Life, Love and Pho

Em oi

Doi khong co em

Nhu pho

Khong co nuoc leo

Oh my beloved,

Life without you is like

Pho without its broth

--Vietnamese saying

*

Growing up in Saigon, I never questioned that life and pho bo, the beloved Vietnamese beef noodle soup, were inextricably intertwined.

Pho somehow always turned up in stories of love, in tales of history, in talk of the old days. Walking home from school in the middle of hot, dusty afternoons, I’d hear radios blasting kich xa hoi (soap operas) and pho--or the lack of pho--often lurked in the background.

I ate my first bowl of pho when I was barely old enough to hold a pair of chopsticks. Every Saturday, my parents would take me with my siblings to Pho 79, at the time one of the most popular noodle shops in Saigon. Featuring just one item on the menu--pho--the restaurant was small, dark and run-down, with wobbly tables and squeaky stools. Yet the crowds that congregated there day after day never judged it by its looks, only by the enticing beefy aroma that filled the space.

The place was always humming when we would arrive. Scanning the packed room with hawk eyes, we eagerly searched for signs that a party was about to leave. As soon as we found one, we quickly dashed over, sort of inconspicuously standing on the side, waiting for the right moment to seize our table.

My parents placed their usual order: pho with both rare and cooked beef for everyone, and to drink for the adults, ca phe sua da, the delicious coffee drink served with condensed milk and ice. We’d grab some chopsticks and spoons from an aluminum container on the table, dust them off and wait for our pho.

Moments later, the server, taking one step at a time, slowly approached with large bowls filled to the brim. Warm, thick steam rose and embraced our faces. Stooping down, we slowly inhaled the aroma as if to verify its authenticity. Yes, the broth smelled utterly beefy, laced with just-roasted ginger, anise and freshly chopped onions and cilantro. The rice noodles looked velvety and fresh; the edges of the rare beef curled up expectantly in the hot broth. All was well.

Then came a flurry of arms and hands reaching for a wedge of lime to squeeze into the broth, a handful of cool, crisp bean sprouts, a few sprigs of Asian basil and saw-leaf herb or a few fresh chiles. Everybody had a different way of dressing their pho.

My younger brother and I shared a bowl. Unlike the adults, we preferred ours plain, just noodles with a little broth and meat. We slurped it down, occasionally taking a few strands of noodles and sucking them straight in. It was a fun way to eat until, one day, my bowl rolled over and the noodles drained onto my favorite white dress. I smelled like a walking pho the rest of the day.

*

As I got older and my parents became a little more affluent, we went out to eat more regularly. I graduated to a bowl of my own and even began adding herbs and chiles to my soup. By the time I was a teenager, I liked pho so much I couldn’t wait for the weekends.

Whenever my sister and I got our allowance, we headed straight to our favorite neighborhood noodle shop. Although not quite as good as Pho 79, the tiny space, which had no name, was always packed, despite two competitors across the alley.

The owner, Chu Hai, a northerner who claimed to have fled to the south with just the clothes on his back and a family recipe for pho, was always seen up front in his makeshift kitchen. His work counter was just large enough to squeeze in a large stockpot along with all the makings and stacks of bowls. The pot had a divider separating the beef stock from the boiling noodle water.

With face sweating and eyes squinting behind the smoke billowing from the hot pot, he worked quickly, trying to assemble a perfect bowl for each of his customers. First, he warmed the bowl by rinsing it with boiling water. Then he grabbed a handful of rice noodles and placed them in a wire basket. After a quick blanch in the water, he lifted the basket, banging it against the edge so the excess water would completely drain off and not dilute his broth.

Working in a frenzied rhythm, Chu Hai quickly transferred the noodles to a bowl and spread the beef slices on top. After scattering the chopped onions and cilantro, he slowly poured the boiling broth against the inside edge of the bowl, careful to not scald the rare beef.

Each time he ladled the broth, a wonderful fragrance filled the air. Mesmerized by his movements and teased by the aroma, my sister and I became more anxious. When our soup finally arrived, we knew it was well worth the wait. We savored and slurped, giggling every minute down to the last bite. In our minds we were already planning for our next pho.

