You could easily overlook the nondescript Asian bodega just past the columned Baptist church on Third Street in Troy. Even if you stop, the sign above the retail space reads Kim's Convenience and Stationery (it's owned by Jinah Kim, of nearby Sunhee's Kitchen) and counter stools in the storefront window are piled discouragingly high with delivery boxes and supplies.

You have to walk in, look beyond the intriguing Asian candies and squeeze down grocery aisles to the back, where first-time restaurant owner Quang Tran, assisted by two college-age nephews, is plunging ladles into giant metal stockpots and bustling around the open kitchen. If you're someone who lives for semi-secret, back-of-the-bodega gems, Quang's Vietnamese Bistro (website here) is for you. Go, and you'll be rewarded with the area's best pho.

Tran — known to anyone who dines out in Troy as a long-term server at Peck's Arcade — cuts a familiar figure in trademark white rim glasses and closely shorn hair. But it could be news that his passion lies in piping hot pho noodle soup delivered ceremonially in a deep-sided bowl, broth shimmering, flavors wrung from bones and spices in a lengthy slow-simmered labor. He is, shall I say, particular about it. For now (I have to believe it's temporary), he eschews the idea of takeout, preferring to control the slow process and theater of table presentation, even if seating is limited to seven two-tops and eight stools at the bar.

As a father of two, and someone well–versed in the all-consuming nature of the restaurant industry, he has put limits on service hours, allowing himself two consecutive days off and a break between lunch and dinner service, when he can get to the gym.

You're reasonably contained in this secluded rear nook. While you never quite forget you're in an Asian market, there's a greater sense of peeking out at the few shoppers than being noticed by them. Strung patio lights glint against electric blue wall tiles and a peacock blue haze emanates from the LED tracking under a yolk-yellow counter. Kitchen actions, like searing meat, can send plumes of smoke across the store; it's no surprise when the convenience cashier props open the front door.

Tran's service mindset — in a nod to two decades working front of house either at Fish & Game in Hudson and Peck's Arcade in Troy, or San Francisco in his home state of California — can make a quick lunch feel like a three-course meal.

The menu is brief: Vietnamese spring rolls, pho and pretty vermicelli bowls called bun. You could order one or stagger a few. The intimate space allows Tran to navigate tables, advising guests to wrap cool lettuce leaves around crisp imperial rolls packed with diced pork and shrimp or tofu and shiitake mushrooms, and radiating heat from the fryer; or prettily arranging essential pho garnishes — fresh Thai basil, sliced red and green chiles, and lime — on a plate.

The streets of San Francisco are lined with pho shops, and Tran, using his mother's recipes with input from his sister and aunt, offers three: a traditional, intensely dark, 24-hour beef pho bo; chicken pho ga, especially popular in Southern California where he was raised; and, to satisfy herbivores, a modern vegan pho fueled with massive amounts of vegetables.

Pho, done well, is simple yet refined, a translucent bone broth skimmed of flotsam, echoing with simmered spices like coriander and fennel seed, clove, star anise, Vietnamese cassia cinnamon, and black pepper, with rice noodles swirled underneath.

I wasn't expecting the vegan pho to blaze with sweet, savory flavors but it does, the result of multiple trials and a base of sweet root vegetables — kohlrabi, daikon and turnips — bolstered by vegetables trimmings, market mushrooms, scallions and bok choy. Though the pho ga is less unctuous and collagen-rich than traditional beef pho, Tran uses five whole chickens for each batch of chicken broth, and a seven-hour bath until the broth is fragrant with ginger and spice, and dense with coarsely pulled breast meat and smooth sliced heart.

The beef pho brims with seared eye round, bouncy meatballs and brisket, some with fat still attached (where the real flavor lives). There may be jellyish tendon or buttery collagen loosened from bones, and honeycomb tripe braised to soft velvet and sliced in delicate threads. Don't get squeamish and skip it. Tear in basil leaves and add a squeeze of lime, but pluck meat from the broth to dip in a side of hoisin and spicy hot sauce: Yours are the final acts in a hugely labor-intensive, flavor-coaxing chain.

You might, like us, start with translucent vermicelli spring rolls, bright with cilantro, mint and basil. We dunk the shrimp rolls in a clinging hoisin-peanut sauce, the king oyster mushroom version in a spicy citrus-soy wash. But what about bun, the vermicelli bowls of Tran's childhood? He remembers his mother calling into his Southern California backyard when lunch was ready and these waiting inside. Frankly, it makes me want to relive his childhood. Whether yours is topped with spicy shrimp or lemon grass pork, it will be an exquisite assemblage painted with finely sliced cucumber, carrot and daikon, a light fish broth poured on top and — holy, yes — delicate flowers like pretty jeweled studs.

With few drink options and a liquor license still pending, patrons can order sweet Thai tea in a can, bubble tea from the Kim's Convenience staff up front or stick with water attentively replenished by Tran. Order a Vietnamese pour-over coffee and he's off, assembling silver cups on the counter, letting it slow drip and sweetening it with condensed milk.

Although Tran long considered opening a Vietnamese eatery, this affordable opportunity fell into his lap when Kim approached him about her ready-to-go bodega space, originally planned for another restaurant operator. There were a few kinks, including, during opening weeks, having to close early when demand for pho drained every last drop. For now, without a sign out front, it remains hidden but not undiscovered: A convenience shop with culinary chops.

Pho for one is $15 with tax, before tip. Spring rolls, pho and Vietnamese coffee for two will cost around $58 with tax, before tip.

Susie Davidson Powell is a British freelance food writer in upstate New York. Follow her on Twitter, @SusieDP. To comment on this review, visit the Table Hopping blog, blog.timesunion.com/tablehopping.