Seeing red: You can’t go wrong with the nem nuong, part of Vietnam’s barbecue platter. Photo by Michael Persico

Restaurant Review

Vietnam Cafe

by Adam Erace

At ethnic restaurants there’s a strange inverse correlation between authenticity and atmosphere. Be it a Mexican taqueria, Korean barbecue pit or Indonesian satay shack, the pervading wisdom is the grimier the better. This is why we dismiss the drop ceilings, the tacky neon, the mismatched silverware. It’s why we laugh at the Telemundo game shows even though we have no idea why the contestants are dressed up as giant chickens; why we don’t ask for extra napkins, another glass of water, or if the pho is made with or without gelled pig blood. It’s why we smile while the hostile servers make us feel like Hostel extras.

It’s authenticity, baby. Don’t ask questions.

In Chinatown, Vietnam has long been an exception to the status quo, proving with its rich hardwoods and warm staff that immigrant fare can be attractively packaged and still be the real deal. Owner Benny Lai has exported this formula to West Philly, where casual offshoot Vietnam Cafe now sits next to the grocery store Lai’s parents opened in 1982. With exposed brick, cafe windows and orange light fixtures shaped like bass drums, this stylish, urban thirtysomething-seater could just as well be a coffeehouse, modern Italian trattoria or New American BYOB. But the menu, a pared-down version of the Chinatown tome, squarely confirms your coordinates.

The barbecue platter is a fitting intro to the spicy, citrusy, mint-sprinkled cooking of Vietnam, a carousel of crisp, greaseless pork spring rolls, grilled chicken strips, wonderful nem nuong (spiced pork meatballs) dusted with crushed peanuts, bo nuong la (beef-stuffed grape leaves) and tangled rice vermicelli. Cups of iceberg lettuce and rice paper wrappers encourage the university crowd to get their ssam on, flavoring the bundles with piquant quick-pickled carrot and cucumber, fresh mint, fiery crimson nuoc cham and the “house special”: sweet-and-sour paste made with nuoc mam.

Whiskered professors and academics in thrift-store sweaters populate the red banquettes and black lacquered tables. There are also a good deal of children up in this mother. For the offspring of Cedar Park’s pioneering gentry, Vietnam Cafe seems to be a classroom for tastebud development, where the tykes suckle tart, effervescent Vietnamese lemonade instead of SunnyD. Eat your tom lat bot, Timmy, or no black-eyed pea pudding for dessert.

Filled with ground pork and onions, the thin-skinned Vietnamese ravioli called banh cuon are just okay, while the beef satay and vermicelli soup is lackluster in flavor despite its evocative roasted peanut fragrance.

Better is the mi ga hue, a pseudo-pho of chicken, lemongrass and egg noodles. Mint, lime, jalapeños and bean sprouts come on the side for DIY seasoning, and though the soup is much tamer than some of the Chinatown hellbroths I’ve experienced, it’s still spicy enough to keep the Vietnamese lemonade close by.

Com tam (broken rice) and bun (rice vermicelli), the foundations of the Vietnamese diet, are perfumed with lemongrass and paired with a dozen different proteins. The chargrilled squid is tender and slightly smoky, with a faint trace of the ocean mingling into the citrusy notes of lemongrass. Shrimp, also grilled, are nested into the short-grain com tam like pink jewels on a Da Nang beach. And, natch, there’s plenty of mint, lime and nuoc cham to boost the flavor quotient.

Desserts come in pudding form: taro, corn and black-eyed pea. Sounds gross, yes, but the floppy-haired 10-year-old at the table next to me really seems to be enjoying his taro root pudding. I lean over and ask him how it is. With the tone of a connoisseur, he says, “Oh, it’s excellent,” and goes back to shoveling like a Biggest Loser contestant.

Kid is right. Served warm, these sweet slurries of rice and coconut milk called che revert you back to the most primal childhood pleasure with each greedy spoonful. The soft black-eyed peas definitely push some savory buttons, but the corn and taro read only as sweet in their coconuty porridge.

Vietnamese coffee—dark roast java poured over sweetened condensed milk—is an enduring product of the French colonial presence in Vietnam. For the ethnic authority, the dainty ivory china may be too fancy, but the strong, viscous elixir tastes as genuine as if it were served in a Styrofoam cup from a Saigon street cart. Only at Vietnam Cafe, you won’t get a death glare when you ask for refill.