Part 4: The Bánh Mi Queen- Hoi An, Vietnam

The end of first semester was upon us. I thought after this cultural slap in the face, I was due a reward. Vietnam’s food and culture was still somewhat of a mystery to me, my experiences being an ethically indefensible Vietnamese food chain I refuse to name, and the odd bánh mi. The irony is the best bánh mi I have eaten to date, even better than those I ate in Vietnam, was from a teeny-tiny shop in the Prince Edward neighbourhood of Hong Kong: Bánh Mi Chung. Unlike a lot of food in Hong Kong, Bánh Mi Chung was affordable (suspiciously so), and generous. The other notable bánh mi I have had the pleasure of eating comes from Earl’s Sandwiches in Brighton- also potentially better than any I had in Vietnam. I have a theory about this: a dish sometimes tastes better out of its homeland, because the imitation will usually try to get as close as possible to the original. A full English may well be better in Bangkok than in Brighton, but it’s also quite possible this theory only applies to the grey, derided meals of Britain.

Landing in a country in the dead of night is always a strange mix of underwhelm and anticipation; something can look like nothing and in the morning, misconceptions will likely be proven wrong. I always make a point of staring out of the window instead of at my phone, giving myself a chance to acclimatise to new surroundings. In this case it hardly mattered. Arrival at the hostel brought a welcome hit of air conditioning and a sweet note on my designated bed, quote: "So happy that you are here safe and sound. The wifi password is youarelovely (just like how you are). Sleep tight!”

I woke up to rustling in surrounding beds and made my way down for breakfast. If I remember correctly, the choices included a pancake with fruit and pineapple jam or chocolate spread, a fruit plate, or eggs on toast. I went for eggs on toast with a healthy slather of Hâu San Chilli Sauce- not particularly hot, but sweet and tomatoey, a nice departure from the go-to Thai sweet chilli.

I got a Grab (South-East Asia’s Uber equivalent) to An Bang beach, passing rice paddies and day markets, eventually pulling up at the most beautiful beach I had seen to date. Coming from pebbles and grey, seaweedy Brighton water, this beach was heaven. Sat down and pretty immediately got my hands on a coconut to sip from. My ill-prepared bag only contained a bag of slightly-too-spicy crisps so I wouldn’t exactly call morning one a culinary delight, but I didn’t care.

I needed an easy intro to Hoi An- the hostel owner had pinpointed all the must visits on a paper map, one of which was Madame Khanh- The Bánh Mi Queen. I made my way around the corner, dodging cars, scooters, and bicycles, the sharp honks echoing in my ears. The mixed bánh mi came with veggies, two kinds of pork, chicken, Vietnamese ham (cha lua), eggs, pâté, egg sauce (?), papaya, and cucumber. How is it possible this many flavours and textures can harmonise so well? All stuffed into the famously crunchy and crumbly Vietnamese baguette, with an inside built to catch every juicy, saucy bite. Sitting down to eat this felt like an incredible release, as if I had just accomplished something great. To me, this was something great- a bánh mi in Vietnam? A dream quietly, contently realised.

The next morning a 7am wake up, ready for a big day. A tour including a stroll through a market, a slightly awkward coconut boat trip, followed by a long, hands-on cooking class. My van arrived and it just so happened I was the only one in attendance. Never mind, my effortlessly friendly guide poured himself into making me feel comfortable, making conversation as we drove to a market in the countryside area of Câm Thanh. Red plastic baskets overflowed with eggs, vegetables, fruit, tightly wound bags of sauces and chilli pastes. Amidst the chaos of the memory, one thing stands out- water apples with chilli salt. A waxy looking thing with a celery-esque crunch , the tip dipped in a tangy, salty, spicy dust. On top of this, every time we passed something new, the guide asked "Do you want to try X? Do you like Y?”, and naturally I said yes to everything. So we went home- or rather to his home, next door to which was his sister's restaurant- with all the ingredients for lunch, plus a couple of fun extras.

