Page 42 of Summer, in Between
‘Have you ever had a good pho at the pub?’
‘Phosure I have.The best pho in my life was at that pub, almost as good as their chicken parmas that aren’t an insult to my heritageat all.’
‘Not a fan?’
‘Are you kidding?It’s as close to Italian food as the plastic pizzas in the frozen food section of the supermarket.Let’s pho.You know a good place?’
‘I do.Phoreal.’
We park in a seedy-looking carpark at the back of a busy shopping strip teaming with Vietnamese restaurants.The backs of the stores are covered with graffiti and the footpath is strewn with ingrained chewing gum, mottled black.I grip Paul’s t-shirt.He glances down and takes my hand.So much for no handholding.I cling as we pass a line of people entering a pub.
‘I know it looks dodgy but trust me.’He leads me into a restaurant.‘You’re about to have the best pho of yourpho-king life.’
The smell of hot wok hits my nostrils, making me salivate to the point where I thumb the corners of my mouth to check for drool.While we wait for a table, I notice that the restaurant is lined with small tables for two along the perimeter walls and large round tables fill the middle.The kitchen is separated from the restaurant with a high bar where food appears as if by magic and is whisked away to waiting diners just as quickly.Loud, clanging music from two speakers hanging from opposing corners accompanies the hiss and sizzle from the kitchen.We sit at a table topped with white butcher’s paper under a faded poster of a Vietnamese fishing fleet.Beside it is a giant copy of the menu.Prices are handwritten on top of masking tape that do little to hide the former prices.A roll of absorbent paper serves as napkins and a caddy of sauces in a mix of plastic and stainless-steel sits against the wall.
‘It’d better be good, because the decor really isn’t floating my boat.The pub wins out in the design stakes, but I’m a little biased there, aren’t I?’
‘Why biased?’
‘It’s one of ours.Well, not ours, we don’t own it or anything.Mum’s firm designed it, and Dad’s team built it.Sorry, I thought you knew that.’
‘Actually, I think I did know that.I remember them building it, so much better looking than anything else around.Like your house.That makes total sense.’
‘Still, what a wasted opportunity for something cool,’ I say.‘Mum and Dad were so excited, kept going on about date nights and being able to walk home like when they lived here in the city.’It didn’t take them long to realise they were barking up the wrong tree.No chance of having something fresh, light and gorgeous.No chance of even getting a decent coffee.No, it’s surf and turf and crappy chicken parma all the way.
We are shown to a small and intimate table for two and a pair of giant steaming bowls of fragrant broth are placed before us.Paul sprinkles his liberally with chilli and bean sprouts, wielding chopsticks like he was born to do so.Noodles slip through mine and the hot liquid splashes all over me.
‘I’m so glad your mum’s not here.’I reach for a napkin.‘So much for my lovely manners.’
‘Mum wouldn’t even drive down this street, let alone step foot into a place that’s making something other than meat and three veggies.’He emphasises his point by expertly manipulating his noodles.
I swallow the dismal mouthful I managed to coordinate between my chopsticks.It’s the most delicious pho I’ve ever had in my admittedly limited experience.It’s fresh, light, the noodles soft in my mouth.I accidentally swallow a chilli and the heat moves in slow motion through my body, making my eyes water.I take a sip of water and laugh.‘So, here’s a question for you.’
‘Do your worst.’He places his chopsticks across the rim of his bowl and gives me his full attention.
‘Why’d you get so fired up at the book warehouse?You looked like you wanted to fight that doofus.’
‘Did I?’he raises his eyebrows.‘I wouldn’t have touched him.I wouldn’t need to.Guy like that?He would’ve backed down real quick.’
‘So, what, you were trying to intimidate him?’
‘I sound like a real meathead, don’t I?’Paul looks down at the table, his pointer finger doodling on the paper tablecloth.‘“I’ll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.”’
‘What?’I tilt my head.
‘Nothing, just a quote.’He scoops a mouthful of noodles and follows the bite up with a slurp of his broth.
‘It’s Macbeth,’ I say.
‘I know.’He mimics my tone of astonishment, his voice high.‘But I’m not someone who’s into fighting.’His eyes meet mine.‘It’s just, when someone comes at me with an attitude like that, they see the car, the dumbarse tradie?I don’t know.I don’t like it.’
‘Why do you care what some random thinks?’
‘I don’t, not really,’ he says.‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.Your mum said for you to stand your ground, and here’s where you’re really going to think I’m coming in with a saviour complex or something like that, but I kind of think that if you’re with me, you shouldn’t have to take shit from some little prick by yourself.There’s nothing worse than feeling like it’s you alone out on a ledge.Anyway, you going to eat that rice paper roll?’
‘It’s so good, but no, I can’t.It’s all yours.’I slosh what feels like another litre of pho into my lap as I scoop up the last of the soup with a flat spoon.I’d sigh with contentment if a food baby wasn’t making its presence known by squeezing against the waistband of my jeans.
He takes the roll and plonks it in his mouth, then drains the remnants of his bowl.
