we continue to believe that our approach to food, people, and unit economics with the right cuisine, with

the right
concept, can lead to a compelling growth strategy.

The Right Way to Make a Classic Bánh Mì Sandwich

To me, the bánh mì has always been one of those sandwiches. Can you blame me? There's a lot going on in these things: juicy layers of roasted
pork; a rich schmear of pâté; a smattering of crunchy, punchy pickled vegetables; and a loaf of bread that's totally unique in its construction. So I
much as I love eating bánh mì, I left the actual making of them to the professionals.

That is, until my co-worker Mindy Fox showed me the way. Mindy, it turns out, also adores the bánh mì. She dreams of its brilliant textural
interplay (especially the crispy quick-pickles). The bread? No problem—there's a solution that doesn't involve becoming a master French-
Vietnamese baker. (Though, if you're one of those, do let me know.)

So, with the help of Mindy, I learned to get over my fears and make a bánh mì. And along the way I developed a little Sandwich Theory.

THEORY: THE BÁNH MÌ IS ALL ABOUT THE BREAD

Perhaps the most fussed over—and, thus, most critical and important—aspect of a proper bánh mì sandwich is the bread. True renditions sport a
hybrid bread that nods to the sandwich's French-Vietnamese origins: A loaf that looks like a traditional baguette at first glance, but isn't. The
exterior packs some of the baguette's signature crust, but what lies underneath is soft, chewy, and closer to French bread (more on that here).

Your best bet on finding something that fits this description is to seek out a local Vietnamese bakery. Don't have one of those in your town?
Chances are your favorite bánh mì shop will happily sell you a few loafs if you ask nicely.

Don't have either of those things? Get your hands on the freshest baguette possible and toast it lightly—don't take things too far or you'll end up
with a crumbly mess.
THEORY: VEGETABLES > MEAT
I spend a lot of time in these Sandwich Theory columns rhapsodizing about meat: Turkey and bacon best practices for a perfect club; the ideal
mix of fish and celery in a stellar tuna fish sandwich; the right blend of beef to achieve patty melt nirvana.

The bánh mì is different. Yes, the pork products you'll pile on the thing (more on those in a second) are important, but it's the vegetables that
give the sandwich its characteristic textural crunch. That comes from a trio of quick pickled vegetables—matchstick-sized pieces of carrots,
cucumbers, and daikon radishes. Sound complicated? It's not. All you'll need is a bit of white vinegar, salt, and sugar; then you follow the
instructions in the pickled vegetable section of this recipe.

Finally, layer on a handful of fresh cilantro, mint, and slices of jalapeño.

THEORY: THE SLOW-ROASTED PORK DOESN'T HAVE TO BE SLOW

"Still, I'm here for the pork," you say. I hear you.

You know those thin slices of slow-roasted pork that turn the bánh mì into an hours-long sandwich odyssey? Yeah, there's an easier way. Start
by rubbing down a cut of pork tenderloin with a mix of Chinese five-spice, salt, and pepper. Then, in a bit of hot olive oil, sear and brown all
sides of the tenderloin until it reaches an internal temp of 145°F, about 20–25 minutes.

Let the meat rest for 10 minutes before slicing and—boom!—you've got tender, roast pork without all the roasting hassle.

THEORY: DOUBLE DOWN ON PORK WITH PÂTÉ

Classic bánh mì calls for a layer of pork pâté atop the slices of roast pork. So I hope you can set aside 36 hours to make your own.

JK! I head to my local specialty meat store for a thick slice of country pâté (or Pâté de Campagne if you want to get fancy about it). It includes a
mix of ground pork, veal, and chicken livers, among other proteins, as well as a mix of spices and fresh herbs.
Country pâté works on two fronts: Texturally, it adds a smooth softness that counteracts the rest of the bánh mì's bite; flavor-wise, it adds a
considerable amount of spice and rich fat to provide compelling low notes to an otherwise vibrant sandwich.

THEORY: MAYO MATTERS

It seems that every sandwich I end up writing about in this column features the best condiment known to man: Mayonnaise. The bánh mì is no
different.

But your condiment game shouldn't stop there. Make sure to break out the sriracha sauce for an added acidic, spicy punch.

THEORY: ORDER ALSO MATTERS

As always, the order in which ingredients are assembled is critical—critical, people!—to sandwich success.

Here's your blueprint, from top to bottom:

Bread. Split the loaf in half lengthwise, then get building.

