https://learn.vietculinarybusiness.com.au/

Đào Thị Hằng, Shop E1B, Coomera Square, Adelaide (2026)

01/04/2026

https://academy.daothihang.com/ các bạn đăng ký tài khoản miễn phí, xong vào học khoá Shopify cho người mới và Thành thạo tiếng Anh cho người mới ở link trên nhé!

Đợt này Hằng đang bận khai trương shop mới nên chưa mở được các lớp Live mới, các bạn xem trước các bài học được lưu lại dưới dạng video, lúc nào sắp xếp được thời gian Hằng sẽ báo lịch học Live nha 🙂

25/03/2026

Đây là cách để bắt đầu bán hàng online bài bản cho người mới

21/08/2025

When I was little, I knew it was a good day the moment I saw beef in Mom’s market bag.

It meant she had sold well at the fish stall.
It meant Dad had caught plenty from the river.
It meant… we’d eat well for lunch and dinner.

Mom would turn that precious beef into Garlic Stir-fried Beef, Beef Soup, or a long-simmered Stew — always with a secret spoonful of shrimp paste for that deep, unforgettable flavour.

But before serving, she’d scoop out a portion and set it aside.
“This is for Dad,” she’d remind us. “He does the heavy lifting.”

That’s how I grew up:
Learning that beef was earned, not simply bought.

Later, in university, I discovered Beef Meatballs.
Springy, juicy, full of bite.
They became my favorite part of any bowl of Phở or Bún Bò Huế.

That snap. That chew. That layered flavour.
To me, it felt like something crafted by a quiet old artisan, a master who had spent decades perfecting the recipe.

I never imagined I’d be the one making them someday.

Then came Australia.
Everyone told me: “Aussie beef is the best in the world.”

So on my very first day in Adelaide, I walked into the butcher near my house.
Fresh off the plane. Nervous. IELTS certificate in hand — but English suddenly gone.

All I wanted was a few hundred grams to stir-fry.
But between my mumbling and pointing…
The butcher handed me a 2-kilo slab.

I froze.
Looked behind me — a queue of locals waiting.
Panic.

So I smiled, nodded, and walked out with 2 kilograms of beef I had no idea what to do with.

That night, I stewed the whole thing. Alone.
I ate it out of obligation, not joy.
And from that day forward… beef no longer tasted the same.

Even back in Vietnam, even when local butchers smiled proudly and offered me their freshest cuts,
I would just smile, shake my head politely, and walk away.
I avoided beef for years.

In HamaVillage, near Đà Lạt, I lived just 100 meters from Mom’s house.
My siblings were close by. Together with our farm team, we were like a small community.

Mealtimes were communal.
We all gathered, ate together, laughed, washed our bowls.
And Mom cooked.

She made Beef Meatballs. I watched.
I tried.
I failed.
But I didn’t try too hard.

Why would I?
Mom was right there.
She always made them best.
I just showed up and ate.

Then I moved back to Australia.
Mom was no longer 100 meters away.
If I wanted Beef Meatballs… I had to make them myself.

So I called her.

Not just for the recipe — but for guidance.
She trained me, over the phone, for two hours straight.
No shortcuts. No guessing.

I followed her method exactly.
I used fresh Australian beef — the kind that, in Vietnam, is reserved for luxury restaurants.
Here, it became my way of bringing home into a new land.

I kept the temperature low.
I refused flour or fillers.
And one day… it worked.

It clicked.

That’s the Beef Meatball you now taste in every bowl of Beef Phở or Bún Bò Huế – Spicy Noodle Soup at BMCorner.

Springy. Clean. Honest in flavour.

Alongside it, we serve thinly sliced brisket — slow-cooked until it melts in your mouth.

Because this isn’t just beef.
It’s childhood.
It’s community.
It’s the distance between two kitchens — and the bridge we build with memory and care.

Extra Beef. Extra Bold.

What I once admired from afar…
I now serve with pride, in every bowl.

