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- THE WALL STREET JOURNAL -

How do foreigner think about "Pho" in Vietnam?

MY FIRST LESSON in pho came during a jet-lagged breakfast the morning I arrived 

in Hanoi, the old-meets-new capital of Vietnam.

"Eat it now," said my waitress, pointing to the bowl she had just set down. Firm as 

a general but polite as can be, she wanted me to know that the noodles in my 

soup would remain in their perfect state only for a moment.

Vietnam's signature dish appears simple: rice noodles swimming in broth, topped 

by a bit of meat (usually beef) and accompanied by a plate of garnishes like 

greens, sprouts, lime wedges and hot pepper slices. But pho, once a special-

occasion meal, possesses deep and complex flavors, the result of an elaborate 

preparation process.

The origins of pho are shrouded in mystery. Its name may have roots in the French 

pot au feu (pho and feu are both pronounced "fuh"). Then again, the soup may 

have originated in the northern province of Nam Dinh. Or it might have come from 

China.

Regardless of where it was born, pho's spiritual home is Hanoi. In this densely 

packed northern city that rises with the sun and quiets when it sets, many vendors 

ride around town on their bicycles, with woven trays of tiny limes, garlic and 

blistering hot peppers on the handlebars. People gobble the soup morning, noon 

and night—and they are possessive about it.

"Pho is a particular gift of Hanoi," Vietnamese writer Thach Lam penned back in the 

1940s, displaying an attitude that hasn't changed much since. "Not because only 

Hanoi has it, but because only in Hanoi is pho delicious."

Of course, at the other end of the country, in clamoring, cosmopolitan Ho Chi Minh 

City (formerly Saigon), citizens beg to differ. The two cities make very different 

styles of pho—and the competition between them is fierce.

My pho fascination started far from Vietnam, in Cambridge, Mass. Pho was little 

known on American shores in the late 1990s, when chef Didi Emmons opened Pho 

Republique in then-gritty Central Square. My dinner there was so good that I asked 

for (and got) a part-time job in the kitchen.

I had cooked in plenty of restaurants, but had never made anything like pho. I was 

riveted by the drawn-out process of creating the broth, from charring onions and 

ginger in the bottom of a mammoth stockpot to smashing lemongrass with a metal 

ladle to release its flavor, to the way the broth bubbled away overnight, slowly 

yielding the flavors that make it the wine of the soup world.

In northern Vietnam, Hanoi's pho is as austere as a classic Burgundy. It comes 

with a clearer broth, rarely strays beyond beef and is crowned with a Spartan 

sprinkling of just-picked scallions and chives. "We eat very fresh food here," said 

Mai Corlou, who runs Madame Hien restaurant, explaining the local predilection for 

letting ingredients speak for themselves. "We go to the market every day and want 

to see our fish killed for us and our chicken still alive."

Hanoi's best pho shops are concentrated in the narrow, shop-crammed streets of 

the Old Quarter. What seems like the entire population buzzes by on scooters as 

customers slurp away at their soup. A visitor might shy away from the curbside 

restaurants, but they are open-air marvels of efficiency, ingenuity and 

mise en place: a line cook's dream, where everything is set up in bowls, ready to 

put together in an instant.

Ho Chi Minh City's pho is the garage wine of Vietnam's scene, forgoing refinement 

for big flavors. This rich, cloudy soup is accompanied by a thicket of sawtooth 

herb, basil, mint and sprouts that you tear up with your hands and add to the 

bowl.

In this up-all-night town, a hungry, thrifty eater and his friends can be in and out 

of a world-class pho joint in 10 minutes.

"This place is for truck drivers," Mai Truong, a food-centric guide, told me at Pho 

Tau Bay, a utilitarian place on a major thoroughfare. That's partly because the 

restaurant opens at 3 a.m., allowing truckers to stop in for a meal before the city 

closes to big rigs at 6 a.m. Our table was pre-loaded with a large plate of greens; 

the broth was ladled from vats big enough to bathe in. The house specialty is pho 

with rare tenderloin and braised rib meat. It was fantastic—the kind of stuff that, 

at about $2 a bowl, makes it easy to understand why high-end dining is a fringe 

activity in Vietnam.

I buzzed around Ho Chi Minh City, from the modern center to French Colonial 

sections that still seemed straight from a Graham Greene novel, slurping bowl 

after amazing bowl of soup. I capped the night at Pho Lê near Chinatown, where 

the streets were mobbed with teens on scooters out for an evening cruise. Pho Lê 

serves southern-style soup with a bit of sweetness, cut with a squeeze of lime and 

a hit of heat.

"How many bowls is that? Eight?" asked a waitress who learned that I was on a 

quest.

"Enough," I answered, lifting my spoon and chopsticks. Along with brisket and raw 

loin slices, the soup held spoon-formed beef balls, bursting with flavor and so 

tender they barely held together. I realized that the pho in Ho Chi Minh City is so 

consistently good that I was ready to declare the heretical: Hanoi may be a pho 

purist's dream, but the pho is better down south.

Enough? Hardly. I ate the whole bowl.

Ingredients

For the quick broth:

2 large onions

4-inch piece fresh ginger

2 (3-inch) whole cinnamon sticks

2 whole star anise

3 whole cloves

2 teaspoons whole coriander seeds

6 cups low-sodium beef broth

1 tablespoon soy sauce (substitute tamari if making gluten-free)

1 tablespoon fish sauce

3 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped

To serve:

1/2 pound sirloin steak, round eye, or London broil

8 ounces dried rice noodles (bahn pho, 1/16-, 1/8-, or 1/-4 inch wide)

3 scallions

1 chili pepper (Thai bird, serrano, or jalapeño)

1 to 2 limes

1 cup bean sprouts

1 cup fresh herbs (cilantro, basil, Thai basil, mint, or a mix)

Hot sauce, Sriracha, or hoisin sauce, to serve

Equipment

Tongs

Baking sheet

2-quart (or larger) saucepan

Measuring cups and spoons

Chef's knife

Second saucepan for cooking the noodles

Instructions

1. Prepare the onions 

and ginger: Peel the 

onions and cut them into 

quarters through the root. 

Peel the ginger and slice it 

into quarters down its 

length.

2. Char the onions and 

ginger: Using tongs, char 

the onions and ginger on all 

sides over high flame on a 

gas stove, or on a baking 

sheet placed directly under 

the broiler (about 5 minutes 

on each side) — until the 

onions and ginger pieces 

show charred spots. Rinse 

the pieces under cool water 

to remove any loose, gritty, 

overly charred bits.

3. Dry-roast the spices: 

Place the cinnamon, star 

anise, cloves, and 

coriander seeds in the 

bottom of a dry 2-quart 

saucepan and dry-roast 

over medium-low heat for 

1 to 2 minutes, until toasty 

and very fragrant. Stir 

frequently to prevent the 

spices from scorching.

4. Combine the broth 

ingredients: To the pan 

with the spices, add the 

broth, soy sauce, fish 

sauce, chopped carrots, 

and the charred onions and 

ginger.

5. Cover and simmer the 

broth: Bring the broth to a 

boil over medium-high 

heat, then reduce the heat 

to medium-low. Cover and 

continue simmering for 30 

minutes to give time for all 

the spices and aromatics to 

infuse in the broth.

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