Honestly, this cold/allergy thing I have going is turning out great in terms of food consumed. Or maybe it’s the pregnancy and the being-hungry-when-I’m-hungry-so-better-make-it-now-lest-I-bitch-slap-someone, but seriously (SRSLY!) I’ve been having some great food-related experiences.
Today I went out with my good buddy SoloMother, and her King of Everything and my Herr Meow had a wild time terrorizing the citizenry of Rosslyn as we walked toward our delicious destination: Pho 75.
As you may or may not read from the Washingtonian write-up, the place in itself is nothing to write home about. Large and largely charmless, the homiest detail is the grinning fat Buddha that welcomes you. But hey– you’re not here for the ambience –which grows on you anyway.
You’re here for the steaming, hot, vibrant, yummy, appetizing, BIG, and did I already cliché myself into “delicious” territory?, PHO.
Now, it’s true that soup is soup and beef noodle soup is nothing that special. But no, this one is. It really is.
Eating it is feeling happy from the inside.
Adding the little raw extras lets you have perceived control over the sheer magnificence of this soup.
Slurping your noodles –which you simply MUST slurp and will want to slurp– is a messy affirmation of life and carbohydrates.
Slurping your noodles is also a occupational hazard, as you may end up wearing your dinner if you’re an overzealous and overdelighted diner. Names are here withdrawn to protect the guilty.
Eating this soup, spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other, is tapping into a source of life; a simple life where you can witness the miracle that is boiling water and what it does to some basic ingredients, which are then transformed into something that could very possibly raise the dead.
Pho– it’s what was for dinner. And how.
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