Although the dish is canonically Vietnamese, its origins are global in origin: bánh mì was mentioned in Vietnam as early as the early 19th century, but it wasn’t until baguettes were introduced to the country – by French settlers in the 19th century – that the sandwich fashionable. own. The disruption of wheat imports during World War I led Vietnamese chefs to experiment with rice flour, and bread became more accessible to the local population. In the 1950s, bánh mì deviated further from French tastes and closer to the distinctly Vietnamese iterations ubiquitous today. Since the 1970s, when the Vietnamese diaspora became a global presence, the bánh mì has also been on the rise. Wherever there are Vietnamese communities, you will also find bánh mì.
It took a minute, but my own first bites arrived at a small coffeehouse in Houston’s Third Ward, made by a mother-son-and-aunt team working in a single toaster oven. The shop is now defunct, but it is forever mourned, and my longing has not abated. In fact, it’s one of the few dishes I consistently look for in every new city.
Once, in Amsterdam, looking for a sandwich that wasn’t a sandwich, I stumbled into a small Vietnamese restaurant, on a cold corner along a canal, where the chef made sure my sandwich filling was smeared with pate past the point of reason and far into the depths. decadence. In Seattle earlier this year, my boyfriend and I sat down at ChuMinh Tofu and Vegan Deli, which serves free local food to the community on Sundays. Their bánh mì crunched like a symphony, accompanied by what was probably the best chilli chips I’ve ever had. And at Bánh Mì Bá Ba in Tokyo a few weeks ago, eating a sandwich on one of the roadside stools felt a lot like sitting on a dear friend’s patio.
But when I’m in Houston, one of the most accessible delights to me is the blissful presence of many bánh mì: It’s hard to drive too many blocks around Harris and Fort Bend Counties without coming across a menu featuring these sandwiches. Each place serves its respective clientele, but they are, quite naturally, united in their role as a third place for the community. You can sit for a while. racks. Eat a delicious sandwich. Spin around a bit. Take a few sips of coffee. Head out for the rest of the day.
For this recipe, pork is the star. After a short marinade, the meat is roasted and then stuffed into a warm baguette, along with gherkins, mayonnaise, butter and a little spice. Ideally, pick up the baguettes and butter from a Vietnamese bakery or bánh mì shop. And it never hurts to pick up some pâté along the way. But it’s always worth going extra on the pork shoulder; leftovers hold the promise of future bánh mì.