Why the banh mi in Puerto Princesa is flavored with history

• Source: https://news.abs-cbn.com/ancx/food-drink/features/10/22/18/the-drink-the-history-wanted-to-forget
• Monday, October 22, 2018

By Paolo Vergara

Not pan de sal nor goto, but a Filipino spin on two Vietnamese dishes make everyday fare for this city’s residents.

The scene at the main gate as class hours end at Palawan State University, Puerto Princesa, is like that of any campus in the Philippines today: tricycle drivers rev their engines after a lazy afternoon waiting for passengers now just arriving; the sound of basketballs dribbled on concrete punctures the din of chattering students as teachers swap uniforms for jogging clothes. And then there's the smell of myriad frying foods wafting from a row of stalls and eateries amidst the background odor of burning petrol and midsummer sweat. Amidst the usual fare – kwek-kwek, siomai, siopao, and isaw, as well as halal snacks (the city has a sizeable Muslim population)—there is one peculiar dish that stands out to the non-local: banh mi, or Vietnamese bread.

It’s been Filipinized, and rightfully so. Across Puerto Princesa’s neighborhoods, banh mi, at least the localized version of it, is as ubiquitous as pan de sal in Metro Manila and the rest of the Philippines. The banh mi sold back in Manila’s Vietnamese joints combines the fresh flavors of vegetables and herbs like wansoy, lettuce, and carrots with the savory taste of meat and pâté. Meanwhile, in Puerto Princesa, our sweet-and-savory tooth unabashedly comes out to feast on hotdogs, mayonnaise, ketchup, and garlic sitting on the bread.

Served plain and freshly baked, Puerto Princesa’s banh mi has a distinctly less “bready” flavor than pan de sal, owing to the latter's main ingredient: rice flour. Palawan is also an exporter of rice to other provinces, and rice grown in the area could be the reason behind the unique notes of Puerto Princesa banh mi. The bread's appearance is of a whiter, smaller cousin of the beige-brown baguette. Banh mi sold at bakeshops here is not often baked to brownness though customers may request for toasted banh mi.

Perfect pair

As it is with the limited appearance of pan de sal amidst the prevalence of banh mi, there is also a surprising – at least for the newcomer – lack of mami and goto shops, which are widely known as staple Filipino comfort food. In their stead, public transport drivers, office workers, and students converge at a “chaolongan,” or eatery specializing in “chao long,” the local name for pho, or Vietnamese noodle soup.

This is somewhat of a misnomer, as chao long in Vietnam is closer to our goto: rice porridge seasoned in ground pepper with pork offal and a garnish of scallions. For better or worse, the name has stuck, and the Vietnamese diaspora in Puerto Princesa seems to ride with it. Like in Vietnam, Puerto Princesa pho is anchored in rice noodles cooked in beef or chicken broth, with bean sprouts and basil on the side. Instead of lemons, however, local calamansi offers a citron kick. The soup stock also uses less herbs.

Walk into any chaolongan and it’s highly likely you’ll find banh mi in the menu. Banh mi served plain, toasted banh mi with garlic and margarine, a banh mi sandwich with hotdogs or longganisa with mustard optional. For around a hundred pesos, one can get a hearty carb fix with a steaming bowl of rice noodle soup paired with rice flour bread.

Missing Saigon

One can trace the presence of Vietnamese fare in Puerto Prinsesa to a migration of Vietnamese locals to the Philippines in the mid-1970s. In 1975, the Vietnam war was reaching its violent conclusion. Escaping the shelling, many South Vietnamese citizens chose the open water over Communist “re-education camps” and haphazardly boarded boats to cross the South China Sea. The exodus continued well after the war years and peaked in 1979. Refugees continued landing across South East Asia, a good number reaching Bataan. In 1990, many were subsequently transferred to Palawan as the exodus continued into the middle of the decade.

One of the pioneer Vietnamese hubs in Puerto Princesa was the Viet Ville restaurant at the Vietnamese Village refugee facility on the city’s northern outskirts. Vietnamese refugees opened the restaurant and introduced what would be the city’s comfort food.

Viet Ville as well as the rest of the camp was closed to visitors for the duration of my month-long stay at Puerto Princesa. Nonetheless, online reviews coming out this year indicate that Viet Ville continues to serve Vietnamese favorites.

Today, most of the 2000 refugees who moved to Puerto Princesa from Bataan have since returned home to Vietnam or migrated to the United States, where a lot of South Vietnamese settled after the fall of Saigon. Still, a good number of refugees intermarried with locals and moved deeper into the city, bringing their cooking to a wider Filipino audience.

Rene’s Saigon

Rene Sabio is a second-generation Vietnamese-Filipino. He speaks fluent Tagalog, but photos with Vietnamese diplomats and military officials in his restaurant hint at familiarity with his heritage. His Rene’s Saigon is conveniently a seven-minute walk from the Puerto Princesa International Airport. Despite being at a direction away from the city center, people welcome the detour to dine here as the restaurant is known for its homemade banh mi.

Sabio apprenticed as a teenager under a Vietnamese baker based in the city, together with three other young men. In the end, it was he who was selected to learn the banh mi recipe. Today, Rene’s Saigon is a popular destination for those looking for authentic Vietnamese fare in Puerto Princesa. Whereas most chaolongan serve only pho and banh mi, Rene’s also has a “secret menu,” where goi cuon (spring rolls,) fresh or fried, are served upon request.

A few kilometers north, the banh mi, goi cuon, and pho recipes at Pho Saigon, situated at the city center and run by a Vietnamese woman, corroborates the flavor profile found at Rene’s Saigon. The price, ingredients used, and expressions of bread, soup, and spring rolls served at these two establishments have similar flavors.

A meal shared

As I boarded the plane bound for Manila, the customs officers seemed amused as they let me through, seeing me carry two grocery bags worth of frozen banh mi, enough to last our household a month with enough to spare for pasalubong to a good number of friends. Perhaps for these officers, this was a sight they never tire of: tourists touting what for them was everyday fare.

The prevalence of banh mi in this corner of the Philippines only proves that cultural exchange often finds its anchor in the tangible, the edible, in the visceral immediacy of a hot meal shared between tired citizens after a day’s work, as demonstrated in the works and travels of epicures like Doreen Fernandez and Anthony Bourdain. Vietnamese refugees sought a new home and life away from war, and in the process, pioneered a dialogue between flavors: between our sweet tooth and their love for herbal notes. Puerto Princesa’s banh mi and pho, across its incarnations, show that definitions like “authentic” or “genuine” are better as descriptors of origin, or closeness to origin and tradition--rather than as value judgments of a certain cuisine or the people enjoying it.