Vang: Hmong cuisine is having a moment — make that a movement — thanks to these three Minnesota chefs

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The dawn of Hmong American cuisine is here, and it is delicious.

The emergence of Hmong food into the limelight of the Twin Cities’ culinary scene is more than a gastronomic trend; it is a cultural awakening for Minnesota. At the forefront of this movement are three award-winning chefs: Diane Moua, Yia Vang and Marc Heu, who are introducing Hmong food to larger audiences and putting their own individual spins on it.

I recently spoke with all three of them about their culinary journeys. And through those conversations, I discovered they are not only chefs but also storytellers, warriors, innovators and cultural bearers. Their paths to become luminaries in the culinary community — like the food they prepare — have been layered, complex and authentically Hmong.

This year, the Hmong community will mark 50 years of being in the U.S. So it’s only taken about half a century for the rest of America to catch up to what I’ve always known as a Hmong American: Hmong food is absolutely scrumptious. With its farm-fresh vegetables, fragrant herbs and high-quality proteins like pork, chicken and fish, it’s a celebration of bold, balanced flavors. This is how my mother cooked in her kitchen, weaving together spicy, sour, salty and sweet notes using lemongrass, chili peppers, fish sauce and fresh cilantro to create dishes that were as rich in taste as they were in tradition.

At the same time, my mother’s cooking — and the food created by these three acclaimed chefs — also whisper stories of cultural crossroads. Chinese culinary traditions, French colonization and American migration have all left their mark, like well-seasoned fingerprints, on Hmong cuisine.

Take Vang’s wildly popular Minnesota State Fair galabao — a pillowy steamed bun stuffed with savory meat and a hard-boiled egg. It’s a delectable reminder that the Hmong called China home for over 2,000 years before migrating to Southeast Asia.

Heu’s pastries, meanwhile, may look like they came out of a patisserie on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris. But his creations are also a nod to the era when French colonialism shaped Southeast Asia’s foodways.

And then there’s Moua. At her namesake restaurant, Diane’s Place, she blends Hmong flavors with American techniques, serving up a complex dish like sweet pork, but simplifying it for Minnesota palettes.

In the name of hard-hitting journalism, I heroically sacrificed my waistline by recently eating at the restaurants and patisserie featured in this column. It only required stretchy pants, a muumuu shirt and post-meal naps.

Diane Moua: The warrior of Hmong cuisine

On a chilly morning, I arrived at Diane’s Place with high expectations. After all, it had recently earned a spot on The New York Times list of 22 of the best bakeries in the U.S. Accolades aside, what I discovered that day was more than just exceptional pastries — I met a woman whose journey is as rich and layered as her Thai tea croissants.

“Our parents built us [Hmong women] as warriors,” Moua told me, reflecting on her path to becoming a celebrated pastry chef. Listening to her story, I couldn’t help but think of the Roman goddess Diana — strong, independent and deeply connected to tradition. Moua’s strength isn’t forged in battle, but in resilience.

Like many Hmong women of our generation, Diane married young — at just 16 — and had children soon after. For 18 years, she stayed in the marriage out of duty, bound by honor and the fear of shame. “I did everything to be a good wife and daughter-in-law,” she said, her voice steady.

But her dreams — Diane’s Place — remained on the back burner. The turning point?

“I stopped ironing my husband’s shirts,” she said with a knowing smile. It was a small act of defiance, found unacceptable by her former husband, that set her free to chase her passion.

Unlike the goddess Diana, Moua doesn’t wield a bow and arrow — her weapons are buttery pastries and perfectly seasoned Hmong pulled pork. I asked her how she would describe her food. “Simple and comforting,” she answered without hesitation.

Take her Hmong pulled pork, for example. As we talked, we reminisced and laughed about similar childhood memories of our mothers standing over a stove, stirring freshly butchered pork in a massive pot, coaxing out deep, rich flavors. Cooking for Moua has always been about family. She told me she often called her mother for advice as she developed her menu, asking questions like, “How much pork fat should I add to the sausages?” Her mother’s response: There can never be enough fat. Add more.

Growing up, Moua watched as the men in her family butchered meat while the women transformed it into something extraordinary. That tradition shaped her approach to running a kitchen — structured, disciplined, yet deeply personal.

Yia Vang: The storyteller of Hmong food

Vang’s cooking is a “love letter” to his parents, a heartfelt expression of gratitude for their sacrifices, he told me. His dishes reflect the love they showed while surviving a filthy, disease-ridden refugee camp. His father, a 14-year-old soldier in the CIA’s Secret War, and his mother, a war widow, found each other in the Vinai refugee camp in northern Thailand — now the namesake of Vang’s latest restaurant.

