It was cold, so we ate phở and drank hot Sake. The end.
Phở (foe). Such a simple word—a word Carey spoke so confidently while we discussed the menu. “Remember when we had phở in Richmond?” “Fishballs, meatballs, or chicken for your phở?” I was so impressed by her confident Asian-ness. I even requested she place the order. But when our 90 pound, kimono clad server touched tip of pencil to tongue, the proud assurance slipped away. All was not lost though, and with a quakey finger and a flick of submissive eyes, Carey pointed to her formidable phở. Yum.
[Editor’s note. I am crying laughing right now reading this, Rob.]