21/08/2025

My childhood memories aren’t tied to toys or iPads,
but to the fragrance of pork lard, shallots, and fried rice.

If you asked me what breakfast looked like in my home, I’d smile and say:
“Fried rice. Almost every single morning.

My mother — tough, tender, and always awake before the sun — had her ritual.
She would heat pork lard in a blackened wok, toss in a handful of shallots,
and stir until the entire house filled with that golden, irresistible aroma.

Then came the rice — cold from the night before, dry and perfect for frying.
She’d crack in a few eggs.
Add scraps of yesterday’s dinner — braised fish, pork belly, stir-fried greens…
And if there was nothing left, she’d simply pour in a dash of fish sauce.

Nothing wasted.
Everything treasured.

The rice came out crispy at the edges, tender in the middle, glistening with lard, bursting with flavor.
We devoured it in minutes, then ran off to school — full, happy, ready for the day.

That fried rice was more than food.
It was love.
Simple. Humble. Unforgettable.

In our kitchen, there was always lard.
A ceramic bowl full of golden fat sat beside the wooden stove.

My mom would buy pork skin and fat, render it down slowly, and pour the hot liquid into that bowl — saving every last drop.

But we, the children, weren’t waiting for the lard.

We were waiting for the crispy bits.

Those golden cracklings that floated on top when the fat was done.
Still warm. Still popping.

We’d dip them in fish sauce, grinning, eating them like the greatest snack ever invented.

It wasn’t just food.
It was a ritual. A reward. A little explosion of joy we still talk about today.

Then one day, when I was twelve, I read in a magazine that pork fat was dangerous.

High cholesterol. Bad for your heart.

I came home and scolded my mom:
“Stop using lard. We need soybean oil. That’s what they say on TV.”

My dad — a fisherman with rope-like hands and a stomach that craved real fuel — shook his head.
“It’s not the same,” he muttered.

He was right.

But I didn’t listen. I argued. I insisted.
And in the end, I won.

We switched to oil.

And slowly, the food lost its magic.

Years later, when I opened BMCorner here in the 4209 area, I thought:
“Australians eat healthy. They won’t like greasy food.”

So I made chicken rolls. Grilled. Lean. Light.

But then I introduced the Crackling Pork Roll —
and something unexpected happened.

Eighty percent of my customers chose the pork crackling.
Over chicken. Over grilled. Over nem nướng. Over everything.

Curious, I asked one regular customer why.

He smiled and said:
“You know, pork fat is actually one of the top 10 healthiest foods in the world.”

I was stunned.
I Googled it.

He was right.

According to studies — and even BBC Good Food — here are the world’s ten healthiest foods:

1. Pork fat (lard) – high in monounsaturated fats, stable at high heat, rich in vitamin D
2. Almonds – packed with healthy fats, fiber, protein
3. Eggs – complete protein, vitamins, healthy fats
4. Avocados – rich in potassium, heart-healthy fats
5. Seaweed – iodine, fiber, antioxidants
6. Garlic – anti-inflammatory, immune-boosting
7. Salmon – omega-3 powerhouse
8. Blueberries – antioxidant-rich
9. Oats – beta-glucan for heart health
10. Yogurt (unsweetened) – probiotics, protein

And I laughed.

Because I was the one who had once told my mother to stop using lard.
And now, my own customers were teaching me what’s truly good.

I had tried to “fix” her cooking, believing I knew better.
But in the end, what she had always done — cooking with love, with lard, with care —
was the very thing that kept people coming back to the table.

So I picked up the phone and called her.

“Mom,” I said, still smiling,
“Guess what? Pork fat is actually one of the healthiest foods in the world.
We need to go back to using lard!”

There was a silence.
And then — both she and my dad burst out laughing.

Softly, my mom said,
“Your dad never stopped.”

She went on,
“I switched back to lard the day you left for university.
But whenever you came home, I used soybean oil — just for you.”

And in that moment, I remembered all those homecomings,
how the food tasted lighter than I remembered.