Thinly-sliced jalapeño, as many slices as you can handle.

A bunch of fresh cilantro and mint leaves.

Thin slices of pickled cucumber.

A handful of pickled carrot and daikon radish.

A layer of thinly-sliced roast pork.

Several 1/8" slices of country pâté.

A healthy swipe of mayo.

Bread.

A drizzle of sriracha over the whole thing.

Since the Vietnam War ended 40 years ago, Vietnamese have shared much of their culture with the larger world.
But many of us who fled as refugees could not have imagined that the Vietnamese sandwich, bánh mì, would one
day become an international sandwich sensation, a culinary wonder of our globalized age.

Today it has spread from Saigon to California and from there to the rest of the planet. Every city in North America
now has its own bánh mì shop or chain: Bánh Mì Saigon in New York, Bun Mee in San Francisco, BONMi in
Washington, DC, Bánh Mì Bá Get in Chicago, Bánh Mì Boys in Toronto. Bánh mì is standard food truck fare from
San Diego to Boston. Yum! Brands, owner of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell, and Pizza Hut, has opened Bánh
Shop fast-food outlets in Dallas.

South of the border in Mexico City is a bright red and yellow bánh mì food truck called Ñham Ñham. Shops and
chains have sprung up everywhere else; in London there is Kêu!, Bánhmì11, and, next to St. Paul’s Cathedral, Banh
Mi Bay. Among the options in Shanghai is Mr. V, whose menu includes the Obscene Double Triple—bánh mì with
headcheese, Vietnamese sausage, and peppercorn terrine; in Singapore, you can try Bánh Mì 888; one of the
busiest in Tokyo is a place simply called Bánh Mì Sandwich.

But what is a Bánh mì’?

It is an airy French baguette with a thin crunchy crust that could contain a cornucopia of roast chicken or pork,
homemade pâté, cured ham, headcheese, a mélange of pickled daikon radish and carrot, slices of cucumber and
chili pepper, a generous sprinkling of cilantro leaves, a few dashes of Maggi sauce, and a spread of mayonnaise. At
once spicy, salty, sour, savory, sweet, and aromatic: a bite into a well stacked bánh mì is always a moment of
rapture.
Bread vendor in Vietnam

Bánh mì’s origins, as its architectural foundation indicates, of course, are in France. The French arrived in Vietnam
initially as missionaries in the seventeenth century and established colonial control of Vietnam in 1887 with the
formation of La Fédération Indochinoise. The French brought their language and their food, including eventually the
baguette, the long thin loaf of bread that became popular in France in the early twentieth century. Growing up in
Hanoi my grandmother called it bánh tây, literally Western-style bread. By the 1950s the Vietnamese started to tinker
with it and, signaling Vietnamese appropriation of the baguette, started calling it bánh mì—simply, wheat bread.
Some recipes called for a mix of rice flour with the wheat flour. The aim was to make it fluffier than the French
baguette, allowing it to be easily stuffed with Vietnamese delights.
Bánh mì has long been a food staple of the working poor. Bánh mì stalls and carts are everywhere in the streets of
Vietnam, providing simple and delicious sustenance, typically for breakfast or the midday meal, to the masses. It was
street food long before street food became an obsession with foodies—in those days, some well-to-do Vietnamese
shunned street vendors out of concern about typhoid fever and other illnesses. Ingredients like the sweet, crunchy
fresh vegetables and pungent herbs and spices are what make the bánh mì Vietnamese. An essential component of
the Vietnamese way is Maggi sauce, a Swiss-made savory seasoning introduced by the French.

The Vietnamese sandwich could be found in the communities of Vietnamese students and émigrés in France from
the 1950s onwards. The traiteur Hoa Nam in the thirteenth arrondissement of Paris has been selling bánh mì
wrapped in wax paper for years, although the foodie trend in bánh mì is now evident in bobo (bourgeois and
bohemian) spots on the Right Bank like Saigon Sandwich and Bulma.

But it was the mass exodus of Vietnamese with the Fall of Saigon in 1975 that propelled the Vietnamese sandwich
on its way to global stardom. In no time, refugees in the United States were opening Vietnamese restaurants,
bakeries, and delicatessens, offering up all the dishes from the homeland—including bánh mì—for fellow refugees
and curious American diners alike.

Some trace bánh mì’s cultural migration to the sandwich’s burst of popularity in California’s Silicon Valley.

