Every time my extended family took a trip, it looked more like a mass exodus than a holiday — bags teetering, arms overstuffed, and enough supplies to survive a small apocalypse.
It always felt like the night before Tết with the kids still half-asleep, while the grown-ups bustled back and forth with brisk, practiced urgency. Not until every bag was wedged in, and every seat was claimed did the family finally let out a collective breath, the unspoken cue that, the journey had officially begun.
The first bolero song didn’t even make it to the second verse when my mom, designated commander-in-chief, would already be reaching under the seat, pulling out her trusty travel kit: plastic bags, a few headache pills, a crate of bottled water, a bottle of medicated oil. And most importantly, the bánh mì chả lụa she wrapped at the crack of dawn, each one swaddled neatly in paper. Hungry or not, everyone from front to back got their share. “Eat a bit, love, keep your strength up,” the grown-ups would say.
As a kid, I couldn’t figure out why bánh mì chả lụa showed up on every trip. Wasn’t the whole point of going somewhere new, well, to eat something new? Seafood in Vũng Tàu, mountain fare in Đà Lạt, and certainly not the same sandwich you could grab any day at the end of the street? But to the grown-ups, that was exactly the point. Before going anywhere new, you should ground yourself in a familiar taste from home. Whether the road was long or short, that first bite of bánh mì chả lụa was the mental confirmation that, “We’re really doing this.”
To be very frank, bánh mì chả lụa isn’t exactly the poster child of its family. It doesn’t have the star power of the cold cuts version that’s now world-famous, nor did it ever leave Anthony Bourdain swooning and reaching for a third the way Dì Phượng’s bánh mì gà xé did.
It took me a while to realize that it was bánh mì chả lụa’s simplicity that made it the perfect travel companion. Just a few quick slices of pork chả, evenly cut cucumber, and a dash of salt and pepper could provide enough starch, protein, and fiber to stand in for a proper home-cooked meal. Sure, butter, pâté, xíu mại, grilled pork — those are culinary treasures in their own right. But in the cramped, jostling, sun-baked space of a long-distance coach, they had all the makings of a minor tragedy. Bánh mì chả lụa, on the other hand, was practical, a built-in insurance policy against price-gouging or worse, a game of bathroom roulette at some sketchy roadside stop.
I can still remember that familiar ache — the one that crept in as I passed rows of tempting roadside stalls, only to look down at the bland, squished bánh mì chả lụa in my hand.
“Yes, I’m eating,” I’d mumble when the adults checked in, letting out a quiet sigh before dutifully nibbling away. The bread sagged in my lap, right along with my face. I dragged it out so long, we were nearly in Đồng Nai before I took the last bite. It's strange how something so plain could end up being the hardest to come by.
The years reshaped everything. Children left home, siblings drifted, and the once-lively household grew still. As our family’s finances grew more comfortable, our vacations stretched farther — to places only reachable by air. And planes, with their sterilized, orderly routines, didn’t really leave room for anything homemade, so we settled into the new rhythm: slurping overpriced airport phở in silence. Still as bland, but somehow far more expensive.
These days, traveling on my own means grabbing a few quick, convenient rice balls to keep the hunger quiet. I’m an adult now, and no one’s left to nudge a warm bánh mì chả lụa into my hands before the coach pulls away. It takes a special kind of love to rise before dawn, to find the freshest loaf, thaw the chả, slice the cucumber just so — the way my mother once used to.
Maybe it's not so much the bánh mì I longed for, but the tenderness that helped prepare it.
