Bánh Mì and Me

Words by Julianne Tran Watson / Photos by Shea Alan

As the airbags deflated and my vision cleared, I glanced over to my passenger seat. Neatly wrapped in white paper, my bánh mì sandwich sat perfectly unharmed. 

The same could not be said of my car, crumpled and crushed against the curb. Before it was towed away, I snatched the still-warm Lee’s Sandwiches bundle to take with me. The sandwich’s familiar salty and pickled flavors comforted me in the hospital waiting room, sunny memories of eating bánh mì washing over me. I had to laugh in spite of everything. Bánh mì is always there for me.

Growing up in the suburbs of Oklahoma City, my brothers and I spent countless hours in the back seat of our sun-beaten van with its windows cloudy from finger paintings, the sliding doors loose and worn from impatient tugs from small hands. 

We came into town for the ingredients and flavors of home. My parents immigrated to the United States from Vietnam, like so many others, after the fall of Saigon 50 years ago. The Asian District was like their former home in miniature.

When we drove past the red and green lacquered signage on Classen Boulevard, I knew we had reached our intended destination after what felt like an eternity in the soft, crumb-filled cloth seats of our car. My stomach grumbled in anticipation. 

My earliest memories of bánh mì were at the Milk Bottle. My dad parked haphazardly at the awkward, triangular intersection of Classen Boulevard and Northwest 24th Street and walked into the stout, 1930 flatiron building as we gazed excitedly from within the car. 

Minutes later, he emerged with a plastic bag filled with neatly stacked bánh mì. The smells of pickled carrot and daikon, grilled meat, and cilantro permeated the car’s air as we unwrapped the waxy paper and started eating. Balancing the wrapping on my lap as a plate, I savored the rich, buttery spreads that sandwiched the cold Vietnamese sausage.

Bánh Mì Ba Le, also known as Saigon Baguette, occupied the Milk Bottle Grocery building for over 10 years in my youth. Open in 1999, the humble shop served as a quick, inexpensive stop for my family along the long trail of errands. (In my parents’ memory, they never spent more than three dollars on a bánh mì there.) With the windows rolled down and the hot breeze lazily blowing in, we ate many meals in the gracious shadow of the Milk Bottle building and its sheet metal testament to local dairy. 

Other times, grocery runs at Super Cao Nguyen doubled as an opportunity for our favorite sandwich. Hunger mounted as my brothers and I explored every corner of the 50,000-square-foot store, resting atop thrones of 20-pound rice bags whenever we tired. 

After what seemed like an arduous journey, we finished our shopping and skipped to the ready-made foods counter. Tucked between the refrigerator aisles and baked goods, we lined up before the warmly lit case of freshly baked baguettes and ordered bánh mì. Returning to the car, we slouched in those worn seats once again, munching on bites of charred meat between handfuls of crisp shrimp chips and swigs of sweetened soy milk.

I never ate bánh mì while seated at a table until Lee’s opened in 2008. The restaurant’s opening day is stamped in my memory like most kids remember their first trip to Great Wolf Lodge or Disneyland. 

The first thing my 7-year-old eyes saw was the sky—the pale blue sky with wispy white clouds painted on the ceiling above the doorway. My eyes darted over to the curly neon sign hanging over the baguette factory, all enclosed in glossy glass. Then over the speaker system, a voice boomed numbers, first in Vietnamese, loud and proud, and then in English.  

We lined up behind other excited families as I goggled at the wide, colorful menu hanging above the cash registers. An offshoot of the Californian franchise, this restaurant provided more than meals. It was a gathering place, a rest stop for many. 

That day, I no longer needed to carefully cradle crumbs in my lap. I sank into the green cushioned seats, eating my sandwich while staring at the perfectly shaped dough logs rolling out of the shiny machines. I continued looking around me, taking in all the light and luster of that first, glorious day. 

I soon spent numerous meals at Lee’s, seated at the laminate tables with a bright red tray in front of me. Passing time between school and other engagements in the city or stopping in after errands, my family sat at our preferred table alongside the advertisement-blazoned windows and enjoyed our meals together. Sometimes, we chatted with other families we ran into; other times, we ate quietly, relishing a quick moment together amid our activity-packed lives. 

During those days, I ate more bánh mì than I can count. I ate bánh mì while I mused about the lives of the old men sitting outside in the sun. I ate bánh mì while complaining about my new middle school. I ate bánh mì with friends who were discovering the highly-talked-about sandwich of the time. And I ate bánh mì when I said goodbye to my city for a time. 

Now, my trips home are punctuated with bánh mì. Zipping through the new drive-thru at Lee’s, I will order a sandwich after a trip to the grocery store for that one ingredient I still cannot find in my new city. I peer inside, noting the families still gathered at the table, the men enjoying their card game in the front. 

Driving away, I recount the moments so intertwined with this simple sandwich, the memories that made this city mine. I pass by the intersection where I ruined my car and wave up to the plain and proud Milk Bottle. Then I find a sunny spot to pull over, unwrap my bánh mì in my lap and take a bite.