Vietnamese refugees eager to build new lives in America had flocked to the area to work in the booming high-tech
industry’s assembly lines. In 1980, a man called Lê Văn Bá and his sons parked a food truck outside a computer
manufacturing plant, targeting Vietnamese who couldn’t go far or spend much for lunch. Lê, a wealthy sugar
merchant who had lost everything in the Communist takeover of South Vietnam, sold the cheapest fare around,
including Vietnamese baguette sandwiches. It didn’t take long before bánh mì caught on with non-Vietnamese
workers as well as local college students.

By 1983, Lê’s sons, Chieu and Henry, turned the success of the sandwich into Lee Bros. Foodservices, Inc.—the
family Americanized their name to Lee—which today serves more than five hundred independently owned food
trucks throughout northern California. The business also evolved into Lee’s Sandwiches, a fast food chain of dozens
of shops selling bánh mì from San Francisco to Houston. Cathy Chaplin, author of the Food Lover’s Guide to Los
Angeles, once blogged, “If there was a Lee’s Sandwiches for every McDonald’s, the world would be a better place.”
Indeed, when Lê died, his obituary in the San Jose Mercury News called him the Ray Kroc of Vietnamese
sandwiches.

Bánh mì’s meteoric rise in the past few years is probably best explained by a convergence of pop-culture food trends
in the United States—the popularity of food trucks dishing up tasty and inventive street food, the explosion in food
blogging, the phenomenal success of television cooking shows, and the advent of the celebrity chef. The bánh mì
craze has produced an authority on the subject, Andrea Nguyen, a northern California writer whose blog, Viet World
Kitchen, explores the culinary traditions of Vietnam as well as of Asia more broadly. She published The Bánh Mì
Handbook: Recipes for Crazy-Delicious Vietnamese Sandwiches, which made National Public Radio’s list of best
cookbooks of 2014.

“Vietnamese bánh mì offers a wealth of textures,” Nguyen told me. “Crispy bread! Fatty mayo and meats! Crunchy
pickles! Hot chilies! Refreshing cucumber and herbs!” Nguyen attributes bánh mì’s crossover appeal to its familiarity
and adaptability. “It’s pretty, not overly mysterious for people interested in exploring new cuisines,” she says. “It’s
varied in fresh vegetables, light flavors, and people can more or less identify what they’re eating. Vietnamese cuisine
blends East Asia with Southeast Asia, South Asia and the West. Bánh mì is the perfect hybrid.” One of her recent
blog posts: “Laughing Cow Cheese Omelet Bánh Mì Recipe.”

Pauline Nguyen, cookbook author and owner of the Red Lantern, Sidney’s top Vietnamese restaurant, sees the bánh
mì’s attraction in its exquisite taste. “Let’s face it, the traditional French baguette with jambon, a bit of fromage, and
possibly some cornichon, doesn’t quite compare,” she says. “You have a beautiful balance of the sweet and piquant
of pickled vegetable, the heat of chilies, and richness of the pâté and mayonnaise, along with the unctuousness of
the pork terrine, the aromas of the coriander and spring onion, and of course the texture of crisp baguette.”

Just as the cheap price drew Vietnamese to bánh mì, says Minh Tsai, CEO of the Hodo Soy tofu business in
Oakland, it is one of the reasons for its spreading interest among non-Vietnamese. He explains that bánh mì was
quickly recognized as a bargain because Americans always perceived Vietnamese food as tasty yet inexpensive.
For the same reason, he adds, phở, the Vietnamese noodle soup, likewise has become a ubiquitous dish across
America.

“It was all about volume and cheap labor,” says Steve Do, among the boat people who fled Vietnam for the United
States in the 1980s, who found financial success in real estate and Internet technology stocks. “I lived with bánh mì
while going to high school and college, and I knew several families who worked in the business,” he told me.
“Families working together making sandwiches eliminate labor cost—even underage kids make sandwiches after
school to help the family out. Often the stores don’t hire anyone but Vietnamese newcomers who work under the
table while still on government subsidies. It’s the refugee way, but it works.”

If bánh mì survives as common street food in Vietnam today, I imagine that some vendors would get a kick out of
knowing that the Việt Kiều—Vietnamese overseas—took the sandwich on to international fame and glory.
Banh Mi: The Popular Vietnamese Sandwich
Bánh mì ,a Vietnamese term referring to “all kinds of bread”, became popular in the mid-1950’s when French rule ended in the country.
The sandwich gained worldwide popularity in the 70’s and 80’s when many Vietnamese left the country after the end of the war. The
French baguette, the bread most commonly used for the sandwich, is a slight variation from the original bánh mì bread developed in
Vietnam that was slightly more airy and thinner than today’s baguette.

