In Pho From Home we seek out the variety of pho--authentic,
Texified, good and bad--available in restaurants, starting in the
streets of Ho Chi Minh City and winding all the way around the Dallas
area.
This time, we wrap up our excursion through Vietnam. Next week, we begin our tour of Dallas.
"Ooh...It's light! It doesn't taste like the bag," says my delightfully surprised friend Cathy.
I am in North Vietnam. More specifically, I am in Hanoi, the capital city of Vietnam. My friend Cathy has just flown in from the U.S. to visit me. Seeing as how she's never been to Hanoi, and as how neither of us have ever seen Halong Bay, we flew out to Hanoi a day after she arrived in Ho Chi Minh City.
Over breakfast, Cathy tries out her first ever bowl of northern Vietnamese pho, the original. I warn her that it's going to be different from any other pho she's ever had, and she is game.
At the breakfast table are Cathy, myself, and my mom, the self-proclaimed connoisseur of pho. To my mother's credit, she does make a pretty great bowl of the good stuff. My mother is delighted that Cathy is trying "real" pho.
Did I mention that we are in the Daewoo Hotel in Hanoi? Albeit it is a Korean owned hotel in Vietnam, the food here, no matter what genre, is always stellar and accurate. The Chinese restaurant upstairs has a Shanghainese Executive Chef. The Japanese restaurant across the pool has a Japanese sushi master. And my mom assures me, after smelling and inspecting the bowl of pho in front of us, that this is the real deal.
Examining this bowl, I bask in the beauty, simplicity, and purity of
its contents. Cathy revels in how clear the broth is, compared to
others she has had in the U.S. and in Ho Chi Minh City. My mother
opines how little flecks of basil and green onion are already served as
a garnish atop the pho, and how no Hoisin sauce is provided. I take
mental notes on how much thicker and wider the rice noodles are in this
bowl compared to phos I have had in the past. I bring this up to my
mother, and she confirms that northern pho does, indeed, have a wider
noodle. There are no other garnishes provided, no bean sprouts, no
extra basil, just a single wedge of lime and some chili sauce.
My mom forcibly makes a point to tell me the lime is non-negotiable,
that I must use it. The steam emanating from the bowl offers no hint of
star anise or other familiar pho spices, just a notion of fish sauce
and beefy broth. I gather onto the wide porcelain pho spoon, a bit of
broth, a few noodles, a slice of beef, and take my first bite.
The aromas are non-deceiving. I taste just a bare hint of spices,
broth, fish sauce, ginger (an addition you can't really taste in
southern pho) and lime. It is a divinely clean flavor. There is a bite
from the green onion and basil. The noodles are wide, soft, tender, but
a bit chewy. Looking over at Cathy happily slurping broth, and glancing
at my mom's look of satisfaction, I realize we are experiencing
something special, a sublime bowl of northern Vietnamese pho. I haven't
forgotten about my Ho Chi Minh City pho excursions. However, I think
the significance of describing my Hanoi pho experience before I even
start describing the HCMC phos speaks volumes.
I went through bowl after bowl of pho in HCMC before I found one that
was actually quite excellent. The restaurants I sampled ranged from
five star hotels to pho chains to proclaimed "best pho in Saigon"
establishments . All proved disappointing until I tried the very
special, Pho Phu Vuong. Meanwhile, in Hanoi, the very first pho I
tried, is a complete knock out. I don't attribute this to Hanoi having
the better pho. All this might indicate is that sometimes, maybe
simpler is better. Maybe it's easier to make a truly good thing if it
isn't so perplex or if there are fewer components. It's fine to modify
according to tastes, but it's an entirely different story to lose
something's true essence.
That was the most disappointing aspect of pho in HCMC. Still, by eating
bad pho, I learned a lot more about the dish than I knew before. I
learned what makes a bad pho, and what makes a good pho, no matter from
what region it comes. When I visited the popular chain, Pho 24, my best
friend and a native southern Vietnamese, Hoa, wouldn't even order a
bowl. He said I was on my own. When I tasted the pho, I knew why. My
friend explained, "Do you see what I mean? This place is just for
foreigners. Kind of cheap, clean, convenient. But the pho is terrible
because good pho, all the flavors have to blend together. This pho is
not like that. The broth does not taste like the meat. The meat has no
flavor. It doesn't blend together."
