PHOPHOPHOPHOPHO!

I got the standard "i-prefer-Australians-to-Americans" glance today from a sweet Asian woman in the Vietnamese restaurant we found near Guillotiere. We were noticeable in the small shop first for our white-ness ("this place is authentic!" we assured each other, looking around at the Vietnamese patrons) and then for our lack of French. The rotund woman, who wore an orange shirt, black, pilled stockings, and flip flops, giggled as she counted out our change, "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven!" Then, a man with the most horrifying set of teeth I have ever seen explained to us, in his Asian-accented French, that the area we were in--which was lined with Vietnamese restaurants--was not a good place to be alone. "Couper? Vous comprendez 'couper'?" he asked us, while making a stabbing motion into his side. He then mimed smoking something ilicit, shooting up something evil, and snorting some powders. A good place to be, indeed! But, the soup was good and fulfilling after yesterday's fruitless search for Pho (my mind is still blown regarding how EVERYthing can afford to be closed on Sundays!). Yet, after my wikisearch of "pho" lead to the information that tripe sausage is indeed a common ingredient, I stand by my decision to let the unidentified meatballs float on by!