. We braced ourselves, downed the shots, and sat through an awkward few seconds as faces registered the flavours. A number of us grimaced. A few of us laughed. We were alive, still at the table, and oddly proud that we had survived the Rocket Fuel ritual.
Le Pub closed its doors on us that night, and we spilled back onto the streets feeling elated and determined to continue the evening’s mission: find that reggae spot. Later photographs suggest we eventually made it, and that the mood improved considerably. Spirits and luminous cocktails appeared to be consumed, and at some point we persuaded the owner to lock the doors for a private, unofficial session. We commandeered the DJ booth for a while, taking turns to play songs and turn the night into a makeshift celebration. For Vietnam, where late nights are less common than in some capitals, staying until the early hours felt decadent and liberating.
The morning after was predictably slow. None of us emerged from our rooms until midday, nursing tired heads and laughing at the night’s antics. To spare my friends and myself the indignity of public exposure, I won’t be sharing the most incriminating pictures here. All I’ll admit is that Rocket Fuel deserves much of the blame for how the night unfolded—for force-feeding us a mix of bizarre flavours, for triggering the t-shirt challenge, and for becoming a story we still tell with a mixture of pride and disbelief. It remains one of those travel memories where the odd combination of culture, coincidence and a little foolishness made for an unforgettable evening in Hanoi.