Pho(k) Around And Find Out

This time of year I always crave warm, soul hugging, comfort foods-and I see you foodies do as well. This month I ventured out to try some authentic Pho. My request led me to two places, and because they both had equal amounts of votes, I went to both, Pho 99 in Eatontown and Hen Vietnamese Kitchen in Neptune.

Before I get into the dish and the two places, allow me to start by saying that picking a favorite of the two is like asking me to choose who’s potato salad is better between my mom and my aunt’s-impossible!

What Is Pho?

Pho (pronounced fuh) is a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup made with a clear, aromatic stock simmered for hours with spices like star anise, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom. Flat silky rice noodles called bánh phở enters the fragrant elixir. Proteins like thinly sliced beef (phở bò) or chicken (phở gà) enters the party and brings along fresh herbs such as basil, cilantro, bean sprouts, lime, and chili peppers to complete the festivities.

Pho originated in Northern Vietnam in the early 20th century. It later spread throughout the country and eventually the world, especially after the Vietnam War when Vietnamese refugees brought the dish abroad.
Pho is considered by many to be Vietnam’s national dish. It’s served everywhere—from street stalls to family kitchens to restaurants—and is beloved for its warmth, balance, and depth.

And for my plant‑based foodies, pho has a whole other life. Many Vietnamese kitchens craft a vegetarian version—phở chay—built on a broth simmered with charred onion, daikon, mushrooms, and warm spices. Instead of beef, you’ll find tofu, mushrooms, or hearty vegetables soaking up the fragrant broth. It’s lighter, earthier, and carries its own kind of comfort—proof that pho’s magic isn’t tied to meat, but to the way the bowl holds you.

The Experience of Eating Pho

There are meals you eat, and there are meals that meet you. Pho belongs to the second category—a quiet, fragrant reminder that nourishment can be both grounding and transcendent. The first time you sit before a bowl, something in the air shifts. Steam rises in soft spirals, curling upward like a blessing you didn’t know you needed. Before the spoon even touches the broth, the bowl has already begun its work.

The aroma arrives first, wandering toward you with the confidence of something ancient.
Star anise drifts like a half‑remembered story.

Cinnamon hums low, steady as a heartbeat.
Ginger lifts at the edges, bright and awakening, like morning light slipping under a door.

You lean in.
The bowl leans back.

The first sip is a revelation—not dramatic, not showy, but deeply honest. It unfurls slowly, carrying the patience of hours, the devotion of hands that understand flavor as lineage. This is broth that has been tended to, not rushed. Broth that carries the quiet weight of time. Broth that knows how to hold you without asking anything in return.

It coats your tongue with warmth that feels almost ancestral, as if someone long before you learned how to turn bone and spice into comfort, and now that comfort has found its way to you.

Then comes the noodles—silky, weightless, almost shy. They slip between chopsticks like a whispered invitation, reminding you that simplicity can be profound. You lift them, and for a moment, the world pauses. A single ribbon of rice suspended in steam, waiting for you to understand its softness.

Herbs follow:

Thai basil bright as a new beginning,
cilantro sharp and green,
bean sprouts crisp like a clean inhale.

You tear, stir, fold them into the broth, watching the bowl shift into something living—something shaped by your hands, your rhythm, your hunger. A squeeze of lime sharpens the edges. A flicker of chili heat stirs the center. The bowl becomes yours, transformed by your touch.

The beef—thin, tender, yielding—disappears the moment it meets your tongue, as if it understands that this moment is meant to be effortless. And somewhere between sip and slurp, between warmth and breath, you realize pho is not just food. It is a soft landing. A reset. A small ceremony disguised as lunch.

You finish slowly, letting the last notes linger, letting the warmth settle into your chest like a lantern lit from within. The bowl empties, but the feeling remains—a quiet steadiness, a sense of being returned to yourself.

This is the secret of pho:
It teaches you how to breathe again.

And in a world that asks so much, a bowl that asks nothing—yet gives everything—becomes more than a meal. It becomes a ritual. A reminder. A beginning.

Tale of Two Spaces

Pho 99 and Hen Vietnamese Kitchen may sit only a few towns apart, but they offer two entirely different ways of being held by Vietnamese cuisine—one in quiet light, the other in curated glow. And somewhere between those two atmospheres, between the stillness of a midday bowl and the hum of an evening out, you begin to notice the constant that threads them together: the bowl itself. No matter the décor, no matter the energy of the room, pho arrives with its own gravity, its own warmth, its own way of gathering you back to yourself. It asks you to pause. To breathe. To listen. And that is where the story truly begins—at the moment the steam rises, the herbs lift, and the first sip teaches you something about comfort you didn’t know you were missing.

When it comes to pricing, Pho 99 sits comfortably in the “easy lunch break” category—accessible, generous, and wallet‑friendly. Hen, on the other hand, starts at a higher price point, nudging the experience toward something closer to modern fine dining. The difference makes sense: Hen’s full bar and elevated atmosphere naturally shift the meal into a different tier.

There’s no clear winner here—just two bowls offering comfort in their own ways. So whether you’re team beef, team chicken, or team vegetarian, there’s a bowl waiting to meet you. Pho 99 and Hen may offer different atmospheres, but the heart of the dish remains the same: warmth, depth, and a quiet kind of generosity. If you’ve been craving comfort, consider this your sign—go find your bowl and choose your own experience.