I thought she had changed.
But in truth, she was just being a mother —
letting me feel right, while quietly keeping everyone else fed and loved.

“We always had both,” she added.
“Lard for your dad. Oil for you.”

And that was my mom.
She never needed to prove she was right.
She simply made sure everyone had what they needed.
She didn’t argue.
She adjusted.
She let love do the talking.

Today, in my own kitchen, I fry rice for my son, Feliz.
Four and a half. Already in love with crispy rice.

We roast pork. We save the lard.
We do it the old way.

So when you see a little leftover rice, a few scraps of vegetables, bits of meat — don’t throw them away.

Heat a pan.
Add shallots.
Let the rice crisp.
Drizzle in fish sauce.
And here’s my secret — just a touch of fermented shrimp paste.

Trust me.

That’s not just fried rice.
That’s survival.
That’s love.
That’s heritage — in a bowl.

In Vietnam, fried rice is everywhere.
From the tiniest street stalls to the grandest five-star hotels.

It’s not just a dish.
It’s a philosophy.
It’s how we honor what’s left.
How we stretch one meal into two.
How we create something better from what might be discarded.

Fried rice is a celebration of thrift, of creativity,
and of the quiet pride of home cooks everywhere.

It reminds us:
No ingredient is too small.
No memory too ordinary.
No flavor ever forgotten.

So next time you think, “There’s nothing to cook,”
look again.
Open the fridge.
And let your story begin… in a wok.

With love,
Anna from BMCorner

21/08/2025

Have you ever asked yourself: what is the true purpose of my life? What is the ultimate thing I am striving toward?

For me, the answer has always been: Freedom!

I cannot recall exactly when or how this thought first appeared. All I know is that from a young age, I carried a quiet longing—to step out into the vast world beyond the bamboo hedges of my village and the Thạch Hãn River, where my grandmother, my uncle, and my aunts lived.

Each day, I helped my parents catch shrimp and fish on the river, yet in my mind, one question kept echoing: Where does this river end? What lies beyond it?

As a child, I had few friends. I often played alone, or sometimes with my younger siblings. I spoke very little—there were days when I would not utter a single word.

By the time I turned sixteen, I had also stopped watching movies or television. My father told me: “These films repeat every year. Focus on your studies, get into university, and then you can watch as much as you want.” I thought he was right. From then on, I embraced silence, cherishing the chorus of insects more than the noisy sound of a TV.

In a poor fishing family like mine, the path seemed predetermined: finish high school, then my parents would marry me off to another fishing household. In fact, after graduation, there were already families coming to ask for my hand. Perhaps, if I had chosen that path, I would now be the mother of six children, living afloat on a boat. But I chose differently. I wanted to go to university. I wanted to escape poverty. I wanted financial freedom—for myself, for my parents, and for my siblings.

I poured all my effort into studying. As a result, I became the top candidate in my entrance exam, graduated in the top 3% of my university after four years, and secured a job. Yet even then, I still did not feel free. I wanted more—freedom through knowledge. So I taught myself English, applied, and won a government scholarship to pursue a Master’s degree in Sustainable Development in Adelaide, Australia.

The greatest lesson I gained from that program was not simply academic knowledge, but the ability to learn independently, to research, to liberate my own mind. That was a new kind of freedom—intellectual freedom.

When I returned to Vietnam, I applied what I had learned to my work. Yet deep inside, I still wrestled with questions: What am I living for? Why am I here in this life? What remains after death?

I spent many years searching for answers. I read most of Osho’s books, studied Krishnamurti, watched Wild Wild Country about Osho’s life, practiced Vipassana meditation, and attended eight retreats over ten years. And gradually, I discovered my life’s purpose.

By the time I found freedom in my own mind, I met my husband and we had our son. My child was not born out of pressure or expectation, but out of inner wholeness—just as Osho said: when a woman gives birth, she is like a flower in full bloom, bearing fruit, and completing the cycle of life.