Today, Vang is on a mission to challenge stereotypes, particularly the belief that food from refugee communities can only be basic or unrefined. For him, food isn’t just sustenance — it’s a way to challenge these assumptions and share a more nuanced story. To him, Hmong food is an always-evolving entity, influenced by geography, family and history.

“Hmong cuisine is going to be different if you are a Hmong from Arkansas or a Hmong from Paris,” he said. “What your Hmong grandma makes is different than my Hmong grandma.”

At Vinai, Vang elevates traditional Hmong dishes like braised beef rib with sour bamboo and mushrooms in ginger broth. He asked me what memories the dish brought up for me after learning it was my favorite dish on the menu.

“Hmong weddings and funerals,” I quickly replied. He said that’s exactly what he intended. His dishes are meant to take Hmong diners back to the large community events of their childhood where freshly slaughtered beef was a staple. He wants to share these everyday dishes, elevate them and make them accessible for people outside the Hmong community.

“Growing up, we were afraid to share our food with our white friends,” he admitted. “We didn’t want to be judged.”

Now he serves Hmong food with pride. Despite all of the “best” chef and restaurant lists he’s racked up — including those of Esquire, the New York Times and the Minnesota Star Tribune — Vang still faces criticism from some in his own community. “Some say I just make Hmong food for white people,” he says. “But Hmong food is different for everyone.”

I asked why that criticism bothers him. It’s not about seeking approval, he said. It’s about making his community proud. He deeply cares about representing Hmong people and ensuring their culture is respected.

Marc Heu: The artisan of pastry

Heu’s pastries are more than desserts — they are a bridge between histories, cultures and continents. His story begins not in the bustling patisseries of Paris but in a lineage that ties the Hmong people to France. France colonized Southeast Asia in the 1800s. Most Hmong families eventually migrated to the United States, but his family took a different path, settling in France. He was born in Saint-Rémy, a suburb of Lyon, a city steeped in culinary tradition. Add to that his family’s time in French Guiana, and his pastries become the embodiment of four cultures: Hmong, French, Guianese and American.

I should confess here that Heu is also my brother-in-law. So I had a front-row seat to his meteoric rise as a pastry chef, from baking in my parents’ basement to establishing a patisserie in St. Paul’s Summit neighborhood. My younger sister, Gaosong V. Heu, is the woman he credits with keeping him in the U.S. “I came here on vacation, met a beautiful woman, made her my wife, and stayed,” he said.

When he was 3 years old, his family moved from France to a dilapidated fruit farm in French Guiana, near the Brazilian border.

“While other children roamed the jungle or played video games, I was in the kitchen, baking alongside my three older sisters,” he said.

He vividly remembers the magic of making simple cakes, separating yolks from egg whites, and watching them whip into stiff, snowy peaks.

At 14, Heu returned to France for boarding school. Though his heart belonged to pastry, he initially pursued medicine to satisfy his parents’ expectations. But with his wife’s encouragement, he enrolled in prestigious École Lenôtre in Paris, learning under Christelle Brua, a world-renowned pastry chef. “I wish I had stood up for what I believed in sooner,” he said.

He later refined his skills at Stohrer, Paris’ oldest patisserie, founded nearly 300 years ago. Under the guidance of Executive Chef Jeffrey Cagnes, Heu developed a signature style — precise, personal and beautiful. Each of his pastries is a work of art.

“You don’t have to be French or wealthy to enjoy exquisite desserts,” he says. “Everyone deserves to experience luxury cuisine.”

Heu’s pastries are a testament to that belief, marrying the artistry of French technique with Hmong cooking, which emphasizes fresh ingredients. Take his passion fruit tart, which I call his Mona Lisa. The raspberry base is a tribute to his mother’s longing for her Hmong family, while the golden passion fruit custard carries the warmth of French Guiana’s sun. And the breathtaking presentation is so ooh la-la-la, c’est magnifique!

Last year, Heu was named a James Beard Award semi-finalist. When I ask about the future of Hmong cuisine, he speaks with admiration for pioneers like Vang and Moua, as well as Thony Yang, the chef de cuisine at Four Seasons Minneapolis. “In 20 years, Hmong chefs will be everywhere, doing brilliant things,” he predicts. “Right now, those of us cooking and baking seriously are using food as our love language. We want the world to fall in love with Hmong cuisine, and the Hmong people.”

My answer to him? The world already has.