Restaurant Review: Next-Level Vietnamese at Bánh Anh Em

As at all times with nice new eating places nowadays, getting a desk is a little bit of an funding, although Bánh Anh Em takes the essentially democratic strategy of permitting no reservations in any respect. As an alternative, within the hour earlier than opening, a line grows to the nook, and by the point the doorways unlock there’s a digital waitlist, which frequently stretches to ninety minutes or extra. As an inveterate line loather, I can say with authority that it’s completely price it. Put in your identify, after which wander round for a drink someplace or browse the racks on the ritzy secondhand store two doorways down. These really allergic to delayed gratification can order takeout on-line, from a barely abridged menu, although be forewarned that these wonderful bánh mìs begin to lose their vividity as they vegetate inside their packaging, the distinct textures and temperatures devolving, with every ticking second, from extraordinary to common; in case you’re ordering a sandwich to go, plan to tear into it instantly.Eating in, you get the pleasure of dishes not out there on the to-go menu. Amongst these is bánh ướt chồng, a photo-ready centerpiece that’s a specialty of Chef Ton’s, originating from her house city of Buôn Ma Thuột. Its arrival entails some spectacle: first, a vertical rack that includes half a dozen stacked plates lands at your desk, every dish draped with an open sheet of sentimental rice crêpes strewn with golden ribbons of fried shallot; moments later, extra plates of various sizes seem, holding an array of potential fillings: lengthy, skinny planks of grilled pork jowl, smoky and candy; strips of pink cured sausage, salty and funky; pickled mustard greens; recent cucumber; inexperienced mango; a mountain of herbs, in addition to an assortment of sauces. It’s a pick-and-mix delight, playful and unself-conscious, even when the entire towered presentation feels a bit stunty. Simply as theatrical—and maybe even extra thrilling—is the restaurant’s turmeric-marinated catfish, the fish lower into hunks and twice-cooked: first, with a crisping swim within the kitchen’s deep fryer, offstage within the kitchen, then on the desk, in a scorching skillet set over a conveyable burner. The pan is full of a backyard of herbs and inexperienced onions, which give off a transportive fragrance that lingers—in your reminiscence, in your fingertips, within the spring in your step as you allow, with vows to return. ♦