A BOWL OF PHO

Vietnam's treasured beef noodle soup that brings families together

We're a feisty group, the Vietnamese. Get us together in a room and we'll debate endlessly over the north and south of our politics, the clashes of our history, the contradictions of our culture.
But mention pho (pronounced fuh) -- our beloved beef noodle soup -- and immediately our differences vanish. Our eyes shine, our faces beam. All of a sudden we've become an agreeable family with a love for one another that's as strong, compelling and reassuring as the beefy steam that billows and curls from a bowl of pho.

Sound overstated? Not one bit. Not if you're Vietnamese and born in the old country. For to us, pho is life, love and all things that matter. We treasure pho, and most of us have loved it since the day we were old enough to hold a pair of chopsticks. [an error occurred while processing this directive] For me, the fascination began when I was 5. Every weekend, my parents would take me and my siblings to Pho 79, a small, dark and run-down noodle shop in Saigon with wobbly tables and squeaky stools. Yet every time we went, it was always packed and difficult to find a table.

So we resorted to a practiced routine. With hawk eyes, we'd scan the room, searching for a party about to leave. As soon as we found one, we quickly dashed over, sort of inconspicuously standing on the side, waiting for the right moment to seize our table.
Once seated, my parents placed our usual order: pho tai chin or pho with both rare and cooked beef for everyone, and, for the adults, ca phe sua da -- a delicious coffee drink served with condensed milk and ice.

Moments later, the server, step by careful step, slowly approached with large bowls filled to the brim. As soon as they were placed before us, a warm, thick, wavy steam arose and embraced our faces.

Bending down, we slowly inhaled the aroma as if to verify its authenticity. Yes, the broth smelled utterly beefy, laced with just-roasted ginger, anise and freshly chopped onions and cilantro. The rice noodles looked velvety and fresh, the edges of the rare beef curled up expectantly in the hot broth.

All was well.

Then, arms and hands crisscrossing, we reached for a piece of lime to squeeze into the broth, a handful of cool, crisp bean sprouts, a few sprigs of Asian basil and saw-leaf herbs and fresh chiles. Against the noisy laughter and chitchat, we savored our soup, chewing, slurping and giggling until the last drop.

Even though my family first discovered pho in Saigon in the late 1950s, it actually originated in the north in Hanoi around the turn of the century.
Based on literary accounts, the cooking and enjoyment of pho surfaced sometime after the French occupation of Hanoi in the mid-1880s. The Vietnamese, who valued cows and buffaloes as indispensable beasts of burden, ate little red meat, preferring pork, chicken and seafood. But with the French affection for bifteck and dishes with boeuf, red meat began to appear in markets and restaurants, thereby slowly influencing the local diet, especially that of the upper class.

How did the increasing popularity of beef prompt the creation of pho?

It's a steamy debate, even to this day. However, some Hanoi cultural experts with ancestors who are said to have witnessed the birth of pho believe this dish parallels the history of Vietnam, harboring both a Chinese and French connection. (The former occupied Vietnam for 1,000 years and the latter almost 100 years.)

Some theorize it was the French who triggered pho, popularizing the use of bones and lesser cuts of beef to make broth. After all, in a society that wasted nothing, what was one to do with all the bones carved from biftecks? In fact, they believe perhaps it was first created when Vietnamese cooks learned to make pot au feu for their French masters. The name pho, they suspect, might have even come from feu. But others argue that while the French can take credit for popularizing beef, it was actually the Chinese who inspired the dish with ingredients like noodles, ginger and anise. Then there are still others who claim it was the Chinese, and the Chinese alone, who instigated this culinary wonder.

But regardless of the origin, Chinese or French or both, once at the stove, the Vietnamese were quick to interject their own ideas. They concocted an exciting dish, using ingredients inspired by their foreign rulers but customizing it to include nuoc mam, or fish sauce, the defining characteristic of the local cuisine.

In the 1930s, in part spurred by nationalistic sentiments, some Hanoi scholars wrote passionately about pho, a food that not only cleverly provided all the necessary nourishment in one convenient bowl, but one that also symbolically freed the Vietnamese. At last, the Vietnamese succeeded in their fight for self-determination; finally they were free to express themselves, if only through their pho.

Huu Ngoc, a prolific author and cultural expert who's written that pho is a contribution to human happiness, recently recalled his memories of those times: ``Pho was very special, almost status food. We loved it because it had everything we valued -- rice noodles, broth, meat and vegetables. It was complete, nutritious, infinitely delicious and yet so easy to digest that we could eat it morning and night, day after day.''

