Denveater

New Saigon: Don't Go for the Goi, but Stay for the Chay

Call me a heretic, defame my name, chop me up & throw my parts in boiling oil, I'm going to stand by my opinion that, while house of local worship New Saigon is solid, it's no better than Dong Khanh/Saigon Bowl, at least with respect to the standards. 

In fact, when it comes to salads (goi in Vietnamese), I give the edge to the latter. 

Saigon Bowl's shrimp & pork salad (goi tom thit)

New Saigon's squid salad (goi muc)

You can tell by looking that Saigon Bowl's goi is more closely tended to—the veggies more carefully chopped & balanced, the peanuts chopped coarser for more interesting texture. You can't tell by looking that the dressing is better as well: both are nuoc cham–like with fish sauce, acid (presumably lime juice) & sugar, but Saigon Bowl's is a bit lighter, tarter & spicier with a daub of chili, whereas New Saigon's errs a little too far on the merely sweet side. And the squid was a bit tough & scrappy; bigger pieces like so would not only have been prettier but less likely to overcook.

Granted, between the enormity of the menu & the constant crowd in the dining room, the prep cooks here would have to be superhuman, morphing & teleporting all over the place, to execute with both speed & precision 100% of the time. As it is, 2 different takeout orders of bun (noodles) at 2 different times can make 2 very different impressions: on a busy Saturday night, the bun tom quet with, supposedly, rice-paper-wrapped, deep-fried shrimp paste

 

was sloppy & dull, offering scant chopped peanuts, fried & green onions, herbs & such for the glut of rice noodles, bland with or without the one-note (sweet) nuoc cham. As for the "shrimp paste," it was like no shrimp paste I've ever seen; instead, it appeared to be a very flat chopped shrimp omelet. Though the highlight of the dish, it was nonetheless a head-scratcher.

In any case, compare to the bun with grilled pork & egg roll we got on a sleepy Tuesday night.

Boasting a much better ratio of toppings, including sufficient cilantro & mint, to noodles, it was also covered in almost jerkylike (in a pleasant way, really), thoroughly sweet-soy-marinated & grilled pork as well as chopped pork egg roll.

Consider, however, that the roll was pretty clunky, & it all adds up to the fact that for the freshest, crispest, brightest Vietnamese basics—your bun, your pho, your stirfries—my, erm, dong's still on Dong Khanh. It's for the jackpot of less common regional specialties that I'll keep betting on New Saigon.

Among them is the Indian-influenced, coconut milk–based South Vietnamese ca ri (curry), served in its own pot over an open flame. The ca ri chay with tofu recently got the nod from Westword's Lori Midson, 

& I myself preferred it to the ca ri tom dac biet with shrimp.

 

While the shrimp themselves were excellent—giant, firm & sweet—I'd be willing to bet they got that way by separate cooking or a last-minute add, meaning that they didn't really have time to adapt to their environment or lend any character to it in turn; they didn't blend into the whole, whereas the tofu did. It's nonetheless an interesting dish, rustic in style, thick & mild with huge chunks of both white & sweet potato as well as carrot & acorn squash. But when our server volunteered his own recipe—"it's more hotter. I cut up whole chicken, whole duck. We eat everything"—I couldn't help but wish for a side-by-side taste test.

Do chay dac biet looked like every other Asian veggie stirfry I've ever had,

but the sauce of coconut milk–black bean sauce, creamy but with that slight funk of fermentation, really distinguished it. The veggies & tofu were neither here nor there, the former a little overdone, in fact; I wound up pouring the sauce over the accompanying rice & eating that instead, happily poking around for the scattered split beans. To what extent this is a typical preparation, by the by, is something I'm still trying to determine via this Chowhound thread; though coconut milk & black beans make for a traditional dessert, the combination is new to me in a savory context.   

The same goes for the use of grape leaves in a dish of frogs' legs (though it's likely a byproduct of colonialism, as it was the French, bien sûr, who planted vineyards in Vietnam). Stirred up as I was by the sight of it on the menu, I was subsequently crushed to learn it's no longer available. Settling instead for the frogs' legs stirfried with lemongrass & onion, I expected something light & zesty; what I got was pretty oily &, again, sweeter than I'd hoped, though balanced well enough by chili & garlic.

