The Story of Soupe Phnom Penh
How the popularity of one noodle soup in the 77 tells a story of Paris's east and south-east Asian immigrants. Words and photos by Wendy Huynh.
From time to time, I come across someone else of Asian heritage from a different part of the world who has a family member living in Lognes, one of the eastern suburbs of Paris that makes up the area known as the 77. When I do, I can bet that they are also immigrants of Chinese-Vietnamese heritage who arrived in Paris following the Vietnam War in the late 70s. Like me, they would also remember the park and lake by the station, waiting endlessly for their parents in the carpark of the Asian supermarket Tang Frères, and chaotic family gatherings at the local Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants.
As a child of Lognes, I have a love/hate relationship with the Parisian suburbs. I hated being far from the cultural centre of the city and feeling dismissed. But in the last 10 years, while living in London, I have come to lean on those memories of the 77: the Sunday Chinese classes in Noisiel with the teacher whose breath smelled like tangerines; seeing my aunt making tong yuen in her kitchen in Lognes; giggling under the dining table with my cousin while being told off for knocking the nước mắm on to the carpet.
One of the things I miss most about the 77 is a dish that I cannot find in London, and that has no special resonance for most Parisians: a noodle soup called soupe Phnom Penh, named after the Cambodian capital. In my opinion, soupe Phnom Penh is best served in the 77, but getting Parisians to travel to the suburbs for any reason is difficult, let alone for noodle soup.