You Think You Know Pho, But…

People often think pho is simple—a steaming bowl of broth, rice noodles, and meat. But let me tell you, as someone who's lived and breathed this dish my whole life, pho’s story is anything but simple.

It’s a bowl full of history, of memory. Most believe it first appeared in northern Vietnam in the early 20th century, during French colonial times. Where exactly it came from? That’s still up for debate.

Some say it was inspired by the French beef stew pot-au-feu—even sounds like phở, doesn’t it? Others say Chinese immigrants in northern Vietnam brought over a dish called 牛肉粉—beef with noodles—which they pronounced “fuh” in Cantonese. Pretty close to phở too.

The Soul of a Nation, in a Bowl

These days, the version most people outside Vietnam know is the Southern, Saigon-style pho—sweeter, richer, more herbs, more sauces. But pho’s true roots lie up north, in Nam Dinh province, not far from Hanoi.

Nam Dinh is nothing like Saigon. It’s all rice paddies, banana groves, and villages with red-tiled roofs. That’s where many of the pho masters came from—especially Van Cu village. That place is legendary. It’s home to the Co family, pho royalty in a way. Co Viet Hung, now 87, and his nephew Vu Ngoc Vuong run pho spots in Hanoi that are practically institutions.

The story goes back to 1898, when the French built a big textile factory in Nam Dinh. Locals began selling soup to the workers, using bones the French discarded to make broth. They added beef—to suit French tastes—and adapted existing dishes like bánh đa cua and xáo trâu. From those roots, pho was born.

When workers moved north to Hanoi to help build the Long Bien Bridge, pho came with them—carried by vendors slinging their soup stalls over their shoulders. The Co family’s influence grew, and today, some of Hanoi’s best pho shops can trace their roots right back to that family.

Hanoi or Saigon? Depends Who You Ask

In Nam Dinh, pho still gets cooked up with stir-fried beef and veggies poured over noodles and broth. But in Hanoi – the style I cook in my restaurant —the focus is the broth. Always the broth.

It’s got to be crystal clear, gently spiced, light but full of depth. Sweet from marrow bones, but never too heavy. No one spice should take over. That’s my style, and I’ll always stand by it. It’s subtle, balanced, precise—pho in its purest form.

Now head south to Saigon, and it’s a different bowl entirely. The broth is richer, sweeter—often thanks to rock sugar and white radish. The bowls are bigger. The garnishes are louder: bean sprouts, Thai basil, lime, cilantro, chili, hoisin, sriracha. Some even top it with crushed peanuts or serve it with fried baguette slices.

And hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. Southern folks are more easy going. They like to play with their food a bit more. But me? I’m Hanoi-style through and through. I believe in letting the broth do the talking.

Pho Goes Global

After the war ended in 1975, many Vietnamese—especially from the South—left the country. They took pho with them. It followed us into refugee camps, across oceans, into new homes. And now you’ll find it in Paris, L.A., Melbourne—each bowl telling its own story.

Over time, pho became the dish that represented Vietnamese cuisine abroad. And that’s powerful. But it’s also a responsibility.

Back home in Vietnam, pho is changing too. There are fast-casual pho chains now, people using imported Wagyu or even experimenting with vegan versions. And that’s okay. It’s evolution. It’s part of the story.

As I see it, pho isn’t just going global—it’s having a conversation. Between old and new. Tradition and innovation.

But here’s my worry—what happens if it changes so much that it forgets where it came from? It’s fine to get creative—I do it myself every day at The Saigon Kitchen. But if you’re going to riff on pho, you’ve got to understand its roots. You’ve got to respect the people and the places that gave it to us.

We can’t make pho the same way they did 100 years ago. Times change. But the tradition and the modern? They have to grow together. Because if we forget where pho came from, we may lose a piece of who we are.

By TT, Chef at The Saigon Kitchen