Câm Thanh, fondly known as Hoi An Coconut Village, is known for its signature bowl-shaped basket boats, woven from bamboo and coconut leaves. Again, being the only person on this tour meant setting off on a wobbly journey through the coconut forest accompanied only by the Vietnamese-speaking driver (Sailor? Rower? Paddler?). Not a problem, we had a fine time communicating via confused facial expressions and relieved laughter when we eventually understood each other. The ride began calmly and continued calmly until I heard music through the greenery .Cue an incredibly skilled coconut boat guide swinging brave tourists from side to side on his red-and-white striped boat like it was a circus act. We moved on to watch a fisherman skilfully (however performatively) cast his net for us all to marvel at. The ride ended with some light crabbing at which my clumsiness had us both chuckling.

Back at the restaurant it was time for lunch. To start: Hoi A Spring Rolls, unique to the region for their dried vermicelli wrapping instead of the usual dough wrapper. Then bánh xèo, a veggie-loaded egg pancake, eaten by loading with even more veggies, spreading with chilli sauce, wrapping in pliable rice paper, and finishing with a sweet dip. The fried noodles with seafood came as a surprise, the seasonings being mushroom powder, sugar, and black pepper. Yes, they sound like simple ingredients, but these simple ingredients came together to make a remarkably flavoursome dish. The final dish (or so I thought), was a papaya salad. Known widely as the Thai Som Tam, but the chef’s recipe sheet called it Green Papaya Salad- Banana Flower.

Right, the final dish. Our extra treats from the market were clams and morning glory. I’ve always eaten clams in Spaghetti alle Vongole, never like this. Stir-fried with lemongrass and other aromatics, this was easily the most fragrant, well-composed clam dish I’ve ever eaten. Paired with garlicky, crunchy morning glory, the whole meal was outstanding.

Travelling alone was my ideal activity- doing what I wanted, whenever I wanted, without having to listen to anyone else’s opinion. That evening I decided to slightly abandon this rule of mine and sign up for the hostel’s family dinner with five other residents. Before us a table heavy with food, everything served family-style. Pork spring rolls, green beans with mushrooms, a towering heap of rice, eggs scrambled with pumpkin and coriander, and crispy pork. Seasonal, local produce, the kind you’d expect to see in someone's home. What a spread.

I carried on with the local, seasonal theme for breakfast, opting for the fruit plate of banana, passionfruit, and watermelon. Not the most substantial meal, perhaps, but that was the least of my concerns after tasting how sweet and fresh everything was. Rain poured down that day but I stuck to my plan of visiting Thanh Ha pottery village, not far from central Hoi An. The displays were deceptively intricate, miniature clay versions of the Colosseum, Angkor Wat, Big Ben, you wouldn’t believe the accuracy. I padded around waiting for the rain to ease and walked up to the river, spotting the clay Nón Lá (Vietnamese hat made from woven palm leaves and bamboo) wind chimes I’d been noticing the last few days. One or two scary dogs later, I was en route back to Hoi An.

If you know anything about Vietnam, you’ll know their coffee creations are second to none. The famous egg coffee is made with Vietnamese drip coffee combined with a sugary, airy mix of egg yolk and condensed milk. The egg concoction stirred into an americano turns it into a delightful thing, the creamy topping ribboning through each sip. Hoi An’s old town stretches along the Thu Bồn River, with side streets fanning out on one side and an electric night market flanked by bars on the other. Admittedly very tourist friendly, with ATMs dotted around and a handy museum bingo system which made learning about Vietnam so accessible it’d have been silly not to take part. Women parade the streets in their Nón Lás, baskets of fruit hanging over their shoulders, encouraging tourists to take photos. Club and bar staff do their darnedest to lure you in with drinks and live music. Signs written in English, directing tourists to the nearest attraction or venue. At face value it all sounds like a bit much, but I mean it when I say this felt touristy in the best way; agreeable and comfortable. Of all the places I’ve travelled alone, including within the UK, Hoi An felt the safest, by both day and night. Maybe that was due to the warm nature of the Vietnamese people or the reassuring presence of other visitors, but the compact, buzzing town had an unprecedented sense of security.

When I travel, I subconsciously seek out one thing I cannot go a day without: gelato in Italy, pastel de nata in Portugal, and in Vietnam, the bánh mi. I stopped at the first cart that caught my eye and was presented with a pork banh mi containing ketchup. Odd to me then, but I’ve since come to learn it’s not too unusual. Not quite my cup of tea, but that ticked off the bánh mi quota for the day. Every bánh mi is a learning experience.

