Hungry Ghost Contributor Julian Richards writes in from Saigon. Read his tongue twisting tale of Pho.
First morning in Saigon, alone. Asian jet-lag is akin to being forcep-birthed underwater: thoughts percolate but become slurry en route to the mouth. Lips are earthworms, eyes jaundiced lychees webbed with capillaries, moist fish balls. Gerbil tongue. Moss teeth. I slither down the staircase of my one-star on Búi Viện, thin haired, darkly bespectacled and retaining water, like a cheap, hungover Elton John. Out onto the street into a seething pirhana-shoal of motor-scooters. A suety white man perhaps five years my senior is instantly, mercilessly sideswiped a mere 10 feet from where I stand. He goes down hard, flopping like a carp. I turn round and go back into my hotel. The receptionist and her friend look at me gravely. "Phở", they say.
(Pic: Waiting for Phở)
In my first few days in Saigon I ate Phở at every juncture; when I wasn't eating Phở I wished I was. In my hotels, in sidewalk restaurants, brightly lit Phở joints with orange, plastic bucket seats, across the expanse of Ben Thanh Market or famous Quán Ăn Ngon near the Reunification Palace. I sampled delicate Phở gà with chicken, slightly shrimpy Phở tôm, even faintly fecal Phở bò sách with tripe. But in the end I always returned to my trusty Phở bò, that fragrant symphony of beefy, noodly dish-water sprung with snivels of steak. Upon returning to Saigon after a Phở-free week in Cambodia, I got off the bus and immediately slurped down a half fishbowl of Phở whilst watching a rat the size of a groundhog run back and forth at my feet gathering debris to feed its burly, hooligan children. Mmmmmmm. For the Love of Phở.
06.26 
