Pho 170: A Perfect Pregame

It was 8 p.m. on a Saturday night and I was at a crossroads. I had reached that point in the evening where the prospect of going out was becoming more concrete. Yet, the awkward standing on Fountain was still hours away. What was I to do? I’d spent the entire day procrastinating homework and obviously couldn’t start now. There was a world where I continued listening to Pavement while lying on the carpet. But that’s not a world I wanted to be in. It was time to get active. It was time to go to Pho 170.

The original plan was to go with a friend. However, the day before, the aforementioned pal informed me that they had planned a day-long self-realization quest, which for some reason could not be squared with hot soup. Disappointed but not disheartened, I steeled myself for the dreaded solo dinner. And yet, over the years, I’ve learned to fear the lone supper less and less. If you’re able to ignore the jeers of those with friends, it can actually be a delightful experience. It’s just you and the food. And reels. But mainly you and the food. You can commune with it, monologue to it, question its wants and dreams. You can even shake hands with it. Don’t do that with pho. But you get the point. Eat alone more; it’s fun. 

I, having made peace with solitude, left my Low Rise in search of soup. I entered into the brisk air, elated that Middletown had stopped feeling like Florida, jaywalked across Main Street, and entered Pho 170’s inauspicious storefront. A poster celebrating a sixth grader’s accomplishments in their school’s STEAM program adorned the opposite wall. I cracked open the menu to find an eclectic mix of Vietnamese, Thai, and even Chinese fare. In previous visits to the restaurant, I’ve engaged in the Thai grub, ordering (and loving) the pineapple fried rice and the pad see ew. I knew what I was here for though. It’s literally in the name. 

But, first, fresh rolls. I opted for the shrimp and pork option, disappointing my kosher great-grandparents. Coming out almost immediately, the rolls consisted of the aforementioned meats (in pate form for the pork), lettuce, and charmingly delicate vermicelli noodles. The flora and fauna were wrapped up in rice paper, topped with shredded carrots, and served with a vaguely goopy sweet and spicy sauce. There’s really only one word to describe the rolls, and it’s…well…fresh. Light, balanced, crunchy but not about to concuss, the rolls settled the stomach and satisfied the palate. The rice paper had a delicately lovely pull to it, a bit of joyful resistance. The sweet and spicy sauce was more tangy than truly spicy, but was a nifty addition of flavor to a dish that’s more texture based than anything else. The rolls also paired excellently with chili crisp (one of the strengths of Pho 170 is the restaurant’s provided cacophony of condiments), and provided for a promising start. 

But then came the big swinger of the meal, the combination pho. A menagerie of meat, the hulking bowl of soup was filled with flank steak, brisket, and amorphous balls of beef. These meats floated in an herbaceous-yet-hearty broth, the metronome of the meal. The broth, even unadorned, is a triumph of long-term simmering. The soup was served topped with scallions, onions, and cilantro. Alongside the soup came a plate of bean sprouts, mint, lime, and jalapeños. These accoutrements, plus the aforementioned condiments, provided for an excellent opportunity to doctor the soup up. And I’m glad to report I recently received my gastronomical Ph.D.

Sriracha. Sprouts. Chili crisp. Mint. Lime. More sprouts. Golden Mountain seasoning sauce. No jalapeños since I’m a wimp. More sprouts. Once my cup had literally runneth over, I knew it was time to indulge. The first slurp was sublime. Full bodied, spicy enough to wake up the sinuses, the soup was a chiropractor for the soul. 

I then got to the scavenger hunt of finding the bits and bobs of meat nestled within the soup’s rice noodles. The brisket was uncovered first. Tender, chewy, a perfect bit of umami. A delightful bite of flank steak followed afterwards. And then I dug back into the broth, which truly set things apart. The mint added a wholly new flavor element. The lime did what lime does. The smattering of chili crisp dollops made me grab for my water, but only once every four bites. I was hearing this soup in my ears. 

After a bit more perusing, I found another prize: a beef ball. Both linguistically and visually unappealing, it’s understandable to be circumspect about these pieces of circular sustenance. But goodness they are gratifying. Think savory boba. My god, this soup is good.

As I worked my way through the pho, a talkative millennial couple sat down next to me. They, like me, ordered the pho. As I took a reprieve later in the meal, I noticed something: The couple’s conversation had ceased. But, it wasn’t due to a marital spat; the soup just demanded too much attention. 

I reached the dregs of the soup, crunched on a couple more bean sprouts, and then had to tap out. I was disappointed by my performance, but heartened by the general experience. I paid (the combination pho will run you $17, which is frankly a good deal for how much food you get), talked with the owners for a bit, and joyfully departed into the prospects of a young Saturday night. My lips were burning. My nose was running. I could not have been happier.

Eli Pearl is a member of the class of 2028 and can be reached at epearl@wesleyan.edu.