Fuelled and ready, I set myself down for a lantern making class, dedicating all available focus and patience into crafting a bright pink lantern from scratch (by gluing pre-cut silk to a pre-made frame). I tucked my new baby gently into my bag and began the trek through a market right at the end of the old town. When you hear people advising you to ignore the motorcycles, scooters, and mopeds on the streets of Vietnam, they are wholly correct. As mad as it sounds, you really do just have to walk throug and they will part for you. I spent a good five minutes standing at a road waiting for some poor soul to cross so I could leech off their bravery. That also works.

The walk home demanded a snack. A Vietnamese pizza, Bánh Tráng Nướng, to be exact. I’d made these at home with basic ingredients, even more basic skills, and never as many fillings: a rice paper canvas laden with things like dried shrimp, quail’s eggs, green onions, ground meat, chilli sauce, mushrooms, tofu, potato, all available in whatever combination you like. Street vendors were scarce during the hottest part of the day, save one man stationed on the side of a roundabout. I’d passed him on a few occasions, too anxious to ask what he was selling, so I got myself together and made my move. Simple as that, I had a Vietnamese pizza in hand for the journey home.

Dinner time abruptly reminded me of something I’d completely forgotten about- pho. Regional differences abound, the north of Vietnam preferring a clearer, marrow-rich broth The further south you travel, the more vegetables your pho will be served with. That means salad, mint, beansprouts, chilli, basil, coriander added bountifully. I’m partial to an excessive amount of lime, throwing the exhausted husks in my bowl along with the full supply of greens, giving everything a hard mix and hoping for the best. At the time, I had no idea of the localised versions, nor did I have any idea Hoi An was famous for seafood pho, both facts I learnt in real-time while writing the first draft of this paragraph. Never mind my lack of research, let me tell you about the pho I did eat rather than the pho I didn’t.

An empty restaurant would usually alarm me, but this assumption faded soon after leaving the UK. I sat under harsh lighting and ordered a basic phở bò. The bowl arrived abundant with greens, lime wedges and raw onions, and an intimidating dish of raw green chilli. My eyes wandered to the condiments, what a sight to behold- pickled garlic! As if this could get any better! I crafted my perfect bite: a few noodles, not so many to complicate the mouthful, a dip of broth, herbs, a slice of beef, and a nice hunk of pickled garlic.

Next on the agenda was choosing a bar from the thirty-odd lining the strip, politely dodging the persistent promoters from the not-so-nice ones. I settled on Madame Kieu which had live music and a picturesque view of the lantern-framed entrance to the night market. Of course I had to look at the food menu. I was still relishing in the aftertaste of pho, but it was only appropriate to get a snack with my wine- after all, I was on holiday! After quite the show, I meandered into the night market, uncovering an entirely new layer of street food which I had to mentally bookmark for another day. Got a mandatory snack for the road, uniform parcels of lamb wrapped in betel leaves, grilled and served by a very jolly man. The leaves delicately perfumed the meat, kissed by a faint bitterness from the char; bò lá lốt was definitely the correct way to round off a successful day.

Here we are on day four, a trip to Da Nang. Before heading out I needed some breakfast. The hostel suggested trying cao lầu, a regional noodle dish consisting of noodles, pork, lots of fresh herbs and greens, crunchy fried noodles. I went back around the corner, passing The Bánh Mi Queen and landing at

a small restaurant specialising in the dish. I promptly found out they didn’t serve cao lầu but mì quảng, another noodle dish originating in the Quảng Nam Province and iconic in Da Nang. Creamier than the usual noodle-soup combination, my mì quảng came prettily assembled with quail’s eggs, prawns, pork, peanuts, and a rice cracker to be affectionately crumbled on top. The blue accents in the bowl played well with golden eggs, amber soup, and orange prawns- like a little edible painting. One of the joys about eating abroad is so many dishes don’t have designated hour of the day. Mì quảng or bánh mi for breakfast feels completely justified. Being a ramen-for-breakfast sort of person myself, I align with this wholeheartedly.

