HOW WE MADE OUR NEW PHO
Cut me open and I will pour out broth. In Vietnam, phở is mostly eaten outside the home. Elsewhere, it became the dish no immigrant could live without—a lifetime of craving. A weekly pot of phở simmers quietly in the background, exhaling the perfume of its goodness.
Over the years, while cooking for my weekly Vietnamese supper clubs, I’ve seen bowls of phở tranquillise jubilant birthday crowds as well as alleviate grief among mourners. We are here because she loved eating phở, they’d tell me, remembering and celebrating a beautiful Rosie.
Even after my own father’s funeral, my uncle and I rushed to a phở restaurant, sat, and waited in silence.
When the steaming bowls arrived, they soothed decades of pain and family drama; each sip cradled the loss as if it were a sympathising friend.
I’ve spent over a decade writing and thinking about phở, as it has popped up in almost everything I do. A simple bowl of nourishment—sustenance, purpose, nostalgia, and a sense of belonging—brings humane comfort, if only for twenty minutes.
Would you like to re-develop Borough Broth’s chicken phở recipe? said Ros Heathcote, founder of Borough Broth. It would mean anyone could buy a pack of broth from the supermarket and eat phở whenever the craving hit.