The great anomaly of Asian food must be bánh mi, the Vietnamese version of the submarine sandwich. As you’ve probably noticed, not many Asian dishes come served on bread, nor do many of them feature the peculiarly coloured cold cuts of the sort favoured by North American brown-baggers and hoagie enthusiasts.
Along with dark roast coffee, bánh mi (or at least the baguette part of it) is one of the most obvious culinary bequests from France’s days as a colonial power in Indochina. To the traditional French crusty torpedo roll, Viet snackers added pickled carrots, cucumber, cilantro, and their indigenous versions of pork liver pâté and luncheon meat, including giò thu—Vietnamese headcheese (or a terrine, if that sounds more appetizing), incorporating bacon and a whiff of lemongrass.
I had the bright idea to go and compare a few of the bánh mi outlets around 97 Street. I regret to inform you, however, that my food-journalist sense of curiosity is bigger than my stomach, so I only managed to sample two places before I called it a day. All the same, I feel honour-bound to deliver the results of my truncated quest.
My first stop was Nhon Hoa Sandwich Bar (9718-106 Ave., 425-0932), just around the corner from the Nhon Hoa Supermarket and a five-minute walk from Nhon Hoa 2, the satellite sandwich counter that testifies to the original’s relative success.
Success, however, has not gone to Nhon Hoa’s head. Aside from the handwritten postings and the festively hued jellied desserts glistening extraterrestrially from a folding table near the till, there’s almost nothing decorative about the interior, where numerous refrigeration cases with empty racks have come to their final repose. Add to that the astringent fragrance of mothballs, and you’re almost glad the place has no room for seating.
Nhon Hoa’s menu, screened in blue and red on white plastic decades ago when the place first opened, spans a few Vietnamese dishes, from the aforementioned subs to vermicelli with beef or pork to rolls of the salad and spring variety at consistently low prices. My selection, the #3 sub with bacon roll and jambon sausage, was priced to move at just $3.25 (including GST).
I watched as the sandwich maker plied her trade, toasting the baguette in a toaster oven before splitting, slathering, and stuffing it with my preferred fillings, pausing only to inquire if I wanted hot peppers. (Yes, please!) My lunch was Saran-ensconced and rested warmly in my hands in a flash. Wandering the sunlit boulevard, I peeled and munched, enjoying the way the sweet vinegary carrots, cucumber, and cilantro sprigs offset the thin-sliced salty meats and dash of garlicky mayo. For my own part, the less I dwell on the meats, the more I enjoy them. As promised, spears of jalapeño lurked inside and dandled my taste receptors pleasurably, the fire assuaged by the crunchy bread.
Just then it occurred to me that I might not be able to eat two of these things. An unexpected but workable solution presented itself.
“Hey, can I have a bite of your sandwich?” I turned to note four gents perched on the steps of a church enjoying a picnic of high-test beer with some of their personal effects.
“Um, do you want the rest?” I said, wrapping the sub back up.
“Sure.”
“Watch out, it’s got hot peppers.”
Another chap asked me if I had any change. I fished out a loonie from my jeans.
“Hey, can I have a loonie too?”
“I just gave you half my sandwich.”
Suddenly, I had all kinds of room for another sub. I circled the block, crossed 97 Street and walked north to Hoang Minh (10645-97 St., 429-0717). Smaller than Nhon Hoa, the tidy shop nonetheless provided seating along the front window and, better yet, was unscented by mothballs. The proprietor, who had spread her bookkeeping across most of the available dining space, hopped up with a smile and headed behind the counter.
I called for the combo sub ($3.25)—like Nhon Hoa, all of Hoang Minh’s subs go for $3.25, except the “saté” versions, a further Westernization of bánh mi, with marinated beef or chicken and melted white cheese, which cost a buck more. My host assured me they were awesome. Through a conversation neither of us seemed to comprehend entirely, she also sold me a plastic parfait cup of coconutty bean-and-rice dessert ($1.50) topped with evaporated milk. Not really my thing, to be honest, but I worked at it earnestly until she placed a warm baguette wrapped in red and white wax paper under my nose.
This sub was a generously filled with a wider variety of more innocuous-looking cold cuts than Nhon Hoa, but there was no garlicky mayonnaise or chili slices to prink the palate. Still, the sweet crunch of the veggies over silky pâté and refreshing cilantro aftertaste made the overall effect quite pleasing. The wax paper wrapper, however, did nothing to prevent crumbs from flying everywhere.
So there you have it: Nhon Hoa might be the more authentic bánh mi vendor, but Hoang Minh is more aesthetically pleasing and gives you a place to sit. Considering how little it will cost you, I suggest you try both.
