The Story Behind “Mường Food”

Growing up in Phú Thọ, I often heard the Mường people called “keepers of taste,” yet I never truly understood what that meant. I grew up between two worlds: the traditional world where all the costumes echoed through wood smoke, and the one of my textbooks filled with business terms and branding case studies. When I began studying entrepreneurship, I wanted to “modernize” our traditions, to prove that culture could also compete in the market. That ambition led me to create Mường Food, a student-led social enterprise reintroducing thịt chua, a traditional Mường fermented pork dish, to younger consumers.

At first, I thought success meant sleek packaging, clean labels, and catchy campaigns. But at our very first market, an elder asked, “Have you ever tasted real thịt chua?” His words silenced me more than any failure. I realized that the jars I had worked so hard to perfect looked polished but hollow. People bought the flavor, not the story. And I didn’t yet know the story myself.

I went to Pà Sùng village, the birthplace of thịt chua, to learn what I had missed. My goal was to “study production,” but what I found was a lesson in humility. I stayed with families who still ferment the meat in bamboo tubes wrapped in forest leaves. I learned to grind chẩm chéo with my hands until my palms burned, to wait days for the right smell to emerge, and to listen to the silence between their laughter, where memory hides. What I once called a “business process” became a ritual of patience and gratitude.

As I learned, I began to see how easy it is for modern projects like mine to unintentionally erase what they aim to preserve. Authenticity isn’t an aesthetic; it’s a relationship, one that requires time, listening, and respect. When I returned, I redesigned everything: our sourcing came directly from Mường families; our profits were divided to both fund a library for 200 rural students and reinvest into improving local production quality. Our campaigns no longer advertised “tradition,” they invited people to meet it.

Through Mường Food, I also confronted my own contradictions. For years, I tried to “perform” belonging, adopting trends, chasing what looked impressive. But through the rhythm of pestle and fire, I began to understand a different kind of leadership: one that starts not with speaking, but with listening.

In 2024, we reached over 1,000 products sold and conducted three major promotional events, but the true reward wasn’t revenue, it was watching traditional symbols printed on the packaging for the first time. One of them said softly, “It feels like my story is in your hands now.” At that moment, I realized the project was no longer about saving culture; it was about sharing authorship.

Later, my research on “Sustainable Business Models in Fermented Pork Production” deepened that transformation. I collected 200 consumer surveys and 33 material samples across Phú Thọ, analyzing how perception of “authenticity” can shape both market behavior and cultural sustainability. Academic frameworks gave me language for what I had lived through, but the truest insight remained the simplest: culture ferments best when cared for, not when rushed.

Today, when people ask me what Mường Food “sells,” I answer differently. We don’t just sell thịt chua; we share a story, one that’s still fermenting, still teaching me patience, humility, and truth. College, I believe, will be my next fermentation jar: a place where diverse ideas, like diverse ingredients, are left to deepen together, slowly, honestly, and without shortcuts