Thai Son: My son.

One of my greatest passions in life can be defined in three letters:

P.

h.

ở.

Out of all my multitudes of reader (nope, not a typo), I’m sure there is at least one of you who does not know what Phở is. Allow me to elaborate:

First and foremost, let us all give respect to Phở by going over its pronunciation. It does NOT rhyme with go, mo, jo, or Kwo. It rhymes with muh, muthafukuh (NOT muthafukAH), duh, and whuh? (like when you’re confused, nah mean?). I have found much success in teaching people the correct pronunciation of this delicious word by instructing them to begin to curse, but not to finish it off.

Onto the juicy beef of the matter, what IS Phở? Phở is primarily a beef and noodle dish drowning in a beef broth that comes from Vietnamese origins. My favorite form of Phở comes with all the trimmings; brisket, tripe, tendons, and fatty flank. I LIVE off of that stuff. Just a hint of onions and scallions… that shit is nuts. It is often served with bean sprouts, fresh mint and/or basil leaves (I can never tell), and some form of citrusy fruit (usually lime or lemon, I prefer lime).

 

You might call Phở a bland soup, and you know what, you would be CORRECT. I am inclined to lean towards agreement to that statement. Sure, the beef broth may be flavorful, but something is missing. Yes, the noodles are not sticky and separate easily in your mouth so that you can taste each individual strand, but that’s missing something too. I agree, the beef is nice and tender and the fat is soft and smooth, but you know what, I would NOT say that everything is ALL THERE. You know why? Because SOMETHING IS MISSING.

For a handsome fella like myself, Phở is NEVER complete without some of that SRIRACHA and some of that HOISIN sauce. The whole point of Phở (and where its GREATNESS comes into play) is that it is a perfect blank slate. What do I mean by that you ask? What does it MEAN to be a perfect blank slate? I mean that it is NOT a blank slate; it is a slate with the perfect basic markings already etched into the stone bowl. Now, go forth my son and make it your own. HERE are your TOOLS:

Phở is singlehandedly the reason why I hold the Vietnamese people in such high regard.

Okay, I get it, you’re drooling at this point. Where might I find some quality Phở? <--- That is what you are asking me right now. Well let me tell you my negro amigo. My favorite spot is Thái Son on Baxter Street in Chinatown, NY. The number is 89 and it is between Walker and White/Bayard Street. Now go give them some of that BITNESS and tell’em Kwok sent ya. That way, I will get phreePhởphoLIFE. No worries; I share.

On the subject of Thái Son, I have been going there for many years. Since day one I was very appreciative of their generous portions of #1 (the head of the fire truck AKA the biggest bowl of Phở they’ve got with all the fixings). The #1 has what *Plane Jane* likes to call, "A CASCADE OF NOODLES." With the vocabulary used to describe that, it HAS to be good. Nevertheless, if #1 doesn’t float your boat, you can always ask that the extra fixings be left out since I know many people who are not into that kinda stuff, or if the portion size is too large for you, the #4 is a less filling option.

Hey, not everybody likes #1, I get that. There’s a huge menu with many different choices. If I’m not feeling the #1 that day, I won’t hesitate to go for the grilled chicken with rice (and I am NOT talking about DRY-ASS-WHITE-MEAT-CHICKEN, the second BANE of my existence). That’s right, that chicken is tender and JUICY. Another favorite option of mine is the curry chicken with bread. One of the reasons I like Vietnamese cuisine is because of the French influence on it. And by French influence, I only mean baguettes. Curry that comes with a warm toasted baguette? Awesome. Vietnamese sandwiches? MADE WITH BAGUETTE.

  

And if you are like my friend, if you’re not ordering the head of the fire truck (if you are still confused about that, my Cantonese friends will know what I mean), then you are getting the Vietnamese steak with fried rice.

 

I am not a fan because personally, I find the meat too tough.

Okay, so you guys get it, I like Phở. I’ve hammered that into your heads already. Why write about it anymore, if at all? To be quite frank with you all, all the preceding text and pictures were just filler. That was basically a tangent I thought I could afford to go on when thinking/writing about the true essence of this entry. And you know what? For what was supposed to be filler, it was pretty damn informative.

The real reason for this post was actually to ensure that a certain group of hard workers will forever live on in some way, shape, or form, in connection with good Phở. What do I mean by this? Well…

Over the past decade, there has been quite some turnover in the staff at Thái Son. People have come and gone. Regulars like *Old Man* and *Nepalese* are no longer with us. Apparently *Old Man* had a bad leg which I can only assume kept him from working and singing “Happy Birthday” like the jovial ole Santa he was. According to my sources, *Nepalese* was tired of working six days a week and retired (that guy looked like he was in his early twenties… I assume he started working again somewhere else).

