I’m always anxious before trying something new. Sitting in my car peering into my reflection amongst the dark windows in front of me, I’m wondering just what I could be getting myself into. Quickly I realize I’m staring directly into a man on the other side who, assumedly, was also just staring into the depths of his own soul. Possibly even thinking the same as I—Why am I here?

It’s nearly 4 in the afternoon on October 31st. The entire day up to this point has existed in eerie lulls between rainfall. Winds rip across the sidewalks of Midtown Village. Jack-O-Lantern-colored leaves dance in the streets. The air is electric. In my experience, the day of Halloween is spent solely in preparation of what is to come—in anticipation of night. This was no exception.

I get out of my vehicle and approach the door with confidence knowing that nothing to come could be as awkward as inadvertently piercing the busboy with my eyes. But as I reach out to open the door, I mistake the pull for push and bash my forehead against the glass. Then I notice a white 8 ½” by 11” that warns, “Please use other door.” A double whammy. I make it inside and the entire room is dead quiet. There’s not too many people seated and no one is speaking.

Probably because their vocal chords are recovering after a hard chuckle at the tall dude who just greeted the door with the front of his face.

I stand by the Please-Wait-To-Be-Seated sign for a couple of seconds that feel like hours before a waitress waves to the restaurant’s seating area. This gesture, I assume, meant, “Sit where you want.” I take a table near the wall facing the inside of restaurant knowing I couldn’t afford another window encounter. While waiting for the waitress my senses relax and that familiar aromatic drift caresses me. I’m in good hands. Instead of an all-out assault of your nostrils, the full-bodied scent of broth lingers about, coming in waves. Anise, ginger, and scallions can practically be picked out of the air.

These were the familiar scents of Pho Town, a local Tuscaloosa restaurant that serves, “a contemporary Vietnamese fusion menu of high quality, fresh ingredients.” I’ve been here several times, but my visits were so sporadic that I was far from familiar with the restaurant. I scan the menu to find many classic favorites. For appetizers, Vietnamese spring rolls, fried egg rolls, and crab Rangoon all entice me. An extensive variety of clear noodle soups, egg noodle soups, tofu dishes, sandwiches, teas, smoothies, and, of course, pho, spans the next seven pages of the menu.

I usually come to Pho Town for—you guessed it—pho. But today I tell myself I am trying something new: Bahn Mi, or BM1 if you’re ordering from the seven-paged menu that thankfully uses an easy letter-number format for those of us prone to chronic mispronunciations. My wallet thanks me. The classic bahn mi thit, a sandwich, “Made w/ various Vietnamese cold cuts along w/ the liver pate and dressed with pickled carrots, pickled daikon, sliced cucumber, cilantro, and green onions,” only sets you back a meager $5.40.

Looking around in an effort to take in the ambiance, I shortly come to the conclusion: there’s not much to take in. The low hum of ESPN complements the faint howl of the gusts outside. Cheap prints of popular city skylines hang about red and white walls. Warm, but certainly not ideal, lighting. There was no ambiance. Maybe at a busier hour this room would look fuller and would bustle with the chorus of utensil against porcelain and of conversation. But it’s four p.m. on a Wednesday Halloween afternoon. This was a place to eat your fill then leave, and I had no problem with that. The restaurant wasn’t pretending to be anything it wasn’t, and I was hungry.

I appreciate that the waitress comes back to the table to bring me a glass of water without my asking. My father always said I was fiend when it came to drinking water at meals. The restaurant staff could never keep up. After a few moments the waitress is still standing over me, looming silently, and I take her silence to mean she’s waiting on me to make an order.

“BM1, please.”

I spend the next five or ten minutes staring at several flatscreens all playing the same live NFL broadcast and trying to decide which ones were in sync, which ones were fast, and which were slow. This was a game my family typically played at mealtimes when the conversation hit that inevitable lull. I imagined all the jokes about time my grandfather would make when we would do this. “Now I’m watching the past. Now I’m watching the future! Hahaha! It’s all relative, you see!” I think he thought it made him sound wise.

Just as I realize how silly it must look that my head is swiveling back and forth, as if I could actually see the football game from a different angle by watching it on a different flatscreen, a sandwich emerges from between two swinging saloon-style doors that lead back to a bustling kitchen. The staff in the back seem to be having a much better time than those in the front. Their laughs and chatter smacked against the silence of the dining area.

The anticipation of the night to come must have suppressed my appetite, because looking at the two crisp-white halves of French baguette and the greens, oranges, whites, and browns arranged in between I feel my hunger return with ravenous rage. Before taking a first bite, I dab streaks of sriracha—provided at each table—on top of both halves.

As my teeth glide through the outer shell of baguette into the fluffy cotton middle, through the vinegar-rich blades of carrot and daikon, through the various warm yet tender meats, and through the watery cucumber and sour green onion, I am sure this is the best sandwich I have ever eaten.  After finishing the first half, my hunger settles and my taste buds become less aroused, yet I am still satisfied with my meal. Pausing to take in my experience—to taste the meal I practically inhaled—I realize the room looked brighter. More people have entered the restaurant and the employees have perked up at the opportunity to do have something, anything, to do. It seems a couple bites of this sandwich was all it took to breathe life back into this dreary scene.

The second half of the sandwich went, somehow, faster than the first. What amazed me was the freshness of, not the ingredients, but the taste. Every restaurant claims to have fresh, quality ingredients nowadays. And the tongue is hardly the best device for determining freshness. Hell, even Wendy’s is somehow pulling a veil over some people’s eyes. The bottom line is fresh is hardly ever fresh.  Claims: they’re practically useless.

Thankfully, Pho Town has more than claims. Had I been a little eager to assert that this was the best sandwich ever? Maybe. I was, as I said, ravenously hungry. However, hunger aside, this was the first time I had ever sat down with a meal and had the thought, “Wow, this tastes fresh.” Don’t get me wrong, it’s the same flavors I’ve tasted in every bahn mi I’ve ever eaten. But each of those flavors tasted, to some degree, more sharp. Amplified, even. More defined. Each individual tongue-pleaser was distinguishable. I knew exactly what I was tasting, and more importantly, I enjoyed it.

Pho Town’s website boasts of, “tasty herbs and vegetables,” and, “high quality, fresh ingredients.” And I, Chase Day of Athens, Alabama, support these claims.