Phở: the breakfast that takes all night

There is a particular kind of calm in a bowl of phở. The broth is clear enough that you can see the noodles resting at the bottom, the steam smells warm and faintly sweet, and nothing on the surface shouts for attention. Then you take the first spoonful and realise how much is going on underneath.

That calm is the work of hours. Phở is traditionally eaten first thing in the morning, which means somebody started the pot long before you woke up. I find that a lovely thing to think about in the few seconds before you pick up your chopsticks.

Where it comes from

Phở is the noodle soup of Vietnam, but its home is the north. Most accounts place its birth in the early twentieth century, in and around Hanoi and the province of Nam Định to the south-east. Beyond that, the story turns hazy. Food historians point to a mix of influences: Chinese noodle traditions on one side, and on the other the beef that became more common in northern Vietnam during French colonial rule.

Even the name is argued over. Some suggest it echoes the French pot-au-feu, a beef-and-broth dish; others trace it to a Chinese word for rice noodles. Nobody has settled it, and I rather like that a soup this precise has such a loose origin story.

Phở then travelled. Many accounts tie its journey south to 1954, when the country was divided and large numbers of northerners moved to the south, bringing their soup with them. In Saigon it picked up new habits, and from there, with Vietnamese communities settling abroad, it eventually spread around the world.

The broth is the dish

A good phở broth starts with beef bones, simmered slowly for hours so the stock turns deep and savoury without going cloudy. Onion and ginger are charred first, over a flame or under a grill, until their skins blacken. That char brings a gentle smokiness and a rounder sweetness.

Then come the whole spices: star anise, cinnamon and cloves, with other spices in many kitchens. They are there to perfume the broth rather than to flavour it like a curry, and to my taste the best bowls stop just short of tasting "spiced" at all. Fish sauce seasons the pot, and the result is savoury, slightly sweet and warm, with that soft anise note hanging over everything.

Chicken phở, phở gà, follows the same logic with a paler, lighter stock. Beef phở, phở bò, is the one most people know, and it comes with decisions. Tái means thin slices of raw beef laid on top, which cook in the hot broth as you watch. Chín means well-done meat such as brisket. Many shops also offer tendon, tripe or beef balls (bò viên). A mix is perfectly normal, and I think it is the right call the first time.

North and south in one bowl

In Hanoi, the bowl tends to be spare: broth, noodles, beef, a scattering of spring onion and herbs. Chilli and lime are usually within reach, and you may be offered fried dough sticks (quẩy) to dip. The point is the broth, and you are trusted to taste it.

Southern phở, the style that grew up in Saigon and later went abroad, arrives with company. A plate of fresh herbs comes alongside, often Thai basil and sawtooth coriander, with bean sprouts, lime wedges and sliced chilli. Bottles of hoisin and chilli sauce sit on the table. You build your own bowl as you go.

Neither is more "authentic". They are two answers to the same question: how much should the eater interfere? I lean north for the first few spoonfuls and south for the rest, which probably says something about my patience.

How to eat it

• Taste before you touch anything. Take a spoonful of the plain broth first. It is what the cook spent the night on.
• Add herbs a little at a time. Tear the basil and coriander and drop them in by the leaf, so they wilt in the heat instead of turning the bowl into a salad.
• Consider a side dish for sauces. Many people squeeze hoisin and chilli sauce into a small saucer for dipping the meat rather than stirring them into the soup, which keeps the broth clear. Do as you like, but try it once.
• Use both hands. Chopsticks lift the noodles, the spoon carries the broth, and you can guide a little of each into the spoon together. Slurping is fine.
• Go early. Phở is breakfast food at heart, and in Vietnam a morning bowl is as much a ritual as a meal.

Cousins at the table

People often compare phở with ramen, and it is a natural pairing: two noodle soups with a clear sense of purpose, both eaten quickly, both with roots that reach back towards China. They are built very differently, though, from the noodle up, and I have written about that in ramen vs phở. If you want to think about the parts of any noodle soup, the anatomy of a bowl is a good place to start.

What I keep coming back to is how much patience hides inside something that looks so simple. A bowl of phở takes ten minutes to eat and the better part of a night to make, and the best ones never ask you to notice.