So, what is in a bánh mì? Typically, they include pork, chicken or tofu which can be grilled, pan-roasted or oven-roasted to enhance the
flavor of the meats. To compliment the meat or tofu, sweet pickled carrots, daikon radish, sliced cucumbers, and spicy jalapenos are often
added and it’s topped off with a few sprigs of cilantro. The crispy bread is usually smeared with a fresh mayonnaise spread as well.

Bánh mì sandwiches shops and trucks have exploded across the United States over the past few years, offering diners an alternative to
your boring submarine sandwiches. In addition, most Asian supermarkets carry the bánh mì bread, so you can make these delicious
sandwiches at home.
Originating on the streets of Saigon, the Banh Mi sandwich is a French-Vietnamese hybrid consisting of an airy baguette, sour pickled daikon
and carrot, crisp cilantro, spicy chilis, and a cool sliver of cucumber surrounding any number of protein options, from sweet minced pork to fatty
pate to sardines.
To assemble the bahn mi sandwich, spread each half of the toasted baguette with mayonnaise, and fill the cavity of the bottom half of the
bread with broiled chicken, cucumber slices, pickled carrot, onion, and radish, cilantro leaves, and jalapeno pepper.
Transfer the carrot and radish to the vinegar and lime marinade and let them soak for at least 15 minutes, longer if it's convenient. In a small
bowl, stir together the remaining lime juice, soy sauce, fish sauce, sesame oil, canola oil, 1/3 cup sugar and 1/3 cup water. This is the
sandwich sauce.
Lemongrass is the classic seasoning for Vietnamese-style grilled pork or chicken, but chef Charles Phan likes to use fragrant Chinese five-
spice powder instead. If you have fermented red bean curd, use it instead of miso for a funkier flavor.
The Vietnamese sandwich, sometimes called a "bánh mì sandwich", is a product of French colonialism in Indochina, combining ingredients
from the French (baguettes,pâté, jalapeño, and mayonnaise) with native Vietnamese ingredients, such as coriander, cucumber, and pickled
carrots and daikon.
Banh mi is a classic Vietnamese sandwich that is known for the bread, which is light and has a thin crust. The sandwich fixin's are a mix of
French and Vietnamese ingredients – baguettes, pate, and mayonnaise from the French, and ingredients like cilantro, fish sauce, and pickled
carrots that are native to Vietnam.

Banh mi is the culinary love child of two distinct civilizations, the Viet and the French. The French became the colonial power in
Vietnam and while the country's citizens could argue about whether there was any benefit to French political oversight, they did
agree that the baguette was a happy legacy from that time. There are regional variations: banh mi in the Communist north tended to
be simple — maybe some meat, salt and pepper between bread that was crispy on the outside, with a delicate interior.
"In the south," Nguyen laughs, "they lived large like they do in the south here. So a lot of stuff was added — fresh herbs, vegetables,
pickles — and the protein could be anything. Chicken, meat, seafood, even pate."

Vegetarians could go all-veggie, or add tofu flavored with aromatics.

The result, Nguyen says, is "a party in your mouth!"

When Nguyen and her family fled Vietnam in 1975, they settled in Southern California. And as some of the earlier Vietnamese
immigrants did, they adapted what was in local groceries to make dishes from their homeland. They bought cheap commercial banh
mi from businesses started by immigrant entrepreneurs, but didn't find it very satisfying. Finally, one day, Nguyen's mother, Tuet
Ti, put her foot down.
"After a while of eating these mass-produced, cheap sandwiches," Nguyen remembers, "my mom would say 'Tien nao cua nay,' which
means 'You get what you pay for.' So let's start making our own."
And 40 years later, they still are. The big difference is that now a lot of the ingredients that were considered exotic in many grocery
stores across the nation are now pretty common: cilantro, jalapeño chilies, ginger and sriracha are on shelves from coast to coast.
And recently, banh mi are popping up restaurant menus and in food magazines.

