Bánh mì. The French left behind Catholicism, colonial architecture, and the baguette. Vietnam kept all three and improved at least one of them. The Vietnamese baguette is lighter and crispier than the French original because they cut the wheat flour with rice flour, which makes the crust shatter when you bite into it. Inside for me: pickled daikon and carrot, cucumber, cilantro, eggs, pork or whatever protein you point at. I bought mine outside a Circle K because that’s where the cart was. It cost 20,000 VND. Less than a dollar. I ate it sitting on a red plastic stool on the sidewalk like everyone else. The Circle K behind me sells sandwiches too. Nobody goes inside. Cơm tấm sườn. Broken rice with grilled pork. This is the one. If you forced me to eat one meal for the rest of my time in Vietnam, this is it and I wouldn’t complain. A plate of broken rice, a slab of pork chop grilled until the edges go dark and sweet, sliced cucumber on the side, and then the woman pours green onion oil over the whole thing from a small bowl like she’s anointing it. If she doesn’t do it, I will. The rice isn’t broken by accident. It’s the fractured grains left over from milling, originally poor people’s food, now the signature dish of Saigon. Every neighborhood has a cơm tấm stall. Every one of them thinks theirs is best. I haven’t found one that’s wrong. The pork is marinated in lemongrass and fish sauce and garlic and sugar, and when it hits the charcoal grill the smell travels half a block and pulls you in by the stomach before your brain can object. It costs about 35,000 to 50,000 VND. That’s less than two dollars. I eat it almost every day and I’m not tired of it.Phở. I’m not going to pretend I have something original to say about phở. Everybody writes about phở. But nobody tells you what it feels like at 7am on a plastic stool in District 1 when the broth has been simmering since 3am and the woman hands you a bowl so hot the steam fogs your sunglasses. You add the herbs yourself from a plate on the table. Tear the basil. Squeeze the lime. Drop in the chili. The noodles are flat and soft and you pull them up with chopsticks and they never quite make it to your mouth without dripping broth down your chin and nobody cares because everyone around you is doing the same thing. Phở in Saigon is not the same as phở in Hanoi. Southerners add hoisin and sriracha. Northerners think this is a crime. I’m not getting involved. I just eat it. Cơm tấm sườn
What I’ve been reminded of about eating in Saigon: the best food is never inside a building. NEVER. The best food has no menu, or a menu you can’t read, or a menu that’s just a woman pointing at what she’s already made. The best food costs less than two dollars. The best food finds you.
Canh bí đỏ nấu thịt bằm. Pumpkin soup with ground pork. This one showed up as a side dish at a com binh dan place, one of those everyday rice-and-whatever restaurants where you point at trays behind glass and they load your plate. The soup is clear broth with chunks of golden pumpkin, loose ground pork, and chopped green onions. Nothing in it is trying to impress you. It’s the kind of thing someone’s mother made because the pumpkin was ripe and there was pork in the fridge. It was ok and I’ll drink the broth if it is served on the side again. It isn’t something I would order as a standalone.
