An Ode

to Pho.


I love Pho.

I have Pho cravings all the time, but I only ever succumb to them when I am special edition...like today.

1928 believes that Pho fixes all, and every Sunday sees him on a scooter to Victoria St for it.

I did the stumble with my wonderful housemate Lute. He woke at 1pm and I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, hanging my head in shame proclaiming how I thought it would be the only thing to fix me, and probably the only thing I could eat.
He was in a towel on the way to shower, but as soon as I said Pho, he lit up and said IWANTPHOIWILLGOWITHYOUTOGETPHO!

So, we did. In our completely disheveled states, we not only saw a lot of poorly dressed people but realized that we didn't care what we were wearing because the CBD is our backyard. In fact, I went out without eyeliner or hair product, wearing a dress that can only be accurately described as a large t-shirt. I was full-force Asian-pineapple.

Lute, not feeling particularly brave in his state stuck with the usual rare sliced beef, but ordered it in large. When it arrived, the bowl was bigger than both our torsos put together.
Awesome.

I got the small special beef, and still couldn't finish it. The tripe and tendon freaked Lute out, but they are the best parts. We both drowned our dishes in so much chili oil and fresh chili that we completely changed the colour of the water and created a nice red slick of oil over the top of the bowls, along with the usual add-alongs. Then, I asked for a dipping bowl and mixed the hoisin sauce with more chili oil and dipped my "strange meat parts" in there. There is a science, kids.

Funnily enough, Lute couldn't stand watching me eat tendon, tripe, beef balls or otherwise...but at the end, I couldn't bring myself to eat the "normal" parts of the cow such as brisket and those rare slices.

"You are so Asian," he said.

God, I knew my hair would fail me one day.