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My brother, the chef, likes his pho simplest: noodles, broth, white and green onions. Crowned as our mother's perfect son and our family's beloved oldest male grandson, he dutifully serves his parents and me but is the first to begin eating. He does this humbly, complimenting effusively after the first bite but otherwise saying nothing until the last drop is gone. He, of all of us, must finish his bowl, to honor the dish and our mother's efforts in making it. The entire meal—first boil, colorful garnishes, the act of eating—is eccentric art and an act of love.