Beyond the Line: Illuminating the Legacy of Hmong Food with Yia Vang
“Our mission is simple: to reflect the love and hospitality my mom and dad showed to everyone who walked through their doors.” Yia Vang
Vinai restaurant at 1300 NE 2 nd St., Minneapolis, MN
When I first began this piece, I freely admit that my intention was to focus on Yia Vang, and Vinai as a catalyst needed for the Michelin Guide to recognize the diversity, collective talent and in particular Yia Vang as the innovator that would break the camel’s back on the traditional way-points that we as a food culture view and value restaurants as an artistic expression.
After three visits for dinner and sitting down for a one-on-one, chef-to-chef conversation with Yia, I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised and enlightened. He, through Vinai and his other endeavors, is a catalyst for a far more profound and far-reaching change.
To say that Vinai is an experience not to be missed is such a gross misstatement. And the opportunity to experience the philosophy, and space for belonging, Yia and his team at Vinai have created must be one of the polarizing events in a time where belonging is but a far-gone conclusion for society at large.
One that, for Yia, has just begun.
There’s a corner in Northeast Minneapolis where something seismic is happening. It hums with history, it breathes community, and if you stand there long enough, you can feel the plates shift beneath your feet.
That’s because, at 1300 NE 2nd St., Vinai is a reckoning.
And Chef Yia Vang?
He’s the spark in the powder keg that’s about to blow the Twin Cities’ food scene wide open onto the global stage. And to begin the symphony of bringing Hmong food and history to both the Hmong community and the world at large.
Chef Yia Vang’s Minneapolis restaurant, Vinai, isn’t just a place to eat—it’s a place to sit down and eat.
And if you’re really, genuinely curious, he is waiting and eager to talk about it. Vinai, at its core, is a place of belonging.
“We want to create an atmosphere that shows people what it means and what it feels like to belong. Our people have struggled for hundreds of years to find a place to belong,” Yia tells me with a passion and eloquence that belongs solely to special and enlightened individuals.
For too long, Minneapolis and St. Paul have been on the periphery of culinary recognition, an afterthought in the national conversation. But the tides are turning.
With each course, each story, each open flame at Vinai, we are watching a moment coalesce into a movement. That Vang, of all people, would be the first to receive this recognition—despite never seeking it—is not lost on me.
Vinai is more than a restaurant. It is a declaration. A promise fulfilled. An homage to Hmong culture, a cuisine that has lived in the in-between for too long, now given the full breadth of its voice.
Yia has made it clear: food is storytelling, and his story is one that does not demand, but invites you to experience.
Every dish at Vinai is an artifact of survival and celebration—purple sticky rice cradling the tender embrace of grilled meats, the smoke of wood-fired cooking curling into the air like an ancestral whisper.
This is the work of a chef at the beginning of what will no doubt be an impactful journey, illuminating history in real time.
The Michelin Guide’s absence in the Twin Cities is not a reflection of what we lack—it is an oversight of what we have. The world is beginning to wake up to the undeniable truth: we are a food city. We always have been.
Yia Vang couldn’t be more blunt when he says,” What am I waiting for? Another Eurocentric guide to tell me I am worthy? I’m not going to be someone that I am not.”
When you arrive at Vinai with whatever preconceived notions you may have of a restaurant with such a cult following and a multitude of national press and accolades, you will discover the unimaginable. You will not find white tablecloths, a lengthy tasting menu, or fussy matching flatware for each course.
You will find, no doubt, as I have, that “Oh, I have arrived.”
You will find a wondrously beautiful place to sit and eat. And if you’re curious enough, you will find Yia Vang, or he will find you for a truly epicurious, transcendent, and insightful dialogue.
Stepping inside, I am instantly hit—no, smashed—by an aromatic mélange so layered, so profoundly intoxicating, that my senses shift into overdrive. There is the searing heat of charring meats, the whisper of fresh herbs igniting on an open flame, and something deeper—something unrecognizable to me, yet at once familiar, primal, nostalgic.
These are the scents of a culture I was not born into, but one I am learning to experience through the hands of a chef who refuses to let it be forgotten.
The space itself glows with an amber warmth, modern lighting fixtures reminiscent of flowing water, fluid and unobtrusive, illuminating the story unfolding beneath them. Words hardly declare the deep importance and ethereal nature of what Yia and his team have accomplished in the last five years.
