When my mother was pregnant with me, it was pho soup she constantly craved. A warm bowl of beef-flavoured broth that had been simmering for hours—rice noodles, green and white onions, cilantro, and bean sprouts as the cherry on top (but for Asian people). Perhaps my mother’s body feeding off of this cultural delicacy is what made it my favourite food. It heals my body when I am sick or feeling sad. The boiling hot broth warms me up when it is cold outside. The smell of star anise, ginger, beef bones, and charred onion lingers in my nose, even when I haven’t had it in a while. It is elevated by a can of iced tea on the side—sweet and sugary, shocking my insides after consuming the hot broth. It is these flavours and these feelings that remind me of my mother, but even more of my grandmother.

I remember when I was a young girl, when mom and dad were at work, grandma would take me for a bowl of pho for lunch. My little brother was always picky, ordering shrimp rice wraps and deep fried shrimp wontons instead of the soup. It felt good, my grandmother being proud that I wasn’t as much of a picky eater as my brother. “You remind me of myself as a young girl,” she would say, as I stuffed my mouth with rice noodles and barely chewed. 

Pho is the food of my grandmother’s homeland in Saigon, Vietnam, where she faced the Vietnam War of 1955–1975. I’ve always wondered if, when she sipped the spiced, sweet, beef bone broth, she thought of those dark times. For me, this food always brings to mind happy memories of family, but I wonder if it reminds my grandmother of the family she almost lost. Did my grandmother think of how she had to leave everything behind to move to Canada? How her mother was shot in the face with an M16 and had her fingers cut off? How she had to identify her mother’s identity through her clothes? How, when her face was reconstructed, it still was not the true face of her mother? I’ve always wondered about the war, but my grandmother doesn’t talk about it. I try to imagine instead that the aromatic, filling, flavour-packed soup is one of the few things my grandmother was able to bring with her to Canada. That she is reminded of the happy times before the disaster, and the start of a new life. 

My grandmother discovered that pho is best during the cold Canadian winters, but you can still find her enjoying a bowl just as often in the summer. She will eat pho all year, once a week, without worrying about how much she spends. She grew up without much, but for my brother and me, she always says, “Order ten bowls if you’d like, it does not matter to Grandma! Eat until your belly full. No budget for food, Grandma pay.” 

My grandmother moved to Canada and created a successful business from the ground up. It is her success and hard work that has rewarded us with the food we love most. Pho, for my grandmother, is a way of showing love and care, but also of showing us the happy parts of her cultural identity. She could share her success with me and my family by taking us to a Vietnamese restaurant for a bowl. She made pho one of my mother’s favourite foods, and then it became mine. The love I have for this food is inherited. This aromatic and homely soup is sacred, priceless, and a part of our identities. The broth runs through the blood in our veins, and we carry that with full bellies and pride. 

Perhaps pho is a reminder of resistance, survival, identity, and strength. It carries sweet, tender memories, but also tragic ones. There was an attempt, during the war, to execute people like my grandmother. When I think of how my grandmother could have been one of many people killed, how I would not exist, I am reminded of how proud I should be to be a third-generation immigrant, the granddaughter of the strongest woman I know. Despite attempts of erasure, my grandmother survived, and so does the food. The food of our culture will always withstand violence and hatred, carrying important memories with it—the good and the bad.