 

The meat itself was beautifully cooked, moist & tender, slipping clean & easy from the bone. For all the squawk about frogs' legs tasting like chicken, they're at least as evocative of a flaky, firm white fish such as cod.

Squid excepted, then, between the shrimp, the frog & the pork, I'm thinking meat/fish cookery might be the kitchen's forte. It even dries beef with pizzazz:

That there is sesame-cashew jerky ($22/lb.; I got $8 worth) & it's snazzy—soft, slow-burningly spicy & fruity too. (Fruit's a common Asian jerky flavoring; this guy says it's usually strawberry jam, despite labels that simply list fruit punch concentrate, like the one on the bag I got a while back at Pacific Mercantile.) 

In the end, I don't intend to join the New Saigon congregation. But I'll certainly show up for services now & then—namely when seeking enlightenment in the form of snails & duck feet or an answer to the mysteries of suon non ram man & suon no xao thom; according to a friend, the servers discourage whiteys who ask about them (the menu offers no description of either), though Google indicates suon non are simply pork spareribs. Hmm. Anyway, the point is I'm not so much a heretic as a searcher, still holding out for not just good but transcendent Vietnamese food in Denver. 

Oklahoma Yin & Yang: Pho Lien Hoa & Iron Starr Urban Barbecue

Here was what there was to eat in Oklahoma when I was growing up: Steak. Chicken-fried steak. Fried chicken. Biscuits. White gravy. Brown gravy. Fried catfish. French fries. Fried okra. Burgers. The occasional barbecued rib. More steak. 

Yet even here, things have changed—not a lot, but enough. In just a couple of decades, for instance, Oklahoma City has become home to a significant Vietnamese population—enough to warrant notice by the New York Times back in '07, in a piece whose author gave a nod to Pho Lien Hoa (aka Pho Hoa). 'Twas well-deserved.

But for a couple of apps—including the taut-wrapped & sprightly goi cuon (the ubiquitous but rarely so fresh spring rolls) with a superb, thick, smoky-spicy-sweet dip (note the extra dollop of chili sauce on top)

 

 & 3 noodle-based dishes (bun), the menu's composed entirely of soups—nearly 50 in all.

That there's the H4 or hu tiu My Tho, i.e., pork broth with clear noodles, barbecued pork, shrimp, quail eggs, lettuce, scallions, fried onions & such a cute little cracker with a shrimp in the middle.

As uniquely comforting as noodle soups are, the work that goes into them is easy to underestimate. And while quick-witted, intensive multitasking—chopping & peeling & frying & stirring & draining & chopping & frying some more—is key, the ultimate craftsmanship reveals itself in the broth (as anyone who's ever made stock from scratch, much less tackled, say, a double consommé, knows all too well). This one was unforgettable—light yet tealike in the complexity of its spiced aroma, & just a slight touch sour-&-sweet. You wouldn't say it was porky in the way you'd say a beef broth tastes beefy or a chicken broth chickeny; that it was in fact porky was reflected simply in the way it enhanced the mild, chewy slices of pork itself. And beneath it all, an abundance of glass noodles to add slurp to the chew & bite of the meats & veggies.

One soup is not a lot to go on, but it's enough to ensure that Pho Lien Hoa will be my first stop upon landing at the ever-optimistically named Will Rogers World Airport (there are about 12 gates total; as Rogers himself said, "The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn't still be a farmer"). 

****
Of course, this is still a red state, with cows & oilwells & televangelists & shit; true 'cue can be found all over the place. But not in a former college bookstore run by a hospitality group. (Real pitmasters don't wear their corporate values on their sleeves. Hell, they don't even usually wear sleeves.) There, instead, you'll find Iron Starr Urban Barbeque, whose menu consists of 1 approximately barbecue classic (ribs, brisket, pulled pork, etc.) to every 4 plates of cornmeal-dusted rock shrimp with jicama slaw or molasses-glazed salmon. In short, this isn't a barbecue joint, it's a contemporary American cafe. As such, it's just fine. As I knew it would be; the way-savvy owners of terrific gourmet shop Forward Foods, my dining companions Wampus & Suzy, wouldn't steer me wrong.

