77
H A N O I
H
anoi goes to bed early and starts
its days early, too. Just as the sun
peeps over the horizon, legions of
pajama-clad grannies throng Hoan Kiem
Lake to practice tai chi in unison. Old
men string nets for makeshift badminton
courts, while flower peddlers haul baskets
full of fresh blooms on rickety bicycles. By
6.30am, laggards are slapped awake by a
cacophony of propaganda announcements
blaring from loudspeakers and the
honking horns of motorcyclists lugging
freshly slaughtered pigs and caged
chickens. Many Hanoians, some probably
still groggy, make a habit of ducking into
pho stalls for a morning pick-me-up.
On the north-east side of Hoan Kiem
Lake sits Pho Thin, a stalwart on the
city’s noodle scene. Stationed at one
end of a run-down alley, the shop has
an open-fronted kitchen that’s outfitted
with an old, smoke-blackened range
hood, under which a large vat of broth is
typically bubbling. Inside are two wooden
communal tables and a few benches. The
proprietor, Mr Hoa, looking dapper as
always in an immaculate suit, takes a sip
of tea and begins to unspool the story of
the family business. It has been, he tells
me, “one hell of a journey”.
The story begins in 1950, when his
father, Mr Thin, arrived in Hanoi from
a nearby province in a bid to avoid
conscription into the French Army.
Mr Thin started working as an assistant
at his uncle’s pho shop. Two years later,
he was scraping out a living selling his
Many Hanoians make
a habit of ducking into
pho stalls for a morning
pick-me-up
Pho, or beef
noodles, is one of
Vietnam's most
famous culinary
exports and a staple
meal for locals
