By Eli
All memories of a time when my addiction first began are clouded in a spongy maze of cream puffs. It was a cool autumn day in the mid-afternoon when I had been invited to my very first tasting. My voyage had started off simple enough. I had enjoyed the time I had spent with my friend but the drug, on the other hand, while it had been quite good, did not captivate my senses in the same, unyielding way that it does now. Months had gone by before I had started to realize an emptiness that had been growing inside of me.
The inescapable hole had finally confronted my senses. All it needed was one tiny, little spark to ignite the infatuation that has been with me ever since its inception. I was determined to return to the restaurant and dive head first into the warm and inviting pool of aromatic broth only to be succumbed by its splendor.
A few days later the gnawing was unbearable and I found myself in that very same restaurant where that unlikely seed had been planted inside of me months before.
The large double doors of the restaurant hung imprecisely slack with relevant smugness. Through the unclean, fogged windows customers sipped and dipped, mixed and mingled over generously large bowls of steaming, hot soup. Amongst the bowls a jungle of leafy greens sat atop mountainous portions of almost translucent bean sprouts. I pulled on the metallic, U-shaped door handle and a wafting melodramatic mixture of basil and garlic evacuated the building with decompressing force. Immediately, a young gentleman wearing a rearward-aimed baseball cap called from halfway across the room, "How many?" Informally I replied, "Two" with some hesitation and indistinctness. He motioned my friend and I in the direction of a table to the south side of the room.
We heard nothing more from the lad with the baseball cap that afternoon and sat unconditionally in the booth. My best friend stared across at me from the pposite side of the table. She could not sense any anticipation on my part even though my excitement was increasing with every waiting moment. I could smell the garlic, cinnamon, ginger and anise intensifying in a massive, boiling combustion from within oversized vats beyond an open doorway at the far end of the establishment. Its only intention was to torment and excite me with deafening conviction.
Within mere moments a different man came barreling towards us with a plate piled high with the brittle, white twigs and the amazingly odorous leaves of basil, stems still attached! He half-hurled the colorless plate down in the center of our table with brute detachment. After examining the mountain and its denizens: other inhabitants lived harmoniously alongside the colossally, sprouted beast. Quaint wedges of sliced lime boats floated around the edge of the mound while giant lily pad like jalapeño slices hovered in alliance around them. Alongside the heaping mound he shuffled a smaller white dish, containing two small, crème-colored pastries, as if to indicate a struggle between the two undeservedly shaken entities. Had the beings and their homeland just been victimized by the wrath of an over-fanatical deity? Or had the "bringers of life" already been constrained to distrust me or was his intention to establish a hasty disposition about himself? From that moment onward I would always count on the certainty that almost every time I stepped into "their" world I would be the one wearing the Martian red suit and implacably pallid, green skin.
With almost mechanical abjection he mumbled the words, "Do you know what you want?" The menu lay just beneath my elbows wedged between a thick pane of glass and the surface of the table. I quickly glanced down then redirected my attention towards his wandering eyes, and said "Two small veggie pho's. Extra chicken for both."
His reply, "Anything to drink?" I nodded and confirmed, "Yes, two waters, please." He shuffled off, shouted to his comrades in his native tongue, and disappeared to the back, presumably where their laboratory brewed my infectious pleasure.
We had no compulsion to feel the tribulation of waiting for our food to arrive and apparently, neither did they. Our soup was delivered to us instantaneously within minutes after being ordered. The same man returned, nimble-fingered, holding the bowl precisely around the edge with his fingertips. The sea of soup rippled only millimeters from the seaside invaders. As he neared our table he slowed his gait and deftly placed the first bowl before my friend. Another gentleman, this time slimmer and a bit taller, came just after the first and placed a bowl of the precious soup before me. I almost always express my gratitude when being served. This occasion was no exception. Respectfully, I thanked the two men and they went about their business without saying a word.
It has taken many years to perfect the savory precision I require before consuming the fruits of my labor. I often consider this extraordinary soup as a representation of simplicity and equilibrium. Without the proper balance, respect and determination for perfection I would begin to forget how precious simplicity can really be.
Many people even consider the soup to be a great cold remedy or have natural healing powers. I even tend to consume more pho when I feel my body deteriorating and succumbing to sickness as well.
A special transformation occurs when the soup is created. The garlic, cinnamon, ginger and anise dance together to perform a delicate tug-o-war releasing a melodic fragrance, often times, smelt drifting down and throughout the neighborhood. The added ingredients of onions, cilantro, shallots and rice noodles are delicately introduced only moments before arriving at the table. The colors and fragrance add to the beautification causing a melodious symphony to sing with glorious enthusiasm. Hopefully the soup arrives while the broth is still extremely hot. Some of the magical luster is lost if the high temperature is not maintained.
Traditionally, the soup is normally cooked in a high-heat beef broth. This is especially important in maintaining a link to the soup's ancestral past. Customarily, raw sliced beef would be, at times, added to the soup to give it an extra sustenance. This technique is still practiced in many pho houses and many enjoy this unique ritual. Without the increased temperature the meat would fail to cook properly. I always order my pho with a vegetarian mix of straw mushrooms and fried tofu. My carnivorous side compels me to add chicken into the mix - which is also added just before bringing the soup out.
