The hot Californian bánh mì that came in from the cold
A piece of satire from the digital archives. Resurrected in honour of anyone who comes to Vietnam and claims the 'humble banh mi' just isn't up to their usual gourmet standards.
THE MISO-MARINATED BLACK COD BANH MI shifts in his chair as the plane descends towards Tan Son Nhat Airport in Ho Chi Minh City. He isn’t nervous, unlike the heavily perspiring Shiitake-Tofu Banh Mi in the aisle seat on his left, and he isn’t drooling all over himself as is the Medium Rare Rib-Eye Beef Banh Mi, who, in spite of his red-blooded core, popped a Valium while flying through turbulence somewhere over the Pacific. No, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi is simply itching to walk through the airport with nothing to declare but his own gourmet deliciousness before basking in the adulation of the motherland.
When he disembarks, he leaves the still-slumbering Medium Rare Rib-Eye Beef Banh Mi on the plane and tries to quickly distance himself from the Shiitake-Tofu Banh Mi, who is on the verge of a full-blown identity crisis (“Oh my god – am I even Vietnamese in Vietnam?”). This is the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi’s moment, so he strides confidently to the immigration area, where he queues patiently and films himself, admiring his own firm yet flaky cod fillet that has been marinated for three whole days and is packed full of omega-3 fatty acids. The Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi smirks while noting the uneaten local-style bánh mì bound by an elastic band in crumpled paper on an immigration official’s desk. He imagines this yeasty cousin of his is filled with envy as the customs official runs his eyes up and down the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi’s long, crisp, golden exterior (oh-là-là!) while trying to sneak a peek at the crunchy all-American pickles and strips of cucumber, not to mention the flavour-packed (100% organic) sprigs of cilantro and mint, or the delicate house-made, signature soy-harissa mayonnaise he contains – yes, it’s not for no reason the L.A. Times’ food section editor declared that the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi was the greatest sandwich in the U.S.A.
While sitting in a taxi bound for District 1, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi notes the number of street-side bánh mì stalls, where dainty rolls are filled with a modest amount of meat and sold for less than a paltry U.S. dollar. Right on cue, the curious taxi driver asks how much the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi is worth in California, then gulps in horror when the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi replies coolly while gazing out the window: “$15.50… plus-plus.”
After the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi checks in at his hotel, he decides to walk around downtown. His grasp of the motherland’s language is limited but everywhere he struts he can hear people say, “Bánh mì nóng đây…” (Hot banh mi here!) — and he’s not going to dispute that (or fail to mention it on his Instagram stories).
Feeling a little jet-lagged, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi stops for a coffee on a terrace near Notre Dame Cathedral, where he overhears a very attractive, very elegantly dressed local lady, sitting behind him, speaking in a mixture of Vietnamese and English, gushing to a friend: “Trời ơi… người Californian có hot body…” (My god, Californians have such hot bodies).
When the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi turns around to acknowledge her, half-thinking of saying something racy, like “Hey, em ơi, you know you can bánh mì anytime,” he’s surprised to see she is looking in a completely different direction — perhaps just too shy to look at such a well-proportioned and exquisitely packaged bánh mì. Or perhaps she’s got a thing going on with a local bánh mì and she is worried that she will be spotted in public flirting outrageously with the hottest Californian bánh mì to ever grace the streets of old Saigon.
That night, imagining he’ll have more luck when interacting with the locals, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Midecides to hit the fanciest rooftop bar in the city. While sipping margaritas, he impatiently waits for people to hover around him and lavish him with praise. When no one does, he puts it down to an inferiority complex on the monied clientele’s part – they probably don’t want him to know they want him so bad.
So the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi heads to a street-level bar over on Hai Ba Trung Street, where again no one tries it on with him. Feeling a little desperate, after four or five potent cocktails, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi ends up in the nightclub Apocalypse Now, where – much to his disgust – he stumbles upon a bunch of drunken expats gorging on a shitty-looking hot dog, saying, “Oh my god, this is the best thing ever!” Walking home to his hotel, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi thinks, “What am I, chopped fucking liver?”
The next day, a little perplexed and hungover, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi visits some relatives. He knows them only through old photos he’s seen on walls and stories he’s heard back in L.A. He is surprised to see they are incredibly content and happy in their backstreet habitat: the bubbly Bánh Mì Xíu Mại (meatball roll) is chuckling away at the bawdy Bánh Mì Heo Quay (roasted pork roll)’s saucy jokes; the pious Bánh Mì Chay (vegan roll) is burning incense at the family altar; meanwhile Bánh Mì Thịt Nướng (grilled pork patties roll) is, well, all fired up, no pun intended, and cracking into the Saigon Reds. Starting to feel stiff from sitting in a small foldable chair, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi makes his excuses and leaves.
Feeling disoriented and directionless, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi finds himself standing on the side of a typical Saigon road. The heat is getting to him. His soy-harissa mayonnaise is starting to drip onto the pavement. The sprigs of organic cilantro and mint are withering, limp and defeated. His cucumber and pickles are mushy and his centrepiece – the miso-marinated cod fillet – is starting to smell a tad funky…
Insult to injury, as the traffic pours past him and every hundredth person jumps off a bike and orders a bánh mì from a stall on the nearest street corner. Now in full-blown meltdown mode, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi storms over to the stall and erupts into a spectacular hissy fit: “How can you compete with me? How can you even compete with the Medium Rare Rib-Eye Beef Banh Mi or Shiitake-Tofu Banh Mi!? My magnificent cod fillet was marinated for three days! I am packed full of omega-3 fatty acids! My cilantro and mint are locally farmed and 100% organic! My soy-harissa mayonnaise is homemade… How can any of this shit compete with me? I cost $15.50 PLUS PLUS for god’s sake!”
The local bánh mì being prepared by the vendor says nothing. He does not know how to explain his low-key attraction. He is but a roadside snack sold to famished commuters and peckish pupils. He has no manifesto. No lofty notions of his own symbolism. Even if he could say something, there is no time to talk. This roadside bánh mì is quickly bagged and exchanged for VND15,000 (60 U.S. cents) before disappearing on a scooter into the crosstown traffic. Upstaged, uneaten, and completely unwanted, the Miso-Marinated Black Cod Banh Mi hails a taxi and catches the first flight heading in the general direction of L.A., cursing himself for not taking the advice of his friend – the Sambal-Roasted Broccoli with Raisins and Almonds Banh Mi – and gone to Brooklyn or, better yet, Berlin. My god, they wouldn’t just love him in Berlin. They’d worship him like a fucking god.
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