The Tree on the Wall

by Wei Zhang · January 2026

I booked through Instagram, which felt strange for a café, until I got there and understood: Things Livingroom has limited seats, an unwritten rule of quiet, and two black cats (a mother and her kitten) who have opinions about noise. You don't just walk into someone's living room unannounced. That's what this is — someone's living room, on the first floor of a 135-year-old apartment building at 14 Tôn Thất Đạm.

The signature is a tree. A big black hand-painted tree sprawling across the wall, and it appears in every customer photo ever taken here — it's the thing people remember. Around it: exposed brick from the original building, vinyl records on the walls, bamboo blinds, movie posters and musician portraits taped up like a personal museum. The window frames are painted turmeric yellow, and in the morning the whole room fills with sunlight — reviewers call it the birdcage window, full of light. There's no air conditioning, just fans. In the evening it goes amber under paper lanterns and desk lamps.

The menu is small and every drink has a name like a pet: Thing's Cold Brew (70% arabica, 30% robusta), Walnut Milk Latte, and a Cotton Cheesecake that people photograph almost as much as the tree. The coffee is, honestly, fine — the reviews say so, the regulars say so, and the room doesn't pretend otherwise.

The drinks are the excuse. The room is the point.

I should say more about the quiet, because it's enforced and that's interesting. This isn't a library with a no-talking rule posted on the wall; it's a social contract. Limited seats, book ahead on Instagram, and an understanding that if you bring a loud group you'll ruin it for the person reading in the corner. I watched it work: a table of four came in chatting, felt the room, and lowered their voices within a minute. The space disciplines you. That's rare. Most cafés either blast music to cover the noise or surrender to it. Things asks something of you, and — this is the surprising part — people comply. They want to be worthy of the room.

I went on a Tuesday morning, sat under the yellow window with a cold brew, and watched the light move across the tree. A chessboard sat unused on a side table. Someone's sketches were pinned near the paper lanterns. The cats ignored everyone with professional dignity.

I stayed three hours and did nothing, which is the highest compliment I know how to give a place.

Book ahead. Bring a book. Keep your voice down. Say yes to the tree.

Oh — and don't confuse it with the neighbors. Memento Saigon is on the fourth floor of the same building, a speakeasy behind a bookshelf, completely separate. Things is on the first floor. Different stairs, different worlds. I mention it because I almost went to the wrong one, and the wrong one would have been a fine evening but not this morning. This morning was the tree, the yellow window, the cold brew, the cats. Some places you plan. This one you book on Instagram and then surrender to.