Best Of Ten-Pho-Round Two: Vietnamese Noodles

Last Friday I kicked off one of the craziest and most gluttonous weekends of my life with a giant eponymous bowl of pho from Mequon's own Vietnamese Noodles. Joining Lisa (my partner in the tour de pho we masochistically assigned ourselves to) and myself was my very hungry wife.

Astute

Tommy's Experience 

I arrived a little bit early to the eyesore that Vietnamese Noodles is unfortunately embedded in. I put zero blame on the restaurant for it's location mind you; if you are going to try and open up any sort of establishment in Mequon you'll likely be doing it in a strip mall. Even the Bartolotta supper club Joey Gerard's is crammed in to one of the many depressing brown strip malls you'll find in the 'quon. Making matters all the more irritating is the fact that some snotty sixteen year old gave me a dirty look for driving more than one mile per hour when entering the parking lot. Ugh, Mequon, you are truly determined to burrow an ulcer in to my stomach. But enough about that.

My wife and I arrived at the refreshingly not-at-all-cleverly named restaurant at around 2:30 PM. The place was totally dead, which wasn't shocking given the fact that it was well after lunchtime in a business district in a part of the state that's absolutely inundated with shitty, cutesy pseudo-chains like Noodles And Company and Cosi. One thing that made me a little concerned that the deadness was not only confined to hours that aren't typically busy was the fact that the menu had some whole pages covered up with ominous tape, signifying that there are a lot of items permanently off the menu. Most concerning to me was the restaurants elimination of bahn mi. Hopefully the kitchen is simply trying to reduce and re-focus on other menu items, but frankly speaking, part of me sees "menu reduction" and hears "death rattle".

Vietnamese Noodles menu looks a little hookah bar/Ed Hardy to me for some reason

Another issue was the fact that our service was pretty slow. This would be fine if there was a rush going on, but we were literally the only three people in the entire restaurant. When our server did interact with us he did so with a thick tone of ambivalence in his voice. I wouldn't go as far as to say the service was "rude" per se, just a bit on the nonchalant side of things for my taste. That being said this place was not in any way trying to be fancy or super accommodating or anything besides a place to sit down and get a basic ass bowl of noodles and then leave. This aesthetic is actually pretty refreshing when you put it in the middle of a bunch of businesses trying to zealously cram whole wheat tortillas or frozen yogurt down your throat.

We ordered our food, drinks, and a side of egg rolls, all which came out pretty quickly. Being the sophisticated dandy you have all come to know me as, I went with tea. Lisa once again ordered beer, this time because they were out of coffee, seemingly permanently(???). My wife also ordered beer. Almost everything came out at the exact same time but a couple of minutes ahead of the pho were the egg rolls. Spare the now shuttered Port China (rest in peace), I've never had an impressive egg roll experience. Vietnamese Noodles was no exception. Little bland tubes of crunch with some processed orange sweet sauce over the top of them.

Shortly after I had eaten a couple boring crunch tubes, my triumphantly huge bowl of pho emerged from the kitchen and was plunked down on my table. By way of some astonishing mental lapse I had ordered "the big bowl". Pho is never not served in giant portions so when our monotone server asked if I wanted the larger portion I said yes without batting an eye. Whatever.

The pho was good beyond expectation but that isn't to suggest it was mind blowing. What I am saying is that a restaurant in a strip mall in the dullest city on the planet shouldn't lend much to expectation, so when anything even mildly decent pops up it's always a bit of a surprise. Still, the pho did actually taste good. Under the weight of the litany of meat options the menu presented I ordered the unimaginative "sliced medium rare beef noodle soup".  Whenever I'm experiencing paralysis by choice I almost always choke and pick the most basic thing. The broth was good, the garnishes were plentiful, the noodles were the same exact noodles I've had in every bowl of pho ever, but the meat kind of sucked.  First off, there was just not very much of it, not even by pho standards. Secondly, I'm just going to assume from this experience that no matter which way you order your meat, it's going to come out extremely well done.

The verdict: All in all I'd say I enjoyed it. Nothing was excellent but I wasn't repulsed or alienated by anything either. If you can tolerate ambivalent service and want maybe the only decent thing to eat in the 262 area code that's under $10.00, swing by Vietnamese Noodles. Really I should say "swing by while you still can", as I got the distinct feeling that the restaurant was in it's final stages.

Was it better than Hue?: Pound for pound I'd say Vietnamese Noodles is the better of the two restaurants. The food felt more authentic, the prices were far more reasonable and for some sick reason I almost want to count the perfunctory nature of the staff as a plus. The entire experience coasted linearly in a comforting modesty. The fact that there is something decent and affordable to eat for lunch in Mequon also stands on it's own as an accomplishment.

The "big bowl"

Lisa's Experience

I met up with Tom and Steph for a late lunch last Friday at Mequon’s aptly named Vietnamese Noodles. Because of my inability to efficiently complete everyday tedious tasks (homework? errands?), poor spatial/map skills, and the unbelievably slow drivers that populate 43 north, I was twenty minutes late and rolled in starving and somewhat frantic. Luckily, we were literally the only customers in the place, so my lateness didn’t appear to be inconveniencing anyone except my friends, and well, they’re probably used to it.

