So…the other day I’m in a coffee shop, minding my own business (literally logging into my work email), and I hear the following exchange:

He: So…ummm…the other day I was out at a restaurant, and…umm… I thought that really, this is just the place I’d love to take you.

She: Oh. Really? Where was it?

He: Idontknow, I was there with some friends. It was Vietnamese though. We had a really good soup.

She:

He: Yeah, it’s called…

..and here I’m stretching it, because I’m seriously unsure how to convey this…

Pha hoo ah

She: yeah, really? I know what you mean, maybe, I’ve had that, but I didn’t think it was pronounced that way

He: well, yeah! Pha hoo ah. That’s it.

She:

He: no! really!

She:

He: so, wanna go some time?

She: uhhh, whatever.

Turns out He is a suave and worldly college kid, She is an attractive slightly loopy barista with an eye for pretentious suave and worldly college kids. Fate intervened, but…

Vietnamese cuisine in America (at least outside of SoCal) can generally be summed up by the noodle dish pho. This is not a bad thing. Every cuisine gets their star. Italians have pizza, the French have themselves and sometimes bread and snails, the Russians borscht, the Chinese things that go woof (ed. what I say above is ‘their star’, not the extreme American perception, so I happily amend to Peking duck — thanks M.), Americans hot dogs, and the Vietnamese have pho (pronounced, by the way, fuh (like here, although there are some serious arguments even amongst Vietnamese on this point, and it goes way back to the North/South conflict after the war)).

Your basic bowl of pho is made up first of the broth. Generally made from beef stock,various meaty cow bits, various bony cow bits, and onions, it is simmered until the someday-to-be-pho-cows come home. During the simmering process a variety of spices are swirled in, through, or flashed from across the room. These generally fall into the ginger, cinammon, anise, and clove camps, and all impart their own particular essense to what becomes unmistakable pho.

Added to the broth are onions (green and white), cilantro, and in the most classic (but certainly not only) version, thin strips of meat. This is then brought to you in a bowl twice the size of your head. Along with the bowl is a plate of condiments. It is the condiments that turn a perfectly good soup into something you must eat before you die.

Thai basil, bean sprouts, and lime are the most usual. These are pulled apart, squeezed, and dropped into the broth and beef. The combination of flavors and textures is indescribable, and can often be improved with some jalapenos or hot cock (aka sriracha).

There are good places in the US for pho (for a complet(ish) list check out Pho Fever), although most seem pretty scary to those without a cultural emissary. Doesn’t matter. Go on in, ask for pho bo or pho tai and you’ll be fine.

The British excel at many things, but first among them (at least in culinary terms) may be the unabashed love of, and at times unseemly lust for, the interesting sandwich. The entire history of empire thrown passionately between two slices of bread. Chicken tika, prawn and curry, goat and feta all are to be found in nearly every vending machine and sandwich shop worth its salt. These are nice, some even cute. However, an old drunkard in front of the fire with his gout and his dog kind of sandwich - an old school sandwich - can be found in places like the farmers market in Oxford, or off the high street in York. This is the stilton cheese and onion sandwich which can, and often does, change the way people think about the earl’s solution to famished card playing.

First, the stilton and onion sandwich is not, not, not for the faint of heart. It is a powerful piece of food, and should be respected for its many powers. Legion are the stories told by British female university students of feverish attempts to finish a stilton and onion prior to the start of tutorial, the tutorial that aside from geography or history may also feature a particularly randy (and oftentimes most unappealing) tutor. But, aside from its potentially aphrodisiacal qualities, the stilton and onion also stands as an odoriferous testament to matching flavor and texture in the pursuit of the perfect no nonsense snack.

What makes this sandwich work, and work so well, is the combination of two things most people wouldn’t dream of combining, but when combined so transcends individual flavors, that addiction is inevitable. Stilton cheese, itself worthy to stand as one of the thousand, comes only from the hills and dales of Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire and from the Dale of the Dove area (just west of Derbyshire). It is a blue cheese made from full-cream milk, and is incredibly creamy and rich. Best aged at least 12 months (and hopefully for 18), stilton offers a flavor that while similar to what most people think of when they think of blue cheese, it is often much more mellow.

The onion half of the equation is best represented by either the red or sweet white variety. Always served raw in the stilton onion sandwich, the onion’s bite, crunch, and texture provides a perfect counterpoint to the creamy, rich stilton.

So, with stilton and with onion, all that remains is the bread. For the best experience, don’t worry too much about this. I’ve had equally good sandwiches on ciabatta, on farmhouse white, and on multigrain store bought stuff. I’d recommend, if you’re ever only going to eat one of these, that you do so with ciabatta, or a crispy roll. If you’re feeling truly decadent, briefly melt the stilton on one slice before adding the onions. No other toppings are necessary or recommended.

The result? A new experience, and a probable addiction.