As always with great new restaurants these days, getting a table is a bit of an investment, though Bánh Anh Em takes the fundamentally democratic approach of allowing no reservations at all. Instead, in the hour before opening, a line grows to the corner, and by the time the doors unlock there’s a digital waitlist, which often stretches to ninety minutes or more. As an inveterate line loather, I can say with authority that it’s totally worth it. Put in your name, and then wander around for a drink somewhere or browse the racks at the ritzy secondhand shop two doors down. Those truly allergic to delayed gratification can order takeout online, from a slightly abridged menu, though be forewarned that those glorious bánh mìs start to lose their vividity as they vegetate inside their packaging, the distinct textures and temperatures devolving, with each ticking second, from extraordinary to average; if you’re ordering a sandwich to go, plan to tear into it immediately.
Dining in, you get the pleasure of dishes not available on the to-go menu. Among these is bánh ướt chồng, a photo-ready centerpiece that’s a specialty of Chef Ton’s, originating from her home town of Buôn Ma Thuột. Its arrival involves some spectacle: first, a vertical rack featuring half a dozen stacked plates lands at your table, each dish draped with an open sheet of soft rice crêpes strewn with golden ribbons of fried shallot; moments later, more plates of varying sizes appear, holding an array of potential fillings: long, thin planks of grilled pork jowl, smoky and sweet; strips of pink cured sausage, salty and funky; pickled mustard greens; fresh cucumber; green mango; a mountain of herbs, as well as an assortment of sauces. It’s a pick-and-mix delight, playful and unself-conscious, even if the whole towered presentation feels a little stunty. Just as theatrical—and perhaps even more thrilling—is the restaurant’s turmeric-marinated catfish, the fish cut into hunks and twice-cooked: first, with a crisping swim in the kitchen’s deep fryer, offstage in the kitchen, then at the table, in a sizzling skillet set over a portable burner. The pan is filled with a garden of herbs and green onions, which give off a transportive perfume that lingers—in your memory, on your fingertips, in the spring in your step as you leave, with vows to return. ♦