Thus begins my concoction. This particular restaurant has an especially wonderful homemade hot chili sauce that I add first to my soup: two generous tablespoonful scoops. During my next step I deforest the hillside by breaking the deep purple, basil stems and ultra-green leaves into the soup. My friend almost always comments on how my soup always appears to transform into a salad saying with a girlish smirk, "Making your salad again, I see." She and I both, although we may make and eat our soups in different ways, share a commonality where balance, tradition and reverence are held in high regard. The green boats of lime are then squeezed fervently into the mixture - the rinds expelled into my iced glass of water. On occasion, depending on my desire for spiciness, I sometimes allow a few jalapeño slices to join the party. Invariably, my soup always tends to be on the spicy side. Needless to say, I tend to sweat a bit during my meal. Lastly, the bean sprouts jump in after the others completing the transition from soup to meal.
It takes a bit of patience for the next procedure to be completed. Slowly and almost arduously I intermingle all of the ingredients together so they can become better acquainted. This can be a bit slow because the bowls are normally quite full to begin with. By this time I am quite excited to start eating but there is one last step that I must not forget.
Their very own homemade blend of crushed peppers, garlic and chili oil makes a great compliment to the soup but is also a great dipping element as well, especially since I am very passionate about spicy foods and have a bit of a sweet tooth too. Combined with the hoisen sauce, a harmonious bliss ensues making a tasty dip for the tofu, chicken and mushrooms.
Much like the weather, the tides and the cycles of the earth I often find myself questioning why I always consume the soup in nearly the exact same order and prepare the soup in the same way just about every time I eat the soup. Using a pair of chopsticks my first task is to clear the land of all large debris (mushrooms, tofu and chicken). This requires a bit of a skill at fishing - for this I use the supplied chopsticks. I surround my findings in the mixture of hoisen and chili sauce. I then use any remaining dipping sauce over the noodles combing the land clean of its meadows, valleys and grasslands. The final and most important course of action is to wash everything down with a river of the remaining broth.
When all is said and eaten, the entire plate of sprouts, basil and lime have disappeared. An empty bowl proves that the river has run its course and the cycle can begin again. Finishing off with a cool glass of ice water or one of their specialty Vietnamese coffees brings everything back into agreement. I may appear to be a bit excessive in some peoples' eyes going as far as pulling the extra lime bits from their rinds and eating them as well. The sweetness of the cream puff complements the meal once all has been consumed, although some eat theirs first - followed by the soup.
I have never investigated the proper technique for eating this delicacy personally or been inclined to do so. I do at times find myself watching others to see if they may offer any new nuances. Is my interpretation and skill level adequate enough to be accepted among my peers?
Often I look around the restaurant to see if others have the same conviction or respect that my friend and I have. It pains me when I see untouched sprouts, basil and even soups in many cases just left behind, with no one to tend to their forests, oceans and streams. There are times, especially recently when the restaurant workers have become quite stingy when preparing the food. All I normally ask for is an extra plate of basil and sprouts; maybe a few more lime slices and an extra cup of chili sauce.
I know very well that whatever people leave on their plates is simply tossed carelessly into the garbage. Overstuffed bags of rotting sprouts, noodles and basil are often found around the backside of the building and are more likely the cause of the over-polluted odor found wafting throughout the neighborhood.
I don't consider myself a pig and I certainly hope they don't think that way of me either. Are the owners not seeing the amount of waste occurring before them on a daily basis? Does their own complacency protect them from uncovering or seeing the obvious? Are we becoming so desensitized that simple concepts such as conservation and respect for the earth are becoming possessions of the past?
One of the most obvious errors most people make when ordering their soup is in how they pronounce the word "pho". The most often improperly enunciated version I have heard sounds as if they were shadowed under the leaves of a giant beanstalk, with a fairytale giant chasing after them bellowing, "Fee-Fi-'Fo'-Fum". If these people would only take a moment to open their eyes, maybe they wouldn't pass up the simple things in life - things as simple as learning a word that is commonplace in another culture. The word, pho, is clearly written (at least at my favorite pho house), and explained in detail within a newspaper clipping alongside the menu (slipped between the glass and the top of the table). The proper way to say "pho" with confidence is "fuh" - just as if I were to ask someone, "Huh?"
I consider myself a regular now and am privileged to know some of the individual owners and workers a bit better but I still feel like an outsider. Not too long ago, my friend who is both Pacific Islander in culture and physical stature, decided to enjoy her pho experience alone. She was promptly and happily greeted by one of the men working that day. She had decided to use their facility just after entering the restaurant. Although she had not ordered yet, she found, when she returned to her table a bowl of soup already waiting for her. She did not even have to order and they prepared everything for her just the way she liked it.
My friend and I visit our favorite pho house at least once a week, if not more often. Their family-owned and operated business has four different locations in and around town. I have been to and tried each and every one. There is something special and unique about their family recipe that makes them different from the other pho houses I have tried. We almost always order the same thing, "Two small veggies. Extra chicken." It is hard to find a restaurant that not only offers a robust, well-balanced meal but at the same time at a very accommodating price. Since that second visit I have had little to no strength to combat my necessary evil. I actually welcome the obsession.