Banh mi's moment has arrived — which is something commercial entities have recognized. The owners of Chipotle Mexican Grill
opened ShopHouse Southeast Asian Kitchen a few years ago to tremendous success. A few months ago, Yum, Incorporated – which
owns Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and KFC – opened Banh House, the first of several planned quick-casual restaurants where banh mi are a
central part of the menu. Andrea Nguyen says this is huge:
Enlarge this image
Roll'd Queen Victoria
 "When you see a company like that in the United States pushing an ethnic food, that means that they're betting on that food going
super mainstream." (Another indication: two years ago, Sunset Magazine, that super-mainstream celebration of life in the Western
United States, placed banh mi on its cover.)
Banh mi is quick and affordable, but it is not a sandwich to be assembled in a willy-nilly way. There is a protocol to assembling banh
mi: First you warm the roll, so the outside is crispy and the inside remains soft. Let it cool just a little bit, then smear mayonnaise
(plain or flavored with sriracha or chopped herbs) to the edges of the bread. Sprinkle with Maggi, an aromatic sauce that's often
found on grocery shelves near soy (which you can use instead) or gravy enhancers like Kitchen Bouquet. Then add your protein —
poultry, meat, tofu, whatever. Top with pickles, then fresh cucumber. Toss on jalapeños, if you like heat, and sprinkle with chopped
fresh herbs (cilantro, mint, and/or basil) and you're done.
The cool thing about banh mi is you can riff on it: substitute soy for Maggi, leave cilantro off if you hate it. Use leftover protein —
slices of last night's roast, extra shrimp, slabs of tofu that didn't get used up in your stir-fry. Or.... turkey. By the end of the week,
there's a good chance that you'll have some leftover turkey around that would just love to be turned into banh mi.
Here's a recipe from The Banh Mi Handbook that uses rotisserie chicken under everyday circumstances. Just substitute slices of
leftover turkey for chicken (if you have turkey skin, you can make the cracklings described in the recipe), and you're in business. Bon
appetit.

Rotisserie Chicken and Cracklings

Takes about 15 minutes, makes enough for six banh mi.

 A small (about 2 lb / 1 kg) rotisserie chicken

 Salt, kosher preferred

 Black pepper

 Splash of canola oil

Use your fingers and/or a knife to take the meat off the bone, reserving the skin for cracklings, if you like. Save any juices. Tear the
meat into pieces the size of your index finger so you can tuck it into the bread. You'll have about 1 and 1⁄4 pounds (565 g). Mix with
the reserved juices and set aside. If you are not making cracklings, skip this next step.
Crackling lovers — cut the pieces of skin into strips the length and width of your index finger (they'll shrink down). Put into a skillet
and cook over medium heat, stir- ring occasionally, for about 6 minutes, until the skin has rendered fat and is the color of an
autumn leaf. Transfer to a paper towel to drain and sprinkle lightly with salt. Reuse the skillet (with fat still in it) to reheat the
chicken.

Before using the chicken for sandwiches, season it with salt and lots of pepper; aim for a savory flavor in the flesh. Gently reheat the
chicken in a skillet over medium heat with a couple splashes of oil or the fat left over from making cracklings. Use a handful of the
soft, slightly warm chicken along with some cracklings for each sandwich.

Add your choice of mayos or the garlic yogurt sauce, Maggi, snow pea pickle, cucumber, and cilantro. Sprinkle on the cracklings
after laying down the seasoned chicken. Add fresh chile if desired.

Is the banh mi the world’s best

sandwich?
A product of Vietnam’s colonial past, the beloved concoction combines a crunchy French baguette with pork, pate and an ever-changing array of
fresh vegetables.

Translated simply as “wheat,” the banh mi is a delicious and ever-varying combination of deli-style pork, pate and veggies (think carrots,
cilantro, cucumber, etc), stuffed into a soft and crunchy French baguette. Regional variations in Vietnam involve adding headcheese, pork
sausage and various other vegetables.

In an age of hipster food mashups – Korean tacos, anyone? – the banh mi is the product of a true cultural and culinary blend. No food trucks,
Instagram photos or tweets led to its creation. The sandwich began with colonialism – specifically, the establishment of French Indochina in
1887 – when the occupying French simply slathered butter and pate inside a baguette. Then when the Vietnamese sent the French packing in
1954, they put their own spin on the sandwich, adding slices of pork, herbs and pickled vegetables, and creating the banh mi as we know it.

