One of my favourite things about living in a big city is going out for Pho. And although I know you must pronounce it – Fa, I just can’t do it. I tried switching and my family laughed at me. Potayto, potato, I guess.
So Pho it is. I chose to go to my favourite Pho Anh’s for my birthday dinner. What could be better? It is usually not too expensive and I always feel healthy afterwards, not too full. I know that later I will have room for birthday cake.
I have recently read some memoirs by Ruth Reichl. I have enjoyed her books titled, Tender At The Bone and Not Becoming My Mother. There are more out there I am told. She was a restaurant critic for the New York Times. She was working in a restaurant, when one day someone asked her, “would you like to write a food column for us?” and she said, “okay, I’ll try it.”
I am a wee bit jealous that no one has approached me to do something fun like this. I have had someone ask me to help them clean out their shed, and to feed their cat when they went away on holidays. No one has asked me to write a column for tons of money while I served them a plate of chicken wings at one of the many restaurants I have worked in while paying my way through university. ( Although I did get invited to be a side kick for my friend’s gig as a singing telegram once, but no monies were involved).
Yesterday my husband made a batch of wonton soup from scratch to use up some frozen wonton wrappers in the freezer. He used some leftover chicken thighs for stock with some sesame oil, soy sauce and ginger for extra flavouring. He then chopped up some shrimp and the rest of the chicken thighs for the wonton fillings and added some garlic, egg, pepper and more ginger.
Today the soup was even better when he added some chopped cauliflower, carrots, leftover mushrooms and a handful of frozen peas.
I have decided to invite myself to write a food critique on this soup dining experience. I give it four golden spoons. The highest rating in my system is five. The wontons, although flavourful, had a few pieces of cartilage left inside, which had to be spit out in a napkin. The cook was also a little bit heavy-handed on the ginger pieces. The ambience although homey, was a bit too homey, with dog hair on the couch where we ate, while we balanced our bowls precariously in our laps. I had to clean up my own dishes afterwards. Otherwise, I will definitely eat in this joint again. If I don’t get in trouble for this piece that is.