I’m in Corpus Christi for some supplies, and I decide to get lunch at Phở 88. I’ve been here several times and it’s always been pretty good, even if the service is a bit inconsistent.
Out front there’s a lifted F-250 in the handicap space. I’m only 6’2”, not tall enough to see if there’s a placard hanging from the rearview mirror.
I walk in immediately behind a mother and her three sons, so it looks like we’re together, but they take a table in the middle of the dining room and I keep walking to an empty seat in the corner.
I lost my phone in a river in Tennessee last weekend. Miraculously, someone found it and turned it in at the kayak rental place, but it’s still on its way back to me via UPS, apparently in some kind of horse-drawn carriage or ox cart, given how long it’s taking.
Without a phone to stare at, I’m forced to observe the other people in the restaurant.
I order an iced tea and some egg rolls. This is a boba joint, but I’ve never gotten into boba. Somehow, a drink with a bunch of little balls in it doesn’t appeal to me. I also don’t like a lot of brightly colored, sugary drinks. I don’t know if all boba is sugary but also I don’t care.
When my egg rolls arrive I order phở tái nạm. I don’t like tripe or tendon, and I detest the texture of Vietnamese meatballs, so I stick to the premium cuts. Call me a snob.
I’m sitting near an emergency exit. It’s locked, but it can be opened from the inside without a key, so if we’re attacked with nuclear bombs, I’ll be able to get outside safely.
A teenage kid repeatedly tries to open the door from the outside, despite the large arrow and lettering that reads, “Please use other door.”
He has a girlfriend who can read. They make their way to the main entrance. The restaurant is mostly empty, but they choose a table right next to mine.
They place their orders as I finish my egg rolls. The texture of the filling is a little too soft and uniform, and the shrimp imparts a bit of a fishy odor, but I still eat them.
The teenagers’ food arrives, despite the fact that they ordered it at least five minutes after I did. It will be another five minutes before I have my soup.
The kids I walked in with all have boba. It looks … unpotable, but they’re enjoying it. My iced tea glass is empty.
On the other side of the room, two women are having lunch and looking at their phones. The one facing me holds hers at eye level, taunting me. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, and one of those shirts with a strap over only one shoulder, like some sort of boob sarong.
She gets something in her eye. It’s clear that she’s in pain, but I can think of nothing I can do to help her. If I had some saline solution I’d gladly give it to her, but alas I do not.
If I had something in my eye in a Vietnamese restaurant I’d head straight for the peppers. A dab of hot pepper in the tear duct and you’ll flush out whatever’s giving you trouble. But I also understand that some people don’t like to deliberately put things like that in their eyes.
After a couple minutes of painful maneuvering, she is able to remove the offending object, and immediately becomes concerned about her makeup. It’s probably what got into her eye in the first place. She checks her face with her phone, and everything appears to be in the right location.
Her friend gets up to pay — beautiful, in an outfit that starts as a summery, floral top, showing a fair amount of skin, but becomes increasingly conservative on the way down: black tights under her shorts, then frilly ankle socks and rather stern-looking leather shoes. I don’t know enough about women’s clothing to give a better description, or enough about fashion to know whether she looks weird or not.
The women leave and a Vietnamese man with a fedora and tattooed arms takes their place with his female companion. They have a certain air about them, but I’m not sure if they own the place, or they’re just regulars, or something else entirely. They appear to be watching, evaluating.
They both sit on the same side of the table, their backs to the wall. I try to do the same in public places — I like to see what’s coming — but their fatal mistake was choosing a spot too far from the emergency exit. They will not outrun the nukes.
My phở arrives, brought by a different server than the one who took my order. She asks if I’d like a drink refill, and I say yes.
She takes my empty glass and quickly returns with a full one, but I haven’t received my garnish plate — the Thai basil, bean sprouts, lime wedge, and jalapeño slices. I get the feeling they’ve forgotten it, because it usually comes before the soup is delivered, so I ask if it’s coming. The server says yes, matter-of-factly, without any hint of irritation or disdain, and somehow that makes me feel like an asshole.
When she returns for the third time, my garnish plate in hand, I notice that my dispenser has no soup spoons. I ask her to grab one for me from a nearby table. Now it has no spoons.
I pick apart the basil, inspecting the leaves, and finding them to be green and healthy, I decide to use all of them. I tear up the larger ones and put the small ones in whole. I smell them as I pull them apart.
