Banh Mi Battle

I have just come back for a 10-month sabbatical in a country where cilantro was an exotic jungle vine-- hard to say and impossible to find -- and salted bread marked regional rebels who sparked political flames with their culinary noncompliance.

Now I am back, and every inch of my tortured tongue craves the tangy, spicy, savory, crunchy, and oddly creamy bundle of that South East Asian piquant perfection, banh mi; or even better known as the Vietnamese sandwich.

Vietnamese sandwiches for me, have always been up there with Subway, Jamba Juice and all the usual fast, fresh, and cheap junk food alternatives, but never had I had the patience to explore any sandwich stead outside the 5-mile radius of my front door (I don't dare say their name). While I am completely aware that they, temptingly accessible and successfully marketable, are not the gold standard for all things banh mi, they do offer for the hurried, hungry and lazy the quickest fix.

But enough with apologies and excuses of the past. Today is a new beginning. The beginning of...

Battle of the Best Banh Mi: San Jose edition

Round 1: Huong Lan vs Lee's Sandwiches

Fight!

Bank: $2.75... Seriously, tax included

Weight/Height: about 8 inches or so, not super full

Bread: soft on the inside flaky on the outside (doesn't scrape off the first layer of skin on the roof of one's mouth)

Veggies: the pickled daikon and carrots were a little bland to me. Not so tangy or sweet.

Meat: tender, savory, delicious. could have been more, but still a quality ingredient.

Condiments: a little heavy on the mayo (two salty things without a buffer is no good)

Two-Cents: while the maintaining that the quality of meat was great for a sub $3 sandwich, I still miss the lightly sweetened baguette and the crisp and tangy pickles from Lee's.

Seoul Food

At least once a week I make a pilgrimage to the land of hybrids and urban hippies; that great West Coast hipster haven called San Francisco. Seeing as I work part-time at both a suburban, hilltop golf club and an exclusive country club, it is imperative that I atone for my societal sins to maintain my self-proclaimed, non-elitist persona.

This Sabbatical journey usually includes hours at an industrial arts non-profit in a notoriously violent inner city locale, where I answer phones for free and refresh myself with free-trade chai tea lattes from our specialty vending machine. After this saintly act of goodwill, I scurry to my car using my $15 thrift store peacoat to hide my $100, leather bound Fossil laptop tote. I then take a 40-minute drive over a 2-mile bridge to treat myself to an authentic Bay Area meal.

An authentic Bay Area meal can be a number of things.

1. A pricey organic meal in a restaurant practicing sustainable business methods.
2. Hole-in-the-wall eatery characterized by mediocre food, unconventional themes (sushi in a 50's diner), and the neighborhood patrons that support it (drunks, hipsters, bored college students).
   
3. Ethnic food served in a place where all communication is done with hand gestures and head nodding (except the suspiciously enunciated price).
4. A regular American meal plus avocado.

On this particular pilgrimage I went with option #2.

The place was called Toyose. We found it on a deserted street lined with Frisco's signature low-income, double stacked, cubby hole housing. The visible shoreline drive to Toyose suggested fine-dining superiority; the neighboring plastic signboard liquor stores insisted otherwise.

We opened what seemed to be a garage sidedoor and entered what appeared to be an East Asian countryside hut. A corridor of attractive wooden booths lined either side of the chic shoe box of a diner, and the back opened up slightly to a section walled with mirrors, lined with similar booths, and topped with a faux gazebo-esque roof strung with lights. -- O holy and chic Zion, grace us with thy victual blessings -- At the time my guest and I were the only ones seated; however, judging from the cutesy powder pink and blue posters featuring unnaturally fresh-faced foreign models I could tell who would inevitably be joining us.

Moments later, small groups of soju-sipping Korean twenty-somethings piled in, and by that time we had already broken bread -- crispy squid tempura, egg-topped kimchi fried rice, and assorted Korean pickles and starters. The food was good, but not great; a strong indicator of a classic Option #2 meal. There was also no dessert available, which is unacceptable, but the overall experience was satisfying.

We finished up the meal with several rounds of pacifying hot tea, let out a sigh of contentedness and reverence, and headed home.

A relatively relevant link...Black Jesus. You're welcome.

How I Can Just Kill A....Cookie

Yes, that was a Rage Against the Machine reference. And yes, this entry is going to feature the careless concoction of a kitchen catastrophe called "cookie". I was going to use this space to express my disdain in the usual manner (wordy and alliterate), but since rants are criticized and poems are patronized I will try the lyrical approach.

Get those crisp-ity, crumbly cardboard cookies out of my face.

A mix between candy-coated crackers and burnt flaky cake
Culinary sophistication only a 5-year-old should create.
And when is a cookie ever appropriate to plate?
Never seen a snickerdoodle on a $100 date.

And why are they so dry and bland?
Take a lesson from M&Ms,
Melt in my mouth, not corrode in my hand.
With every bite, coating my clothes like sugary sand
Doubling as exfoliate for dry flaky hands.

And if you're asking me,
I say there's something obscene
About a pastry making me feign for animal fat and liquid protein
Lady Fingers, Wafers, Biscotti and Tim Tams
Sounds like the names of washed out 80's bands.
Let's call them Blondie or Duran Duran
And hope they fade away and quickly disband

Kebbler Elf, keep your crap off my shelf,
Or I'll have your creamy center ripped out and splattered myself
Chips Ahoy,
Oh, boy...
Get your chocolate chips scattered by the clips from my semi-automatic "toy"
And Gingerbread Man?
You better run while you can
Cause you'll never escape my pistol-whipped backhand.

Get those crisp-ity, crumbly cardboard cookies out of my face.
(Unless they are white chocolate macadamia, I kinda like how they taste.)

Original, innocent photo found here.

I feel this song is appropriate. Have to thank my friend for reminding me how much I like it.

Pistol Grip Pump - Rage Against The Machine