Being in Vietnam, there are two things you can’t avoid—and honestly, why would you want to? Bánh mì and phở. They’re not just food, they’re part of the architecture of daily life here. Morning, noon, or late at night when the scooters are still buzzing and the city never quite goes quiet, there’s always a bowl of broth or a crusty baguette waiting for you.
You can chase them in two ways. Sit down at some sleek, air-conditioned restaurant, where the phở comes in a porcelain bowl with neatly arranged herbs, and the bánh mì is plated like it belongs in Paris. Or, you can duck onto the street, sit low to the ground on a plastic stool, and hand over a few crumpled bills—less than the cost of a coffee back home—for the real thing. Bread still warm from the oven, pâté smeared thick, pickled vegetables crunching against smoky pork. Or a steaming bowl of phở that smells like star anise and slow-simmered bones, the kind of soup that doesn’t just feed you, but fixes you.
It’s not just about taste. It’s about the act of eating it here, where it belongs, surrounded by the chaos and the life of Vietnam. It fills you up, sure, but it also roots you to the place, makes you feel like for one small moment, you’re not just passing through—you’re part of the current.
I came here with it on my list. A box to check. And yeah, I checked it. But the truth is, phở and bánh mì aren’t things you cross off once. They’re things you’ll crave again and again, long after you’ve gone.
