Omaha Food: Bigger Than Beef

Out now on The History Press/Arcadia Publishing

Hey. Oh, HEY!

No, I didn't finally fall victim to my rampant overeating, though I've often imagined myself voluntarily succumbing to the same fate as that poor chap from the movie Seven. I haven't been dead this last year or so, but I was under a rock—or more accurately in my bed, propped by a mountain of pillows looking at my laptop screen, chin pasted to my upper chest with hours worth of sweat, the kind you imagine protruding from the pores of all the great writers when caught up in the heat of creativity. Folks, I was writing a book.

When I'd finally emerge from a weekend of this, after my butt and bed had nearly becoming one, I'd routinely dislodge myself around 9 p.m. on a Sunday night, hunger raging. It's not possible to exist on whole bags of Maggie's White Cheddar popcorn, I learned (though my white film-crusted keyboard will tell you otherwise). I'd want something to eat, and not just because I was spending weeks and months thinking and writing about food. But as my fellow eaters in Omaha know, come sundown on a Sunday, the viable restaurant options start rapidly vanishing. Ever try to grab some Salween on the Sabbath day? Or anything remotely Asian-ish in general? Blackstone is a ghost town. Benson is hungover. And come 9 p.m., everything that's not that one really busy Taco Bell is shuttered for the night, it seems.

"Food sucks in this town," we'd complain to each other over some mediocre tacos from a truck we found open, like a beacon of light, at the edge of the earth.

I'd routinely ask myself why I was doing this in the first place, devoting ridiculous amounts of time and money to a project that seemed overly optimistic and somewhat naive. I don't believe in boosterism, so how would I fill up 140 pages with a realistic account of stuff worthy of reading on the topic of Omaha food when I couldn't even find anything sufficient to stuff my face with on a Sunday night?

Well, I did it anyway. I did it because I do believe we are onto something. As a transplant about to celebrate my five-year Omahversary, I don't have a firsthand account of the city pre-2010. But I've seen a lot since then. I've seen the the opening of a number of new, noteworthy restaurants, the formation of some outstanding organizations, the launching of galleries, the painting of bike lanes, the start of new music venues and festivals, and the revitalization of multiple entire neighborhoods—all in just the last couple of years. Overzealousness aside, I believe this ever-changing town is at a very precise point in its cultural history, where we can stop comparing ourselves to other cities and start earning our very own well-rounded snobbish hipster attitude about things. And what better way to help nudge that cool factor over the edge than with a book, one that became a nice snapshot of Omaha food as it stands in 2015?

Finally, with a degree in History, this book is exactly the type of project I get off on. I'll attack any pile of research with an enthusiasm usually reserved for only the most diligent nerd. Now for the low, low price of $21.99, you can come on my little food adventure, too. Available online, in stores, and at events over the next couple of months.

The next place to partake is Friday, November 20, 2015 at The New BLK. Part concert, part art show, and part book signing, it's sure to be a doozy, and not to be missed. Details here.

We want you!

My maiden pie from Noli's on Farnam. Have you been yet, hipster?

So hey. You may have noticed I haven't been around here too often lately. Here's why:

1. I got bored with writing chunks of words that were being taken as "reviews," when they were in fact just my experiences. Also disenchanted with semi-anonymously tearing up certain subpar restaurants, because yeah, even that bad Mexican place in the Old Market is owned by someone who tries to make a living off of it.

2. I got busy working on another project I think you'll like. Not going to give away the details yet, but let's just say this one involves actual paper. Pages of it. Like, at least a couple dozen. Bound by a sheet of thicker paper. With words and pictures all over it. Kind of like a blog you can hold in your hand. Wait 'til you see this thing.

Here's what you can do:

Go HERE and tell me all your thoughts on pizza in Omaha. It will only take a couple of minutes. Heck, you can even tell your Facebook friends about it. We would be totally grateful! (I don't know why I said "we" there. To create the illusion this operation is more profesh than somebody typing away on their couch eating Pringles for breakfast?)

And, as a reward that I'm giving you in advance, please read all about the properest way to reheat pizza, and feel free to convert:

Gawker: The Way to Reheat Pizza Is in a Skillet 

You're welcome!

Update: The survey is now closed. Thanks for your responses and stay tuned for the results. 

Pho Viet

7923 Blondo Street
(402) 393-3111
Open Mon–Thurs 11–9:30, Fri & Sat 11–10, Sun 11–9

Facebook page

Meatball Pho ($8.50)
What lies beneath the murky broth besides a clump of limp rice noodles?

I never considered myself an expert on pho. That is, until that one time I helped make it over a year ago. After cruisin' the trusty Internet for the best recipe and going clear out of my way to the 76th Street Asian market to get certain spices, I feel like, you know, I've been there. I get it. 

Seriously though, I did learn the importance of star anise and cardamom, of coriander and fennel. The delight of these aromatics is, I think, largely why pho is sworn to be one of the greatest comfort foods out there. It's ideal for a long, leisurely weekend meal with friends, when there's sufficient time to pack the entire bowl — noodles and all — bit by bit into your swelling stomach cavity. 

At Pho Viet, the broth didn't have much evidence of any of those spices. It was a curious deep brown, somewhat darker and than usual, and didn't smell or taste much different from the free-with-your-meal soup from the two-star Chinese joint down the street you only dared to dine at because it snowed a bunch. 

Bottom line: without abundant aromatics, pho is just not that special.

Sliced beef pho with the accompaniments. Sure, it's the dead of winter, but can you please only serve me spritely looking basil, perky bean sprouts, and jalapeño slices fit for a Taco Bell commercial shoot, please?

The family running the place, on the other hand, was special. They seemed extremely concerned about whether we were pissed because their baby let loose on the crying while they were in the midst of preparing meals for us and three other tables. Note to self to try to shed that "uptight asshole" look I must be giving off. Fact is, it's hard to deny the intimate magic of a family-owned restaurant, built by a hopeful outlook and a bunch of secondhand stuff strung together on a tight budget — whimpering infant and all. 

Egg rollz ($2.99):
Damn solid.

I might go back and try a banh mi—the other Vietnamese dish people like myself claim to know shit about. And I am especially happy to have had the chance to dine in this state-of-the-art strip mall that's remarkably easy on the eyes.

Still on the search for great pho east of 168th and Harrison. And hoping you'll still try this one, because it's possible they had an "off" day, and because I don't want to be even remotely responsible for the nice family going under because Fatty didn't taste enough spices in her broth. 

In a sea of bright yellow signage spanning the entire shopping center (I mean seriously, have you been there?), this one clearly has the most draw of the bunch, thanks to the seaming soup bowl icon off to the side.
Image borrowed from the Pho Viet Facebook page.