Vietnam: Pho, Part II

The first time I ate Vietnamese food I was a freshman in college.

A group of us from the college newspaper, The Daily Orange, had driven down to Washington, D.C. to cover some protests at the IMF and World Bank. This was on the heels of the big World Trade Organization protests that year in Seattle.

We traveled a lot at The D.O., and those trips are among some of my best college memories, despite the fact you always ended up with an eclectic mish mosh of personalities with nothing in common except for a passion for journalism.

It seems like there were five of us on that trip, driving the five or so hours together from Syracuse, NY and crashing at a Super Eight motel just outside of Washington. We packed so many people in those rooms that somebody always got the floor. I'm not sure how I got through my four years there never having that privilege.

We registered as credentialed members of the media and met up with some kids from SU, spending the better part of the day traipsing around Washington following these peace-loving activists.

The most vivid memory I have of that day was walking with this group of 20 or so protesters as they stopped outside of the World Bank building. All of the sudden, about three times as many police in riot gear appeared and came charging at us. Protesters started running everywhere and the riot police went after them.

For some reason it seemed like a good idea to pull this reporter I was with into a little alcove of a building we were standing in front of to get out of the fray. But one of the riot police saw us there, came up and pointed his gun of pepper spray right at us.

"We're with the media," I yelled, holding up my press credentials.

"I don't care," he said, dousing us with pepper spray.

I guess it could have been worse. I watched one of the guys we were with get clubbed by another officer. But the thing that really sucks about pepper spray is that after the initial sting, it calms down, but reactivates when it gets wet.

Then it started raining.

We kept moving forward though, tired, wet and burning, following the protesters around Washington and covering the story. I don't remember how we did it or when, but at some point we must have filed something.

I don't think we ate all day, and at the end of many hours out and about we all agreed to meet up on M Street. Somehow we ended up at this Vietnamese buffet.

It was a small buffet, no bigger than a typical kitchen table. I don't remember what I ate. All I remember is that everything was amazing. There was just something about the the wholesome warmth of the flavors that I found so comforting after all this drama. Besides, I was really hungry.

I fear my pho pales in comparison to my memories of this first Vietnamese experience. The broth seems to greasy, despite my efforts to skim the fat from it. The short ribs were probably a bad call. Some other recipes called for ox tail.

Still, for some reason as I sat on the patio last night smelling the aroma of the beef stock brewing with the scent of the onions and anise it brought back all these memories.

I guess it's one of those things I may never know whether that Vietnamese place was really that good, or if it was the moment that made the memory.