No ordinary baguette: Why Vietnam’s bánh mì is the best sandwich in the world

I’m not going to lie. When the teenage backpacker seated opposite me deconstructs her bánh mì to extract an offending slice of pickle, I have to dig deep in order to stay silent.

The irony is that this selfie-snapping backpacker has clearly gone out of her way to find Bánh Mì 25, the tiny Old Quarter café we’re in, to try Hanoi’s go-to spot for a sandwich. And she’s just removed an absolutely essential ingredient.

The menu here reflects the popularity of bánh mì, regarded by many—both Vietnamese locals and chefs alike—as the country’s national dish (sorry, phở). There’s a mushroom-stuffed option for vegetarians; a chicken filling, popular with Westerners like the aforementioned tourist, who’ve read that eating a bánh mì is a Vietnam must-do (I 100 percent agree); and then there’s the cold pork cuts and pâté for the purists.

All versions come stuffed in a crunchy baguette alongside pickle and cucumber, flavored with fresh cilantro and chili. This fabulous freshness of flavor is just one reason that I believe the bánh mì is, hands down, the world’s best sandwich. But here’s a few more:

It’s an edible history lesson

A quick history lesson: The sandwich dates back to the 19th century when the French, who colonized Vietnam from 1887 to 1954, arrived in the country armed with baguettes smothered in pâté. The local Vietnamese dubbed these sandwiches ‘bánh tây’ (western bread).

The national love affair with bánh tây, which eventually led to bánh mì (wheat bread), was a slow burn; wheat didn’t grow well in Vietnam, and the high cost of imported flour meant bread was a luxury mainly enjoyed by foreigners.

“Hanoi’s bánh mì are similar to Cantonese cuisine, just bread and meat, and Hoi An’s are smaller. But here in Ho Chi Minh, bánh mì are bold and flavourful—that’s Saigon-style—and it reflects our personalities.”

- Peter Cuong Franklin, restaurant owner

But the French’s insatiable appetite for these pâté-slathered baguettes meant they soon became a staple of Vietnamese cuisine, embraced by locals who initially reduced costs by using rice flour instead of wheat flour, which became cheaper after the end of imperialism.  But more importantly, by using less meat, bulking sandwiches out with pickled vegetables instead alongside a smattering of chili for their much-loved burst of heat. Before long, the bánh mì was a Vietnamese cuisine staple—and a few centuries later, it still is.

Protein, fat, carbs: A sandwich with everything you need

I’ve eaten more of these baguettes than I can recall. I’ve bought a bánh mì-adorned tote bag and a bánh mì tasting platter from Ho Chi Minh’s tiny My Bánh Mì restaurant; sipped a liquid bánh mì where the cocktail was garnished with chili flakes; and tried one made with Ibérico ham at the Le Méridien Saigon hotel.

But one thing I love to do in every Vietnamese city is take an early morning walk to people-watch, soak up the street life, and see the bánh mì vendor set up. By 8am, the ones with street food stalls have set up shop on the pavement, churning out warm bánh mìs for school children and yawning police officers from behind sandbag-like sacks of fresh baguettes.

Street food, or any food, doesn’t get better than this—you’ve got the tastiest kind of carb, your choice of protein cooked to perfection, a healthy-ish smattering of fat (hello pâté) and a burst of pickled vegetables to cut through it all. If I had to redraw the food pyramid,  bánh mì would be at the top and the bottom. And it’s satisfying to boot.

It’s a sandwich that’s still evolving 

A few years ago, Vietnamese chef Peter Cuong Franklin, owner of Ho Chi Minh’s Anan Saigon restaurant and Ho Chi Minh’s first Michelin-star restaurant, unveiled a USD$100 bánh mì made with truffle mayonnaise and caviar. I met Franklin shortly after he had launched his headline-grabbing take on the sandwich, and he assured me that the bespoke bánh mì wasn’t just for show—it was a nod to his city.

So, when in Vietnam, where should you go for a bánh mì fix? Like most local foods, I’d suggest anywhere with a queue.

“Hanoi’s bánh mì-are similar to Cantonese cuisine, just bread and meat, and Hoi An’s are smaller. But here in Ho Chi Minh, if we can stuff more inside, we will!” he told me. “Our bánh mì are bold and flavourful—that’s Saigon-style—and it reflects our personalities.”

Bánh mìs (albeit the more traditional recipe) were a staple of Franklin’s childhood in central Vietnam’s mountainous Lâm Đồng province, and he’s a firm believer that the sandwiches—introduced by the French and perfected by the Vietnamese—are proof that change can be good. And that bánh mìs are continually evolving.

You can order and eat streetside in under 60 seconds

Franklin’s favorite local spot is a stall outside his Ho Chi Minh restaurant manned by an elderly lady selling 60-cent baguettes made with fish, instead of pork. He takes me there to compare. “See? Who’s to say her bánh mìs aren’t authentic just because they contain fish?” he asks. We tuck in.

So, when in Vietnam, where should you go for a bánh mì fix? Like most local foods, I’d suggest anywhere with a queue. But my favorite joint is Ho Chi Minh’s Bánh Mì Huynh Hoa, which isn’t a restaurant or a stall, just a street-facing kitchen filled with an army of workers buttering baguettes, perched on stools between mountains of pork.

It’s somewhat chaotic—a long queue always snakes out the door, and every few minutes, moped riders drop off burlap sacks filled with fresh baguettes. My first visit was in 2015, when, after handing over 25,000 Vietnamese Dong (USD$1), I was given the freshest, most delicious bánh mì of my life.

Don’t get me wrong. Truffle mayonnaise and caviar have a time and a place, but not on my bánh mì, thanks. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.