Marriage and motherhood did not bind me; they made me whole. From that moment, I no longer searched for more: no more books to chase, no new goals to set. I simply lived, worked, cared for my family—simple, yet complete.

At the end of 2012, I left Australia, but the country remained in my heart, like a second homeland. I am deeply grateful to Australia—for giving me the opportunity to study, for training me in independent learning, and for granting me freedom of knowledge.

Later, when I had my own family, I wanted my son to grow up in an educational environment that nurtures both morality and personal freedom. I wanted my husband to experience the country that had shaped me more than fifteen years earlier. So we returned—this time to settle. And once again, Australia opened its arms to welcome my little family.

Now, each day I cook with a deep sense of inner freedom. A friend once teased me: “Back in Vietnam, Hằng (my Vietnamese name) never cooked a single meal because she had helpers, but here in Australia she cooks for everyone!” And it’s true, Australia gives people the chance to go beyond their own limits, to do things they never thought they could, to discover how far they can truly go.

I am grateful to Australia. Grateful to life. Grateful to all who have walked alongside me on this journey.

21/08/2025

At 38, I packed my bags and moved to Australia with my little family – filled with excitement, and quietly carrying one big question in my heart:

"How can I create something meaningful for the community I live in, while still providing for my family?"

It took nearly a year of observing, learning, and rediscovering myself before I found the answer.
Cooking!

Not just any cooking – but bringing the soul of Vietnamese cuisine to life.

Cooking the way my mother taught me: “When you cook for someone you love, the food will always taste better.”

I have always believed that food carries the energy of the person who makes it. Every bowl I serve carries love.

When I started selling pho takeaway from my home in Pimpama, I listened closely to my customers – their tastes, their feedback, and their joy when they found something both delicious and comforting.

I realized Australians love pho, but their taste perception is very refined – they can describe layers of aroma and flavor with precision.

So, I created my own signature touches:

(1) A rich, aromatic broth simmered for hours with beef bones, fresh ginger, rock sugar, and a delicate balance of spices – star anise, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, coriander seeds – each chosen not only for their flavor, but also for their natural health benefits.

The broth is so beloved that many customers buy 5–10 takeaway packs at a time, just to enjoy it at home with their favorite noodles.

(2) Garlic Sauce – inspired by hoisin, but reinvented with roasted garlic, premium fish sauce, lime juice, bird’s eye chili, pho broth, and ground pepper. A bold, fragrant twist that makes customers say “wow.”

(3) Pumpkin Sauce – a creamy, healthy, subtly sweet dip that feels familiar to the Australian palate while adding a unique, surprising touch to the pho experience.

(4) Handmade Beef Meatballs – tender yet satisfyingly springy, made from premium beef freshly ground and mixed with my secret spice blend. Gently poached to lock in juiciness, these meatballs are so popular that customers often take home extra packs to enjoy with their own noodle dishes.

Serving both sauces and home made meatballs alongside my steaming hot pho has made customers come back again and again – some as many as 5–10 times a month.

In just six months, I served over 1,000 customers and 3,000 bowls of pho. This November, I will open my very first store in Upper Coomera

And now… a new chapter begins.

I have entered Hoa Hồi Vàng – the search for the best pho chef in Vietnam and around the world.

Why?
Because I want to share the love and care I put into my food with the wider world.

Because I want to learn from the greatest pho masters in Vietnam and beyond.

Because food is not just about eating – it’s about connection, culture, and memory.

📅 September 5 – Results of the qualifying round
📅 September 20 & 21 – Semi-finals and finals in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

🏆 Top 5 winners will receive a prize of 20 million VND and be sponsored to represent Vietnam at the Pho Festival in Singapore.

Whether I win or not, I already feel like a winner because I’m one step closer to my mission of bringing the soul of Vietnamese pho to the world.

To my customers, my friends – thank you. Every bowl I serve is more than food. It’s a story. It’s my heritage. It’s my love, in its warmest and most delicious form.

