Chris Shepherd's imposing frame darkened the door at Thanh Phuong, the chef apologizing for running late as he walked over to my table. It was understandable, as the restaurant is nearly hidden in a strip mall behind a Long John Silver's on a quiet stretch of Broadway in "old" Pearland. I didn't mind.
I was bouncing in my seat as Shepherd sat down. I handed him a menu and simply couldn't take it any longer, the wait forcing me to blurt out everything he needed to know about the restaurant in one, long stream-of-consciousness ramble.
"Okay, I already ordered an appetizer for us but I don't want to tell you what it is until it gets here because I want it to be a surprise, but first you have to look at the menu because look at the last two pages — they are nothing but game meats! — and then look over here at the lotus root salad and, okay, I can't wait I have to tell you what I ordered for an appetizer: It's venison carpaccio, Vietnamese-style, and I am so psyched right now."
The last part was perhaps a little redundant, and Shepherd was laughing at me by now. He ordered a soda chanh — club soda poured over a mixture of freshly squeezed lemon juice and sugar — to match mine and we settled in to continue perusing the menu.
"Did you see this?" he pointed at a dish of chicken wings in caramelized fish sauce. "I have to get that next time."
"Did you see this?" I responded as I pointed to a curried mutton dish near the back of the menu. This shared obsession with Vietnamese food was the reason I'd invited him, after all.
Shepherd was most recently the chef at Catalan, which was widely regarded as one of the best restaurants in Houston, before he departed to work on opening his own place, Underbelly, set to open on Westheimer in the spot where Chances was, within the next year. Catalan is currently dormant while it transforms into a new restaurant called Coppa. There's plenty of anticipation for Coppa to open, but it doesn't match the excitement over Shepherd's Underbelly.
The chef and I happily geeked out over the possibilities on the menu — many of which I've never seen in any other Vietnamese restaurant in Houston, let alone Pearland — until our venison carpaccio arrived.
I all but lost it. This was the food equivalent of love at first sight. My heart pounded with each bite.
Thin slices of deer meat, a dark ruddy color that was almost translucent, had been marinated in lime and lemon juice, with powerful, pungent notes of fish sauce punctuating the citrus marinade and subtly nudging up the naturally sweet flavor of the venison. Slivers of red onion and shallot wove themselves throughout the pile, topped with diced peanuts. We gobbled the plate down with chopsticks in one hand and broken-off bits of sesame-studded rice cakes in the other, the salty crackers serving as that last integral bite in a stunningly well-composed dish.
We quickly ordered five more things.
Out they came in quick succession: Vietnamese-style deep-fried rabbit with a sprinkling of sesame seeds atop the tender strips of meat; boar luc lac — traditional "shaking" beef using wild pork instead — that was crisped at the edges, but soft and lean in the middle; sautéed alligator in a mild bean sauce that was sweet and mild, the meat fresh and lean; pan-fried rice cakes that were chewy and crunchy all at once with a thrilling vein of coconut flavor running lightly through them; and two of the most perfect crèmes brûlées I have ever seen in my life, crackled tops looking like fine china broken open to reveal a custard with an elegantly silky texture that would have made Amelie weep.
By the end of our meal, Shepherd — who is often called "The Godfather" of Houston's food scene — was offering to stage at the little restaurant, although he first had to explain what staging is to the confused waiter: Essentially, it's an unpaid internship in a kitchen where you hope to learn from a master.
"Are you a cook?" asked our young waiter, the son of the proprietress.
"Yes," Shepherd chuckled back.
"Well, did you go to cooking school?"
"Hmm. I'll have to ask my mom." And with that, he retreated back into the kitchen.
Thanh Phuong has existed in Pearland for at least the last 15 years, but until very recently it served an uninspired if decent menu of Chinese standards with a few Vietnamese dishes thrown in. That was before the Nguyen family took over.
They smartly left the standards in place — Thanh Phuong still does a very busy to-go service in the evenings for families in the area — but added more traditional dishes to the menu along with a massive assortment of game meats, something which sets it very far apart from nearly every other Vietnamese restaurant.