Baguettes That Shaped My Life

Warm baguettes cradle my soul…

The title sounds like it’s ripped from a sappy rom-com, but it nails the story I’m itching to tell. Folks wax poetic about lovers or grand romances that breeze through their lives. And me, every chapter of my existence has a baguette stealing the spotlight. Wild, right?

The Baguette of My Childhood

At three years old, I lived on the second floor of a two-story house owned by the Post Office. A glossy black wooden staircase swept up to a landing, one side opening to a terrace with a view of the sea, the other leading to the main room. Evenings found my dad sprawled on a divan against the wall, nose buried in a newspaper. I’d commandeer his leg, propped against the wall, and treat it like a gate to crawl through, pretending each pass whisked me to a new universe.

I could lose myself in that game for hours. But the second I heard my big brother’s steady steps climbing the stairs, my nose twitched, and I’d hit the floor, hollering, “Oh, bánh mì!” That cry jolted my sisters from their homework. The whole family turned toward the door just as my brother strutted in, triumphantly hoisting a long, fragrant paper bag. “Who wants bánh mì? Get that mắm kho quẹt ready!” he’d declare.

Ten minutes later, a small pan of mắm kho quẹt – caramelized fish sauce with pork fat and sugar, brimming with golden pork fat cracklings and fiery red chilies – hit the table, its aroma practically a punch to the senses. After inviting our parents who’d say, “Nah, you kids dig in”, my siblings and I crowded around a massive, crispy baguette. 

We tore off chunks, dunking them into the salty, sweet, spicy sauce. Those baguettes were huge and dense back then with fragrant golden crusts. My brother wielded his baguette piece like a pro, scooping cracklings with surgical precision, each swipe visibly shrinking the pile. My sisters savored their bites, slipping me extra cracklings. That baguette was my nightly obsession.

The Hard-Won

Then I moved to Saigon for college. Across from the Thăng Long Theater on Cao Thắng Street was Tám Cầu’s baguette cart. Living nearby, I’d stroll over and lean in,  “Uncle Tám, hook me up with a bánh mì thịt.” He’d shoot back, “The works?” My eager “Yup!” set his hands flying. He’d snatch a hot baguette from the charcoal oven below, slice it open, slather on butter and paté, stuff it with pork, Vietnamese ham, cilantro, pickled veggies, and a splash of soy sauce, moving like a circus juggler tossing pins.

After a few visits, I was a regular. Uncle Tám knew my whole family: who skipped chilies, who loved fatty pork over lean, who wanted their baguette whole or halved. The best time was around nine, when my sisters and I, stomachs growling, hit up his cart. Each of us grabbed a chunk, munching like we were playing harmonicas. Those baguettes were heaven! Crisp crusts snapping with each bite, chewy insides paired with rich pork, buttery paté, fiery chilies, fragrant cilantro, juicy cucumber, and tangy pickled carrots and turnip. We’d demolish the loaf in minutes, still craving more.

In the late ’80s, bánh mì thịt weren’t a given, no matter how much you wanted one. My college stipend was 18 Vietnamese dong and 20 kilos of rice a month. To make ends meet, broke students tutored on the side. Some days, I pedaled my bike across Saigon, teaching in District 3, to District 10, then Chợ Lớn. Saigon dazzled me through Tám Cầu’s baguettes, but it also taught me they didn’t come easy.

When I started working, my modest dream was to savor Tám Cầu’s baguettes whenever I pleased. Eventually I could, but my commute pulled me away from his cart. Instead, I stopped at a small baguette cart on Bà Huyện Thanh Quan Street, near Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai School. 

The vendor, a kind and meticulous woman, ran a spotless operation. Her son often helped out. One day, when he was absent, I asked after him. She beamed, saying he got into a public university – thank goodness, or she couldn’t have afforded it. Her baguettes were wholesome and pure. I’d buy two at a time to entice my coworkers to join the feast.

Through Time

While living abroad, I’d swing by Kiem Foei in Rotterdam’s Chinatown for a Surinamese baguette at lunch. These were small, about the size of my hand, with soft crusts, stuffed with char siu pork, doused in a sweetish red sauce, layered with cucumber slices, and spiked with a sweet-spicy Surinamese ginger-chili paste. The loaf, mixed with rice flour, was soft and dense, soaking up the meaty sauce. It was a local hit.

Holding that foreign loaf, I’d pine for Tám Cầu’s or my childhood mắm kho quẹt baguettes. Sometimes, I’d clutch the loaf and wish it were a cigarette, so I could croon, “Missing home, I light a smoke, its haze curling up the trees” (from Hồ Dzếnh’s poem “Chiều”). No smoke, but my eyes stung anyway. 

On a trip back to Saigon, I visited Tám Cầu’s cart. Uncle Tám had passed, and his son had taken over. A few years older than me, he’d graduated from the University of Technology but found his job couldn’t pay the bills, so he joined his dad’s trade. Now it was his life. “I miss the customers when I’m not at my cart,” he shared. My nephews, still in that alley, bought from him, and he knew exactly who was who and what they did.

I teased him about how today’s bánh mì were hollowed out. He chuckled, “People like ’em light now, say the dense ones are too much. What can I do?” The loaf split open flat, barely any innards, robbing the symphony of flavors of its chewy, hearty base. Where was my dense, soul-filling ones of yesteryear?

Saigon’s Baguettes

Settled in a rural area near my hometown, I would occasionally visit Saigon and stay in Bình Thạnh District. Mornings, I didn’t dare brave the tidal wave of motorbikes to reach Tám Cầu’s. Instead, I wandered to a small baguette cart on Tăng Bạt Hổ Street. The vendor’s smile lit up the place, her pure Saigon accent music to my ears: “Sis, meat baguette, yeah?” After a few buys, I was a regular.

Her bánh mì thịt were honest, everything homemade except the bread itself. Divorced, she sold baguettes to support her elderly mom and daughter. Her smile never faded, warm and genuine, as if every sorrow melted behind it. Her smile never wavered, warm and genuine, as if all sorrows dissolved behind it. Each time I saw her, she “restored sunshine to my heart and planted a flower in my soul,” as Trịnh Công Sơn sang in “Đời gọi em biết bao lần.”

Nha Trang’s Baguettes

At last, I returned to my peaceful childhood home Nha Trang, a stunning city nestled by calm seas and cradled by mountains. Even after July 1, 2025, when it lost its “city” title, Nha Trang remains a city in the hearts of those who love it.

Mắm kho quẹt baguettes are a memory now, but I stumbled into a new love: the fish cake baguette. Nha Trang rests by the seaside, so the fish cake bursts with hearty flavors, flecked with a hint of peppery heat. Golden fish cake nestles among vibrant cilantro on a dense, ivory-white interior (Praise the heavens, my beloved baguette returned!) A drizzle of Nha Trang’s signature sweet fish sauce completes the masterpiece. Simple, yet this bánh mì chả cá sets my heart racing. Is it “love at first bite” or “love of Nha Trang and all it brings”? 

Poets and musicians pen odes to their loves. Lacking their flair, I borrow another’s verse, tweaked for my bánh mì: “When my hands grow cold, fresh bánh mì hold them warm; and in my quiet soul, memories linger like a charm.” (Adapted from Trần Dạ Từ’s poem “Thơ Cũ của Nàng”, set to music as “Người đi qua đời tôi” by Vũ Đình Chương.) 

Thank you, bánh mì, and the dear souls behind them!

mlefood – Minh Lê

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