Da Nang is the closest major city to Hoi An, home to the Marble Mountains and a startling amount of marble sculptures and statues. And I mean a startling amount. I reached the top of the mountains after some mild scrambling and squeezing through some freakishly small openings (and a lift halfway up), admired an insane view of the city and beach, and retreated to flat ground. It’s sort of an unspoken rule, isn't it, that one should never eat or drink in the area surrounding a tourist attraction because nine times out of ten, the food is awful and expensive. I was too hot and sweaty to abide by this and regretfully, not in the mood to explore Da Nang. I found a small café a few minutes away from the hoards of tour groups and salespeople where I had my first salt coffee and my next bánh mi. You’ll never guess what was in this one- frankfurters. And I ordered that by choice. I love a frankfurter but I truly don’t know what possessed me to order a frankfurter bánh mi. The salt coffee served as redemption. The cream was so shiny I almost couldn’t bring myself to destroy it, but like the egg coffee, a good stir turned an iced americano into a silky sweet bliss. I’ll tell you how to make it later.

The mouth of the night market was a mosaic studded with vendors selling folded pancakes, Vietnamese pizzas, grilled seafood, freshly blended juices and smoothies. I knew this was going to be impossible, so I started with dessert. A thousand-and-one fruits, spreads, and sprinkles to choose from to adorn a rectangular crepe, and I just went with Nutella. I knew this was an ordinary pancake with Nutella, but what was I to do. I was simply doing the rounds. Squeezed in another pizza for the hell of it and got my feelers out for a dinner spot. The market was densely packed, demanding visitors to take their time. Every side street was home to a few ‘plastic stools and tables’ hangouts I wish I’d been been brave enough to try, but nerves over the language barrier had me heading back to the main street. Here I actually had cao lầu. The doughier, shorter, square-shaped noodles are what give the dish its name- they stood up defiantly to the roast pork .

I took yet another stroll around the old town the next day in search of a sweet-looking pho restaurant that caught my eye a few nights ago. After thirty minutes of walking in circles, sweat dripping from every pore, I found it. The heat was relentless, not even the oversized fan next a few feet away could save me. Pair that with a steaming bowl of soup being slid under my nose and there was no end in sight. Pork this time, because it’s always good to try new things. Despite my battle with the heat I added the chilli paste provided, a cold Tiger beer arriving just in time to soothe the sting.

Walking up and down the river never lost its charm. Always something new to smell, see, taste. On this evening I ventured back into the night market, locked on the idea of the theatrically displayed skewers and whole bodies of grilled octopus. I walked up to a sweet looking lady and she pointed to her mighty array of bum-up octopuses. I picked one at random and she handed it back to me crisp and curly with an aggressive looking chilli sauce. One dip in that and I knew I was in for it. I speed walked over to a juice stand for some backup, but as delicious as that guava juice was, it was no match. I sat facing the river, nibbling sheepishly at the squid one small bite at a time, dipping only the tip of each piece in the chilli. Taking my time to observe the people and surroundings, eating slowly and intentionally, enjoying every part of the moment was, chilli aside, one of my most serene experiences. On the way home, the bánh mi quota beckoned. Phi Bánh Mi was for many, a very close second to Madame Khanh. The man in charge was smiley and gestured me inside at the sight of a little rain. We exchanged goods and I got into the sandwich. Each ingredient made sense, rather than the hodgepodge I’d seen in my last couple encounters.

The final day meant a tour of the My Son sanctuary, a UNESCO World Heritage site. The sanctuary conists of several Hindu temples and lies across a vast expanse of jungle; humid, green, and alive. I’m a big tour lover: I think they’re efficient, fun, and excellent exposure therapy for the solo travellers. Whether you like it or not, you will be involved in some form of conversation.The day began at a not-so-desirable 6am, and by 7 I was having a pre-adventure scrambled eggs on toast with the bright red drizzle of Hâu San Chilli Sauce.

