Pot.Stir

My sis and I like to say that we inherited our gourmand tastes from our mother, who is a fabulous cook and a French pastry chef. Our less reputable cravings, including but not limited to: Totino’s pizza rolls, Tuna Helper, and off-brand Taco Bell knockoffs (love you lots, Taco Tico!)…well, that particular trait was passed onto us directly by good old Dad, who eats like a college student. I asked him where he wanted to eat for Father’s Day, hoping he would name a proper restaurant. He responded by asking if I remembered that one Chinese buffet we went to years ago, with my ex-boyfriend, where he got really sick and it was probably from spoiled shrimp? Yeah, he wanted to go there. Wunderbar! My digestive system was totally stoked!

The building itself totally looks like a place that would deliver on promises of seafood contamination. It’s in the middle of a largely abandoned, ghostly strip mall parking lot. A sad, dingy yellow elephant lay partially deflated, face smashed onto pavement, looking as though he’d gone on a frightful bender. Inside, there is the fish tank requisite at all Chinese establishments, but the water was inauspiciously murky. There were plenty of crystal chandeliers, though.

There were the usual troughs of typical Chinese buffet food: colorless vegetables swimming in grease and gravy, fried mystery meats, jellos and ice creams. There were also the usual crowd that eats at a Chinese buffet – families with a minimum of ten small children each, dudes wearing stained wifebeaters and ladies with heavy eye baggage. (I know it’s not the fanciest place, but is it too much to ask to not intentionally set out to physically repulse other people that happen to be dining in the same space as you? Try to put on a shirt that’s not 90% pit stains, for god’s sake).

We walked past all of that and went straight to a corner that advertised: “HOT VIETNAMESE SOUP.” Pho, naturally*. My dad and I both waited patiently for our bowls of beef pho, in line behind a kid who was probably on his third or fourth bowl. Hmm. Next to the pho station, a woman fried pancakes for another traditional Vietnamese dish, banh xeo. A man ladled hot simmering broth into little bowls over noodles and tender, barely cooked slices of beef; unceremoniously he dunked fragrant sawtoothed basil and crunchy bean sprouts into the broth. We grabbed our bowls, squirted sriracha (cock sauce!) and hoisin on a side plate, and sat down to eat.

Surprisingly, the pho was actually quite good. Not the best pho I’ve had by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly lots better than pho I’ve had at the various places my dad and stepmom have taken me to eat (I’m looking at you, Saigon restaurant!). The broth, in my opinion the most important element of the soup, was clear and light, and didn’t taste greasy – which is one issue I have with many pho restaurants. The little bowl was actually a perfect portion size, as usually I can’t even get through what is considered a “small” portion at most Viet restaurants in Wichita.

The pho was so good, in fact, that I was tempted to get another bowl – and on the way, I even hazarded a sample of the sushi cart near the pho station, which I had earlier given a skeptical glance. The sushi actually did look and taste pretty fresh, and certainly wasn’t any worse than grocery store sushi. We finished our meals with a big plate of messy, delicious crab legs. Otherwise, we (wisely) eschewed the rest of the standard buffet fixings.

Thankfully and somewhat surprisingly, no gastrointestinal distress followed this meal! My fortune cookie foretold plenty of advice coming my way, which my father happily supplied.

AsiaTown Buffet
6160 E Central
Wichita, KS 67208
(316) 684-5173

* pronunciation tip of the day: “Pho” (which when written properly has some accent thingies clinging to the o) is not pronounced like the word “foe” or “faux” – but more like an exaggerated, questioning “fuh?”