The popular dish known as pho originated in which country?

To the casual visitor, the province of Nam Dinh flies under the radar. Situated in the Red River Delta, Nam Dinh is known for agricultural areas and beautiful churches. Tran Hung Dao, the 13th-century national hero who helped defeat invading Mongol hordes, came from these parts. But Nam Dinh’s most significant contribution to Vietnam is the beef noodle soup, phở bò.

Legends and myths mean that many histories in Vietnam are coloured a variety of shades. This is also the case with phở, the country’s most famous dish, and its most successful culinary export. In the capital city of Hanoi, phở is a staple breakfast dish.

From the early hours, phở stalls set up shop along the sidewalks. Shrouded in clouds of steam, the cook will assemble each bowl to order. Boiling broth is poured over a bed of soft rice noodles and sliced meat, and topped with a handful of chopped herbs and chives. Each diner will customise their bowl to taste, with squeezes of lemon, slices of red chili, sprigs of basil, and dabs of hoisin sauce. It's an experience no visit to Vietnam is complete without. 

While Nam Dinh is believed to be the geographical cradle of phở, few would dispute that its spiritual home is Hanoi. It was Hanoi's intersection of historical and cultural factors made phở popular.

The history of phở begins at the end of the 19th century, at the peak of French colonialism. French demand led to a greater availability of beef in Vietnam. This in turn produced a surplus of beef bones, which were used by Chinese and Vietnamese vendors to deepen and perfect the flavour of the Nam Dinh broth.

Over the years, phở gained traction in Hanoi. It evolved from a noodle soup called xáo trâu -- a simple dish made with slices of water buffalo meat cooked in broth with rice vermicelli -- into a delicate and balanced creation. Buffalo meat was swapped with beef, round rice noodles were added, the flavour of the broth was refined, and the classic Hanoi phở was perfected.

Migrant workers from the Chinese provinces of Yunnan and Guangdong loved the new take, due to its similarity to dishes from back home. The Vietnamese, having developed a taste for beef, grew equally enamoured. By the 1930s, gánh phở — roaming vendors shouldering mobile kitchens on bamboo poles — had become a common sight in the streets of the Old Quarter.

Since then phở has been entwined with the national psyche. In his poem “An Ode to Pho,” poet Tu Mo celebrated the subtle flavour of the soup and its egalitarianism: it is a dish loved by both rich and poor.

Like Vietnam itself, phở has undergone impactful changes. Privation during hard times resulted in meagre bowls of soup hitting the streets. The most divisive shake up occurred when phở moved south along with millions of northerners following the partition of the country in 1954.

Unshackled in this southern land of plenty, chefs started sweetening their broth and accessorising with an array of herbs as well as additions such as hoisin and chili sauce. The “broth-off” continues to this day. The main difference is the extra fixings of the southern version. Phở purists swear by the simpler Hanoi phở, however both versions are delicious. 

While debate rages as to the location of Vietnam’s best pho, it could be argued that the dish hasn’t actually evolved all that radically since the early years. Different cuts of meat have been brought to the table and diners can choose from a range of beef cuts including rare beef (tái), flank (nạm), brisket (gầu), tripe (sách), tendon (gan) and meatballs (bò viên). The invention of chicken phở (phở gà) in 1939 caused ructions for a while. But, by and large, pho has stayed true to its original tenets. 

That said, phở is not an immovable feast. Some young chefs in Vietnam are experimenting with items such as brown rice noodles and fresh pho noodle rolls. In 2018, Anan Saigon famously introduced a 100$ phở with truffle oil, wagyu and foie gras. And overseas, chefs are getting even more inventive with additions such as crawfish and sous vide beef.

These days, beef bones, flank steak oxtails, charred onion, charred ginger and spices including star anise, cinnamon, cloves, black cardamom and coriander are used to make the slow-cooked broth. Chicken phở is an equally popular alternative to the original. In the north, garnishes are limited to fresh chilli slices, lemon, and a few herbs; but in the south, the phở is noticeably sweeter and there's a wide array of types to choose from. In Central Vietnam, you can even find phở with poached eggs. 

As one of the world’s classic noodle dishes, pho has more than earned its right to respect.

