For the love of Pho

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.