Parental discretion advised. The following is not suited for noodle haters, vegetarians, the faint of hear. Vivid descriptions of phở and its effects will follow. Also photographs depicting phở may be included.
I will claim full responsibility if you take offense. Will I give two phở-cks? Hell no. Go away if you don't like it. Wuss.
So as most of you know, I have a few weaknesses and couple of vices I enjoy indulging.
They include and are not limited to:
Drinking
Over-sleeping
Hookah once in every fiftieth blue moon
Laughing by far too much
Being cynical
Food
And on the last bit... Noodle soup. Not just any soup, mind you. But phở.
Broth of the gods!
Well. Maybe not, but it is damn tasty.
For those of you not in the know, phở is a Vietnamese street food that is comprised of broth, rice noodles, meat and a few optional garnishes. You can usually find me adding in bean sprouts, Thai basil, a squeeze of lime and a LOT of Sriracha.(AKA 'Rooster Sauce', 'Cock Sauce') Enough to turn my broth from that beautiful brown to a painful orange hue. But the burn is so good.I love this stuff so much, I own a shirt declaring it.
It's tasty.
It's usually inexpensive. (Around the same price you pay for some sack nasty from the Golden Arches. I get a regular size bowl, and I can barely finish it)
It's quick.
It's my comfort food, on this weird level.
I can tell you about my very first time.
I doubt I can ever forget that.
STANDBY FOR STORY TIIIIIIIIIME.
It was mid-June. I had just graduated high school. Eighteen and full of dreams, but also plagued by unnecessary relationship problems. I was on a hiking camping trip with a couple of friends/co-workers. Needless to say, I left the trip early for some really stupid reasons, and for a while lost one of my best friends for it.
In two and a half days, I managed to hike a total of nearly 27 miles. Being carless, I managed to snag a ride down the mountain from the trailhead by a couple of amazingly awesome ladies, one of whom owns a local wine shop back home. Hmmph. I need to stop by the next time I go home and talk for a while.
Despite my very disheveled appearance and crazy-ass story (I'm lucky they didn't think I was an ax murder), they took me down to one of the local towns. Skykomish. That was as far as they could take me, seeing as they were one a little weekend retreat to a cabin the wine shop owner owned. Needless to say, they let me use a cell phone (Didn't have one for three and a half years. It was nice).
I called the only person I could think of that would drive an hour and a half to fetch my sorry ass, and not flip out.
My brother, the Paratrooper.
The one who has pulled me out of more than a few fires. It would be a lie to say I don't owe him my life.
It was the summer just after he had left the Army.
Since that day, I've had his phone number memorized. I'm just lucky he hasn't changed it. Haha.
So while I'm waiting for him to come retrieve me, I help my rescuers out with building their outdoor firepit. I still feel it was inadequate payment for their kindness.
My brother arrives, we throw my pack and gear into the van, we all chat for a little while and then we depart.
The ride home was such a relief. We talked. Then he figured I was hungry. He took my out for my very first bowl of phở.
It was one of those beautiful Washington summer afternoons. Far from being hot, but sunny, everything green.
We walk into this tiny restaurant, just a few miles from home. Phở Dat. My favorite noodle joint to date. Blistered feet, hiking boots, dirt stained jeans and a comfortable t-shirt.
We sit down. The place is cheerful and cozy. Oddly raised designs and paintings of rice paddies adorn the yellow walls. I remember anytime off my feet at that point was nice.
You could smell the broth simmering back in the kitchen. One of the very welcome smells.
God, I was hungry.
The owner comes by and asks us for our order. Two Cokes, two large bowls of phở with eye round and flank steak.
A few minutes pass, he drops off a plate of garnishes and two cream puffs. I still don't know what I'm getting into at the point. My brother reassures me that it'll be good, and to save the cream puffs for the end. I trust him, so I follow his lead and break apart my bamboo chopsticks and wait.
Not more than ten minutes from the time we order, the own comes back with two steaming bowls of the most beautiful sight ever.
Paperthin cuts of beef, cooking in front of your eyes in that magical brown broth. My brother adds in his bean sprouts, basil and lime wedge. He gives it a healthy spurt of sriracha. I follow suit.
Words cannot describe my first taste of this.
Words still cannot do justice for my love of that bowl of pure happiness.
One of the first places I ate when I came home from boot camp was that little noodle place. It's a pilgrimage I think I'll make everytime I journey home.
As common as phở joints are back home in Washington, not everywhere is blessed to have one.
I learned this the hard way in Missouri.
That was a dark, dark time for me and diverse foods. Because there were none. Maybe that's why I took up barbequing more frequently. And drinking.
The only place I could get a bowl of phở was Saint Louis. Which is not particularly close, and a $130 one-way cab ride. Or before they took it away, by rental car. I do have an amusing story about that, for another time though.
Let me tell you. That phở was alright, but far from being perfect. That restaurant didn't revolve around it. I can't blame them, I don't imagine anywhere in Missouri is keen on Vietnamese noodle soup.
Since then, I've crawled out of the dark ages. Went to my current duty station. I'm back in civilization, and despite the horrific traffic, all is good.
I also have a little phở place I happen to frequent whenever I have a ride or a car to drive myself.
Or a willing convert.
I've already dragged several Marines to go broaden their tastes. And I'm pleased to report they've enjoyed it. They have even gone to seek it out on their own volition.
Admittedly, I have a tendency to binge eat. I will eat it 2-4 times in a week, and then it'll be a few weeks of absolutely nothing before I manage to go back.
I wish it would be more regular.
And now...
Obligatory photo. The last time I had gotten any, Saigon 75.
Also note Thai iced coffee in the background.
God... I've got the shakes again. I need to go back soon.