Vietnamese Noodles is small and unassuming, nestled into a perfectly average suburban strip mall between stores so unremarkable I’ve already forgotten what they are. The menu was huge, in that sprawling, numerical, vaguely-overwhelming-in-its-breadth kind of way. Knowing ahead of time that you’re going to get pho of some kind certainly narrows it down, but they did have an appealing variety to choose from, ranging from traditional steak/flank to vegetarian to every kind of meat ever all in one bowl.

I opted for a rare steak and tendon bowl, better known as #11. After spending most of my last pho lunch with Tom jealously staring at his coffee/condensed milk, I wanted one for myself (also possibly a smoothie, because there’s no such thing as too many beverages, right?). Disappointingly, the (bored but polite) server informed me that there were no drinks other than water and tea (and maybe soda? I don’t remember because I was too busy sulking, apparently). The unexpected unorderable beverages sort of fit with my vague feeling that Vietnamese Noodles is maybe not a restaurant that is doing well, or is not managed well, or something like that, from how empty it was to the handwritten notes pointing out menu items that are no longer available, including all of the banh mi, which was a bummer.

:(

However, the arrival of the pho more than made up for any residual smoothie/coffee/banh mi angst--- huge steaming bowls (Tom’s was more like a trough, actually), heaping plate of basil/lime/jalapeño, and the broth, oh man, the broth. It was much more flavorful than Hue’s, more savory and with greater depths of meaty flavor. It was still light though, both in color and fattiness, which I like. I couldn’t resist adding a little Sriracha, chili paste, and hoisin, but it really wouldn’t be necessary since the broth is so tasty. My only complaint was that there really wasn’t that much meat in mine, like seriously only a few tiny pieces of tendon, which was kind of a disappointment, but at $8 for a large bowl I really can’t bring myself to be that bothered by it. In fact, it was so good that I bought another serving to go, ostensibly for my boyfriend, but wound up eating most of it myself the next day. Cool, I know.

Verdict: Undeniably more delicious than Hue. Ambience is meh, and it’s hard to say what you’ll be able to order, but who cares when the pho is good?

Vietnamese Noodles is open seven days a week 
Mon-Sat 10 am to 9 pm
Sun-10 am to 7 pm
1380 W. Mequon Rd, Mequon, WI 53092

Panic At The Dish Pit-Generalized Anxiety Disorder and the Service Industry

Preface:  I work in a restaurant and I am diagnosed as having generalized anxiety disorder with panic attacks.  This is just my story.  I am not an authority on anything psychiatric.  I wrote this because I know I'm not alone in dealing with this frustrating and complicating problem. I also wanted to write something because the instinct anxiety and panic breeds in to a person's brain is to be ashamed enough of their disorder as to internalize it.  That strategy not only ignores the problem, it exacerbates it.  Anyways, here it is.
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It happened again last night.  I felt my stomach twist and noticed my nausea.  I say "noticed" because at that point I'm not sure if I just became nauseous or if I have been for hours, or maybe all day. Either way, that shitty feeling I'm just now noticing has now instantly become an obsession.  The checklist process in my brain kicks in.

"Could this just be the coffee I drank earlier?  Am I maybe a touch hungover? Oh wait, did I even drink last night... oh my god people often experience nausea right before a heart attack."

Cue full on panic.

"Shit, people always get really panicky right before they have a heart attack too. Is my arm going numb?  Why are my hands shaking so hard?!"

It should also be mentioned that at that exact moment I was driving on a freeway that was limited to one lane thanks to construction.  As always, my anxious mind fixated on possibility, not probability. It seemed, at that moment, completely reasonable that my tire was going to blow out at the exact moment I was going to have a stroke.

I had just delivered a pizza and was rushing back to the restaurant I work at when this all kicked in.  Making matters that much more urgent seeming was my bright orange "low fuel" sign blaring in my face.  Usually this half inch by three quarter inch light isn't a big deal, but with panic tearing through my brain it felt oppressive.  I stopped for gas and pumped something like $6.34 in to the tank because standing in one place for any longer felt literally impossible. Then I sped back to work.

The series of obstacles rearranges itself now that I'm back at my place of work.  The benefits live symbiotically with the negatives.  Yes, I like my coworkers and understand they know who I am and what I deal with and are supportive; which in turn makes me paranoid about alienating people who I care about.  Yes, it's a pizza restaurant and not heart surgery so it's not categorically urgent; but it is implicitly rapid paced and requires a rhythm and degree of proficiency in order to be performed with even a marginal level of competence.  That rhythm, that coordination, can't exist when thanks to some evolutionary misstep, your adrenal gland is misfiring like a goddamn uzi and your heart is palpitating and your eyes are dilated so all of the halogen lights suddenly morph in to white dwarfs and blind your eyes.

