A Guide to the Amazing Banh Mi in SF's Sketchiest Neighborhood

San Francisco, the bayside kingdom of seven hills, is also a quilt of highly distinct neighborhoods, some comprised of only a few square blocks. Its districts seem to operate on a micro level—not unlike its weather.

Sometimes, this characteristic of the city is best seen in its food. A smattering of Korean restaurants cluster together in the Richmond; taquerias line 16th Street (now interrupted by shiny, newly constructed apartment buildings); and in the Tenderloin, there are corners where you find yourself in what feels like a 360-degree outdoor mini-mall of Vietnamese eateries.

Ah, the Tenderloin. There are a lot of conflicting origin stories about how the Tenderloin got its name. One of the most prevalent is that the cops who worked these streets in San Francisco—the ones bordered by Market, Van Ness, Geary, and Mason—would be served beef tenderloin as a bonus for their service, given that the area was so rough. Another popular claim is that the neighborhood is named for a similar one that existed in Manhattan at the turn of the 20th century, a red-light district also known as "Satan's Circus" that ran from the Flatiron to Times Square, full of saloons, gambling halls, and brothels. Police captain Alexander S. "Clubber" Williams allegedly said that due to all his extra income from accepting bribes in the hedonistic urban playground, he went from eating chuck steak to dining on tenderloin. Then, of course, there are the more literal theories—that it's the "underbelly" of the city, that it's full of the "loins" of prostitutes. Though they may not be historically factual in terms of the neighborhood's naming, those assertions aren't wrong, either.

While New York's Tenderloin gave way to the comparatively squeaky-clean version of midtown Manhattan that is now a Sim City of Sephoras and Pret a Mangers, San Francisco's Tenderloin still remains… decidedly loiny. To think of it in terms of "Satan's Circus," visualize a roving troupe that's aged poorly and then fallen onto hard times after becoming addicted to heroin and crack cocaine. Tourists and transplants are often disconcerted the first time they find themselves at Turk and Leavenworth, or Hyde and O'Farrell; in the span of five minutes, you'll see junkies comparing abscesses, escorts with disheveled weaves teetering home from SROs on their sky-high heels, and interpersonal scuffles within sidewalk tent encampments that stretch all the way down the block. Although there's a police station in its center, drug dealers do business freely on many corners.

That might seem a one-sided assessment of the Tenderloin, and it is. The neighborhood has also been a hub for activism and social justice, one of the few pockets of the city that is still accommodating and sympathetic to the city's massive population of homeless people, many suffering from mental illness and substance abuse issues and all of whom are being increasingly marginalized by a city bloated with tech industry wealth that fails to trickle down. More than a quarter of the housing in the TL—as it's known by citydwellers—is owned by nonprofits or government organizations. In a sense, this makes the area "immune" to gentrification, for better or for worse.

It's also home to some of the city's best art galleries, gay bars, and live music venues. And throughout the 20th century, it served as a haven of affordability for newly landed immigrant populations, who could bring their families there, create their own insular communities, and start their own businesses—restaurants and bakeries, bars and shops.

This is how it became home to the city's best Vietnamese food.

Nearly 13,000 Vietnamese people live in San Francisco, many of them in Little Saigon or Sài Gòn Nhỏ, a corner of the Tenderloin boxed in by Ellis, Polk, Turk, and Hyde where you can't go more than half a block without coming across a shop selling chả lụa or a restaurant serving steaming bowls of pho ga. One two-block stretch of Larkin Street is more than 80 percent Vietnamese-owned. You can grab plastic cups filled with basil seeds and longan berry desserts and eat them with a plastic spoon on the sidewalk, or sip on cans of a "white fungus drink" called Bird's Nest.

But you're really going to want a banh mi.

The highly affordable Vietnamese sandwiches—a gustatory symphony of baguette, pork, cilantro, and pickled vegetables—are both plentiful and masterful in the Tenderloin, served from holes-in-the-wall, coffee shops, and Asian markets.

Should you find yourself in the TL—and there are plenty of reasons to—here's where you should grab a banh mi.

Saigon Sandwich

If banh mis are to San Francisco as Reubens are to New York City, Saigon Sandwich is indisputably the Katz's of the West. Nevermind its unassuming appearance and tininess (there are just two folding chairs by the window ledge, should you wish to dine there); the lines often stretch long at this mainstay Larkin Street spot, and for good reason.

Is there magic in the mayonnaise that they spread on each perfectly crunchy, doughy baguette? No, but there might be a hint of garlic and onion. The roast pork is sweet and juicy, and the pickled carrots and jalapeño slices are piled high. (The man who works the corner store adjacent to the shop will always vouch for the roast chicken, too.)

Saigon Sandwich has been gracing the neighborhood with its perfect banh mi for more than 30 years, and has no intention of stopping anytime soon. And at $3.75 a pop, the sandwich prices will charm you as much as the no-nonsense women working the counter.

L & G

Owner and chef Ki Giang makes her banh mi with love at this newcomer to the Tenderloin's sandwich scene, which opened around the corner from Saigon Sandwich just two years ago but has already earned a following among locals of all kinds.

Giang cheerily welcomes everyone who comes into the shop—tourists, neighbors, lunch-seekers, and TL street folk—and doesn't skimp on pâté or pork in the Special Combination, which is her favorite thing on the menu and will likely be yours, too.

But the barbecue pork is also phenomenal, and you can enjoy it with a fresh young coconut that she'll hack open for you on the spot.

But if you've got a couple of bucks to spare for a pennywort drink or grass jelly drink to wash it all down with, that works, too.

Sing Sing Sandwich Shop

Step down into this slightly subterranean sandwich shop and enter a cozy interior with loads of plants, red and white gingham tablecloths, and even a Patrick Nagel print behind the counter. Old men smoke and play cards in the back room while TVs in the dining room show music videos and reruns of Vietnam Idol.

Sing Sing has been a Tenderloin hangout since 1990, and its decor feels a bit like a time capsule. The sandwiches, however, are anything but tired. Food writer and cookbook author Naomi Duguid once said this was the best banh mi she's ever had in North America, and it's easy to taste why.

Think of this as the meat-lover's banh mi; it's loaded with pork and paté, and the filling—rather than the baguette—takes center stage.

Plus, extra points for ambiance, as long as low ceilings don't make you nervous. Keep an eye out for the friendly, ponytailed owner, Harry.

Lee's Sandwiches

OK, yes—Lee's is a chain. Although it's no Cheesecake Factory, it looks positively palatial next to some of the TL's other teeny-tiny shops, what with its huge cold case of beverages and sweets and its aisles lined with Vietnamese snacks.

Founded in 1983 in San Jose—where 90,000 Vietnamese immigrants reside, about an hour south of San Francisco—Lee's is about as close as a fast food banh mi shop as we've got in the States, with dozens of locations on the West Coast and in the Southwest.

But that's not to say that they're just churning out sandwiches on a conveyer belt; all of the baguettes here are fresh-baked, and in addition to about a zillion and a half kinds of banh mi (the sardines banh mi is particularly intriguing and perplexing), you can also pick up lots of other Vietnamese delights here, from lychee desserts and red bean puddings to shrimp and yam egg rolls. Did we mention that most of their types of banh mi are under three bucks?

The Tenderloin, though it may not look it at first glance, just might be a paradise of its own. As long as you like cilantro.