For as long as I can remember, my dad has taken my siblings and me to the Asian part of town to eat in whole in the wall restaurants. Uncle Balls restaurant was regularly packed with Vietnamese families stuffing their faces with pho noodle soup after Sunday Mass. Our family was purposely seated in the front of the restaurant so that we could be watched closely. Despite the extra servings of discrimination we enjoyed every delicious bite of our Oriental fare. And as a curious child, I was always fond of the foreign atmosphere. The use of wooden sticks as utensils, the brown drippy dishes that wet my appetite, and colorful zodiac calendar place mates all transported me to the Far East. It was a much needed break from my Texas reality. As for my dad, maybe the restaurant and its proprietors reminded him of his military tour in Vietnam. In spite of the warfare, Vietnam was his first real opportunity to see the world and experience new cultures. Or it could have been the use of exotic vegetables and meaty broths in there dishes. Whatever the reason, my dad’s love affair with Asian cuisine transformed over time into a family tradition.
Like any love affair, its sensations can fool you into believing that you can do things that are not reasonable. My dad's affection for Asian food led him to believe that he could cook it as well. I don't mean the straight forward dishes like chicken fried rice or egg drop soup. I am talking about taking a box covered in Chinese writing and filled with a mystery grain and preparing us kids an after-school snack. =(
My dad would fearlessly visit the meat department of an Asian grocer and ask about rare cuts of meat and how to prepare them. I would stand there and watch him negotiate with the butcher in broken English. Neither side could fully understand each other but they made an attempt to communicate. On occasion, a plastic bag with a living creature inside of it would walk across the meat counter and take my attention off the international collaboration. My dad would return home with his exotic ingredients and whip up his own version of some authentic Asian dish. In the end, the mystery grains were converted into pancakes and the meat of choice was fired up and served with a dipping sauce.
In recent years, my dad has left the Asian cooking to the experts and has perfected his ordering skills. He and my mom form these united fronts when it comes to patronizing one establishment over the next. To illustrate, my parents had a long standing relationship with a Vietnamese restaurant called Pho 95 (or $4.95). Oddly influenced by the presence of urban culture, the Ebonics friendly restaurant is where my parents spent their time and money. In later years, Pho 95 was shut down by the health department and my mom and dad quickly rebounded with Pho Nhuy. Pho Nhuy was good! However, its owner had a growing gambling addiction and the restaurant continued to change management. Yet, it always remained Vietnamese. Pho Nhuy eventually became Pho Vienna and then finally ended up Pho Legacy. My parents loyally stood by Pho Vienna, but once the Pho Legacy neon sign in front of the restaurant was illuminated their appetites had disappeared. Nowadays, my parents dine exclusively at Pho Empire and it is quite the world ruler. The restaurant is modern, bright and spacious. My parents know the wait staff by name and how close each staff member is to completing their nursing degree. T.I.M.
On a recent trip to Pho Empire my dad decided to shake up the status quo of the kingdom. He is consistent with his order. A pho noodle soup, size small, with lean cuts of beef and an iced tea. I order the pineapple fried rice with chicken. It comes with a small side of pho broth. I am a big fan of pho broth but not a big fan of rice noodles. The broth in pho soup is so earth shakily good, that I always imagine that there must be a 200 year old yoga instructor steeping in a large soup cauldron, elegantly frozen in a half lotus pose, giving the broth its brilliant flavor. It's that good.
As the pho soup arrived, my father started with is usual routine of customizing it for taste. In went the jalapenos, bean sprouts, mint, leeks, and chili pepper oil. Savory! My dad in particular, has the unique talent of taking the already “exotic” and up staging it. As I started to devour juicy chunks of pineapple I noticed my dad pulling out a small plastic bag from his corner shirt pocket. He had brought a zip lock baggie of BRAN cereal to the restaurant. I stopped eating. "What are you doing with that BRAN dad?” I asked him. "Oh, this is a great way for me to get my fiber," he replied as he sprinkled a small amount onto his soup spoon then lowered it into the seaming broth. I was silenced but not for the obvious reason you may think. The old me would have thrown a fit. To add BRAN cereal to any Asian dish is so preposterous! And to do it in the middle of a public restaurant is "UNCULTURED" by definition. But that would have been the old me. The new me has come to realize just how old my parents have become. I know that my dad was not trying to offend Vietnamese culture nor horribly embarrass me. He was simply trying to keep an old flame burning all awhile making adjustments for old age. "What does it taste like?” I asked. "Here! Try it!” he tossed me the mini zip lock bag across the table. I copied his method of adding the BRAN to the soup spoon and then lowering it into the broth. I let the BRAN soak in the broth for a few seconds and then gulped down the soggy grains. It actually tasted pretty good. Its flavor resembled a hearty homemade oatmeal cookie that spent a semester abroad in Saigon. It was amazing!
