iblock9 wrote:kl1191 wrote:**I spent 24 hours in transit (each way) about a year ago with the goal of eating here...thankfully we got to see/do/eat a lot more as part of that trip, but if that had been the only thing we did it probably still would have been worth it. Likely the most transcendental food experience of my life.
I think you need to tell us more
Well, there is a lot of food pr0n about eating phở in Vietnam by writers far more talented than myself, but this place was simply the ne plus ultra. The bowl of soup itself was amazing, the best I've had for the reasons described below, but it was also a culmination of things that put me in a particular state of anticipation. It was at the end of a long trip, which was itself planned for over a year. My wife had somewhat flippantly asked me where I would go and what I would eat if I could choose anywhere/anything. Without too much thought, I'd said phở in Hanoi would be cool. Fast forward about 14 months and then several weeks on the ground in Thailand and Cambodia...finally we wound our way through the tangle of streets that comprise the Old Quarter of Hanoi, my wife convinced I was going to be carried away by the swarm of motorbikes every time we turned another blind corner. Eventually we spotted the place, with a few tiny shaded seats at the back of the stall, which were inexplicably comfortable for my 6'4" frame. With a shrill whistle I was summoned back outside to the counter, having broken protocol, and ordered...
Three sets of hands moved in perfect synchronicity, draping noodles, slicing meat and ladling broth. With the flick of a wrist some flecks of green onion settled on top. Carrying the two incredibly hot bowls back to our table, scalding liquid cresting onto my fingers with each step, I cared a whole lot more about wasting any of the contents than any burns I might receive. Minimal garnishes were offered, traditional of the northern style. Fish sauce and hot chili paste were passed over, but a few spoonfuls of sliced bird peppers went on top. Tucking them down to the bottom, along with the near-raw beef that perched above the surface, I finally brought the dull metal spoon up to my lips and tasted the purest essence of beef, embodiment of the smell that had more or less hypnotized me since I'd approached the counter. There was none of the sweet, cinnamon spice flavors that dominate the southern style. This was beguilingly simple, hearty stock, simmered 24 hours or longer with plenty of marrow-filled bones. The perfect broth was run through with the thinest crescents of onion, nearly dissolving from the heat, and the most silky yet still toothsome* noodles I've ever eaten. Wider than you find in the south or the US, each was perfect unto itself, not two strands stuck together with starchy paste. Given the part of the world, the meat, too, was unique. Like the broth, the flavor was pure, unadulterated, platonic ideal...some parts rare enough to provide a gentle tug while others flaked apart and clung to noodles slurped out of the bowl. I finished mine, half of my wife's and considered getting another, but there was still a ton of Hanoi to explore. Total cost, nearly $2.
I've not had another bowl of phở quite like that one. It seems the vast majority of Vietnamese immigrants came from the south, and their more nouveau preparation has become the standard here. Don't get me wrong, I love phở in all its forms, but if I have a choice, phở Hà Nội will be my last meal.
*Which is not at all the right word, but I can't think of one that means what I'm trying to convey...they had a bite to them, not really al dente, but there was resistance in a pleasantly chewy fashion.