If you’ve read this far, I would be so grateful if you could leave me a kind wish for my journey to win Hoa Hồi Vàng – Best Pho Chef in Vietnam. Your encouragement means the world to me and I hope you’ll follow along to see if I can bring this Golden Star home.

From my kitchen to your heart,
Anna

21/08/2025

In every Vietnamese celebration – a wedding, a farewell, a reunion, a New Year festival – there’s always one dish that never changes.

A small plate.

Six slides of chả.

Six little spring rolls.

That’s it!

Placed right in the center of the table.

No more.

No second servings.

When I was a child, that plate was magic.

The chả – golden, fragrant, sweet and chewy – had a flavour so bold, it cut through every other dish.

I didn’t care about the soup or the rice.

I just wanted that one piece.

One.

Because that’s all each person got.

We didn’t eat it on normal days.

Only when there was something big.

So I made a promise to myself:

“When I grow up and make money, I’ll buy a whole roll of chả… and eat the whole thing.”

And you know what?

I did.

(Haha)

Years later, my mother taught me how to make it.

She was careful.

Detailed.

Patient.

But truth be told, I failed.

Again. And again.

My dog happily ate most of my early batches.

I was almost giving up making Cha!
until I opened BMCorner
I made a new promise:

“I will get this right.”

I called my mom.

She coached me for two straight hours – step by step, hand by hand – until it finally worked.

And that’s when I truly understood:

To master something,

A recipe isn’t enough.

You need a mentor,

You need experience,

And above all – you need relentless commitment.

The secret to great chả?

Two things:

Fresh meat

Low temperature while mixing

That’s it.

No shortcuts.

No chemicals.

No fake “bounce” additives.

Just discipline.

And the will to honour a dish that once made me dream.

This Chả is now the heart of our BM Pork Roll – Bánh Mì Chả Nướng.

So you don’t have to wait for a wedding or a feast.

Just one bite – and you’ll taste the boldness of tradition,

The fire of persistence,

And the flavour that haunted my childhood (in the best way).

Try it once.

For the kid inside you who always wanted more.

Extra Chả – Extra Chew.

Because now, you can have the whole roll.

21/08/2025

This afternoon, Deborah from Coomera stopped by BMCorner, ordering a serving of hot, crispy spring rolls along with two roast pork bánh mì.

I stood by the stove, watching each golden roll dance in the bubbling oil. The thin wrapper slowly puffed up, turning blistered and crisp, crackling with a cheerful sizzle.

When they were ready, I carefully packed them into a paper bag, adding two small sachets of sauce—the very dipping sauce I had spent months perfecting.

Deborah took her first bite. I still remember the way her eyes lit up and the smile that bloomed across her face: “This is the best spring roll I’ve ever had!”

She kept eating, savoring each bite, before ordering a few more to take home. I felt my heart warm as I watched her.

And in truth, Deborah wasn’t the first to say this, every single day I receive similar compliments. Different customers, but the same emotions: surprise, delight, and happiness.

To me, spring rolls have never been just food.

In Vietnam, they are tied to sacred occasions - Tết (Lunar New Year), ancestor remembrance days, or big family gatherings.

Growing up, spring rolls were rare and special. My mother would rise at dawn, go to the market, and handpick the freshest ingredients: meat, vegetables, vermicelli noodles, wood ear mushrooms, taro, carrots… Then she would marinate, mix, and wrap each roll with absolute focus and love.

In the kitchen, words were few. Cooking was a ritual, a way of showing gratitude to our ancestors and a way of bonding as a family.

Once the golden, crispy rolls were placed on the altar, my father would light incense, offer prayers, and express our family’s hopes for peace and prosperity. After the ritual, each family member received just one roll. That rarity made every bite profoundly precious.

I was born in Central Vietnam, but life allowed me to study and work across the North, Central, South of Vietnam and abroad (Australia & Canada). Each region has its own version of spring rolls, yet the meaning is always the same: reunion and gratitude.