Like any love affair, its sensations can fool you into believing that you can do things that are not reasonable. My dad's affection for Asian food led him to believe that he could cook it as well. I don't mean the straight forward dishes like chicken fried rice or egg drop soup. I am talking about taking a box covered in Chinese writing and filled with a mystery grain and preparing us kids an after-school snack. =(
My dad would fearlessly visit the meat department of an Asian grocer and ask about rare cuts of meat and how to prepare them. I would stand there and watch him negotiate with the butcher in broken English. Neither side could fully understand each other but they made an attempt to communicate. On occasion, a plastic bag with a living creature inside of it would walk across the meat counter and take my attention off the international collaboration. My dad would return home with his exotic ingredients and whip up his own version of some authentic Asian dish. In the end, the mystery grains were converted into pancakes and the meat of choice was fired up and served with a dipping sauce.
In recent years, my dad has left the Asian cooking to the experts and has perfected his ordering skills. He and my mom form these united fronts when it comes to patronizing one establishment over the next. To illustrate, my parents had a long standing relationship with a Vietnamese restaurant called Pho 95 (or $4.95). Oddly influenced by the presence of urban culture, the Ebonics friendly restaurant is where my parents spent their time and money. In later years, Pho 95 was shut down by the health department and my mom and dad quickly rebounded with Pho Nhuy. Pho Nhuy was good! However, its owner had a growing gambling addiction and the restaurant continued to change management. Yet, it always remained Vietnamese. Pho Nhuy eventually became Pho Vienna and then finally ended up Pho Legacy. My parents loyally stood by Pho Vienna, but once the Pho Legacy neon sign in front of the restaurant was illuminated their appetites had disappeared. Nowadays, my parents dine exclusively at Pho Empire and it is quite the world ruler. The restaurant is modern, bright and spacious. My parents know the wait staff by name and how close each staff member is to completing their nursing degree. T.I.M.
On a recent trip to Pho Empire my dad decided to shake up the status quo of the kingdom. He is consistent with his order. A pho noodle soup, size small, with lean cuts of beef and an iced tea. I order the pineapple fried rice with chicken. It comes with a small side of pho broth. I am a big fan of pho broth but not a big fan of rice noodles. The broth in pho soup is so earth shakily good, that I always imagine that there must be a 200 year old yoga instructor steeping in a large soup cauldron, elegantly frozen in a half lotus pose, giving the broth its brilliant flavor. It's that good.
As the pho soup arrived, my father started with is usual routine of customizing it for taste. In went the jalapenos, bean sprouts, mint, leeks, and chili pepper oil. Savory! My dad in particular, has the unique talent of taking the already “exotic” and up staging it. As I started to devour juicy chunks of pineapple I noticed my dad pulling out a small plastic bag from his corner shirt pocket. He had brought a zip lock baggie of BRAN cereal to the restaurant. I stopped eating. "What are you doing with that BRAN dad?” I asked him. "Oh, this is a great way for me to get my fiber," he replied as he sprinkled a small amount onto his soup spoon then lowered it into the seaming broth. I was silenced but not for the obvious reason you may think. The old me would have thrown a fit. To add BRAN cereal to any Asian dish is so preposterous! And to do it in the middle of a public restaurant is "UNCULTURED" by definition. But that would have been the old me. The new me has come to realize just how old my parents have become. I know that my dad was not trying to offend Vietnamese culture nor horribly embarrass me. He was simply trying to keep an old flame burning all awhile making adjustments for old age. "What does it taste like?” I asked. "Here! Try it!” he tossed me the mini zip lock bag across the table. I copied his method of adding the BRAN to the soup spoon and then lowering it into the broth. I let the BRAN soak in the broth for a few seconds and then gulped down the soggy grains. It actually tasted pretty good. Its flavor resembled a hearty homemade oatmeal cookie that spent a semester abroad in Saigon. It was amazing!
