Sidewalk pho in Hanoi.You know what they say, the older people get, the wiser people are. My grandma often reminded me of this. The adage definitely rang true in Hanoi.
Before we left to Vietnam, I read a newspaper article on how to choose a restaurant in Hanoi: ignore the low prices, ignore the fancy signage; the key to finding a great restaurant is age: the older the patron, the better the food is.
Just one day in to our adventure in Hanoi, we were already being let down by the food. Being near Orange County, CA, we were pretty spoiled with the restaurants in Little Saigon. We’re adept to understanding the subtle nuances and tastes of thinly sliced beef, tendons, green onions, rice noodles and MSG.
It seemed, however, that just about every food joint in Hanoi was serving up food they “thought” may have been satisfying to a Westerner: holding back on the spices, cooking beef just a little longer so it isn’t served rare, cutting back on the lime and mint, blanding the fish sauce.
Frustration was setting in. As I looked up at a sign of a restaurant with empty promises of great pho, I remembered the article I read just one week before: the key to finding great food is the old people. Of course! It wasn’t the pictures on the menu or the dazzling neon lights or the promise of cheap draft beer. It was the people!
“Frank,” I said as I gently dissuaded him from walking into the cafe, “the secret is in the wrinkles.”
“What. The. Hell. Are you–” he glanced quizzically.
“Find old people, we must.”
We walked for two more blocks and then we saw it: a sea of colorful midget stools scattered haphazardly on an open sidewalk. Sitting on those stools were young people, but most were older. They were all happily—satisfyingly–dining on soup. A little old lady was serving up piping hot pho in plastic soup dishes.
Frank mused: “This is it. We’re livin’ it, baby.”
And, boy, did we. Crouching on the stools, we ordered two piping hot bowls of pho. It was thinly-sliced beef cooked delicately in the beef broth with noodles, green onions and some lime. With a little homemade chili sauce and hoison sauce to add to the broth, we were in heaven. A side of chinese donuts was added to our meal, and I do believe—all for only 1 US dollar—we may have found the best bowl of pho in all of Hanoi.
For all intents and purposes, there was nothing fancy about our pho. Sitting on foot-high plastic stools without a table on the sidewalk as hundreds of motorbikes wizzed by filling the air with exhaust, the sun setting devoid of dusk, as people blatantly traipsed through our pho-nderland doesn’t exactly equate to fancy dining.
But, there is something admittedly fancy about this food venture: two people happily enjoying the company of complete strangers as we bonded over a traditional dish, watching the evening move to night, and it’s all because of the old people…guess grandma was right.
What is your favorite wizened advice?
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