I try to squeeze every drop of juice from my lime wedge. I would have liked a second one.
My jalapeño slices are very thin, and have only one or two seeds between them, so I leave them mostly intact. I normally break them up into tiny pieces to spread them more uniformly through the soup.
The bean sprouts are similarly scant; I usually leave some out, but not this time.
I have no chili sauce. Some tables have it, but mine does not. I don’t want to make a scene, nor do I want to wait for the server to come back, so I make do with sriracha, which is not as good.
As I begin to stir the ingredients into my broth, I can feel the noodles clumped together in the bottom of my bowl. It takes some extra work to pull them apart.
The teenage couple pays their bill and heads back to school or wherever they came from.
A man and a woman enter. She sits by the main entrance, but the man walks past her and sits at the table behind her, with his back to me. For a brief moment I think they’re a weird couple.
A minute later a man with long gray hair joins the woman at her table. A server brings menus to both tables.
Two teenage girls walk in; they know the woman and her companion and greet them in Vietnamese. They consider sitting nearby, but opt for a seat on the other side of the restaurant, next to the man with the fedora.
As I eat my soup, I’m missing that second lime wedge. The salt content is just right; it’s acid that’s lacking.
The family I came in with takes the rest if their food to go. The kids were impressed with whatever rice dish they ordered.
The man with his back to me is fidgeting. He wants to order, but multiple people have lined up at the cash register and the servers are all busy. He still tries to flag one down, but after several failed attempts, he leaves without having received so much as a napkin, let alone a drink.
Two men from the register line finish paying for their food and exit the building. I’ve been hearing them talk the entire time I’ve been here, despite being in the other side of the dining room. They aren’t loud, but their voices carry. I wonder if mine does that.
They walk over to the F-250 in the handicap slot, and seem to have no trouble climbing into it. As the truck backs out of the space, I might see a placard hanging from the mirror, but it could also be an air freshener. Between the glare, the window tint, and my low angle, I can’t tell.
My soup improves as I eat more of it.
An older woman tries to open the emergency exit from the outside, but she stops trying sooner than the teenage kid did, which I attribute to wisdom and experience.
I mentally rehearse turning the latch and slipping outside; if it doesn’t turn clockwise I might be boned.
A fancy-looking middle-aged woman arrives to pick up her to-go order. She looks like she’s come from the gym, but not like she’s been sweating. She has expensive sunglasses and a long shirt that makes it seem like she forgot to wear pants. Her legs are thin and pasty, almost certainly the way she likes them.
I manage to delay my coughing fit until my soup is nearly gone. I always seem to get a little bubble of spicy broth in my windpipe. This time it’s small enough that I only have to cough once or twice to eliminate it.
I finish my soup. I don’t know if it’s polite to drink the broth straight from the bowl. I never see anyone else do it, but I’m not wasting a drop. I’ve had better, but even mediocre phở broth is special.
I’d like my bill, but no one brings it. A man delivers some soup spoons to a couple tables nearby, but there are still fewer spoons at each table than there are seats.
My server is taking two large bowls to the man with the fedora and his partner. There are huge bones sticking out of the bowls, and I am intrigued. She sets them on a nearby table so she can serve them one at a time.
She gives the woman her bowl first. Then, as she carries the man’s bowl to him, it slips out of her hands and shatters on the floor between him and the two teenage girls.
One of the girls wipes splattered broth from her leg. The man moves over to put some distance between himself and the spill. He’s remaining calm, smiling.
I’ve learned that not every smile means the same thing.
The server apologizes and leaves the area.
The man who brought the soup spoons quickly moves in with a broom and dustpan. The shrapnel clinks as he sweeps.
The blast radius is around six feet. Fedora Man might have escaped if he’d been more fleet of foot, and sat closer to the emergency exit.
The excitement has passed, and now I want to leave. There’s a Baskin-Robbins next door and I could go for some peanut butter and chocolate.
I walk to the register. “Table three.”
I leave a 20% tip. I’m not sure why.
I leave the restaurant and go directly to my car, parked just outside the door. I forget about the ice cream. I don’t want it enough to get back out of the car.
Through the glass storefront, I can see the man who swept up the spill arrive with a mop and bucket.
I need to buy some peat moss.