The pork belly and lemongrass tofu banh mi sandwiches from the Banh Ta Deli in Falls Church. (Farrah Skeiky/For The Washington Post)
As I sit in the back of Banh Ta Deli, waiting on an order, I feel far removed from the neon hustle of the sandwich shops just outside the door at the Eden Center. Banh Ta asks that I slow my breathing and soak in the surroundings. Maybe admire the Matisse-like painting of the lunar festival, browse the shelves or ponder the artificial hoa mai plant that hangs elegantly in the air, its golden flowers offering good luck 365 days a year, no matter the season.
The chalkboard menu is written in a graceful cursive and in utilitarian block letters, the poetic and prosaic together on a blackboard that’s bookended by weathered green shutters. Two words on the menu, in an eye-popping fuchsia script, seem as if they don’t belong: “Anh hong.” They’re like stowaways trying to blend into their environment.
Anh Hong is actually the reason you eat so well at Banh Ta. She’s the person behind the half-dozen or so meticulously composed sandwiches at this calming eye in the middle of the gilded-dragon hurricane known as the Eden Center. She’s also the one who may tempt you with a piece of candy from the jars behind the counter or offer you a sample of the house-made fermented brown rice, a sweet and alcoholic dessert, a period to a sentence you may never want to end.
Out of convenience or laziness, or both, I often define “banh mi” as “Vietnamese sandwiches,” but this shop reminds you that France has had a profound impact on the cooking and dining habits of the region once known as French Indochina. Everywhere you look, Banh Ta seems like a Bordeaux-stained love letter to French ingredients: Canned pâté, foie gras, Dijon mustard and Bretel butter are stacked on almost every available surface. Even yellow cans of New Orleans’s Cafe du Monde coffee try to catch your eye among shelves crammed with a confetti-colored stack of Hello Panda cookies, Yan Yan treats and Pocky sticks.
The Gallic influence, of course, is particularly strong with the banh mi sandwich, whose miniature baguette is, all by itself, a capitulation to French tastes. “Banh mi” translates into “wheat bread,” that European standard, even if Vietnamese breadmakers now routinely add rice flour to their dough. Over time, the banh mi has evolved into a seamless fusion of French and Vietnamese ingredients and flavors, the pâté and the pickled daikon, the mayonnaise and the cilantro, the rich and the spicy.
Banh Ta receives fresh rolls daily from a French bakery in Maryland. At least that’s what Michael Phan told me. He’s the co-owner and husband to Anh Hong. I have no reason to doubt him, but I also know I’ve sunk my teeth into rolls that have grown slightly stale, their thin outer shells showering crusty dandruff all over my lap. Perhaps they were left over from the previous day.
But when the roll is fresh, toasty and velvety soft on the inside, it’s the perfect vehicle for Hong’s banh mi artistry. Her roasted pork belly turns me into a human garbage disposal every time. No matter how full I am, once I start chomping down on the sandwich, I will inhale every last crumb. Its subtlety is its secret: The neatly trimmed pork belly is marinated in fish sauce, honey and five-spice powder before entering the oven. The meat’s sweet, semi-funky flavors hum quietly underneath the noisy rumble of the standard fillings: the Vietnamese mayo, the pickled root vegetables, the herbs, the jalapenos.
As with most good things in life, you will wait for your sandwiches at Banh Ta. The downtime may be a ploy to get you to browse the shelves or review the packaged foods spread along the counter. I know that if you give me enough time, I’ll inevitably buy a plastic container of Vietnamese jerky, that sweet-and-spicy chew toy for adults. I’ve even been tempted to shell out for a quart of mustard greens, which Hong ferments on the counter, the leaves growing darker and more complex by the day.
So, sure, the wait may help Banh Ta’s bottom line, but I don’t think that’s the point. Or at least the main point. The kitchen just seems to understand that the engineering process is as crucial as the ingredients that comprise a banh mi sandwich. Balance is an essential element — like earth, fire, water, small-batch bourbon. What banh mi fans haven’t suffered through a sandwich in which every third bite exploded with jalapeno, an ambush hiding inside your lunch?
Such imbalance rarely, if ever, occurs at Banh Ta. The meatball banh mi drips juices like a burger and disappears faster than a barbecue sandwich stuffed with smoky, succulent pork. The one with lemongrass tofu — shredded for your convenience — adds fragrance to a bonfire sparked by the sandwich’s jalapeno slices, their copious seeds still clinging to the chili pepper’s green ribs. The banh mi with pate and cold cuts is a study in flavor and texture, from spreadable meat to crunchy headcheese.
The options outside the banh mi menu — a soft and exceptional pork belly steam bun, a small line of smoothies, including a creamy avocado shake that explores the narrow boundary between sweet and savory — hint at deeper passions here. And sure enough, when I spoke with Phan, he confirmed the couple already has plans to expand into an adjacent storefront this summer, transforming their elegant little deli into something more ambitious.
My first instinct was to protest this reckless growth — until Phan mentioned the couple’s previous restaurant, the painfully underrated Green Papaya in Bethesda, a pioneer in pushing Vietnamese cuisine into more refined and rarefied air. Rent creep pushed the owners out of suburban Maryland, an all-too-common story for mom-and-pop restaurants. So Phan and Hong are starting over in Northern Virginia, which is a major score for the Eden Center.
6783 Wilson Blvd., Falls Church. 703-532-1069.
Hours: 9:30 a.m. to 8 p.m. Wednesday-Monday; closed Tuesday.
Nearest Metro: East Falls Church, with a 0.9-mile trip to the deli.
Prices: All banh mi sandwiches are $4 each.
