A Fly in My Dien Bien Pho

Just like that, I have returned, emerging from a soup-induced hiatus to tell you of a sorrowful story, a sordid tale of broth, basil and Ba. Let's begin with Ba, though broth is ever on our minds.

Imagine you are Ba. Ba is on a boat. That boat is traveling to France, a land of wonders and delights. Of course, the French lack any notable soups (save French onion soup, which is hardly French). Yet, Ba travels in the sea, one could say a soup of its own. The fish, its protein. The seaweed, its garnish. Yes, even saltwater crocodiles and blue-footed boobies — they make up its viscous fluid.

Ba's boat docks in the land of baguette. He is attending a peace conference — and one he will learn to regret.

For Ba, like bisque, is only an alias. His real name is Nguyen Ai Quoc, a man hailing from the future country known as Viet Nam, one of the few in Asia I have not sampled the souply surprises of so far yet.

Nguyen Ai Quoc, of course, returned to his country. Fighting against the land of France, he dunked their baguette into his heavy artillery of beef broth in a legendary canyon and made French onion soup. As the defeated French walked away, this man, now known as Ho Chi Minh, inherited a country whose most famous liquid concoction shared a similar name with the place of victory — Dien Bien Phu could have well been Dien Bien Pho. If I were to speak Spanish, surely I would call it pho bien while sharing a bowl of menudo or pozole with a lovely toreador.

But alas, the Spanish of the Philippines, with their many pork stews, are not the imperial power who then came to Viet Nam. No, this país of pho would then have to contend with a country of many formidable soups of its own — the United States of America. They came to fight communism — which, I understand, is the social equivalent of a soup kitchen. And many formidable weapons were at their ladle. Yes, they began a conflict that broiled and simmered for many long years, as the National Liquidation Front and Viet Mince fought long and hard against the United States. Finally, in 1975, pho triumphed over clam chowder — the Americans returned over the liquid soups of the Pacific to their abode.

They fled from a singular city, which is now the object of my soup criticism and connoisseurship — Ho Chi Minh City. Or, as they once called it, Saigon. Alas, a geopolitical battle rages over which name should be applied to this city of culinary cravings. Ho Chi Minh City, named after the Ba of old, or Saigon, the city of the South? Which name shall triumph?

I decided to come to a conclusion using the only method I knew how to — soup. Yes, soup is the great equalizer, the arbiter of international affairs. When international parties conjoin to discuss wars, should we not use soup? Should soup not settle our differences? I have before spoken of the international language of broth and spoon. Why do we not come together at the United Nations and discuss a common soup that can be enjoyed by all mankind? When Ba traveled to the Paris Peace Conference after the Great War, maybe he knew this. In his letter to the American President Wilson, there is no mention of soup, but I argue that may have been at the forefront of Ba's mind. If the French, Russians and British of onion soup, borscht, disgusting porridges, respectively, had sat down to eat their national soups with buttermilschsuppe-eating Germans and goulash-simmering Austro-Hungarians, perhaps the state of the world would be different.

But no matter. Here I was, about to venture into a land of oxtail to settle the great Saigon debate.

The object of my interest was the oxtail mixings of a highly-recommended restaurant square in Midtown in the Saigon of the Golden State, Sacramento. Yes, for the first time, I was to try this chic gastronomic experience. But, upon entry, I began to feel like Ba, scorned by Woodrow Wilson.

They attempted to sit me and a dining partner at a table in the front of the restaurant. Usually, I would not mind this, but the small circular table was reminiscent of the French surrounded on the famous battlefield. Only a small cushioned booth and a stool on the side flanked this table — surely, I could not eat soup here! To make matters worse, a couple a table away would be expelling a broth of breathe down my neck — this was hardly the time to catch the concoction of COVID-19.

So we waited. Hungry still I became, waiting for a table like it was the final helicopter out of the city that this unfortunate restaurant was named for. After what seemed like forever, we were thawed from our state and made to sit at a table wedged closely in between two others.

Though the seating was uncomfortable, I choose not to complain about that. I choose to focus on my order of the great soup known as pho, the oxtail which I long to shove into my gaping orifice.

When the food arrived, I knew all was lost.

Placed before me was a bowl of noodles and meat — but where was the broth? Was this some kind of sick joke? Did they know I was a soup connoisseur and critic of particular tastes — did they jest?

