A Fictional Story Based on one Poor Soul’s Real Life Experience
Broth and Ambition
Brian Hargrove never considered himself a chef—not in the traditional sense. He was a tinkerer, a self-described “culinary disruptor,” who had spent most of his twenties coding apps and pivoting startups. At 34, flush with the proceeds of an exit from a now-defunct fintech company, he took a trip to Southeast Asia to “reconnect with real life.”
Three weeks into his journey, Brian found himself seated on a tiny red plastic stool on a sidewalk in Hanoi, watching a woman ladle broth from a bubbling cauldron into a bowl of rice noodles. A swirl of steam rose into the night, fragrant with star anise, cloves, and something he couldn’t name. He was hooked.
“It was like discovering a new universe,” Brian would later tell Bon Appétit. “The clarity of the broth, the depth of flavor—it was soulful. I couldn’t believe I’d spent so much of my life eating garbage noodle soup from fusion spots in Brooklyn.”
When he returned to Portland six months later, Brian had a plan.
He’d open a phở restaurant.
But not just any phở restaurant—one that “honored the dish’s legacy… but fancy.” He leased a space in the Pearl District, hired a design firm to give it a modern-industrial glow, and flew in ceramic bowls from Japan. The name came to him in a flash of branding brilliance: Phở Real.
“I wanted it to feel elevated,” he said, “but still authentic in spirit.”
Opening Day
Opening day drew a curious crowd. Portland’s foodie elite trickled in—bloggers, local influencers, the occasional chef. The menu was minimalist: three types of phở (beef, chicken, and vegan mushroom), spring rolls with yuzu ponzu, and a rotating small plate “inspired by Vietnamese street snacks.”
The décor was tastefully sparse—bare wood, soft lighting, Edison bulbs hanging from reclaimed wood beams. Indie jazz played quietly through vintage speakers.
The phở came out in wide, matte-black bowls. The broth was golden and clear, dotted with slivers of brisket or chicken. On the side: a sparse bundle of herbs, lime, and two tiny dishes— one with 2 slices of lime and the other with one sprig of Thai basil.
Reviews trickled in. Some praised the cleanliness of the flavors. Others raised eyebrows at the $23 price tag. But overall, the launch was a success. Reservations were booked for weeks. Brian stood behind the counter most nights, greeting customers with pride.
And then Bon Appétit called.
The Interview
The feature was part of the magazine’s “Next Wave of American Cuisine” series, highlighting innovators “redefining” traditional dishes across the country.
The writer, a bright-eyed freelancer named Sarah Geller, visited Phở Real twice before conducting the interview.
Brian, ever media-savvy, leaned into the role.
“I think phở’s been misunderstood for years in the West,” he said. “People treat it like fast food—dumping sauces and herbs into it like it’s some kind of salad. But true phở is subtle. It’s a dish of restraint.”
The article, titled “Phở Is Broken—This White Chef Is Fixing It”, hit the internet on a Tuesday morning.
By noon, it was already trending.
The Internet Explodes
The article featured glossy photos of Brian in his open kitchen, sleeves rolled, smiling over a steaming pot. Quotes from him were scattered throughout:
“Start by discarding the Thai basil. It overpowers the broth.”
“Hoisin and Sriracha? That’s a crutch. If you need them, you’ve already lost.”
“I tasted real phở in Vietnam. What we have here is… compromised.”
What it didn’t include—not once—was a quote from a Vietnamese chef, a nod to phở’s complicated history, or any mention of Little Saigon, home to hundreds of Vietnamese-owned phở restaurants or others across the U.S.
The backlash was swift and merciless.
Vietnamese Twitter lit up. TikTokers stitched the article with clips of their parents reacting in disbelief. Instagram food accounts posted side-by-side images: bowls from Phở Real versus steaming, messy, herb-laden bowls from hole-in-the-wall joints in Westminster and San Jose.
The hashtag #ThisIsPhở exploded. Thousands posted family stories, recipes passed down through generations, and memories of late-night phở after long shifts or funerals or weddings.
