So, one day… well it was night actually. So, one night, two waiters and a chef were sitting at a bar (I know, right?), complaining about the fact that the following day they would have to drive all the way to the West Bank of the Mississippi River to get a bowl of pho to ease the inevitable hangover which they would all have from drinking too much that very night. One of the waiters said “We should open our own pho joint so we wouldn’t have to drive so far to get pho.” The other waiter agreed that it was a very good idea. In the ensuing silence, both waiters stared expectantly at the chef. “What?” the chef, who had not been paying attention (because chefs generally don’t pay attention to waiters, especially at a bar) asked defensively. “How hard would it be to cook pho?” asked the waiters. “Not hard, I guess.” said the chef. “Okay, so let’s open a pho restaurant.” The waiters nodded to each other. “Wait, what?” Asked the chef again. “A pho restaurant.” They repeated. “Uh, has it occurred to you that none of us are Vietnamese?” The chef said. “So, where does it say that you have to be Vietnamese to open a pho restaurant? Besides you’re a chef!” The chef nodded and ordered another beer, sure that this would play itself it out by the end of the night and that the waiters would forget about the whole thing. The next day, one of the waiters called the number on a “For Rent” sign in the window of an old bookstore in Mid-City. The moral of the story is never underestimate what a couple of drunk waiters can talk a chef into doing.