The next sight was even more sickly. The broth was contained in a kettle, and then, in defiance of God and good society, was poured over the noodles and beef, searing their very soul and watering my eyes. It was if I was drinking tea, not soup. I could barely hold back my disgust. I realized that this was all a gimmick. But soup has no cause for theatrics — the quality of a soup should stand on its own. When soup is truly special, no spoonful of thespian idiocy is needed.

Yet, I garnished the soup with sprouts and basil and lifted the spoon to take my first sip. Upon swallowing, I went to take the second sip, when I noticed a non-oxtail protein swimming in my spoon. It was the great sin of soup, a foul pest paddled in my spoon.

It was a fly. Yes, spreader of plague, bringer of woe. A fly stared back at me, its disturbing wings destroying my soup. Foul beast! I cast my spoon into the soup at once. Hailing a waiter, I had it taken away.

It pains me to say that after this, I was scared off their soup. Yes, even a great soup connoisseur can be brought down by the poisoning of a brothly potion. The waiter came and told us our meal would be comped by the house — hardly fair compensation for the disturbing sight I had just witnessed. I ordered two non-soup dishes, defying my rule of consuming soups.

I sat there, a flabbergasted Ba of bone broth. These two dishes were quite bad. Separated from soup, I was made to wallow through the alleys of Saigon. But what I was to further experience was truly one of the worst culinary moments of my life.

The server came to us with the bill, telling us that only 10 measly dollars would now be comped. I had been bamboozled. A foul taste rose in my palate. What insult was this?

But then, an even more disturbing allegation was made. The waiter relayed that the chef opined that his blasphemous broth had not been the culprit all along. Alas, he claimed that the fly had come from the basil.

My rage was barely contained, like a chicken soup after a large matzo ball had just been inserted into it. The chef was not taking accountability for his soup, a truly heinous offense. What's worse — is the basil not part of the soup? Where does the separation of broth and garnish come from? Disturbed, I stared into the dark eyes of this waiter. I seriously questioned the legitimacy of this Saigon establishment.

From this "alley", which frankly, was not much like an alley, I tread away. I had serious doubts about Saigon being the name of the city. I had to visit another restaurant bearing its name to truly come to my conclusion.

It was not long after that I crossed the threshold of a restaurant in the Davis area by the name of Sit Lo Saigon. Sadly owned by the same ownership group as Saigon Alley, this restaurant was hailed as a wonderful purveyor of liquids by learned soup connoisseur Wendy Wetzel of the Davis Enterprise. Was this place to change my arbitration of this important international affair?

Though many complaints have been made about this restaurant's lack of vegetarian options, I say, what a glorious concept this restaurant is. Meat everywhere! As far as the eye can see. Men chomping meticulously on oxtails. Bones left and right. A restaurant almost solely dedicated to soup. Finally, a panacea of pho.

It was time for the crucial moment in any soup connoisseur's life — the order. I chose a dish of wok-seared, spicy beef in pho broth — a soup with a name that truly enticed me.

For it was named of the great city of the Viet Namese north, Hanoi. Yes, Hanoi, second in splendor only to Hue, which has a quite wonderful soup bearing its name. Yes, Hanoi, the seat of power in North Viet Nam. Surely, if this soup was good, then I could finally make my decision.

The first thing I noticed, as a frugal food enjoyer, was the size of the bowl. The soup bowl was massive, truly shattering the highest compliments of my price-quantity ratio of soup. I gladly dug in, happy with my bargain. And what I tasted was truly delightful, I was in a heaven of heaps of beef and hoisin.

What a viscous soup! The "fresh noodles" slid down my gullet like milky strands. Oh yes, now this was the pho I had been longing for! Spices of Southeast Asia stung my tongue. Finally, pho a man could be proud of. The icons of Viet Nam — Ba, Trung Trac, and Phan Boi Chao — seemed to smile from above.

I had made my estimation. The soup of northern Viet Nam had shattered the lowly soup of Saigon's alley. Alas, the city of the south should be called by the name of the hero of the north, Ba, Nguyen Ai Quoc, Ho Chi Minh. Soup, and more importantly, viscosity, had once again triumphed in international affairs. Ah, to be a fly on the wall on Ba's boat ride to France. For, that is where a fly belongs, not on the walls of a bowl of a broth of bone.

Soup Score:

Pho #1: 0.0/10

Pho #2: 8.4/10