Only now, after three visits to Vinai and a candid discussion with Yia; Javier Rojas, his fiery and brilliantly skilled beverage director; and his chef de cuisine, Tim Truong, who has a big—crazy big—heart, do I truly begin to comprehend the gravity of Yia’s vision and the clarity with which he and his team communicate this to each guest.
This is home.
The first thing you notice about any great restaurant is the inevitable queue outside, just before service. The anticipation is electric—a collective hum of salivating smiles and bright energies woven together by the promise of something extraordinary. I grew up with this.
The restaurant where I first interned, later earning my first chef position, always had a queue. Rain, snow, windchill be damned.
In Vinai’s case, the ritual was held, even at -15 degrees—a testament to the gravitational pull of something deeply special.
Sitting down with him, it becomes clear that his mission is more than food; it’s about honoring a lineage, a culture, and a deeply personal philosophy on what it means to share a meal, and an opportunity for his generation of Hmong people to realize their belonging; illuminate their core values, share the wisdom and learning of a tumultuous history and strict adherence to perseverance.
To explore the unknown possibilities of living in a time of relative peace for a generation older, and the Hmong elders mirror the degree of challenge and opportunity that Yia has chosen in his mission to bring the Hmong table to America.
In speaking with Yia, even during the service, he is fully present. There is no distraction, no divided attention—he is here, completely. Always in the moment. Always engaged. Always intentional.
It is an authenticity that translates into his cooking, his presence as a chef, a storyteller, and a curator of history. Each dish that leaves his kitchen is an exercise in restraint and confidence. It is not about controlling ingredients but understanding them and letting them speak for themselves.
And the centerpiece of the restaurant is a beautifully decadent, expansive family table. Beneath the warm droplets of light, beckon you to gather with friends and family and melt into the surroundings.
It is also here that, beneath the table, you will discover a further surprise: a “secret menu,” perfect for sharing and family-style dining.
My business partner and I were fortunate enough to discover that guests visiting the bar also have access to this concise and vibrant tapestry of colors and flavors. This menu floored me from top to bottom.
However, it’s a secret, so you'll need to see it for yourself.
Yia’s unshakeable ethos of using food as a storytelling medium, of continuing the until recently muted history of the Hmong people, is nothing short of visionary leadership; a call to action answered and embraced in full, both passion and pragmatism balanced through a deep cerebral introspection.
Coupled with his lack of an egocentric approach, his humility is evident in his own words when he says, “I’m not here to change the world.”
“I wouldn’t say Vinai is polished, but it has a very simple elegance,” I say to Yia.
His restaurant, like his approach to food, is authentic, deeply rooted, and unapologetically Hmong. And that is transformative.
“Vinai, pronounced ‘VEE-NY’—look, we’re going to march to the tune of our own drummer. And that drummer is the voices of the past: the ones who have left, who lost their lives, the ones who paved this path for us. They’re the ones who will set the tone and rhythm for us. I’m going to make it simple.”
“What it’s about is simple, man. It’s to reflect the legacy of my mom and dad, and what they did. They loved people—regardless of who they were. Regardless of socioeconomic background, regardless of their sexual orientations, freaking regardless of their religious beliefs. Mom and Dad loved them, and they made sure that they felt like they belonged,” Yia says.
When our discussion delved into cooking, he and I shared an understanding of history. And we have both chosen to embrace the creative resourcefulness that can only be born from cultures and people living constantly to provide the most basic human necessities —food, water, and shelter.
For Yia, food is history, memory, and identity.
He speaks of the traditional Hmong practice of farming and gathering ingredients as a way of life long before ‘farm-to-table’ became a culinary movement.
“Farm-to-table existed before the dawn of time. It’s not a new idea—it’s how our ancestors lived, and Hmong people in their homelands still live,” he says.
“For my parents, just being able to buy vegetables at a grocery store is a luxury. That meant they weren’t in a time of war anymore. That meant peace.”
“When I tried to explain to my mom that there was this, like, super trendy way of dining in America called ‘Farm-to-Table,’ she was perplexed and laughed: ‘You mean what we did on a Tuesday in Laos? Farm the food and bring it to the table to eat?”
The shared laughter and irony are so visual in his storytelling. Simplicity is the highest form of expression.
The true mastery of Yia’s cooking lies in its deceptive simplicity. There is nothing overly manipulated, nothing forced into submission. The execution is a study in balance—fire and fat, depth and restraint, memories of a homecoming executed with a brave mastery.
