#55
02.24.10
Photo
Is there anything more divine than a bowl of hot Pho? In case you're taking a moment to actually question that claim, allow me to quickly intervene on your behalf with the answer. "No... no there is not."
I always order the Pho Tai, which is shown above, because it is inconceivable to me that there might be something better. The best bowl of Pho on the planet, to my knowledge, is served up at Pho Xe Lua in the Chinatown section of Philly. If you are in the area and don't take advantage of your fortune; please chastise yourself for a decent stretch of time in front of the mirror for your mental lapse.
I was introduced to Vietnamese cuisine by a surgical mentor, Dr. J.V.D. III, to whom I am indebted forever. Not only is he an amazing, larger-than-life kind of personality and surgeon... he also happens to have been The One to crack my hard-headedness when it comes to experimenting with most food (but not seafood). Pre-JVDIII I wouldn't so much as glance at a Vietnamese, or Thai, let alone Middle Eastern restaurant. Now I look forward to finding that next perfect dish from any cuisine. He would treat me to a bowl of pho every Wednesday afternoon after we completed morning surgeries, and before we headed to his afternoon clinic. Ah, what blissful memories. Thank you, J.V.D. III!
Here are a few more pics, from start to finish of the meal:
I like mintiness in my Spring Rolls. These were minty.
Don't you just LOVE the random magazine photo on the table cloth (but under the glass)?!
Ah, there's the stuff.
And there you have it. A satisfied mind (and belly).
This is not considered a great place to shop; but it is a good place to get shot, if that's what you're in to. I had never set foot in the place until today. What pretty skies, though, no?
Music
For today's music I offer you the transcendentally beautiful version of A Satisfied Mind by Jeff Buckley. It comes off his posthumously released album (Sketches for) My Sweetheart the Drunk. This is the album Jeff had pretty much completed writing and test-recording in Memphis, so he called in his band from NYC to record the final album versions. While waiting for them to arrive he went swimming in the Mississippi River and, most sadly, drowned. His body was never recovered. What a grievous loss!
I was introduced to Jeff Buckley (son of the folk artist Tim Buckley, in case you were wondering) by a good friend and classmate in med school, D.H. He played Jeff Buckley's cover of Hallelujah one night when we were studying. Until then I had never heard of the song, or of Leonard Cohen, or of Buckley himself... and I'm on record calling that my favorite song ever recorded with lyrics (the John Cale version, though). So really D.H. not only introduced me to Jeff Buckley before it was cool to like Jeff Buckley; but he also introduced me to my man Leonard Cohen. Thanks, D.H.! He remains a good source for excellent music, with a particular penchant for sniffing out fine singer-songwriters and amazing cover songs.
The song A Satisfied Mind was written by Hayes and Rhodes many moons ago, and has been covered by some of the hugest recording artists of all time: Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and Buckley among them. Every version is terrific.
Please allow yourself the pleasure of leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes for a straight-through listen of this track... remembering this isn't exactly what Jeff intended for us to hear. But like Elliott Smith's From a Basement on a Hill... we're just lucky to have some final recordings of this amazing voice and talent.
Parting Comments
A perfect storm of the delightful variety occurred today at work. By the time my 11:00 a.m. 1-hour outpatient surgical case showed up, no one had been added on as an emergency in the 12:00 hour slot. Then, as if the cosmos were demanding I get an actual lunch, my 11:00 patient turned out to be doing just fine without surgery, so we canceled it. A genuine cancellectomy, as we call it in the biz. These are the greatest surgeries of all, when they're due to lack of need (but not cool when it's just "the patient didn't show up", or "the patient got otherwise ill".)