*

My family first discovered pho in Saigon during the ‘50s, but it actually originated in the north, in Hanoi around the turn of the century. Back then, it was doubtful that anyone thought pho would someday have such a profound impact on our culture. Unlike the indigenous rice cakes (banh chung), which existed long before pho and had been chronicled throughout history, pho was a newcomer.

According to literary and historical accounts, the cooking and enjoyment of pho surfaced after the French occupation of Hanoi in the mid-1880s. The Vietnamese, who valued cows and buffalo as indispensable beasts of burden, ate little red meat and instead preferred pork, chicken and seafood. But with the French affection for bifteck and dishes with boeuf, red meat began to appear in markets and restaurants and slowly influenced the Vietnamese diet, especially that of the upper class.

How did the increasing popularity of beef prompt the creation of pho? It’s a question that is debated to this day. Some Hanoi cultural experts with ancestors who are said to have witnessed the birth of pho believe this dish parallels the history of Vietnam, harboring both a Chinese and French connection. (The former occupied Vietnam for a thousand years, the latter almost a hundred.)

Some theorize it was the French who triggered the idea of pho, popularizing the use of bones and lesser cuts of beef to make broth. After all, in a society that wasted nothing, what was one to do with all the bones carved for bifteck? In fact, they believe the dish was first created when Vietnamese cooks learned to make pot au feu for their French masters. The name pho, they suspect, might have even come from feu.

But others, skeptical of this theory, argue that while the French can take credit for popularizing beef, it was actually the Chinese who inspired the use of noodles, ginger and anise in the dish. Then there are still others who claim it was the Chinese, and the Chinese alone, who instigated the discovery of this culinary wonder.

*

Chinese or French or both, once at the stove, the Vietnamese were quick to inject their own ideas. They concocted an exciting dish using ingredients inspired by their foreign rulers but customizing it for local tastes, including the unique blending of ingredients and the use of nuoc mam, or fish sauce, the defining characteristic of the local cuisine.

In the 1930s, in part spurred by nationalistic sentiments, some Hanoi scholars wrote passionately about pho, a dish that not only cleverly provided all the day’s necessary nourishment in one convenient bowl, but also symbolically freed the Vietnamese. At last, the Vietnamese succeeded in their fight for self-determination; finally they were free to express themselves, if only through their pho.

Huu Ngoc, a prolific author and cultural expert who’s written that pho is a contribution to human happiness, recently recalled his memories of those times: “Pho was very special, almost status food. We loved it because it had everything we valued--rice noodles, broth, meat and vegetables. It was complete, nutritious, infinitely delicious and yet so easy to digest that we could eat it morning and night, day after day.”

And so, for Ngoc and others, a great day began with a bowl of pho. Back in those days, he said, the dish was only available from pho ganh, a roving vendor who balanced soup pots on his shoulders. Over the years the soup was served from pho carts (pho day). Then, after graduating to its present venue--the pho hieu, or pho shop--it acquired solid standing in the local cuisine, attracting fans far and wide, evolving into a food that would later characterize Vietnamese everyday life.

In 1954, the infectious enthusiasm and following for this dish spread south. Vietnam had been partitioned in two, and the north fell under Communist control. Almost a million northerners fled, taking with them a dream of a new life in the democratic south. For some, this new life meant the re-creation of a pho culture.

Pho took the south by storm. My mother, a southerner who had just moved from her village to Saigon where my dad got his first job out of military school, had never seen or heard of pho until then. Though there were sightings of this delicacy as early as the late 1940s, it didn’t become popular until after the mass southern migration.

At the time, my mother and her contemporaries slurped on hu tieu, a Chinese-style rice noodle soup made with pork bones and pork meat. But when she first tasted the pho, she said it was incredible. The noodles were similar to what she’d experienced in hu tieu, but the broth, with its distinctive aroma of beef and roasted spices, convinced her this creation from the north was indeed the soup.

