What is the best banh mi: packed or balanced?

VnExpress readers discussed their ideal banh mi after the recent Banh Mi Festival in Ho Chi Minh City, where some established brands charged as much as VND73,000 (US$2.85) for a stuffed portion.

Reader Hien Le Thanh believed such a premium-priced banh mi is too much:

"A banh mi priced at VND73,000 is packed with so much meat and incredibly rich in flavor. One person can hardly finish the whole thing alone. And I think it is just like other banh mi. I prefer a balanced filling and a full portion to be hot, crispy, and fragrant."

Reader Jen added:

"A VND73,000 banh mi is a specialty packed with meat. It used to be popular with Western tourists who prefer larger portions, but now young Vietnamese enjoy it too. Most people, though, can only eat a third of the banh mi since it is massive."

Two halves of a banh mi stuffed with cold cuts and two layers of pâté at a shop in Ho Chi Minh City. Photo by VnExpress/Quynh Tran

For reader nguyendinhvu2010, the perfect banh mi starts with its aroma:

"When you walk past a banh mi stall, the mix of fresh bread, pâté, char siu, and butter creates an irresistible scent that draws you in. And when you hold the banh mi in your hands, you should feel the heat and hear the crunch. But the true experience is the first bite—the balance of sweetness, saltiness, and richness makes each banh mi unique."

Reader Quang Nguyen recalled his best banh mi experience:

"The best one I've had was in Da Nang. Just the right size, with a hint of sourness and spice, crispy crust, rich meat, and refreshing herbs like cilantro, cinnamon basil, and cucumber."

Another reader, Nguoi nhap cuoc, reminisced about a banh mi they had decades ago:

"Anyone who lived near Thu Duc before and after 1975 would remember an elderly man with a blind eye selling banh mi from a bicycle with a large wooden box attached to the back.

Food was scarce back then, but his banh mi was always hot and crisp. He served it with pressure-cooked sardines in thick tomato sauce. Only the well-off could afford a whole banh mi; most bought just half. On cold days or rainy nights, his banh mi was always a treat. He even had a charcoal stove on his bike to reheat them if they cooled.

Later, I no longer saw him and his banh mi bicycle. I heard he had passed away, and no one took over his trade. By then, banh mi carts were already everywhere.

His cart had one distinct feature—a hand-squeezed horn attached to the bicycle's handlebars. Before he arrived, you’d hear the loud rings from afar. That sound was a piece of the city's past."