Scene from a Noodle Shop

Pho Dau Bo (Finch W and Rumike)

Crammed onto the 36 Eastbound,

A short bus ride never hurt anyone.

Only 8 minutes to Finch and Rumike,

Not too far from Jane and the city’s

Most infamous of intersections.

Tucked behind the Vietnamese supermarket,

Lies a strip mall, typical of North York.

Our destination today is Pho Dau Bo.

A pho joint unlike no other, in a city full of them.

The smiling cashier greets us hello,

As does the unexplained laughing cow,

Of the same-named cheese product.

Portions are big here, prices small.

Each table is adorned with containers of

Chopsticks and Chinese soup spoons,

Paired with the traditional condiments

Like sriracha, hoisin, and nước mắm.

Never a long wait, our warm bounty arrives.

Bowls of gossamer noodles,

Tangled amongst the well-done brisket,

Rare and paper-thin flank steak,

And gelatinous morsels of beef tendon

Drifting in a rich and scalding hot broth.

Pleasant smells waft through the restaurant.

Sweet and aromatic star anise,

Perfume every delightful slurp of noodle and broth,

The plate of accoutrements,

Sawtooth and cilantro and basil,

Provides its own olfactory symphony.

The predominantly Vietnamese clientele

Speak in their mother tongue.

Though whispers of Spanish are heard, too.

Unashamed slurping is a universal dialect.

The sounds one does not hear

Are equally, if not more, important.

Unlike the trendier ramen shops of the south,

There aren’t any cameras flashing,

No inquires of the inclusion of MSG

Nor condescending attempts at broken English.

We are at a strip mall in North York,

No walkable subway stops nearby.

No overhead streetcar wires

Visible through the storefront window.

Yet it’s still more Toronto than Saigon.