Pho is Not Pho

I have an artist friend whose parents were Vietnamese, and while describing the deliciousness of Pho, the ubiquitous beef noodle soup which seems to soak right into your cells with goodness, she admitted that mostly Pho was Pho; variations are minor.

With respect, she was quite completely wrong. Our Corresponding Secretary enlightened me a while back.

If you have not been to Tu Lan in San Francisco, you have missed a truly ecstatic Pho. If it were ruled by royalty, his name would be Pho King Awesome. His kingdom lies at 6th off Market, near Crackotopia.

To describe Tu Lan as a hole in the wall does not quite get at the sense that you are going to be murdered while getting there, which makes for good directions: walk up Market St until you are convinced you are going to be stabbed by the foaming shoeless crackhead wandering in traffic who holds his nuts nonchalantly while following you, inasmuch as a foaming shoeless crackhead can affect nonchalance, and turn South.

But the reason this he is following you is because he also is going to Tu Lan. He may be a foaming shoeless crackhead with a knife, but he knows from Pho.

Tu Lan is crammed into what should be the storeroom of a stationary shop blazing with flourescents into which someone inexplicable installed an enormous but thin kitchen, plus stools. The host by the register, a cheerful, Italian-looking sort of a Vietnamese guy, is holding a huge roll of cash, which reminds me of one of my favorite maxims: "You can feed the rich and get poor, or you can feed the poor and get rich, " a pearl from Col. Sanders.

A half dozen cooks fry and chop furiously as flames leap to the vent hood, all to the rhythm of a bald man with glasses who barks orders musically. His second at the grill is as serious and focused as any sous chef. But unlike your average steak house, the danger to you with the huge pot of oil for the beef, gigantic flames, flying knifes, tight quarters, is very real.

The menu has two things you want: a mention by the late columinist and ur-San Franciscan Herb Caen from the Chronicle, and a picture of JULIA CHILD happily eating there. The review on the back - from 1981 - is in the nature of a shocked revelation. Still applies.

No long lists of options. Beef, seafood, or meatball? Then: You know you want? Spicy Beef Noodles. You're done.

If you know Pho, you will appreciate that the plate of peppers and sprouts for the Pho is HUGE, and has a huge lemon instead of a lime. Also, much less basil, and with some lettuce: a surprise.

About this time, a guy walks in with the most obviously stolen item I've ever seen- a bluetooth set in a blister package, trying to sell it the owner, the bald guy. It didn't have giant sharpie letters on it that said " I, Street Dude, Larcenously Obtained this Item from the Radio Shack Across the Street" but it might as well have. The owner's name, as the host explains to a grateful customer is "Son of a Gun." Son of Gun takes his only break to look at the bluetooth set, and then talks street guy down to $10, peeled off from the giant wad seen earlier.

But this considerable entertainment is a warm-up: the Pho arrives. The beef is deep fried very briefly, I suspect, and cut much more thickly. The noodles are smaller, softer and tastier, unlike the more gummy rice noodles. The lemon, sprouts, and a whole jalapeno go in. It's all wrong, greasy, indelicate, nearly a beef stew. It is thicker with beef, veggies, noodles, the broth is as balanced but much richer and about five times as flavorful as ordinary Pho. The broth has that sea-water like satisfaction, in the sense of it being like the chemical building blocks of your own blood.

It is massively spicy without any loss of flavor, and much less basil. It is Pho, but so different, so intensely flavored, I can only suspect it is one of those remarkable Bay Area evolutions, both authentic and evolved, particular to California to a day some guy named Frank didn't show up with the limes, when garlic and peppers and beef were on sale and someone just came back from North Beach with a great idea.

Distinct, transcendent pho: I can't stop slurping down the broth. The food chills out everyone. The crackheads mellow out, the slumming foodies get high. A young woman of proud and light bearing, ethically indistinct and transcendently stylish, a perfect San Francisco girl, plays it cool waiting for take out. The calculation can be seen on her expression - the half dozen crazy guys are manageable. Worry is in the mind. Something delicious in another minute is real.

I was informed later that Tu Lan had caught on fire only once (much to my surprise) in the last five years, and everyone spilled in the street, watching the fire and still gobbling up their food. The praisers and prisses can duke it out on the interwebs. They say don't bring a first date- a sensible position with which I disagree. This place will sort out your date- will she get all caught up over health codes, ethics, aesthetics, personal safety and rigid notions of what asian food should be, or will she simply love what is good?