The rest of the world didn’t learn about this spectacular sandwich until after the end of the Vietnam War in 1975. As many southern Vietnamese
emigrated to the United States, Europe and Australia, they brought recipes, including one for their iconic sandwich. As a result, if you’re eating
a banh mi outside of Vietnam, you’re probably enjoying a southern-style snack: the baguettes are generally bigger and they’re crammed with
more veggies and herbs, such as cilantro, carrots and hot peppers.

Oddly, the banh mi has always been the one kind of food I liked better outside its home turf. When I tried a banh mi in Ho Chi Minh City a few
years earlier, I’d found the bread stale and the ingredients skimpy; inside was a paltry mix of a few slices of ham, a smear of pate and flaccid
cilantro and carrots. I gave up after one sandwich. I’d had far better banh mi in New York City; even Minneapolis! Was I crazy? Could the banh
mi outside of Vietnam actually be better? Now back in Vietnam, I was determined to find out the truth. Would my faith in the banh mi in its
homeland be restored? Is the banh mi the best sandwich in the world?
A banh mi vendor on a boat in Vietnam. (Jupiter Images/Getty)

At Banh Mi Pho Hue, Geoffrey Deetz – a chef and Vietnamese food expert who’s been living in the country for nearly 15 years – was peppering
the sandwich maker with questions about ingredients. Meanwhile, I’d just been served my banh mi, partially covered with piece of white paper
affixed with a rubber band.

I pulled back a side of the baguette to get a look at the ingredients: pork deli meat, fatty char siu pork, pork floss, creamy pate, Chinese 5 spice
and, curiously, butter. The sandwich maker finished it off by pouring pork-chili gravy inside. Interestingly, I saw none of the herbs and veggies
that spill out of the baguettes served in southern Vietnam or outside of the country.
 “The banh mi sandwiches in Hanoi are much more one dimensional than other parts of the country,” Deetz told me. “If you gave someone here
the kind of over-stuffed, herb-laden sandwich you’ve eaten in other parts of the country, they’d probably throw up.”

Happily, I didn’t throw up. This banh mi was radically different, true. But it was just as good as the sandwiches I’d eaten elsewhere. The crunch
of bread was followed by an interplay of porky goodness with a slight kick of spice. It was more like a meat sandwich. I loved it.

“They don’t really like overly complex food in Hanoi,” Deetz added. “But so many things in here have a function: the pork floss soaks up the
sauce, the pate adds moisture and the fact that the baguette is lightly toasted keeps it from getting soggy in this immense humidity.”

A man rides a rickshaw in Hoi An, Vietnam. (Hoang Dinh Nam/Getty)

While in Vietnam, I also tried a banh mi in Hoi An, a Unesco World Heritage-designated city on the central coast. In a region known for fertile
soil and vibrant herbs, it’s no surprise the sandwiches there are stuffed with verdant vegetables.

As I did in Hanoi, I asked everyone who would listen where I could find the best banh mi around. The answer was Banh Mi Phuong (Phan
Chau Trinh 2B) a diminutive shop in the centre of town. I ordered the classic, which the menu board indicated contained “bread, pork, ham,
pate”. But there was so much more: long slices of cucumber, fresh cilantro, pickled carrot and even juicy tomato slices. Phoung finished it off
with a flurry of sauces: a squirt of chili sauce and two different pork sauces, one from boiled pork and one from smoked pork.

The key to a good banh mi is, in fact, the bread. A bad baguette – a hard, crumbly log – will ruin an otherwise fine sandwich. Phuong’s bread,
baked right next door, was ultra-soft, almost deflating when I took a bite, while also maintaining a crispy exterior. Top that (literally) with high-
quality pork, two different pork-based sauces and a few surprises like tomato and pickled papaya and I had a very good sandwich in my hands.

All told, I sampled about 15 banh mi sandwiches over two weeks in Vietnam. Happily, I’d eaten some of the best sandwiches I’d ever had. That
banh mi I tried in Saigon a few years ago – the one that turned me off to the sandwich for a while – was just a fluke.

But is the banh mi the best sandwich in the world?

There’s scene in The Simpsons in which Homer expresses bewilderment when his daughter, Lisa, becomes a vegetarian.

“What about bacon?” Homer asks.

“No!” Lisa says.

“Ham?”
“No!”

“Pork chops?”

“No!” Lisa says. “Dad, those all come from the same animal!”

“Yeah right,” Homer says. “A wonderful, magical, animal.”

Something that combines so much pork with fresh herbs all stuffed into a crispy baguette is, I have to say, a pretty magical sandwich.