Though we all had our misgivings upon the arrival of our appetizer of bacon-wrapped quail breast.

Before they could crawl off the plate & squirt us in the eyes with their instant paralyzing venom, we just had to stab the obscene little reanimated body parts in their sore spots & rip 'em in half with our teeth. Turns out suppurating leeches taste pretty good, charred here, unctuous there & slicked with apricot-serrano jam. 

Meanwhile, get a load of this "salad."

Apparently employing mathematical formulae to determine the smallest ratio of vegetable to protein necessary to equal a salad, they actually scooped out the iceberg wedge to make room for a building block of blue cheese & pecans "spiced," presumably, with lots of butter & brown sugar. I can't pretend the mixture wasn't a heady one, right down to the swirling of the pecan drippings into the bacon-blue cheese vinaigrette. The tenderloin, grilled nice & rare, was really just the icing on this guilty-pleasure cake. 

As for Wampus's rib dinner,

the description of the house specialty sounds a note of warning in promising "fall-off-the-bone perfection." In fact, the meat on perfect ribs should not fall off, a sign of overcooking; it should slide clean off. And though the St. Louis–cut pork ribs are supposedly smoked for 24 hours over hickory & pecan, they lacked a well-defined smoke ring. They weren't bad, but they weren't competition material. I didn't try his mac & cheese or "slaw" of seasoned browned onions, jalapenos & I'm not sure what all else, but the latter looked to me like the best thing on the plate. 

A bit dry at the edges, the cornbread was otherwise decent, studded with whole kernels.

 
But dessert was the surprise highlight. We split the buttermilk pie 

& the 7-layer chocolate cake topped with truffles, 

 

& if neither was the intricate stuff of a brilliant pastry chef, both were wholly satisfying, well-textured (I feared the cake might be a bit dry too, but it wasn't) & clear-flavored for being so rich. 

Ultimately, if it's true 'cue you're craving, I'd check out this guy's suggestions, adding my beloved Bob's Pig Shop to the roster (see here, here & here), & maybe Midwest City's Mr. Spriggs, if for no other reason than to reward them for the greatest ad ever. For an easygoing bar & grill experience, however, you could certainly do worse than Iron Starr.

Quick peek at Pho on 6th

Golly, pal, is this joint spiffy! The doors are all metallic & the seats plush & the artwork

everywhere you look.

It's sort of the 21st-century version of the Chinese restaurants in wartime noir films, where all the zoot-suited mobsters sit around whispering to dragon ladies in tight mandarin dresses behind folding screens. Good-looking as it is, I'm not sure I trust a pho shop where the lights aren't fluorescent, the napkins aren't paper & the servers can, in fact, be bothered. (Especially when it belongs to the owners of Thai Basil, of which I'm less than enamored.)

I am, however, sure I'll return to find out, because the grilled beef salad I had—I know, I know, but wait'll you get a load of the load I dumped down my gullet all weekend—was pleasant enough, with a bit of carrot-daikon slaw mixed into lettuce dressed with your basic nuoc cham, & a little fried onion (instead, oddly, of the advertised crushed peanuts) sprinkled atop the goodly spread of meat.

Tea for two came in a pretty little painted pot.

Meanwhile, my vegetarian companion had fresh spring rolls & veggie dumplings—which were supposedly steamed, but sure didn't look it, glistening & golden as they were. 

He too seemed pleased enough at any rate, so I suspect I'll swing by again soon for something more to the point. That said, Westword's Lori Midson was right about the notable paucity of pho on the loosely Vietnamese menu given the name; there's lots more bun, stirfry & the likes of Chinese-style jiaozi & char siu bao than there is soup. Say, bub, is this some kind of goof?

Comparing apples & crappy oranges: Dong Khanh Saigon Bowl v. Jason's Thai Bistro

I don't know if that's as wholly fair as it is kinda funny, but the point is this: just because you can't compare Vietnamese cuisine & Thai cuisine per se doesn't mean you can't mention a prime Vietnamese joint & a middling Thai, er, bistro in the same sentence. See, I just did.