Eventually, panic subsides.  My heartbeat returns to relative normality and my hands regain control. A short time after that, after I've regained my breath and stopped hyperventilating, my muscles loosen and I can return to standard operating mode.  Panic seems to strike everyone on different levels and for different amounts of time.  Generally my worst episodes last anywhere from 45 minutes to 2 hours. Nine times out of ten I can detect it approaching and calmly motivate myself out of it by reminding myself that it's happened tens of times before and nothing truly awful ever happens.  When that doesn't work, all bets are off.  I've had to step outside mid-rush just to prevent myself from blacking out.  Anyone who's ever worked in a restaurant knows that a move like that is borderline sacrilege, something that should only be reserved for someone who thinks they are about to die. Believe me, that's about where I was.

I want this entry to be more than a self-pitying narcissistic rant about how difficult my life is, so I thought I'd write some advice to the young anxious individual who's in love with the idea of the restaurant life.  Truthfully the solution to all things anxiety, be it yours or someone else's, can be found in honesty. As a concept, honesty is something everyone is familiar with.  What people aren't familiar with is the raw, uncomfortable feelings that often accompany it.  Let's take an honest account of what a person with an anxiety disorder has to deal with if they want to work in the service industry.

First, the service industry is intensely competitive.  Whether your back of house, front of house, serving, cooking or whatever, you're always trying to maintain your rank or move up.  Yes, the camaraderie is real and you can find satisfaction like nothing else an ice cold shift beer with your co-workers after a brutal shift, but the operative word in that sentence is still "brutal".  Make sure you step in to life in the kitchen knowing somewhere along the line you will be stepped on.  It's difficult for the catastrophically-minded individual to operate in an industry where the traditional modus operandi for shaping young men and women in to respectable cooks is aggressive and repetitive negative reinforcement. This isn't to say that everyone who serves as a mentor in a kitchen is a heartless bully, but it is to say that you learn quickly that you have to totally bust your ass to be a good cook.

Secondly, the powers that be do not give a shit about you.  This is true in almost any profession, but the level of ambivalence doled out to kitchen workers is extreme.  Don't count on finding yourself in a position that awards you benefits, a 401K or anything else that might serve to protect you should the worst happen.  Think about basically every minor pitfall you could endure and realize that most of that shit won't get treated so long as you are working in kitchens.  Hernias, damaged teeth, broken feet, wildly infected burns, the list of things i've seen go untreated by kitchen workers who simply don't have the means to deal with them goes on and on and on.  This doesn't even begin to touch the gauntlet a young person seeking mental health must go through if they don't have benefits.  Our society basically damns mental illness right out of the gate.  Whether you're a normally functioning individual who happens to have panic attacks like me, or the paranoid schizophrenic who is a legitimate candidate to hurt themselves or someone else, you're essentially thrown in the same boat. Every free clinic i've ever stepped in to, every exhausted and overwhelmed doctor who's ever checked me out, have all concluded almost instantly that I'm seeking drugs and can't be trusted.  It should be noted that I receive that level of suspicion even though I'm a white male with zero prior convictions, far and away the most privileged sector of society. I can't even imagine what it's like for other people.

Thirdly, that stereotypical fun fast kitchen lifestyle is hard.  This seems like it goes without saying, but honestly so many of those youthful, self destructive things that make working in a restaurant romantic are the things that completely work to inflame anxiety.  Coffee? No good.  Cigarettes? Nope. Alcohol? Bad bad bad.  Basically anything that dehydrates you and/or speeds your heart up is more or less a recipe for disaster if you're prone to panic.  Maybe it sounds silly to consider these things at all, but look at the other two elements I wrote about up there.  Kitchens start to feel like families, of course you'll want to drink or have a smoke with your co-workers.  And if nicotine and alcohol (or other things) don't sound appealing based on that alone, then just wait for the harsh realities of life to catch up.  When I have a lousy paycheck or a hard day at work, I don't want blended wheatgrass to get me through the night.

Again, I'm just one person with one perspective.  Nothing I am saying should be taken as a general truth and nothing I am saying should be given any credit from a psychoanalytical perspective.  I am writing what I would like to have been told when I was 17 and got my first job washing dishes.

None of what I'm saying is meant to discourage anyone from getting involved in working in kitchens. Truth be told, if I could do it all over again, I'm not sure I'd change a whole lot about the trajectory of my life.  Kitchens have an amazing and empowering feel to them.  It's honest work done by honest people.  Furthermore, generally the people who stick around in kitchens do so because they are creative and interesting individuals who have fallen in to the margins of an otherwise uncreative society.  I spent several months wringing my hands and feeling embarrassed before I told my coworkers what I was dealing with, and the result? Assurance and support, through and through.  One fellow employee even empathized and confided a similar struggle with me. Yes, my panic can be frustrating at times, sometimes even crippling, but I can't say assuredly that my reality would be much different if I worked in retail or some sterile office setting.  Go in to everything you do with honest expectations, prepare for the worst but always, always hope for the best.