Robert E. Brown. Pho Ha Mi Amor

I've become nearly obsessed with Pho and Vietnamese noodle houses. My favorite place, Pho Ha is now only 3 blocks from my new house and I have been eating there three to four times a week. I generally consider myself an adventurous eater, but I have narrowed down my order to what I consider the perfect meal. This has become a ceremonial endeavor for me and I find myself stealing away to be alone with my bowl more and more. It has become a form of culinary meditation that defines itself in the ritual of preparing, and consuming the perfect bowl of pho. Always the #45, with a side of raw steak. The 45 comes with the standard 24 hour simmered beef broth with it's floating onions, hints of cinnamon and of course the big ball of rice noodles. The great 45 then has tendon, brisket, flank and fatty flank added before serving. The bowl in near boiling when served and the meats begin rendering down and cooking as I begin to adorn my bowl with the proper accoutrements. The tendon is gelatinous and begins to melt and dissipate, thickening the broth, the fat from the fatty flank also continues to strengthen and add to the bowl all the way down to the last bite. When served, the bowl is presented with a plate of fresh basil, cilantro, lime and bean sprouts. I squeeze the lime and toss the peel into the bowl. I rip a few pieces of cilantro and basil into the bowl, then take a chop stick in each hand and mix the herbs into the noodles. This also helps break the jelly fish textured tendon into the broth. Then I do it again, then again until the plate is empty. Next I take a small dish and squeeze plume sauce into half the dish, chili sauce into the other half. With the sauce dish to my left, the bowl in the middle and the raw steak to the right, I pick up the chop sticks in one hand, the soup spoon in the other and begin. The steak will cook too fast if added too soon, and I perfer rare. I place a couple of pieces of steak on the side of the bowl and monitor it's progress toward perfect pink. A slurping mouth full of noodles, a spoon full of broth, then again and again. Occasionally savoring the thin slices of rare juicy steak, replacing the empty space with more raw meat. During the process, stopping occasionally to pluck out a piece of flank or brisket to dip into the sauce. Once I begin, I am completely emerged into my bowl. Oblivious to the clamoring loud surroundings of this culture tunnel cafeteria and the confused looks the Vietnamese families have on their faces as they watch me. I am completely in my head, slurping down everything until there is nothing left but a lime rind and some withered pieces of beef fat. When it's done, I start thinking about the next time I can make friends with my beloved #45.


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