for the love of Pho

Hungry Ghost Contributor Julian Richards writes in from Saigon. Read his tongue twisting tale of Pho.


First morning in Saigon, alone.  Asian jet-lag is akin to being forcep-birthed underwater: thoughts percolate but become slurry en route to the mouth.  Lips are earthworms, eyes jaundiced lychees webbed with capillaries, moist fish balls.  Gerbil tongue.  Moss teeth.  I slither down the staircase of my one-star on Búi Viện, thin haired, darkly bespectacled and retaining water, like a cheap, hungover Elton John.  Out onto the street into a seething pirhana-shoal of motor-scooters.  A suety white man perhaps five years my senior is instantly, mercilessly sideswiped a mere 10 feet from where I stand. He goes down hard, flopping like a carp.  I turn round and go back into my hotel.  The receptionist and her friend look at me gravely.  "Phở", they say.


LA SUPERIOR
295 BERRY STREET WILLIAMSBURG BROOKLYN