Southeast Asian

Tod mun—Thai fish cakes—are usually made with mackerel or other dark-fleshed fish, but shrimp are just as good, and most of my friends seem to prefer them made this way. Both mackerel and shrimp have enough natural gelatin to hold together without egg or bread crumbs or mashed potatoes or any of the other binders necessary in so many fish cakes. In fact, they have so much natural gelatin that if you over process the fish it becomes rubbery, which in fact is characteristic of tod mun. My little trick—of pureeing some of the fish and simply chopping the rest—keeps it a little softer; you can do it either way. If you make these with shrimp, they can also be grilled. See page 500 for information on Thai fish sauce (nam pla).

This well-known Philippine starter combines attributes of many of the wrapped foods of other countries. It’s filled like an egg roll, has an egg wrapper like a crêpe, and is served warm but not fried. All the components, which can be varied according to what you have in your kitchen, are cooked before assembly.

These are very similar to crêpes—the staple of Brittany (page 86)—but thinner and more delicate (and the filling, which follows, is like nothing you’ll find in the French tradition). Though they’re often called “Philippine Egg Rolls,” lumpia—again, like most crêpes—require no cooking once they’re filled.

This finger food is popular in the south of China, Southeast Asia, and, of course, many American Chinese restaurants. It’s perfect for parties and super easy to make, especially with store-bought egg roll wrappers. They can be filled an hour or two ahead of time and fried immediately before serving or—though it isn’t ideal—fried an hour or two ahead of time and crisped in a warm oven later.

One of the world’s great dumplings, the samosa has migrated to Southeast Asia and elsewhere. As with most dumplings, the filling is easily varied. And, as with most dumplings, you can use store-bought dumpling wrappers or the simple homemade ones on page 62. But the super rich wrappers here are really the best. Traditionally, you would deep-fry samosas, but more and more often they are baked. They’re terrific either way.

Like the nut and bean preparations on pages 27–28, these savory crisp snacks from Southeast Asia (closely related to the similar recipe from Korea that follows) can be eaten out of hand. Also like them, they’re great with beer. Though unfamiliar to some people, they’re instantly liked by most. (You can buy dried baby anchovies—described on page 25—at most Asian, and some Latin, markets.) In Thailand, they’re sometimes tossed with Fried Peanuts (page 27), a lovely little combo.

I learned how to make “summer rolls” in a tiny village in the Mekong Delta. I was not only the only non-Vietnamese at the table; I was also the only male. My pathetic technique was laughable to my co-workers, but I quickly got the hang of it. So will you. Rice paper wrappers, sold in Asian markets, keep forever. Their flexibility is truly amazing, and the simple variation will give you an idea of the different directions in which you can go. This is just a basic outline; these rolls can be filled with infinite variations of vegetables, meat, and even fruit, so don’t worry if you don’t have one or two of the ingredients here. You can cover these with a moist towel or plastic wrap and keep them for about an hour, no longer, before serving.

I first had this appetizer as street food, near a market in Bangkok. The combination of raw ingredients normally used as flavoring agents for cooked dishes was intriguing and refreshing. The betel leaf used to hold everything together gave an additional bite to the dish. Betel leaves are impossible to find here, but the dish remains delicious with spinach leaves or even lettuce. If you’re not familiar with Thai fish sauce (nam pla), see page 500. You put it all together at the table, so it’s kind of fun. Serve this as the start to any meal featuring other food from Southeast Asia.

Fried peanuts will amaze your guests with their crunch and fresh, distinctive flavor. Add different kinds of nuts if you like, as long as they are “raw” to begin with (the industrial shelling process uses enough heat to cook the nuts, at least a little bit). The best raw peanuts are usually found in the fall (peanuts are an exception; the best season for other nuts is spring), when they are fresh and tender. Like any nuts, these are great with drinks, especially beer.

Leftover mashed potatoes work wonderfully in this recipe.

In 1995, I was lucky enough to be invited as a guest chef at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. I brought my sous chef and pastry chef with me, and for two weeks we toured the temples and markets of the city, seeing (and eating) many unusual and beautiful things. I vividly remember the profusion of flowers and the tasty and sometimes strange street food (such as the edible insect cart, which we avoided), and the gradual change from barely tolerating hot chiles to actually craving them on a daily basis. When I returned, my sous chef, Ronald Carr, helped me develop this dish to showcase the new flavors that I’d fallen for. This substantial salad could be served for lunch, dinner, or as a first course before something light, such as grilled fish. To lighten up the salad, you can add an extra handful of shredded cabbage or even more of the crispy noodles (keep in mind that the salad will be a bit drier if you do this). Small or medium shrimp work just fine in this recipe, and they’re less expensive than larger varieties.