First stop: a farm at which rice paper was being made by hand. Milled, formed, dried, and moulded into all the different kinds enjoyed in and around Vietnam. We each had a go at spreading the thin batter using this sweet, willing lady’s apparatus, and we each failed one by one. We were fed wet rice paper sandwiched between dried and fried rice paper, dipped in soy sauce. Clean and simple, yet staggeringly delicious. I didn’t really understand what was going on. How could rice and water come together to become such a beautiful product? I’d entirely underestimated the sheer handiwork involved.

The ruins of My Son were like something imagined- huge, red-brick ruins of once magnificent buildings tumbled to the ground, remnants scattered left and right, some new, some old, all slowly being swallowed by nature, moss climbing up the walls. The humidity and rain made for a few near misses- walking carelessly wasn’t an option. After hours of listening and learning and trekking, it was lunch time. No clue what to expect, we piled into the van, politely laughing at our guide’s admirable dad jokes on the journey. There was no sign of the rain letting up, even after a full morning of consistent wet weather. A creak of the breaks, and we had arrived.

A round table, blue tablecloth, dishes arranged perfectly fitting one another. Each place setting was ready with a small ramekin of fish sauce- the most important element if you ask me. Eight dishes circled a pot of rice: pumpkin spring rolls, sweet & sour chicken, grilled eggplant, chicken omelette, noodles with pak choi, and a full bánh xèo setup. We all sat waiting. Who would take the first bite? Thankfully, someone did, and that someone was a big finance man who told us he was travelling with his wife. The other couple chimed in- Vietnamese, visiting from the US, hoping to reconnect with their home. My turn: student, year abroad, here for a few days and a nice time. I felt dramatically out of my depth, but such is the nature of being out and about alone. It didn’t take long for the plates to clear, all but one. The lonely dish begging to be polished off was the grilled eggplant. Nobody was a fan, sadly. Nobody except me. “…Would anyone mind?” I asked, and it was mine.

Our tour concluded with a boat ride down the river and back in to Hoi An. If you learn anything from my writing, it’s that you should book a tour. There is seriously no better way to learn a place in a short amount of time. If you’re worried about looking like a tourist, you probably are a tourist and you should learn to be okay with it.

My afternoon was gloriously free. I recalled the hostel owner mentioning a nearby café offering tutorials on salt coffees so there I went. Something about that sweet-saltiness and slick consistency is a most sublime match. I couldn’t resist asking for the lesson- turns out it's very simple: a pinch of salt mixed with creamer until thick, poured over coffee with condensed milk. Hot and cold bring different profiles but in my opinion, both equally brilliant.

Restlessness hit me- I couldn’t stand potentially wasting the rest of my last day. The solution? A mid-afternoon meal, obviously. Here we go again, back around the old town, scanning menu after menu waiting for something to speak to me. A small restaurant, child-sized plastic tables and chairs, families stacked into corners, unruly little ones zigzagging between servers and diners. The front page proudly proclaimed ‘Hoi An Local Food’, namely cao lầu, mì quảng, stir-fried oysters, and my pick- bún thịt nướng, or rice noodles with grilled pork, herbs, peanut & shallots.

The dish came a colourful mess, scattered plentifully with peanuts and sesame seeds, sliced pork piled atop a mix of vegetables and rice noodles. The only thing I could possibly want for was more lime, but I couldn’t bear to disrupt the lady cooking by the door. She worked silently, ladling noodles and soup between bowls and pots, expertly dressing each dish carefully and precisely . She worked fast, seated firmly in her own little red plastic stool as if she had no plans to move. Evening arrived far too quickly, and it was spent parading the bar strip in search of the perfect place to spend my last precious hours.

The final morning. After a few intense, rewarding days, I had to go back to Hong Kong. I could’ve spent another week just in Hoi An, living slowly, eating well. I woke up to monsoon-like rain and with nothing to shield me, I packed up my stuff and ran up the road right back to Phi Bánh Mi. What better way to say goodbye with a bánh mi in tow? Collected the goods from the smiley man, waved thank you, and off I went back to the airport. I buckled my sandwich in safe and sound and it was then that I found out my flight was delayed. Typical. With time to kill, I sat outside and enjoyed every bite.

I won’t bore you with the agonies of a five-hour delay, just know this trip ended exactly how it should have: crumbly, pickly, juicy, perfect.