“This isn’t about a bowl of soup,” one tweet read. “It’s about who gets to tell the story of that soup.”
Yelp, Dragged
By nightfall, Phở Real had over 1,200 new Yelp reviews.
“Colonizer cuisine,” one read.
“Broth so white it gentrified my neighborhood,” said another.
Someone created a parody Yelp page called “Phở Fake,” filled with absurd fake menu items: “Gluten-Free Bone Broth Latte,” “Herb-Free Noodle Experience.”
TikTok videos showed people pretending to be Brian, handing chopsticks to elderly Vietnamese women and saying, “You’re doing it wrong.”
The restaurant’s rating plummeted. Customers canceled reservations. Staff fielded calls from furious strangers across the country.
Brian released a short video on Instagram, visibly rattled.
“I just wanted to share my passion,” he said. “I love phở. I respect the culture. I never meant to offend anyone.”
The comments were brutal.
Bon Appétit’s Non-Apology
Pressure mounted on Bon Appétit. Vietnamese-American chefs, food writers, and community leaders demanded answers.
Why hadn’t the magazine featured a Vietnamese-owned phở restaurant?
Why hadn’t it considered the optics of a white man “fixing” a dish that carried the weight of colonization, war, and diaspora?
Three days later, the magazine issued a statement:
“We apologize for the title of our recent article, which may have given the wrong impression. We support culinary innovation and did not intend to diminish the Vietnamese community or its traditions.
We ask that readers refrain from personal attacks or harassment toward Brian Hargrove or his restaurant.”
No acknowledgment of editorial failure. No explanation of how the article came to be written that way. No apology to the Vietnamese chefs and restaurants ignored in the process.
The outrage only grew.
The Slow Collapse
The following months were a grind.
Brian tried to pivot. He added more traditional items to the menu: tripe, tendon, thicker herbs. He posted selfies at Vietnamese markets. He filmed a clumsy apology video, kneeling beside a steaming pot of broth.
It wasn’t enough.
Influencers stayed away. Food critics ignored the place. Locals who had once supported it distanced themselves.
Behind the scenes, staff were quitting. One line cook, Vietnamese-American, left after saying Brian “didn’t want feedback, he wanted props.”
Revenue dropped 40% by the end of the third quarter.
A last-ditch PR campaign—a collaboration with a Vietnamese-American chef who later backed out—failed before launch.
By month ten, Brian had laid off half his team. He closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. The once-bustling dining room sat mostly empty.
On the restaurant’s one-year anniversary, Phở Real quietly shut its doors.
No final post. No farewell event. Just a printed note taped to the window: “Thank you for your support. We’ll see you down the road.”
Aftermath
The ripple effects lasted well beyond the closure.
Bon Appétit, while never issuing a full apology, slowly began shifting editorial strategy. New articles featured more diverse chefs, more community voices. A piece on bánh mì six months later quoted five Vietnamese Americans, including a 79-year-old woman in Westminster who had been making the sandwiches since 1975.
Quietly, they tried to rebuild trust. But the scars remained.
Brian moved to Santa Fe. His Instagram went private. He resurfaced briefly with a mezcal bar concept, but local backlash shut it down before launch.
Food media, meanwhile, began to ask harder questions.
Who gets to tell the story of a dish?
Whose voices are elevated, and whose are edited out?
Who benefits when “innovation” becomes the new word for erasure?
A Bowl of Memory
Back in Westminster, in the heart of Little Saigon, a woman named Auntie Hương stood over her own pot of broth.
She’d run her phở restaurant, Phở Hương, for 31 years. Her broth simmered for 14 hours, just as her mother had done back in Saigon.
She didn’t post on Instagram. She didn’t give interviews.
But after the Bon Appétit article went viral, one of her granddaughters posted a photo of her on Twitter, holding a ladle, captioned: “My bà ngoại’s phở never needed fixing.”
It got 400,000 likes.
When asked what she thought of the controversy, Auntie Hương just shrugged.
“Everyone thinks their way is best,” she said in Vietnamese. “But phở isn’t a brand. It’s a memory.”
