Pho and the price of rice
Breakfast in Hanoi is best eaten on the pavement. Around five o’clock every morning, the sellers of pho (to pronounce it, say “fur” gently), Vietnam’s noodle soup, trundle their stalls by bicycle or moped through the waking streets. Usually middle-aged women, they set up on corners or in front of office doors. There they unload their fresh rice noodles, bundles of garlic greens, mint and bean sprouts, mounds of finely sliced beef or chicken, and the vat of stock—the secret of a great pho—straw gold, delicate, flavoured perhaps with star anise and cinnamon and…
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