Mr. Hung (whom you may remember from last week) added this via email,
"The quality of Pho 24 has really taken a downturn. They now have to
add more variety of dishes because their pho is so poor."
The day after the requisite Pho 24 visit, Hoa and I decided to hit up
Pho Hung, another popular pho stop on the touristy Nguyen Trai Road. My
mom, hearing of my dinner plans, warned me, "Oh nooooo...that place was
opened by Viet Kieu from Cali." Viet Kieu is a Vietnamese person who
was either born outside of Vietnam or who now resides outside of
Vietnam.
My mom's misgivings proved to be spot on. The broth tasted like a warm
salt water gargle, and the noodles were mush. I was worried. Why were
these two places so popular?
Saving the biggest name for last, the "must visit" of pho restaurants
in HCMC is the legendary Pho Hoa Pasteur on Pasteur Road. There are
thousands of Pho Pasteurs or Pho Hoas across the U.S., all paying
homage to the original in Vietnam while hoping for a little name
association, as well. Pho Hoa, having been open before the Fall of
Saigon in 1975, is an institution. Tourists and locals alike flock here
for their massive bowls of undeniably southern Vietnamese pho. While
I've eaten at Pho Hoa Pasteur several times, dating back to the days
that I lived here, the most interesting and educational experience was
when I ate here with my mom.
Of course.
Upon hearing that Hoa and I were going to make a visit to the
restaurant for the blog, my mom invited herself to join us. "She hates
this place," I thought. However, my mom has always been a glutton for
punishment, especially when it comes to food. Like most notorious
restaurants in Vietnam, Pho Hoa Pasteur is not much to look at. Hot,
dirty, and fluorescently lit, the only feature that hints at the fame
of the restaurant are the packed dining rooms, filled with both
westerners and natives. The pho station is downstairs, and as we made
our way upstairs to the air-conditioned dining room, my mom earned her
keep even before we reached our seats.
"Dear God," she said in Vietnamese, "by the time the pho gets up here,
it'll already be cold. Pho is only good when it is very very hot."
I knew I was paying for her dinner for a reason.
A young Vietnamese girl, clad in yellow pajamas, and not a day over
twelve years old, seated us at our metal table with matching metal
stools. Next to our table sat a large party, a local Vietnamese family,
celebrating a special occasion. We all order our various beef phos
(once again, my mom is justifying her negligence of her high
cholesterol for the sake of my blog).
Once we received our bowls, my mom's prediction proved correct. Our
soup was lukewarm. Upon sampling the first spoonful of broth, an
immediate sensation of sweetness hit my tongue. While southern
Vietnamese pho is sweeter than its northern counterpart, this sweetness
was overpowering. Beyond the broth, most disturbing was the mushiness
of the noodles, a strange flaw for a place that only serves one thing,
noodle soup. Through forced bites, my mom ranted, "Pho Hoa is so busy
because of its legacy. They serve more to the tourists, now, and that
is why their broth is so sweet. And their bowls are so big, just like
the bowls in the U.S."
After nibbling on what tasted like a defrosted meatball, I started
wondering if it was all the tourism that had brought the decline of
this once mighty restaurant. As we finished dinner that night, my
mother and Hoa continued to dispense their invaluable pho knowledge.
When I ask Hoa what he, as a southern Vietnamese, thinks when people
from his region say northern Vietnamese pho is too plain, he
contemplated it for a minute before responding, "Kris, the Pho 24 pho
was plain. It is flat. Hanoi pho is simple, but it's not plain. It's
not flat. Just because something is simple, doesn't mean it's not good.
Southern pho is more fatty, and that's what makes it taste so good. One
is not better than the other if it is done correctly."
Walking to our cab, my mom turned to me and wistfully tells me the best
description for great pho I've heard thus far, "You know you've eaten
really good pho, when afterwards, you still feel kind of warm...and
you're not too smelly."
See you all in Dallas next week. I'll be starting out in my backyard of Uptown and Medical District.
