At 1:30, the doorbell rang. I got up and opened the door to find Diem standing in the hallway. She came in and sat down while I brushed my teeth and washed the grog off of my face. I opened the mini fridge and grabbed the Pepsi from inside that the hotel had generously provided. It was in a can shaped like a Red Bull with a logo that gave it a 1950s feel. It was my first soda of the year. The front desk ordered our taxi and we made our way to the lobby. We got in the cab, and Diem gave him our destination. We headed south out of the city towards the 16th-century village of Hoi An. Getting more accustomed to the pace of Da Nang’s city streets, I settled in the back and fell into a tranquil state as I tasted the peace of this beautiful moment.
About 15 minutes into our journey, we were headed down a wide boulevard, which took a sharp turn to the right. Not worrying about where I was or where I was going, I was pleasantly surprised when I looked up to see the South China Sea emerge from the horizon. Her beautiful sandy beaches, palm trees, and distant crystal blue waters shimmered in the afternoon haze. Her tropical shores were dotted with grass huts for her many day trippers and vacationers. The view outside my window was new again, and my childlike wonderment at the world around me had once more returned.
As we left the city behind and traveled further south, the landscape began to evolve before us. Jungle-covered limestone cliffs with her ancient temples jutting from the sheer reliefs began to dot our view. We must have been on some sort of Garden sculpture row as we passed endless warehouses showcasing statues of dragons, the lady Buddha, and other images of Buddhist and Asian iconography.
The longer taxi ride that our trip to Hoi An required gave me much-needed time to assess the subtleties of horn usage on Vietnamese streets. Anyone who drives in Atlanta knows that a horn is reserved for a stressful moment right before a road rage altercation breaks out. In simpler terms, them’s fightin’ words. Here in Vietnam, it’s a language and possibly a matter of life and death. Many motorbikes here don’t have mirrors, and the ones that do seem to be positioned more to check out the flight path of birds rather than their fellow traveler. So, a double honk means I’m coming up on you. A single tap means I’m right beside you, don’t turn, and a long continuous honk seems to translate more as What the $&@) is wrong with you or Oh no, you better not! Look twice to save a life is a motto I don’t think anyone knows here. Most of the driving I see here would result in either ritual suicide or vehicular homicide back home.
Soon, we crossed over the river Vong, filled with its ancient bamboo circular nets floating in its stream, and arrived in Hoi An, the village of Lanterns.
Hoi An was a beautiful ancient village with its historic French colonial architecture and age-old Japanese influences. I saw far more Westerners here than I had in Da Nang. A sign this was an international tourist attraction. The streets were cleaner, its stalls more neatly and beautifully put together. It must have its Asian tourist kind of feel, but it was lost on me. It was still new, exotic, and ever-beautiful.
Hoi An had much to offer, though I knew I didn’t have enough time today to find her secrets. Locals strolled around in their traditional Áo dàis and conical hats among the historic streets. We reached the 600-year-old Japanese bridge and descended deep into the ancient village.
We walked along the causeway and headed for one place I would not leave Vietnam without visiting. Bánh Mỳ Phượng is the restaurant made famous by Anthony Bourdain on one of his first episodes of No Reservations. The best sandwich in the world, he had commented. I had to see it. Since his passing, I have reread his books. Road maps for my generation of up-and-coming Chefs some 20 years ago. He was a committed worker to his craft who was imperfect, made mistakes, and had many bumps in his road. I could relate.
We made our way to the stall, and it was clear I was not the only one with the idea. The line was down the block, but I didn’t care. I had come halfway around the world to try this dish. There was no going back. As we came within talking distance of the attendant at the stall, Điem said something, and we were headed past the entrance, up the stairs, and onto the balcony overlooking the street. This was perfect. The waiter came up, and I ordered a Tiger to drink and pointed to the picture on the menu of the man himself taking a bite of the now iconic sandwich.
The sandwich was delivered within minutes, and I stared momentarily and took the image in. The Banh Mi is a beautiful example of French and Asian fusion. Part of what makes Vietnam’s cuisine among the best in Asia is its fusion with its former colonial overlords. The crispy baguette, liver pate, pork slice with crispy skin, fresh greens, cucumber, and sauces make for remarkable culinary ingenuity.
I sliced my sandwich in half and bit into its warm, delicious center. It did not disappoint. Light yet rich, sweet yet sour, crispy yet soft. It was a contradiction of flavor and texture. An actual work of art. Satiated, overly satisfied, and at one with the universe, I sat back and enjoyed the view as I sipped my beer in the cool tropical breeze.
Anthony Bourdain’s got nothing on you, my brother. Love your writing, and your photos add another layer of reality to the experiences you are describing. The reader feels like they are riding and walking right alongside you. This is really “good stuff”, Dennis. Thanks for sharing.