Offering Tofu to the Boulevard Gods...

The zenith of my mother’s culinary skill was reached one evening in the late seventies when what remains the best damned tuna casserole I’ve ever tasted was pulled from the orange glow of the oven broiler, placed on a homemade macramé mat, spooned out onto the old green stoneware plates which are now resting somewhere deep in the Woodburn landfill, and sprinkled liberally with lemon-herb seasoning. Mom’s home-cooking slipped steadily after this, and even as I sit here typing, I have an abiding sense that the magnitude of that one great dish left her shaken, frightened, and convinced that she could never reach such a height again.

For nine years after that casserole, I wandered in a gustatory haze. Looking back on that time, it seems I’d almost given up on the joy of eating altogether. That all changed with a visit to the Mill Town home of my friend Van Mong Pham. Over the course of a dinner at the table of his grandmother, my young palate was transfigured by flavors and textures I’d never imagined. Three foods stood out from the rest: Pho, Banh Mi, Tofu – and the greatest of these was tofu.

Fifteen years later, and four years ago, I visited Van Mong Pham at his Vietnamese delicatessen on rue Amelot. He’d moved to Paris after high-school graduation to study French cuisine. After years of stagier work in several of that city’s grand restaurants – Taillevent, Pierre Gagnaire, Le Grand Vefour – he settled into his own little space, basically a small window and an even smaller zinc comptoir, selling steamed buns and black coffee with sweet condensed milk, among other things. We passed a leisurely day together, eating and reminiscing, until, late in the night, we shook hands and said our good-byes beneath the glittering tiles of Metro Parmentier. Sadly, I haven’t seen my old friend since, but every time I see tofu on a menu, I remember…