I’m going to kick off this review with full disclosure.
When I stepped through Al Pho’s doors on a Thursday evening, I was in tears.
It had taken me three attempts to get into their parking lot—each of which drew angry honks and rude hand gestures from surrounding drivers—because the “driveway” into the complex Al Pho shares with Starbucks is the tiniest, most impossible-to-navigate sliver of a driveway on Earth. That, on top of the long foodless day I’d had, got me all emotionally revved-up and made my first bite of pho tai the most magical experience of my life.
But I don’t want to dish up a shimmering review based on pure emotion, because this is a very serious food column, and we do not have emotions here.
So, tears aside, when I entered Al Pho I saw the following: three small tables, each packed with customers; a simple menu sporting thick lines of black ink, where previously available food items had been crossed out; and a register, behind which stood a black curtain leading into the kitchen area. The venue more closely resembled a closet than a restaurant—but remember, sometimes those are the best places.
I ordered pho tai, which Al Pho prepares using thinly sliced tri-tip. I hopped onto one of the two awkwardly-close-together stools at Al Pho’s tiny bar and observed the place’s customers while waiting for my food.
And it was interesting: Everyone who ordered after me declared that they’d never been to Al Pho before and also asked how to pronounce “pho.” So in case you, like these customers, have been wondering for the extent of this review what the hell pho actually is, I’ll break it down.
“Pho” is most commonly pronounced like “fuh,” as in the first part of that word you mumble when you stub your toe or the handle on your grocery bag breaks before you make it to the front door. It’s a Vietnamese noodle soup comprising broth, rice noodles, herbs, and protein—usually chicken, beef, or tofu, though Al Pho also had some seafood options.
The stuff is served with a plate of garnishes—jalapeños, cilantro, basil, lime, and bean sprouts—for you to add at will, along with sriracha or hoisin sauce. Basically, pho is what you make it: plain and simple or ultra-flavorful, sweet or spicy.
Personally, my favorite semi-local pho is from Lotus in San Luis Obispo, and if I’m being honest, Al Pho couldn’t beat it. The broth was a little too watery, the meat-to-noodle ratio wasn’t quite right, and some of the garnishes looked wilted. But Santa Maria isn’t exactly known as the Central Coast’s pho capital, and in fact, although there are a couple of restaurants that include pho on their regular menus, when I looked up “pho in Santa Maria” on Yelp, Al Pho was the only restaurant I could find. (And when I tried to Google Al Pho for directions, the place didn’t pop up at all. But it exists, I promise.)
So if Santa Maria only has one place devoted solely to pho, at least it’s Al Pho. Though my experience there wasn’t flawless, it was decent. The service was polite and quick, and the meal was warm and comforting after a long day.
So if you’re curious to sample one of the best Vietnamese dishes but you don’t want to go too far out of your way, check out Al Pho at 1201 East Main St. in Santa Maria. Just make sure it’s not a Wednesday, as that’s the only day Al Pho is closed, and be careful of that damn driveway.
Staff Writer Brenna Swanston has been known to get a bit hangry from time to time. Send her a bite to eat at bswanston@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Apr 21-28, 2016.