I just cannot tell you what joy these occasional ripples in the fabric of time do for my mental health. They are more potent that the fistful of prozac tablets that I don't take, but sometimes think I might should. {Can one say "might should" and still take themselves seriously? No, I don't think so. But in truth I have never taken myself too seriously, and hope you have not either. So we're good.}
Bolting from the hospital at around 11:30 a.m., not giving any opportunity for a last-second 12:00 p.m. add-on, I headed straight for the Vietnamese restaurant called Pho #1 I had just read about in the Friday Anchorage Daily News. That's a fairly arrogant claim, me having eaten at Pho Xe Lua before (perhaps they were unaware of my dining history when they named their business'#1'?); but I like some cockiness in my pho artists. The place is tiny, and housed within the most undesirable mall in all the land... but I've learned to never, ever, ever judge a Vietnamese restaurant by it's location or decor. It's all about the soup.
Pho (pronounced "phah") is just soup, and the Tai implies super-thin slices of beef that are placed in the boiling broth just as it is served, essentially browning or cooking it right before your eyes. Amazing to me; but revolting to my father (to whom I had just described the process only one week ago). The steaming bowl comes with the rice noodles, broth, onions and scallions; and at every place not named Pho Xe Lua it comes with the just-added beef slices. At Pho Xe Lua they bring you the beef on a separate plate and you get to add it yourself. Then you dump in all the basil and cilantro leaves, bean sprouts, and squeeze a lime to death (I drop mine right in afterward, as you can see), and then it's time to Exit Planet Earth. A divine, divine thing to be sure.
The broth that remains after all the "solids" are ingested is really where the turbo kick comes in. You are already in heaven at that point, happier than a pig in a poke (?), when you tip the bowl to your lips and draw in a big pull of broth. It's the salt, it's the beef; it's the freshness of the cilantro and the acidity of the lime. It's the scallion, it's the basil. It's the Whole Dang Thing; Nirvana in your mouth.
I usually keep taking large pulls of broth until I can feel my blood pressure rising from all the sodium. At that point I keep taking in drags, albeit slightly less hungrily, until the tachycardia begins. So with my heart starting to race I usually slow down even more... I mean, I'm not trying to kill myself, suicide by soup, you know? My pulls get smaller and spaced out even more. I keep doing this until I finally notice a little arrhythmia. You know, a gentle thumping or palpitation in the chest. At this point I usually check my watch, consider the traffic patterns back to the hospital, and then decide if I get one more tug of broth or not. Once the galloping in my chest is noticeable and concerning to nearby diners, I find that's The Time to pay for my pho, and get me hither to the hospital for a little cardioversion before afternoon clinic starts.
Final Vignette
...for those gluttons-for-punishment amongst you desiring yet more banter.
For Non-gluttons: please look away NOW.
Here is a tiny element that made my dining experience all the more enjoyable today.
When my waiter brought me my pho, he gave me chopsticks and one of those deep asian soup spoons.
Did you catch it? I mean, did you get the depth of what I'm trying to say?!
The guy brought me chopsticks, and an asian soup spoon!
As in he didn't bring me a fork.
Ha! Me! CCE! The one who always gets a fork right off the bat in every asian restaurant he's ever entered, even when accompanied by J.V.D. III (who incidentally would stare down any uninitiated waiter with menacing looks if they dared approach him with a fork).
I felt like this waiter was giving me the J.V.D. III treatment and respect right off the bat. He may as well have looked around the restaurant, and after clearing his throat, announced with the cockiness of a restaurateur calling his Pho '#1': "This guy is okay. He's a regular, he's a pro. He knows his pho, Pho Dang Sho!" Had he done that verbally, (for surely he was doing it through his actions), everyone would have chuckled at his cleverness, but then gotten serious expressions again and given me silent nods of approval; like "yeah, you're cool. You belong here. You're in the club. Enjoy your pho, Bro."
Ah, how the tiny things make for a lovely day.
After I leaned back in my chair to bask in the glow of fluorescent lights and my imaginary scene of Pho Respect for a gentle moment... I let out a contented sigh, called over my waiter, and quietly, quietly; almost in a whisper... asked for a fork.
Until tomorrow... Ãn ngon nhé! (Bon appetite in Vietnamese). CCE
