Spend ten minutes with my friends and I and you’ll fast learn that there are two things we like to do: make fun of each other and eat… usually at the same time. Sometimes we even making fun of the way we eat. And when we’re together we just can’t seem to stop laughing, drawing attention to ourselves, or saying the most inappropriate things in public (the last time we ate out together I somehow managed to blurt out the sentence, “next time I text you it’ll have something really exciting in it! Like willies! And knitting!”), and we all love to eat. It goes without saying then that we always have a fantastic time.
For a while now Sam had been saying that she’d heard about this awesome Vietnamese place in Shoreditch that she really wanted to try out, but for whatever reason we’d been putting it off. I was busy, she was busy, everybody else was busy; until finally Sam put her foot down, we were going and she was going to book it, full stop, no excuses. I’m not really sure why we’d put it off that long – I love Vietnamese food, specifically I love pho. I’ve waxed lyrical about the joyous wonders of pho before, but y’know something? It’s really hard to find good pho in London… and I know my pho: when I lived in Malaysia I had amazing pho. So I think the main reason why we kept delaying it is because Shoreditch is, as Brother put it earlier, the “arse-end of East London”. It’s just so damn far away from everything. Or at least far away from me, who lives and works in the arse-end of West London.
But Sam finally booked it, and so on a cold, snowy, blustery day in London I trekked across the city… to the best damn bowl of pho I’ve ever had in London. It was like coming home.