Vegan banh mi, hold the racism

A story about tolerating a long line with intolerant people

Usually, when I see a sign for a grand opening of a new restaurant my instinct is to stay away. If the food is good, I want to give them time to work out the kinks in their operation. And if the food is lousy, I’d rather some other schmuck figure that out, so they can warn the rest of us on Yelp.

Then there’s Mendocino Farms, a smallish chain I love. When we bought our house in 2018, I cried a little (OK, a lot) because we were moving forty minutes away from the nearest Mendocino Farms. I emailed Mendo corporate, urging them to open a location in our area. After six years, some data-driven market research, and hundreds of emails that, frankly, got a little weird and desperate toward the end, my prayers were answered.

“There’s a soft opening on Monday,” Christina said. “Are you going there for lunch?”

“I’m gonna soft open the shit out of that Mendo, babe.”

On Monday, I drove up the hill to Mendo, where a friendly manager told me Christina had been misinformed.

“The grand opening is tomorrow,” he said. “Scan this QR code for a free entree.”

This was a dilemma. On the one hand, I detest QR codes. For years, they were a marketing tool in search of problem, but since the pandemic they’ve become a scourge in search of your personal information, because somehow we’ve accepted the idea that you can’t see the fucking menu without handing over your name, phone number, email address, mother’s maiden name, school transcripts, credit report, and tax returns. But on the other hand, I like free stuff.

I scanned the QR code.

The next day, I returned for the grand opening. The line was out the door. At first, I just stood at the back of the line minding my own business like a total line pro. After a few minutes, a friendly Mendo employee named Sam came out to chat. He asked the elderly woman in front of me, if she had been to a Mendocino Farms before.

“No. I’m looking at your menu, and I’m clueless.”

Sam walked Mrs. Clueless through the menu.

“What do you recommend for my husband?” Mrs. Clueless asked.

She pointed to an elderly man sitting on a nearby bench.

Sam went over the menu again. After he was done, Mrs. Clueless turned around and asked what I was getting.

“The vegan banh mi.”

“You sound like a pro,” Sam said.

I thought about sharing my vegan bahn mi bona fides—how I go back to the glorious hodo bahn mi days, how I stuck with the sandwich through the hodo brand tofu shortage of 2014, how I begged Christina to consider opening up our marriage and becoming a throuple with me and the vegan bahn mi.

“Total pro,” I said, deciding that my vegan bahn mi bona fides were TMI.

Sam smiled, apologized for the wait, then moved down the line to greet the other customers.

“Are you a vegan?” Mrs. Clueless asked.

“Nope. I just like the sandwich.”

“So you eat meat?”

“Yes.”

“They have a pork belly bahn mi, too. Why don’t you get that, since you eat meat?”

“Because I like the vegan bahn mi better.”

“But you’re not a vegan?”

“No.”

Mrs. Clueless and I went around in circles a few more times, until Mr. Clueless joined us.

“He’s getting the vegan bahn mi,” Mrs. Clueless told her husband. “He’s not vegan. They have a pork belly bahn mi, too.”

“Bahn mi? No.”

Mr. Clueless seemed firm on that, but Mrs. Clueless pressed.

“Why? He comes here all the time, and that’s what he gets. It must be good.”

“Vietnamese. No!”

“Oh,” Mrs. Clueless said, realizing her error.

At this point, I noticed that Mr. Clueless was wearing a baseball cap that identified him as a veteran of the Vietnam War.

“He doesn’t eat their food because of the war,” Mrs. Clueless explained.

Their food? We were at a California-based fast casual restaurant. Sure, the sandwich was called a bahn mi, but it was about as authentically Vietnamese as a Taco Bell Doritos Crunchy Gordita is authentically Mexican. Mendo corporate could’ve named it The Best Fucking Sandwich in the World™ and I don’t think a single person would’ve confused it with an authentic bahn mi.

“I know you’re not supposed to say so,” Mrs. Clueless said, “but we don’t like the Vietnamese. Awful people.”

Yikes!

Also, this raised several issues.

Issue One

Racism is sucks. Don’t be a racist. That part isn’t complicated.

Issue Two

If she knows she’s not supposed to say racist shit, why is she saying it?

Issue Three

Why is she saying racist shit to me? Do I look like a fellow traveler?

Issue Four

If I confront them now, how much longer will we have to wait in line together?

Issue Five

Is this man’s bigotry any different than my Zayde’s bigoted views about stuff from Japan? Zayde spent four years in the Pacific during World War Two. He returned with malaria; amazing photos of indigenousness people in the Pacific; GI Bill eligibility; a story about saving a mobster from murdering an officer, which turned out to be true and later got him comped at a Vegas casino; and a lifelong contempt for Japanese food and Japanese cars that somehow didn’t extend to Japanese consumer electronics.

Issue Six

Obviously, racism is a cudgel used to deny dignity and opportunity to people labeled as “other.” Also, racism is a cancer that rots society from the inside. But what’s the practical impact of a one-man bahn mi boycott? My Zayde’s views didn’t stop his kids and grandkids from buying cars made by Toyota, or from eating sushi, or yakitori, or ramen, or Shabu-shabu, or those chicken katsu sandos on milk bread that are all the rage these days. Same for Mr. Clueless. His bigotry hasn’t stopped the proliferation of Pho joints throughout Southern California, or American fast casual restaurants from appropriating Vietnamese cuisine.

Issue Seven

Isn’t this the racist’s loss? My Zayde never knew the joys of Japanese food, or the reliability of a Toyota. Mr. Clueless is denying himself The Best Fucking Sandwich in the World™ because of a war that ended forty-nine years ago. And while historians continue to debate the origins and geopolitical impact of that war, they’ve entirely ruled out sandwiches as either a cause or result of the Vietnam War.

Issue Eight

The bahn mi is actually French-Vietnamese fusion! Couldn’t he just order half a sandwich and expand his culinary palate while staying true to his bigoted views?

“You’re right,” I said, “you’re not supposed to say stuff like that because it’s wrong.”

Mr. and Mrs. Clueless seemed to accept that. Or, maybe they just realized that they needed to shut up about their bigoted views. Who knows?

It took another twenty minutes to reach the register. I didn’t want to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Clueless anymore, so I took out my phone, which is the universal signal to leave someone alone.

I scanned the news. I read stories about three ongoing wars—a fraction of the 100-plus ongoing conflicts around the world at the moment. None of the news was good, and I feared it wouldn’t get any better. Because even after the fighting stops, the hate always seems to endure.

Shout out time!

A big thank you goes out to Eric Marcoullier, the newest paid subscriber at Situation Normal! Eric, get a ready for a shitload of good vibes headed your way.

Also, Eric wrote me a little note and agreed to let me share it with you.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you tell.

1. Clearly, I think the vegan bahn mi at Mendocino Farms is The Best Fucking Sandwich in the World™, but that’s just, like, my opinion, man. What sandwich do you think deserves that title?

2. Is a Taco Bell Doritos Crunchy Gordita in Mexico City more authentic than a Taco Bell Doritos Crunchy Gordita in Kansas City? Explain.

3. When will the QR code bullshit end? Please say soon.

4. Have you had the good fortune to visit a Mendocino Farms? What did you order, and did it come with a side of racism?

5. I took a picture of my lunch for this post. I felt silly doing that. Do you ever take pictures of your food? Be honest.

Vegan bahn mi, curry couscous with cauliflower, a pomegranate lemonade. And if you look close, another fucking QR code!