And having happened to sample the repertoire of both Dong Khanh Saigon Bowl (in the Far East Center at Federal & Alameda) & Jason's Thai Bistro near DU on the same day, I couldn't not be struck by the culinary pride & generosity of spirit of the one in light of the overall dumbed-down corners-cutting of the other.

My pal Larry (he's the photographer whose stellar portfolio of the pickles & pumelos & plucky or puckered faces of their vendors in marketplaces around the world I've referenced before) & I spent a hyperleisurely lunch the other day picking over the pile of tidbits & morsels & fry candy that is Dong Khanh's all-of-$18 signature appetizer platter the other day—

shrimp cakes & egg rolls & half a softshell crab on top, grilled chicken & pork strips & cold rice noodles on bottom, lettuce & basil & sliced cukes & shredded carrots & daikon & peanuts, all for wrapping in rice paper disks softened in warm water like so

(the tricks: be quick before they get sticky on you, & keep the mix of fillings to a minimum sizewise so they'll hold) to form your own fat cigars of goodness graciousness, which you dip in the classic Vietnamese sauce, sweetish nuoc cham (think duck sauce with class), before chomping away.

We also split goi tom thit & got this gorgeously crisp & kicky concoction of cold sliced roast pork & plump shrimp, sprouts & mint & sliced chilies & more basil & peanuts drizzled in a dressing not unlike nuoc cham, but lighter & more than a bit spicy.

Dim-lit styrofoam aside, how could the Director's & my take-out trash from Jason's not pale in comparison to what remained as fresh & vivid in my memory as it was on the plate?

Mind you, I'm all for rifling through trash upon occasion—who doesn't get down with a gloppy gallon of sweet & sour pork or fettuccine Alfredo or chile con queso now & then?—but, to paraphrase Stephen King, who once said of his writing something like, "Sure, it's salami, but it's good salami," if I ask nicely for soppressata you'd better not toss me Oscar Mayer.

And if I order crab—not krab, crab—& avocado salad, you'd better not serve me a bunch of lettuce with a smattering of shredded processed whitefish on top.

And if I order fried tofu, I want crunchy golden-brown chunks of soybean curd, not marshmallows or cotton balls.

And if I order plain old steamed veggies with beef, chicken, shrimp & scallops, I'd better not get plain old steamed veggies with beef, chicken & shrimp. (No photo necessary, I presume.)

To end on a positive note, though, I will give it up for the snap pea–studded signature rolls with beef, unexpectedly stirfried with onions until caramelized & juicy, accompanied by a peanut sauce that actually was, as opposed to just melted peanut butter.

Now that's more like it. I mean, not like it—Dong Khanh—but adequate in & of itself.

How Now, Ha Noi

Upon lunching here with the Director at the invitation of a friend & Federal Boulevard flâneur (is there a nickname for this stretch of Asian & Latino markets & eateries of which I remain, as a relative newbie, blissfully unaware? Or have local developers with Dean & Deluca dreams truly yet to thrust the likes of FeBo or B-Fed upon us?), it occurred to me how deliciously delusional pho (in this case pho tai bo vien) can be.

1) These meatballs think they're sausage, smooth & bouncy as coins on a bedsheet.

2) The noodles think they're the bean sprouts—snappy, with hardly any give.

3) The broth thinks it's any sort of tea—gently redolent of anise & lime, faintly bitter—except the one you might expect, ye olde freaky Victorian beef tea (i.e., broth for the smelling-salts-sniffing, laudanum-swilling, lace-encrusted set).

4) The scallions think it's springtime in Saigon. Look how green! They're practically reanimating—taking root & shooting forth anew right there in the bowl.

5) The medium has no idea how gut-implodingly extra-large it is.

Happy illusions all! But if this pho thinks it's better than the bun thit nuong cha gio, it's about to get bowled over (heh) by this other think coming.

The Director mixed in a little nuoc cham & a little chili paste &, voilà, a sort of goi was born—as in Vietnamese salad, not non-Jew, not least since lo, such a creature as might rise from the murky depths of fish sauce would more properly be termed a golem. As you can see, they don't bear even the remotest resemblance.

Besides, this was tangy-sweet & salty & spicy & nutty & herbaceous & crunchy & soupy & chewy all at once. A golem is, I believe, only crunchy.