Ask ten Vietnamese people what their national dish is, and without hesitation, most will answer: spring rolls. For me, the answer is the same.

And when I first moved to Australia 15 years ago to study for my masters, I often made spring rolls to share with my international classmates as a way to express pride in my heritage. Through those experiences, I realized one key adjustment was needed to truly share this dish with the world.

The secret key was in the dipping sauce!

In Vietnam, we dip spring rolls in diluted fish sauce: deliciously savory, but with a strong aroma. I still remember in my Adelaide dormitory, whenever I cooked with fish sauce, my roommate would yell: “Hằng (my Vietnamese name), don’t kill me with that smell!” 😅

But when the food was served, they cleaned their plates and showered me with compliments. That’s when I knew: fish sauce is the soul, but it needed to be refined, keeping the flavor while softening the aroma.

When I opened BMCorner, I dedicated myself to this. Every Sunday, I hosted Taste of Vietnam – free tastings. I invited neighbors and customers, asking for honest feedback on the crispness, the color, the vegetables, the meat ratio, and especially the sauce. Every little comment shaped the recipe. Every small detail made a big difference.

The result? Today, I fry 1,000–2,000 spring rolls every week. Some customers order 20–30 at a time, week after week. They tell me they’ve become “addicted” to them.

But for me, happiness isn’t in the numbers. It’s in the moment I see a customer take that very first bite, the crunch of the wrapper, their eyes lighting up, and the satisfied smile spreading across their face. Those moments remind me: spring rolls are not just food. They are a bridge between memory, love, and connection.

If you’ve ever tried my spring rolls and felt that WOW, leave me a “WOW” in the comments, I’ll know the flavor has touched you.

And if you’re curious about the special sauce that so many customers ask to buy, let me know below. Who knows? One day, you might find a little bottle of Vietnamese sauce sitting on your kitchen shelf, carrying with it all the love and memories I’ve poured into it 💛 Anna

08/08/2025

The sauce in your Beef Phở or Chicken Phở isn’t just chilli sauce — it’s our signature pumpkin sauce, crafted to take your phở to the next level.Rich, savoury, and packed with umami, it’s like adding a second bowl of phở in one bite.

08/08/2025

Not long ago, one of our regulars — Robbie — quiet, kind, and unassuming, happened to place BMCorner’s 3,000th order.
To celebrate, we gifted him five bowls of phở, to enjoy anytime over the year. No rush. Just as life allows.

Today, Robbie returned for his first bowl.
After finishing, he quietly ordered a Crackling Roast Pork Bánh Mì to take home — for his partner.
A simple gesture, yet it spoke volumes. The kind of care that doesn’t need words. The kind of love a husband carries in his hands.

While waiting, we talked — about family, land, memory.
He shared that his mother is Aboriginal, and how from a young age he was taught the deep connection one has with the land where they’re born. In Aboriginal culture, land isn’t just where you live — it’s part of your being, your bloodline, your living heritage. A bridge between your ancestors and who you are today.

I smiled — because it felt familiar.
In Vietnamese culture, we honour our ancestors, cherish our family roots, and believe in the spirit of the land we come from. Generations are tied together through food, stories, rituals, and shared meals.

Different cultures.
Same truth: when you are grounded — in your land, in your family — you carry a quiet strength. A calm. A sense of being protected.
And when family relationships are nurtured with care, that harmony ripples outward — into our partnerships, our work, our friendships. A peaceful home becomes the soil where everything else grows.

Here at , we’ve been lucky to witness many families build their own “Soup Traditions”: ordering 4–6 bowls of Beef Phở, Bún Bò Huế, or Chicken Noodle Soup every week. We see kids grow up, their tastes change, yet the warmth of every shared meal remains the same.
It’s no longer just “eating out” — it’s coming home to something familiar.

And guess what? Order number 4,000 is just around the corner.
The lucky guest will receive 5 free bowls of phở to share with loved ones. Could it be you?

Thank you for stopping by — not just to eat, but to connect 🥰.

Đào Thị Hằng

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