Phở, a kind of soul food

My mother would say, “I’m hungry for some pho,” and right on cue my dad would get up, go upstairs, put on his going out clothes, and I would follow right behind him. Moments later we would meet out at the car and off we went. Out of our drive way we would head south down Federal street to a nondescript single family home located on an ordinary street in a typical suburban neighborhood. Once there we would all file out, knock on the door and was thusly escorted down to the basement were other like minded Vietnamese were gathered. One long table was set up in the middle of the room that accommodated perhaps fifteen to twenty happy noodle slurping patrons seated quite closely to one another. The close proximity didn’t really seem to bother anybody, once you’re in your world of pho; nothing else really seems to matter. After a short while three seats became available, once seated we proceed to order. My brother would come along too but he was too little for a seat so he sat on my mother’s lap, “no space to spare,” the lady would always say. I always got the same thing, Phở Tái, Bò Viên (rare beef with meatballs).