Everything you need to know about pho at KC

When he was growing up in Saigon, Zen Nguyen’s typical breakfast was pho. He walked to one of his neighborhood food stalls and paid the equivalent of twenty-five cents for a bowl of hot pho. Most stores opened at dawn and sold out by mid-morning. But that was almost two decades ago, Nguyen says. These days, a bowl of pho in Vietnam’s bustling ancient capital will set you back around two dollars. As enterprising store owners have noted the popularity of pho among the younger generation, many open up for lunch or dinner.

A good bowl of pho bo (bone broth, thinly sliced ​​rib eye, rice noodles and a bunch of cilantro, basil and bean sprouts) is affirmative. Traditionally, street vendors balanced clay pots at each end of a long shoulder post, catering to the needs of laborers who needed a nourishing start to the day. (You can still find a few older women selling pho this way in Saigon, Nguyen says.)

Pho Lan. Photograph by Caleb Condit and Rebecca Norden.

In 2011, when he was eighteen, Nguyen emigrated to the United States, staying with his family in Kansas City while pursuing a career in dance (Nguyen teaches hip-hop dance and does choreography) . His relatives took him to a local restaurant for a home taste: pho. He could only handle a few bites. “It wasn’t good,” he said, shaking his head.

Nguyen regretted the flavors of his homeland, the way the local ingredients were tasted together. He also missed the ubiquitous street food: “Here, when you are hungry and don’t want to cook, you order food at a restaurant,” he says, “but in Vietnam you wake up and a food vendor comes. at your house. door. “Each vendor has a unique bell so that hungry customers can hear their favorite hu tieu cart turn around the corner. Compared to some of the creations offered by the street food artists of Saigon, Nguyen doesn’t think that pho is so exciting. But it is, he says, one of the most important dishes in the kitchen and it’s a moment in Kansas City. The last few years have seen the arrival of a pho spot. driving in Johnson County and an over the counter pho restaurant in a casino, which I have both tried in the past few weeks. I have visited other pho venues – nine in total – and each bowl was very different from the next one.

Pho is Vietnam’s national dish, but there is no consensus on the taste of the perfect pho. North Vietnam pho has nothing to do with South Vietnam pho, which most restaurants in the area serve. The answer to what makes a good pho varies as much as the answer to what makes a good cheeseburger.

The first name most people in KC mention is Vietnamese coffee in Columbus Park. Since the husband-wife team Minh Hoang and Ngoc Le opened the store seven years ago, it has gained a reputation as the gold standard here. Its popularity necessitated an expansion of the dining hall, which took place during the Covid-19 shutdown. Nguyen briefly worked at Vietnam Cafe years ago and ordered his favorite dishes from Le in Vietnamese. The plates follow each other quickly: banh xeo, tom cuon (addicting fried shrimp rolls) and steaming bowls of pho and bo kho.

Banh xeo translates to “sizzling pancakes” and they look like omelets, but there is no egg: the folded golden pancake is a combination of dough made from rice flour, coconut milk and turmeric. . At Vietnam Cafe, they’re stuffed with shrimp, sliced ​​pork rolls, raw white onions, and bean sprouts. I mirrored Nguyen by breaking up a portion, rolling it in a lettuce leaf with fresh basil, and dipping it in a bowl of fish sauce. It was a messy and unglamorous bite that nonetheless encapsulated everything that makes up Vietnamese cuisine: meat, aromatic herbs, crunchy vegetables and spices that linger on the tongue.

Our pho dac biet – pho ba on steroids, given its combination of sliced ​​rib eye, beef meatballs, brisket, flank and tripe – is also filled with chopped white onions, green onions. and thin rice noodles. The usual accoutrements are stacked on an accompanying plate. But when it comes to pho, it’s the broth that matters most. I was distracted by a cacophony of cloves and star anise, which gave each sip a sweet and slightly bitter aftertaste, as if they had been added too early to the broth and had lost their strength. I said this to Nguyen, who shrugged his shoulders. “I never order the pho here,” he said before heading to the bo kho, which he requested with a baguette instead of noodles. It was as if an entirely different chef had prepared this stew, its cloudy broth floating around with chunks of braised beef, pearly onions and painfully tender orange carrots. Here, star anise and cinnamon flirt with lemongrass, garlic, ginger and Thai chili peppers. Southeast Asia meets beef bourguignon.

Vietnamese coffee. Photograph by Caleb Condit and Rebecca Norden.

Within a mile of Vietnam Cafe you will find Pho Lan, which opened in June in the former Pho KC space. You’ll usually see owner Aiden Truong sneaking between the cash register and the kitchen, where his mother, Lan Duong, and uncle, Thanh Truong, perform the southern Vietnamese dishes they grew up with.

“Vietnamese restaurants claim authenticity a lot,” Aiden suggests. “What I want people to know is that pho can be made in so many different ways. Two pho places side by side in Vietnam will taste totally different. Pho Lan’s recipes are the ones that the family Aiden has been using for generations. “I want people to feel like part of our family, our kitchen, and if you were in our kitchen in Vietnam, this is what it would look like.”

Vietnamese coffee. Photograph by Caleb Condit and Rebecca Norden.

The nem nuong – a bright red plate of gloriously fatty homemade pork sausage – gets a sweet and sour marinade before being deep-fried and sliced ​​into thick fingers. The starter-sized squid plate undergoes rigorous preparation, with large rings first coated in salt and pepper, then coated in rice flour and fried and finally sautéed with onions before stacking at the top of a small vegetable patch. Also essential: bo luc lac (“shake the beef”), a humble stir-fry dish transformed by a combination of fish sauce and spices into something sacred.

Everything is good, right down to the rangoon crab which is visibly full of pale pink surimi. But the pho stands out, and not just because there are two broths on offer.

“We have the beef broth, sure, but my mom wanted to incorporate her version of a chicken broth,” Aiden says. “We simmer chicken bone marrow over low heat throughout the day, starting at six in the morning. This is one of the secrets. The more it simmers, the better. “

Aiden shares more secrets: Anise seeds and cloves are roasted before being added to the pot, and the family recipe calls for just a hint of cinnamon. Both Pho Lan broths are subtle, the flavors blossoming with every sip.

Pho Lan. Photograph by Caleb Condit and Rebecca Norden.

“It’s really awesome,” Nguyen told me after a spoonful of pho dac biet from Pho Lan, delighted on his features.

Ask a Kansas citizen what their favorite barbecue restaurant is and they’ll likely ask you what kind of barbecue you’re looking for – this place has the best beef brisket, but they’ll send you somewhere else for baby back ribs. Pho enthusiasts will follow the same principle: don’t ask, “Do you want to get some pho?” Instead, ask, “What kind of pho do you want to get?” »Do you like your broth strongly spiced or more sober? Maybe you want some seafood pho? Homemade noodles? It’s good to have different options. If something isn’t quite to your liking, there’s always hoisin and sriracha on the table.

On Nguyen’s recommendation, I also went to Cafe Life in Overland Park. This counter cafe has been running since 2010. I wanted to taste what Nguyen considers the best pho he has had outside of Vietnam. The beef broth was dark mahogany and bright bubbles of fat filled the surface of the bowl. (“In Vietnam, they’ll ask for an extra side of that,” Nguyen told me.) I dipped my spoon and tasted… too much clove. And way too much anise. I wrinkled my nose and reached for the sriracha. This one wasn’t for me, but there’s always another one that is.