The determinedly lunch-bucket look is a nod to the Vietnamese street-vendor roots of the thing. But the fact is that its full pedigree is as complex, really, as its layers of flavor and levels of crunch, its play of textures and its hot-then-cold microclimates.
It's a durable hybrid, half-French from the days when France colonized Indochina, accounting for its traditional construction on a heated baguette (banh mi means roll or baguette), infused with a buttery mayonnaise and loose goose or pork pate. The typical Asian touch is the head-cheese lunchmeat, the spiced, barbecued pork, the pickled shred of carrot, the hot chile, and feathery cilantro, licorice-y Thai basil and mint.
You want showy from the Sampan menu? Order the "Peking" duck with tamarind pancakes, or the zany redo of a Philly cheesesteak - juicy short rib heaped on fried discs of bao bun, spicy sriracha slashing below.
But if you want a sandwich that's one of the wonders of the sandwich world, go for the banh mi - a handful of lightly pickled vegetables and supporting cast of meats on a toasty roll (in Sampan's case, from Artisan Boulanger, the understated Cambodian-French hybrid of a bakery at 12th and Morris).
In their first South Philadelphia sightings (by non-Asians) in the Vietnamese enclaves that sprang up after the war in Southeast Asia, they were a paradigm shift: more salad than meat. More shapes - airy shreds and spears and spreads to lighten the density. More contrasts - vinegars and fish sauce, sweet mayos and garlicky meats - than the sandwich they were first compared to.