From then on, whenever she and my father could afford it, which was about once a month, they would treat themselves to this new delicacy.

*

One relative, who first ate the noodle soup as a young child in Hanoi in the 1930s, recalled its tremendous allure:

“Being raised in a strict northern family,” she reminisced, “I was forbidden to eat it for three months and 10 days following the birth of each of my kids because red meat was considered taboo for new mothers. Each day I had an incredible craving. I remember counting the days until the abstinence was over so I could, once again, eat pho.” As she recounted her story, her eyes drifted and her face fell quiet, as if she could still feel those urgings of 50 years past.

It’s not hard to understand the fascination. When pho migrated south and was adapted to local habits and tastes, it evolved into a highly embellished form. Reflecting the abundance of its new surroundings, pho in the south had more meat (imagine the portion now in the U.S.), more noodles, more broth. Because southerners by nature are indulgent, demanding richer, livelier flavors and textures, bean sprouts and rau thom (fragrant herbs)--ngo gai (culantro, also known as saw-leaf herb) and rau que (Asian or anise basil), for example--were added.

And it didn’t stop there. Lime wedges, fresh chiles, chile sauce, tuong (black bean sauce) and other garnishes were served alongside, giving the soup a dimension never before experienced. As in the north, it quickly became a favorite, but only after it had been modified to fit and reflect southern taste.

*

When my family and I first arrived in the United States in 1975 following the fall of Saigon, one of first things we desperately missed was pho. At the time there weren’t many noodle shops. Even when we did find one, the soup often didn’t taste that good because of the lack of Asian ingredients, particularly the herbs.

Yet we ate it whenever we could, great or not. To us, a steaming bowl of pho was a welcoming thought. A taste of home, it warmed our spirit and gave us the comfort and solace needed in our first difficult transition years in America.

Fortunately, over the years, immigrant families such as ourselves have successfully rebuilt our lives and realized our dreams. And somehow, amid all this transformation, pho--which followed us through tumultuous times and journeys--also became integrated into our present-day life. Authentic recipes have been dusted off, preserved and executed with great fervor.

Noodle shops have proliferated throughout America and other parts of the world, especially in cities with sizable Asian communities. In many soup shops, Asians and Westerners alike sit side by side, munching on the long, chewy noodles and slurping on the aromatic broth. The appeal of this soup, once only felt by native connoisseurs, has now spread beyond nationality. As in previous times, pho has once again survived and triumphed.

For me, even decades after my childhood days in Saigon and thousands of miles away from my native shores, pho remains my obsession. When I’m not eating a bowl of pho, it lurks in my consciousness, its enticing aromas assuring me that, somehow, it will always be a part of my life.

VIETNAMESE CHICKEN AND RICE NOODLE SOUP (Pho Ga)

This chicken version of pho is simpler and faster to prepare than the beef. To make it even quicker, omit the chicken bones and replace half of the water with canned low-sodium chicken broth. If you do, taste broth for saltiness before adding the fish sauce and salt and reduce the amounts if necessary. For the chicken bones called for in this recipe, buy chicken backs at the supermarket. Be sure to remove any fat clinging to the bones before cooking.

CHICKEN BROTH

Water

2 to 3 pounds chicken bones, rinsed

1 (3 1/2-pound) chicken, halved, skin and fat removed, rinsed

2 large brown onions, peeled

2 (4-inch) pieces ginger root

1/3 cup fish sauce

5 tablespoons sugar

6 whole star anise

4 whole cloves

6 whole peppercorns

1 tablespoon salt

NOODLES AND ASSEMBLY

Water

1 1/2 pounds (1/8-inch-wide) fresh or dried rice stick noodles (banh pho)

1 brown onion, sliced paper thin

4 green onions, chopped

1/2 cup chopped cilantro

Salt, pepper

1 pound bean sprouts

20 sprigs Asian basil (rau que)

12 leaves culantro (saw-leaf herb, ngo gai)), optional

1/4 cup chopped Thai bird chiles or 1/4 cup thinly sliced serrano chiles

2 limes, cut into thin wedges

CHICKEN BROTH

Bring 6 quarts water to rolling boil in large stockpot. Add chicken bones and chicken halves and boil vigorously 3 minutes. Reduce to simmer. Skim surface to remove any foam and fat.

