A Vietnamese Summer
The smell of broth found us before the building did. Our eyes diverted to a restaurant cropped between many others. Perhaps it was the colorful plastic tables and chairs neatly set up outside, or the faint smell of beef Pho coming from the room. We knew that this was the place for lunch. As we awkwardly place ourselves at one large table, we fight for the chair under the large fan hanging from the ceiling. Our waitress, whom we suspected was also the owner, spoke few words, using her hands and subtle grunts to guide us through the menu. We did not speak her language, and she didn't speak ours, yet here we were, communicating.
After quickly agreeing that we'd all order the same Pho, I couldn't help but divert from the path taken. Pho was safe, cheap, easy; everyone was on board. But something in me wanted more than broth and comfort. But, amidst the disorganized cluster of items on the menu, there was something that took my attention. I knew the rules: don’t be the one who strays. But there it was—pork, cooked in its own pride, unaccompanied, unapologetic. I ordered it before I could change my mind. I was intrigued. I took the chance, knowing that I had either made the mistake of the day, or that I'd be the one with the best dish.
The heat of the Vietnamese climate took a toll on our patience. Our conversation and laughter filled the room, yet it felt like the sun had slowed us, as if time had taken a break and delayed slightly. The steam from the soup pot licked the window, severing us from the kitchen, as if a mighty fog had hit only there, and we were witnessing its greatness. Through the blurred window, we saw our bowls assembled. Flecks of green and dabs of white, like an oil painting coming to life.
And there it was. Our table was filled one by one with bowls of hot soup, steaming and enveloping each of my friends with the smell of beef and fresh coriander. Then came mine. A hot stone bowl, still hissing, landed with the kind of weight that says pay attention. Pork, sliced and arranged like petals around the center, its skin glistening in a sweat of its own grease. Black pepper sauce bubbled underneath, trying to escape the sear, collapsing into the meat, caramelizing it into something primal. The aroma rose fast, thick and peppery, and hit my face like a blessing or a dare.