In 1954, the infectious enthusiasm and following for this dish spread south. Vietnam had been partitioned, and the north fell under Communist control. Almost 1 million northerners fled south, taking with them a dream of a new life.

For some, this new life meant the re-creation of a pho culture.

Pho took the south by storm. My mother, a southerner who had just moved from her village to Saigon where my dad got his first job out of military school, had never seen or heard of pho until then. Though there were sightings as early as the late 1940s, it didn't become popular until after the mass migration of 1954.

At the time my mother and her contemporaries slurped on hu tieu, a Chinese-style rice noodle soup made with pork bones and pork meat. ``When I first tasted the pho, I thought it was incredible,'' my mother remembers. ``It was similar to hu tieu, but the aromatic beef stock and and roasted spices made it so much more exciting. I knew instantly it was the soup to eat.''
From then on, whenever she and my father could afford it, which was about once a month, they would treat themselves to this new delicacy.

In the south, pho became highly embellished. Reflecting the abundance of its new surroundings, it had more meat (imagine the portion now in the United States), more noodles, more broth. Because southerners are by nature indulgent -- demanding richer, livelier flavors and textures -- bean sprouts and rau thom or fragrant herbs such as saw- leaf and basil were added.
And it didn't stop there. Garnishes such as lime wedges, fresh chiles, chile sauce and tuong, or black bean sauce, were served alongside, giving the soup a dimension never before experienced. As in the north, it quickly became a favorite, but only after it had been modified to fit and reflect southern taste.

In 1975, when my family first arrived in the United States after the fall of Saigon, we desperately missed pho. At the time there weren't many noodle shops. But when we did find one, the soup usually didn't taste that good because of the lack of Asian ingredients, particularly herbs. Yet we ate it whenever we could, great or not. To us a steaming bowl of pho was a welcoming thought. A taste of home, it warmed our spirits and gave us the comfort and solace needed in our first difficult years.

Fortunately, over time, immigrant families such as ours have successfully readjusted to our new life in America. And somehow, in the midst of all this transformation, pho -- which followed us through tumultuous times and journeys -- also became integrated into our present- day life. Authentic recipes have been dusted off, preserved and executed with great fervor.
Noodle shops have now proliferated throughout the United States, opening not only in the traditional enclaves of immigrant communities, but in mainstream neighborhoods as well. In many shops, Asians and Westerners sit side by side, munching on the long, chewy noodles. [an error occurred while processing this directive] The appeal of this soup -- once felt only by native connoisseurs -- has spread beyond nationality and attracted a new following. As before, pho has once again survived and triumphed.

For me, even decades after my childhood days in Saigon and thousands of miles away from my native country, pho remains my obsession. If I'm not eating a bowl of pho, it lurks in my consciousness, its enticing aromas assuring me that, somehow, it will always be a part of my life.
PHO PARTICULARSIn Vietnam, pho is mostly a restaurant food. Though some people prepare it at home, most prefer going to noisy soup shops. Here are a few tips:

-- Pho comes with a variety of toppings including rare beef, well-done beef and slices of brisket, tendon, tripe and even meatballs. If you're a novice, try pho tai chin, which includes the rare and well-done beef combination.

-- When the bowl arrives, eat it while it's piping hot. If you wait for it to cool, the noodles will expand and get soggy.

-- Sprinkle some black pepper, then add bean sprouts, fresh chiles and a little squeeze of lime to your bowl. Using your fingers, pluck the Asian basil leaves from their sprigs and, if they're available, shred the saw-leaf herbs and add to the soup. Add little by little, eating as you go. If you put the greens in all at once, the broth will cool too fast and the herbs will overcook and lose their bright flavors. Chile sauce and hoisin sauce are also traditional condiments but I avoid them because, to my taste, they mask the flavor of pho. You, however, may like them.

-- With spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other, pull the noodles out of the broth and eat, alternatively slurping on the broth. It's totally acceptable and normal to be seen with clumps of noodles dangling from your mouth, eyes squinting from the steam and glasses all fogged up.

-- The broth is served in large amounts to keep the noodles warm and to help season the dish. It's not necessarily meant to be totally consumed. But if you do happen to be in the mood, it is perfectly OK to tip the bowl and scoop out every single drop.

Mai Pham
Wednesday, November 5, 1997