Char onions and ginger (see Chef’s Tip). Rinse and add to broth. Add fish sauce and sugar.

Place star anise, cloves and peppercorns in dampened spice bag or wrap in damp cheesecloth and tie with string and add to broth. Simmer, skimming as necessary, until chicken is cooked, about 40 minutes.

Remove chicken and set aside until cool enough to handle. Remove meat, slice into bite-size strips and set aside. Return bones to pot.

Add water as needed to bring to 5 quarts liquid. Add salt.

Remove onions and spice bag from broth and discard. Simmer slowly until rich flavors develop in broth, about 2 hours.

NOODLES AND ASSEMBLY

Bring large pot water to boil. Place handful fresh noodles (enough for 1 serving) in sieve and lower into boiling water. Using fork or chop sticks, stir for about 15 seconds, then lift and shake off water. Transfer to large heated bowl. Repeat for 5 more bowls. (Note: If using dried noodles, soak in water to cover 20 minutes before using. Cook all at once until al dente, 2 to 3 minutes. Rinse well in warm water and divide among heated bowls.)

Place few slices reserved chicken on noodles in each bowl.

Bring Chicken Broth to rolling boil and ladle 3 cups broth onto each serving. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon sliced brown onion, 1 tablespoon green onions and 1 tablespoon cilantro on top of each bowl or serve on side at table. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Garnish with bean sprouts, Asian basil, culantro, chiles and squeeze of lime as desired.

6 main-dish servings. Each serving with 3 cups broth:

816 calories; 1,959 mg sodium; 101 mg cholesterol; 21 grams fat; 122 grams carbohydrates; 39 grams protein; 7.75 grams fiber.

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CHIEF’S TIPS

To char the ginger and onions called for in these pho recipes, hold directly over flame of gas burner. If you have an electric stove, dry roast in a skillet. Quarter the onions before charring. Rinse vegetables before adding to the broth.

To enjoy a bowl of pho correctly, it is important that the bowl is large enough to hold 1 part noodles and 3 parts soup.

Do not confuse the fresh rice noodles called for in these recipes with the whitish, doughy rice flour sheets or slabs used primarily for Chinese chow fun dishes. Packed in plastic bags and sometimes labeled banh pho, these narrow, almost translucent noodles can be found in the produce sections of Asian grocery stores.

Unused broth can be refrigerated and used the next day. To refresh the flavor, add a couple of slices fresh ginger and/or a star anise to the broth before reheating.

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The Herbs of Pho

Culantro, also known as saw-leaf herb, is the most important traditional accompaniment to Vietnamese pho. It tastes much like cilantro but is radically different in appearance. The cut leaves are 5 to 6 inches long and edged on each side with saw-like “teeth.”

It is traditional to serve several of these leaves on a platter of soup garnishes along with Asian basil and bean sprouts. The leaves are shredded and then added to the soup. The Vietnamese name for this herb is ngo gai (say “nah guy”).

The plant is available at some nurseries dealing in exotic herbs, and the cut leaves can be found at Asian grocery stores that cater to Vietnamese cooks. Locations in Westminster, San Gabriel and Monterey Park are your best bet. We found ours at Hawaii Supermarket, 120 E. Valley Blvd., in San Gabriel.

Purple-stemmed Asian basil, also known as anise basil, is almost always offered as a garnish for pho. It’s Vietnamese name is rau que; rau means herb and que means licorice or anise. It’s widely available in Asian supermarkets.

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CHEF’S TIPS

Do not confuse the fresh rice noodles called for in these recipes with the whitish, doughy rice flour sheets of slabs used primarily for Chinese chow fun dishes. Packed in plastic bags and sometimes labeled banh pho, these narrow, almost translucent noodles can be found in the produce sections of Asian grocery stores.