I first tried Vietnamese food while living in New Orleans, where my two dearest friends and I would tuck into a neighborhood Vietnamese joint and bemoan our student loans, our spawned-of-Satan professors, and the general exhaustion that saddles every law student. We went there when we were sad or sick and we went there when nothing else on the planet sounded remotely appetizing. It was comfort food, those big, steaming bowls of pho or messy piles of noodles with rooster sauce.
Quang has the same feel for me. It's a place I go to when I'm craving something gentle and soothing, something that's warm and hearty but not heavy. It's a place I go when my nose is stuffed up or I'm feeling heartsick or I'm lonely or I just want something simple that tastes like the other places I've lived in and loved.
I went to Quang tonight with a dear friend, and while we skipped the best spring rolls in town (a mistake, surely), we settled into our bowls of happiness with the fervor of those who've walked a few blocks in the chilly, autumn air.
Quang provides the type of food that perfectly underlies comfortable conversations, conversations born of long friendships and new connections. The pho is hot, so demands a slow dip of the spoon, and slinging noodles with chopsticks just slows a body down. The pile of goodies you dump in on your own whim, the limes dancing with the jalapenos and jockeying for attention before the bottle of sriracha. All are a reminder of every time I've sat in a booth and nursed a wound with a spoonful of pho. And, as a logical foil, they are a reminder of every time I decided to stop being sad.
And I'm not the only one who seeks out Quang when they're down and out. While we were leaving, I overheard a snuffly-nosed fella ask for a table of one. He said he wasn't feeling hot, so he needed some soup.
Yes you do, kid. Yes you do.
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