The rusty motorcycle took a sharp swerve, slightly tossing my damp backpack. Sitting in the backseat under the poncho flap extending from my father’s back, I tried to guess our location through the thick curtain of monsoon rain.
It wasn’t long before I could smell the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked baguette, signalling my arrival at the bánh mì stall near my elementary school in Saigon, Vietnam.
“A sausage bánh mì with all veggies, please,” said my father to the middle-aged woman behind the stall. Her calloused hands started to perform magic — a ritual I never failed to watch with fascination.
She split a golden baguette in half, spread pâté all over the fluffy white insides of the loaf, then added sausage slices and cilantro, green onion and daikon pickles, finally topping the marvellous creation with a dash of chili sauce.
At 7 a.m. sharp, I got off the motorcycle in front of the school gate and waved goodbye to my father. The warmth of the bánh mì radiated in my hand, reminding me of his twinkling eyes.
An explosion of flavours — creamy pâté intertwining with crispy baguette and electrifyingly hot chilis — woke me up better than any coffee as I bit the loaf behind the newspaper wrapping.
When I left my hometown, mornings enjoying bánh mì with my father on the motorcycle were replaced by coffee-fueled rides on the 49 bus to UBC. Eyelids weighed down by late night studying — I still never fell asleep on the bus. I looked out at lush rows of maples lining the streets, sunlight streaming through the windows, groups of students chatting merrily on the way to campus.
The childhood bánh mì was no longer there, but my longing for it was always present. I was thousands of miles away from the maze-like streets of Saigon and the memories of breakfast on the go with my father.
Bánh mì represents my soul, a mixture of all characters — soft as the fluffy white dough, but always full of a vibrant zest for life like the spicy chilis and fragrant herbs. The baguette and pâté of French colonizers, combined with traditional Vietnamese ingredients like fresh herbs, bridge two worlds together — a representation of my cross-cultural upbringing.
There are countless versions of bánh mì one will find on the streets of Vietnam — from the traditional ham and canned fish to grilled pork — that will never cease to amaze the delighted diner and bring me fond childhood memories.
On a rainy November evening after an exhausting day on campus, I returned to my kitchen with an aching longing for warm baguettes. I whisked a bowl of flour, yeast and water, divided the dough into big cocoon-shaped loaves and put the rising dough into the oven.
As the sweet smell of baking bread flowed through the house, I sliced ham, spread butter and canned pâté, then added some cilantro and pickles.
Outside, the rain tapped softly, but little did I feel cold.
Recipe
Makes 6 servings.
- 2 loaves of baguette (either store bought or homemade is fine!)
- 6 tablespoons of pâté (can be replaced with butter)
- The wonder of bánh mì is that you can tailor the fillings to your liking! Classics include ham, fried eggs and grilled meat. My favourite is ham with pork floss — you can add around 5–6 slices per serving
- 2 cups of sliced pickled carrots or white daikon (optional, can be found in Asian grocery stores — pick the ones with no chili powder)
- A handful of cilantro leaves and green onion slices
- Soy sauce
- Sliced red chilis or Sriracha (to taste)
Cut the baguette in half, then vertically split each half into two, each measuring about 20 cm in length.
Spread the pâté evenly inside each half and add the filling.
Garnish with cilantro, green onion, pickled carrots and daikon. Add the other half on top — just like a sub!
Drizzle the filling of the bánh mì with soy sauce and Sriracha, and then put your bánh mì into a toaster oven for three minutes for a warm, crispy texture. Enjoy!
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