Our suggestions:

Pho in Hanoi: Pho Thin, 13 Lo Duc, Hai Ba Trung District, Hanoi 

Pho in Ho Chi Minh City: Pho Minh, 63/6 Pasteur St. District 1, Ho Chi Minh City

Phở was born in Northern Vietnam during the mid-1880s. The dish was heavily influenced by both Chinese and French cooking. Rice noodle and spices were imported from China; the French popularized the eating of red meat. In fact, it is believed that "phở" is derived from "pot au feu" a French soup. Vietnamese cooks blended the Chinese, French and native influences to make a dish that is uniquely Vietnamese.

From North to South

Regional Pho Variations

Pho in the United States

Continue Reading

This is Inside the Breakfast Bowl, a series in which Eater profiles breakfast soups and porridges from around the world. Next up: pho.

Vietnam rewards an early riser. Slip out before 9 a.m. and you'll get to explore the frenetic motorbike-choked streets of Vietnam's biggest cities at their most peaceful. It'll still be hours until the heat and humidity of the afternoon drenches the clothing on your back. And there will be pho.

Easily the most famous dish of Vietnam, pho — which at its most basic consists of a clear beef- or chicken-based broth, rice noodles, herbs, and thinly sliced meats — is also this Southeast Asian nation's preferred breakfast. From the rustic northern provinces to the cosmopolitan Ho Chi Minh City in the south, old-school vendors rise before dawn to tend to their long-simmering broth. Hit the streets after 9 a.m., and that hole-in-the-wall everyone raves about may have already sold out.

"The soup itself tells you so much about Vietnamese culture."

Mornings are historically a special time for pho in Vietnam. But these days you can increasingly find this iconic noodle soup at any time of day as shop owners lengthen their hours across the country. How did it come to be that way? Where is pho's role as a quintessential breakfast dish headed?

The history of pho is imprecise. Experts and obsessives have floated a number of theories tracing the first invention of this soup. Some believe pho originated on the streets of Hanoi, while others argue it was actually about 90 kilometers to the northwest in the Nam Dinh province.

What everyone can agree on, though, is that pho was originally a northern dish created sometime in the early 20th century. Originally, pho was often sold by street vendors who would carry bowls of broth on shoulder poles. Tracey Lister, chef and director of the Hanoi Cooking Centre, says pho was an ideal breakfast for those who worked in the rice fields and at other physically challenging jobs. Pho was heavy enough to get those workers through the morning and light enough that it wouldn't weigh them down. "A lot of Vietnamese don't feel [pho] is substantial enough for lunch or for dinner," Lister says.

Since its creation, pho has always reflected the cultural, political, and socioeconomic changes in Vietnam. Andrea Nguyen, the author of the indispensable Into the Vietnamese Kitchen and The Pho Cookbook, says that Vietnam has two distinctive pho cultures that were shaped by the country's turbulent history. In the 1950s and 1960s, the traditionally northern recipe made its way to Saigon, when the country was split in two and nearly a million Vietnamese moved south to escape the communist north.

Once pho hit the streets of Saigon, it morphed. "The southern Vietnamese palate is sweeter, spicier," says Chad Kubanoff, chef/owner of the now-shuttered Same Same and co-owner of the popular Back of the Bike street food tour company in Ho Chi Minh City (the former Saigon). While pho in the north retained a purity and rusticity that mirrors Hanoi's own sensibilities, Nguyen says its broth took on this ramped up flavor profile once it hit Saigon. It also became more customizable with sauces and piles of herbs, Nguyen says. Shops became more polished, more colorful, more like the capitalist southern city itself. "The soup itself tells you so much about Vietnamese culture," Nguyen says.

A pho shop in Hanoi. Photo: Hoang Dinh Nam/AFP/Getty Images

Now, pho is mostly sold out of open-air storefronts that line the streets of its cities, particularly Hanoi. These shops often extend out onto the sidewalks with squat tables and milk crates for seating; they're essentially street food restaurants. There's usually not a walk-in or storage area; ingredients are bought fresh that morning. "Vendors sort of know that they can sell 300 bowls that morning and that's what they prepare," Lister says. After they sell out, there simply isn't a second shift until a new batch of broth can be made.

