Nhật

It’s called Nhật.

It means one or most in Vietnamese. A fitting name for it is truly the most delicious pho you will ever experience in your life. All others shrink in comparison. If you ever find yourself in Mesa, Arizona, seek it out. It’s so divine that even on 117 degree days during the unrelenting southwest summer months, the cravings for the steaming hot soup will compel you out of your air conditioned dwelling to devour the succulent golden nectar. Cumulatively over the years, I have handed over whole paychecks to this place. I say this with no hyperbole.

It’s housed in an old brick building, painted white. It used to be a Taco Bell way back when, distinctively identified by the three large arched windows that make up the building front. When you go, do not be put off by the idiosyncrasies of the interior. It is nothing fancy. Jade green Formica tables with black metal framed chairs (although there is one table that is a holdover from the Taco Bell days, a two seater with worn wooden chairs bolted to the floor at a dark blue table top), a fish tank filled with water but devoid of any fish, and an old wooden menu header above the payment counter that sits vacant. Depending on the time of day you go, you might see one of the larger tables stacked with a multitude of used bowls and plastic glasses half full with melting ice, all awaiting their turn for a trip to the dishwasher. Don't scream out health code violations or any such nonsense. I guarantee everything is fine and the oral reward far surpasses any slight to the ocular.

The restaurant is a two person affair managed by a married Vietnamese couple. The setup is simple: he runs the front end, she runs the back end. His name is Juan and he is a man of few words. Do not expect the Applebee's or TGIF experience of circling waiters swinging by every 5 minutes to check if you need a refill or extra sauce. He makes two trips to your table: one to deliver your beverage, one to deliver your food.

In all the years my friends and I have patronized Nhat, we have never seen the wife leave the kitchen. She is busy in the back crafting miracles. You can see her when you’re at the payment counter, a short woman with shiny black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She spends her days tucked away amongst an assortment of pots and pans at a large gas stove, crafting savory potions to enchant your taste buds. I’ll catch her eye sometimes when paying and give her a wave, a small gesture of gratitude for the immense pleasure her concoctions give me. She returns my greeting with a smile and quick wave of her own.

Pick any pho on the menu. They are all sublime. But really, when I say pick any pho on the menu, I mean pick 21, the well done beef brisket. Think of Blackjack to help you to remember, 21 is always the winner. The irony of this singular praise is that there is an entire menu of items they serve I have never tried, half of them not pho. I believe at least 50 different offerings, undoubtedly delectable dishes I never venture to experience. No matter, I am monogamous with 21. When I look around at the other customers, it seems they all share the same sentiment with their selected, slurping heartily and greedy from their bowls.

And then it comes.

First Juan brings out the small platter of garnishes: fresh bean sprouts white as marble, lime halves compact with fat, juicy cells waiting to rupture and burst at the slightest compression of your fingers, luscious leaves of mature Thai basil ready to be plucked from their purple stalks and shredded for their aromatics, and thin slices jalapeno with a soft crunch and a hot bite.

Then he brings forth the main attraction, a short wide bowl filled with tender rice noodles, soaked and warmed in a hot bath of rich golden broth, adorned with translucent jewels of fat floating on the surface with chopped cilantro, diced green onions, and a hefty pile of slivered grilled beef. My friends and I have a ritual each time we go: we try a spoonful of the broth virgin before we start adding the sauces and toppings, rolling it around on our palette, absorbing the sweet brine like religious devotees receiving communion. Then we dispense with modesty and begin to heap the garnishes in, drizzling them with varying doses of soy sauce, sriracha, a spicy chili vinegar paste known as sambal oelek, and hoisin sauce, constructing our own mini masterpieces, almost too attractive to disrupt. Almost.

Then, with chopsticks brandished like sharpened lances, we plunge in and begin to shovel it all in. Each bite is ecstasy, a joy of its own, with the knowledge that each succeeding bite will be as equally superb. Or, put another way, we try our best to follow the model of Goku, hoovering it all in as if it were a small river that flowed effortlessly from mouth to stomach.

Go get yourself a bowl, I’m about to.