I was deeply saddened by the thought of never seeing *Old Man* and *Nepalese* ever again, not to even MENTION my favorite staff member; *Crew Cut*. Normally, I would acquire their contact information and harass them incessantly, but this did not seem like the time nor place, nor something I would do to people I care about. So, these guys were in the past, and I was not about to stalk them, so what did that mean for me? I’ll tell you what it means Sherlock. It means that I was going to let the past live in the past and not dig up graves. If I was leaving the past alone… then what else could I do?
Live for the now. Be happy for the moment. Be happy IN the moment. Be grateful for the wonderful staff they currently have.

But I thought about it. There I would go again. Continue eating at Thái Son. Get attached to the waiters/waitresses. And then what? Sure, I had forgotten about the past (not really, but I had done my mourning and my mourning was done). Yes, I was only concerned about the here and now, but in the process of doing that, I had completely disregarded the future. One fateful day or night, I would realize that yet another one of my favorite guys/gals is no longer there. I would slowly forget his/her face, his/her actions, his/her mannerisms, *gasp*, maybe even his/her nickname! A darkness fell upon my life just simply thinking about the possibility of losing the memory of a Thái Son staff member to the abyss. What could I do to prevent this…

Without further ado:

Why do we call him *John Man*? Because my friend, whom we shall call *RumbleChuck*, thinks he looks like a guy called John Man. I personally don’t see it, but hey, John Man is an awesome name and *John Man* is an awesome guy. He is Cantonese and prone to smoking outside Thái Son while peering into the restaurant next door looking at his “friend.” Hey *John Man*, we don’t judge over here, peer all you like!

At one point in *RumbleChuck*’s life, he was taking herbal medicine given to him by his mother that was supposed to cure him of all his allergies. The stipulations of this herbal medicine was that *RumbleChuck* could not consume pork products, spicy things, or alcohol for an extended period of time. So naturally, at some point during the aforementioned extended period of time, we went to Thái Son to eat. *RumbleChuck* wanted some #1, but we were not sure if there were any pork products in there (such as the broth). So we asked *100% Beef* if there were any pork. The response we received was the most adamant response I had ever received in my entire nine lives as a sexy feline.

“NO! No pork at all! It is ALL beef. ALL BEEF.”

And from that moment on, he was known as *100% Beef*.

Ah, *NewPalese*… This guy looks a lot like one of my old favorites; *Nepalese*. *Nepalese* got his nickname because one time I asked him if he was Japanese, which he promptly responded with a question of his own, asking me what I was. After I responded, he said that he and I were neighbors, as he is from Nepal. As such, he became *Nepalese* because every time I saw him I was reminded of our conversation where he revealed to me his place of origin. Sadly, I do not have a photograph of *Nepalese*, BUT, *NewPalese* is the next best thing! If not better.

Like I said before, *NewPalese* looks JUST like *Nepalese*. Also, *NewPalese* is our "new pal," nudge nudge... hence, the nickname. They’re both from Nepal (I think…), and they are practically identical. I asked *NewPalese* if he had a brother, but he said no. I also asked him if he remembered *Nepalese* and he said something that I completely did not understand, but whatever. He’s in the here and now and that’s what I care about.

One time *NewPalese* was checking out a girl, and I looked at him, and he looked at me, and we had a bro-nod moment. That’s all I have to say about that.

What can I say? He looks just like Kung Fu Panda:



He also appears to be the waiter-in-charge, and isn’t Kung Fu Panda in charge of the tiger, snake, monkey, and preying mantis? That’s what I thought.

This guy is a total Thái Son OG so I am glad he has stuck around.

Why *95*? Because he is only correct 95% of the time.

*RumbleChuck* once was ordering his favorite Vietnamese steak with fried rice. He said something along the lines of “I’ll have the Vietnamese steak with fried rice… that’s #130 right?”

*95* IMMEDIATELY INSTANTANEOUSLY responded with “NO! That is #129! VIETNAMESE STEAK WITH FRIED RICE IS #129” and lo and behold, he was correct. *RumbleChuck* and I were astounded by his ability to be correct. No joke, our entire meals were eaten in awe.

After we finished our meals and the table was cleared, *95* came running back around. He seemed a little flustered. “Oh no! Your food STILL has not come out yet?”

*RumbleChuck* and I were like:

 

After a split-second moment of confusion, we explained that we had finished our food, and *95* was off on his merry way. *RumbleChuck* and I immediately convened to discuss. We were still impressed by him, but that 110% sense of being amazed had shrunk. Oh yes, it had shrunk big-time.

And why had it shrunk? I just spent the last two minutes explaining it to you, dumbass. *95* was proved by sheer chance and luck that he was not correct 110% (see the connection?) of the time, as he had so shrewdly yet fraudulently presented himself to be. No, his single blunder in recognizing food delivery showed that he was far from perfect. Using statistical analyses of Thái Son events and complex mathematical algorithms formulated in the biological super-ultra-computer known as my brain, I quickly deduced that *95* was only correct 95% of the time. Hence, his nickname. 

‘Nuff said.