I’m initially skeptical of the large banner that says “WE ARE OPEN TO SERVE YOU!” strung from the front counter at Bee BanhMi, a casual Vietnamese spot in a Cary strip mall, because the ordering situation is self-service. There’s a giant touch screen and no employees in sight.
Right when I step up to the screen, though, an employee pops out of the kitchen and offers help if I need it. This turns out to be the first of many well-timed appearances.
In this case, I’m good on my own—the menu is free of the usual digital ordering pitfalls. There aren’t endless subcategories or glitchy modifiers, just apps (summer rolls, dumplings, and “soup for the soul,” all available vegetarian), mains (pho, banh mi, bao, and stir fried noodles, with a range of protein options), drinks (smoothies and teas), and the lunch special—a banh mi, a side, and drink for $11—which practically orders itself. I choose pork as my protein, with fries and Thai tea. Then I type in my name and pay. With tax and tip, my total comes to $14.11.
Bee BanhMi has four booths, but they’re all full on the Friday afternoon I’m there, so I claim a two-top beneath a framed illustration of a cartoon family clutching oversized banh mis. The space commits hard to the bee theme: honey-yellow walls, hexagonal floating shelves bearing plants in pots, and a corner mural of a dripping honeycomb.
There’s even a painted window—not a real window, but a hexagonal trompe-l’oeil—depicting wildflower fields and distant mountains, golden honey oozing around its edges, as if we’re all bees peering out from inside the hive.
The thoroughness of the theme reminds me of Webkinz, the virtual pet game particularly popular during Zoomer childhoods, where you buy themed furnishings for your pet’s virtual house. Bee BanhMi feels like what would happen if your pet were a bee and you blew all your KinzCash on the honey-themed furniture set.
The Friday lunch crowd is its own spectacle. Several groups that could be families or coworkers chat animatedly over their meals. At one booth, a couple sits side-by-side, deep in conversation; at another, two people face one another, each absorbed in their phones.
Solo diners and folks waiting for takeout orders populate the remaining tables: there’s a girl with a mullet and a T-shirt that says “Real Women Drink Big Beer”; a man tilting his head back to drain the last of his pho while talking to a friend on speakerphone; and someone sporting a full face of crimson face paint who likely just came from Galaxycon down the road.
My meal is delivered in a tray lined with yellow-and-white checkered paper, with a compliment from the food runner: “I like your name.” The banh mi is a beauty. Sweet twists of tender pork, marinated in local honey, are nestled under whole cilantro leaves, shredded carrots, and jalapeño sliced long on the diagonal. A row of cucumbers tucked between the bread and the pork keeps the bread from getting soggy. The bread itself is thick and fluffy, with an exterior that crackles.
The fries are heavily seasoned with a warm red and orange spice blend and come with a plastic ramekin of just-as-heavily seasoned sauce. I find myself alternating, bite for bite, between fries and bites of sandwich, as the cool vegetables in the sandwich become counterpoints to the intensity of the fries.
When the 5-spice starts to overwhelm my palate, I switch to dipping my fries in the table sriracha, which builds heat until I’m eager for a glass of water. (The Thai tea, which is less sweet than I was expecting, accompanies the meal nicely, but sometimes you just need water.)
I stand up and barely have time to look around before someone appears next to me. “Water?” she asks, already extending a styrofoam cup and pointing toward the beverage station.
For a place that starts you off with a touch screen, the human touches never stop coming. A few minutes later, I see the same person—the owner, I realize—bringing an extra leafy bowl of pho to a woman who’s sitting in a booth on her laptop. “You love cilantro, right?” the owner asks. The woman, presumably a regular, smiles and nods.
When I go five minutes without taking a bite of my food, an employee approaches, makes sure everything tastes okay, then provides a to-go box and a recommendation for next time (the stir-fried noodles). While boxing up my leftovers, I notice the checkered paper lining my tray looks just like the red gingham border we use on Lunch Money photos—as if Bee BanhMi somehow anticipated even our publication’s design needs.
Follow Staff Writer Lena Geller on Bluesky or email [email protected]. Comment on this story at [email protected].