And so Vietnam's culinary rhythm goes something like this: Vendors rise early to get their ingredients and start their broth around 2 a.m. (if it hasn't already been simmering since the night before), open shop around 6 a.m., sell out by around 10 a.m., and get started again either for that evening or the next morning. Perhaps not coincidentally, Kubanoff points out that these are the coolest times of day. With Vietnam's mostly tropical climate, it's common sense to eat hot soups, including pho and the nearly as beloved bún bò Huế, in the mornings and evenings. And in northern cities like Hanoi, where it can be downright chilly, a bowl of pho in the morning is warming, too.

"It grounds you... it gets me into the groove of what the country is about. It’s a morning country."

But there's also just something special about pho in the morning. "Long before there was bone broth, there was this soup," Nguyen says. People crave pho when they're sick or hungover because it feels restorative. It's hard to pinpoint, Nguyen says, but there's something comforting about the way rice noodles and a flavorful broth combine in a bowl of pho. "It grounds you," she says. "That's what it does for me emotionally and physically. It gets me into the groove of what the country is about. It's a morning country."

In busy cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, the early hours are more relaxed. "You feel very comfortable in the morning, so having pho for breakfast just fits right in there," Nguyen says. "It's like this ritual thing." That's why even though pho is also a nighttime phenomenon, you'll still find very old-school shops and carts open only in the early mornings.

A pho shop in Hanoi. Photo: Hoang Dinh Nam/AFP/Getty Images

But even in traditional Hanoi, you can find pho just about whenever you want it now. When Lister moved to Hanoi from her native Australia about 15 years ago, pho shops closed by 10 a.m. or earlier. Some of those did reopen in the evenings, but generally pho was most popular for breakfast. Now that's only true of the older, more traditional shops, Lister says. Newer enterprises stay open all day. Meanwhile, Kubanoff says that the hours for pho in Ho Chi Minh City have generally always been a bit longer, but are also stretching out as pho vendors seek to make their pricey rent payments.

The rise of the Vietnamese middle class might have something to do with the emergence of lunchtime pho.

"The Vietnamese are really good business people. They're entrepreneurial," Nguyen says. Though it's difficult for anyone to pinpoint why pho has become more widely available for lunch in the afternoons, or when that started happening, there's a handful of possible reasons. For one, Vietnam's economy has grown so steadily that Bloomberg described it last month as one of the fastest-growing markets in the world. There's opportunity for more business, and Nguyen posits that the country's pho vendors are among the many rising up to meet that opportunity.

Lister also muses that the rise of the middle class might have something to do with this whole lunchtime pho thing. Working habits are changing, and with that comes a necessary tweak of the culinary rhythm. For the many Vietnamese who now work out of offices, there's no need to make lunch a heavy post-labor meal. And if that office is air-conditioned, then eating hot soup in the middle of the day in a tropical country is no longer such a terrible idea.

Tourism from western countries might also play into pho's new all-day schedule. But Nguyen points out that the reverse is just as likely to have an effect: Vietnamese people are traveling the world now and bringing back ideas, cultures, and business savvy.

Still, as ever, habits are slow to change. Though the pho shop across the street from the Hanoi Cooking Centre is now open all day long, Lister says they sell more than half of their 400 daily bowls before 10 a.m.

Pho — especially the more brash southern-style — came to America after the fall of Saigon in 1975, as hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese people fled their country. In recent years, it became a bona fide food trend in cities across the nation. But mornings that begin over a bowl of pho while seated on a low stool in a crowded open-air shop are still distinctively Vietnamese.

When Kubanoff opened Same Same in Philadelphia's Northern Liberties neighborhood in 2015, he designed the restaurant to stay as true to Saigon as possible, including a Sunday brunch that began at 8:30 a.m. and included pho on its menu. But no one showed up for brunch until 11:30 a.m. — and, when they did, they weren't there for the pho. "There was no reaction, no interest, nothing," Kubanoff says. He ended up axing brunch entirely.

Yet across town, there's a South Philly enclave filled with Vietnamese restaurants, bakeries, and grocers known as Little Saigon. Pho 75 is one of its most popular destinations, with a beef broth that's arguably the best in the city and a daily 9 a.m. opening hour. On a snow-dusted morning last week, customers filed in for breakfast. Many were Vietnamese-American, but not all. Most were dining alone. Jacey Cao and Kenny Lam were there instead of their usual Chinatown dim sum breakfast because it was cold and they wanted soup.

Victoria Vo waited on her takeout order. She's here to eat pho because it warms her up on a cold day and because it's good for her health. But she also eats pho for breakfast because it's a tradition from home.