Invisible Restaurants: The Florist’s Bahn Mi So

The outside of the shop is truly uninviting: a squat little square tarpaper-roofed building stuck between an improbable high-rise semi-private UT Austin dorm (The Dobie tower) and an abandoned fast food taco joint with its now logo-less Sombrero shape hovering between landmark and eyesore. When you walk into the tarpaper box, you find yourself in an unruly florist shop, specializing in leafy green plants, with nary a cut flower in sight. You are likely to be distracted by the tables of hippyish “Native American Jewelery” in the right hand margin of the space, apparently sub-leased from the Vietnamese family running the show. In fact, I walked into a few times and retreated quickly, fearing an encounter with Patchouli-scented knickknacks, without noticing the two little tables for lunch in front of the cashier’s booth of the florist shop. On closer inspection (actually, with the guidance of my friend Stephanie, who is apparently less frightened of Patchouli than I am), I discerned a small menu listing items such as “Vietnam Coffee” and “Sandwiches: Pate and Chicken, $2.00.” That cashier’s booth, it turns out, was also a food shack capable of working miracles.

You all know the wonders of Vietnamese iced coffee. But even those of you who love Bahn Mi So haven’t had ones like these. The bread was a quite serious baguette, very French in style with thick crust and a crumb with some heft to it (as opposed to the almost gossamer quality of many Bahn Mi So rolls, which could, ungenerously, be mistaken for decent-quality supermarket Italian rolls). Toppings were lettuce, shoelace thin mandolin slices of carrot and cucumber, and carefully plucked cilantro leaves. The meat (if you ordered it) was freshly pan fried and nicely warm. And the sweet, chile-peppered dressing with just a subtle hint of fish sauce, coupled with the thick, tasty slices of apparently home-made pate, was perfection.

Tragically, the family sold out on this business and instead opened a dry-cleaning business a few blocks away on MLK. While I hope they did well—they certainly earned good karma with every delicious sandwich they essentially gave away for $2 or so—it was galling that their new business was actually the third dry-cleaning operation located at that one intersection.

While I recommend any Bahn Mi So that you can get your hands on, the other ones I’ve had are generally so light on the pate that you hardly know it’s there…

Editor’s note: this shop operated in the Austin, TX in the early to mid ninties. It was subsequently replaced with a chain used-CD shop and then a chain sandwich joint… Neither of which was capable of performing miracles. And note that the above picture is not one of the Florist’s miracles.

Invisible Restaurants 1: Chef Ho’s

Invisible Restaurants:

Capsule Reviews of Restaurants No Longer in Existence

Chef Ho’s Dumpling House, Pell St, Chinatown, NY NY

This formica and florescent-lights Pell St. joint may not have appealing atmo, but take note that while you never have to wait long for a table, you will always have to wait. Two dishes you simply must order—Three Delicacies Dumplings (pork, shrimp, and leak), the number one house specialty, and gingery pan-fried noodles with chicken. Order them, close your eyes against the surrounding bleakness, and luxuriate. Three delicacies are that great Chinatown rarity—a dumpling that, while not fried, nonetheless achieves nearly erotic possession of the palate. Indeed, these small, unspeakable tasty morsels have suffered the indignity not simply of the steam tray, but of actual immersion in boiling water. And yet… The little paper signs on each table advertise “Three Delicacious Dumplings,” and while mere unfamiliarity with the rigors of the English tongue may have produced the term “delicacious,” the unearthly joy produced by this seeming simple mixture of shrimp, pork, leek, and flour justifies the new coinage. While the pan-fried noodles are not, it must be conceded, unique—and non-believers have gone so far as to complain that they are “greasy”—they are beautifully fried curly wheat noodles of a medium thickness, quite golden on the top and bottom (with the occasional noodle scorched black), covered in succulently juicy slices of chicken breast, broccoli, and cliché-chinese veggies like bamboo shoots and baby corn. But there’s none of your uptown-style bird’s nest of pre-deep-fried crunchy chow mein noodles—so sure they’re “greasy,” they’ve actually been in a wok of sizzling oil within living memory. And so cheap.

Ed note: Chef Ho’s Dumpling house went out of business somewhere between 1994 and 1996. It was replaced by Joe’s Shanghai, original NYC home of the soup dumpling, and one of the greatest Chinatown joints of all time.