For Vang, this is not just food. It is an inheritance, a narrative, a fight against erasure. One that demands not just appreciation, but respect. A full embrace of the possibilities presented to a motivated generation in a time of peace, finally.
The dish that has me hooked: Charred Cabbage with Carrot Purée.
At Vinai, the beauty of a dish is not found in its excess, but in its restraint. Few plates illustrate this better than the charred cabbage with carrot purée—a dish so unassuming on paper, yet profoundly expressive on the palate.
The cabbage arrives, its edges charred by flame, its deep-caramelized outer leaves giving way to a tender, buttery interior. A delicate forkful reveals the contrast: the crisp, smoky exterior yielding to something surprisingly sweet, deeply vegetal, and complex.
Beneath it, a puree of carrot, impossibly smooth and aromatic in a way that suggests patience and precision, offers a counterpoint—its natural sweetness heightened, its texture luxuriously rich without being heavy. The pairing is intentional, reflecting the ethos of Hmong cooking: balance, harmony, respect for the ingredient, and the belief that nothing is wasted, everything has a place.
Yia doesn’t rely on unnecessary flourishes or egocentric innovation—his food speaks of tradition and the execution of a chef who understands restraint as a form of mastery.
This is where Vinai shines—not in grandeur, but in its ability to take the unfamiliar and, in a manner never attempted, deliver to you such a soul-touching resonance.
The charred cabbage with carrot purée is a quiet revelation, a study in texture and patience, and a testament to how, when consistently executed with precision, it can meet the standard of a Michelin star.
I had to revisit this dish during all three of my visits to Vinai. Twice, very busy and in the dining room, and once, unusually slow and at the bar counter. Each time, it was without flaw. Consistent down to each detail. This consistent execution is what sets the truly exceptional apart from the rest.
One of the most thought-provoking moments in our conversation comes when Yia pushes back against the notion that Vinai ‘elevates’ Hmong cuisine.
“We’re not here to elevate—it was always elevated,” he says firmly. “We’re building upon thousands of years of work, on the backs of our ancestors. We’re here to illuminate.”
His frustration with the way mainstream food media often frames non-European culinary traditions is well articulated and filled with passion and fact.
“When they say we’re ‘elevating’ Hmong food, what they’re really saying is that what came before wasn’t good enough,” he explains. “But for us, this food has always been soulful, comforting, and deeply meaningful. We’re just shining a light on it.”
A place of belonging, beyond food, Vinai is about creating a space where people feel at home. Yia recalls how his elders struggled with the idea of dining out because, for them, serving and working were the norm.
“My aunt came to the restaurant and instinctively wanted to help in the kitchen instead of sitting down to eat. That’s just how she was raised.”
At Vinai, Yia hopes to shift that mindset—he wants people to sit, eat, and experience the warmth of a shared meal. “Our people have spent generations searching for a place to belong. Now, we finally get to create it.”
The unwritten history of Hmong food, of Hmong culture, Yia reminds me, wasn’t documented in the way French or Italian food has been. “We didn’t have a written language until 1949,” he points out. “Our history, our food—it was all passed down orally, through stories and meals.”
This lack of written record means that, for many, Hmong food remains misunderstood.
“Even Hmong people still argue about what Hmong food is,” Yia says, laughing. “It’s herbaceous, it’s grilled, it’s braised. Because, again, most often you had a fire—either to grill upon or to hang a pot over. It’s the taste of our ancestors’ resilience.”
Yia Vang: Present, Grounded, and Unapologetically Himself.
As I wrap up my conversation with Yia, I’m reminded that food isn’t just sustenance—it’s identity, history, and a bridge between past and future. At Vinai, every dish tells a story, and every meal is a homecoming.
You can find Vinai restaurant at 1300 NE 2 nd St., Minneapolis, MN.
Reservations are, in my experience, a must due to the popularity. Can’t find the table you’re looking for? They make it easy to choose times on the waitlist. I have had luck with this each time, and within a day. reservations@vinaimn.com Check out what’s happening and the current menu at www.vinaimn.com.
There's a very special surprise if you happen to choose Family Table with a large group, or if you happen to wander in and dine alone at the bar on Tuesdays through Thursdays.
Steven Louis Peyer — Retired Chef, Author, and Local Purveyor of Specialty Food Products
steven@thirdcoastsuperior.com
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We see you, we feel you, and we feel the love. You will all feel the sauce soon.
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