My mother learned this dish when we lived in Holland in the late ’50s. It was part of the rijstafel—an Indonesian take-out feast of many dishes—that my parents used to have delivered to the house. We used to watch wide-eyed as a flurry of delivery guys carried in dish after dish stacked in round metal containers. When we gather as a family on Christmas and other special days, we rarely have turkey or ham, but more often rice and curry or bami goreng, a noodle dish, with these satés as an appetizer. It is still the favorite family snack. The pork marinade is effortless to put together. While the meat absorbs the flavors, you can stir together the spicy peanut sauce. I tend to grill the satés, but my mother actually cooks these on an old waffle iron that has a smooth side, not unlike a panini grill.

I have loved pad Thai ever since high school when my friends and I found this great Thai restaurant that we went to every chance we got. I have found that making it at home is a more than satisfactory substitute (and, of course, way cheaper). I like to make it spicier and add a little soy sauce, so start out with the recipe here, and then add your own personal touch—that’s what cooking is all about anyway! You’ll see that the recipe calls for vegetarian fish sauce, which may seem like a funny concept, but you can find it online or at some Asian markets (where you can also pick up the rice noodles).

These are light and healthy, and so packed with flavor that everyone will love them. The sauce has a classic combo of Southeast Asian flavors that go so well together—salty, sweet, sour, and spicy. Just be careful with the chili paste. It’s hot . . . really hot.

Here is the Vietnamese version of the familiar Chinese egg drop soup. At its heart is a base of onion and tomato, which is cooked down to concentrate flavors and impart a lovely color. The pork adds richness, and so do the eggs, which also contribute a creamy finish to round out the tangy notes. This soup was a weekly standard at our family dinner table, and my mom would sometimes substitute tofu cubes for the pork to vary the flavor. When I have extra time, I mince the pork by hand for an authentic touch. For instructions on how to do it, see page 69.

Tou may encounter Vietnamese headcheese in a bánh mì, but it isn’t an everyday charcuterie. When made at home, it is considered special-occasion fare and is often presented as an hors d’oeuvre with other cold meats and tangy pickled vegetables. Dense, firm Vietnamese headcheese is not as gelatinous as its Western counterpart. The meats are boiled, cut up, and then slowly sautéed to release the gelatin, which helps all the elements stick together. Strips of fluffy egg sheets are added for color. The mixture is wrapped in banana leaf and tied, rolled up in plastic and aluminum foil, or packed into an empty food can and left to cool at room temperature and congeal. It is then ready for serving, but time in the refrigerator improves its flavor. This recipe is my mother’s “refined” version and doesn’t require buying a whole pig’s head. She omits snouts and instead uses just ears, tongue, and pork shank (all readily available at a Chinese or Vietnamese market), a combination that offers a nice textural balance. To mold the mixture, I use an empty food can. The twenty-ounce cans that once held fruits like lychees and jackfruit produce well-proportioned, handsome results, and their ridge-free walls make unmolding easy. Lining the can with banana leaf imparts fragrance and flavor.

In my mom’s saigon kitchen, the food processor, a modern luxury appliance, was reserved for making giò, while the old-fashioned hand-crank meat grinder was used for delicious liver pâtés like this one. We regularly enjoyed it, tucked into bánh mì or simply smeared on a baguette slice. In the traditional Viet interpretation of French paté, pork or beef liver, pork meat, and fatback are seasoned with lots of garlic and sometimes Cognac and Chinese five-spice powder (a substitute for French quatre épices). Some cooks add tapioca starch or flour as a binder, and, when available, they line the mold with caul fat for encasing the meat mixture. The paté is then steamed, steamed and baked, or baked in a water bath, the method usually depending on whether or not the cook has an oven. When my mother came to the States and switched from pork to chicken for making giò, she began saving the left over livers for this light, elegant pâté. She also started making the pâté in a food processor. If you want a more intense liver flavor, use half pork and half chicken liver, or make an all-pork version, cutting the liver into 1-inch cubes before processing. Don’t skimp on fat, or the results will be dry and tough. Meat today tends to be lean, and this recipe needs the fat to achieve the right taste and texture. You will end up with a large pâté—the better to impress others with your efforts.

Not only is this sausage in the fancy cha category, like Roasted Cinnamon Sausage (page 163), but it is also sinfully good. Mo means fat, in this case diced pork fatback, which is combined with the classic meat paste and specks of ground pepper. Shaped into a thick disk, the mixture is cooked twice, first steamed and then fried or baked. The two-step process allows you to keep the meat on hand for last-minute cooking, ensuring that it is perfect at serving time. Sliced while still warm, it is crispy on the outside and rich on the inside. For a traditional pairing, serve a few of the slices between steamed sticky rice cakes (page 254).

Mrs. Hieu, a friend of my parents, is an avid cook, and one of her specialties is this garlicky pork. When my mother first tried the meat, stuffed in a baguette sandwich, she said it instantly reminded her of pork from her favorite Saigon street vendors. Indeed, it is so good that Mrs. Hieu used to sell her pork to Little Saigon delis in Orange County, California. Mrs. Hieu’s method calls for seasoning, rolling, and tying boneless pork shank, a funnel-shaped, rich cut sold at Chinese and Viet markets. Instead of boiling or steaming the meat in the traditional manner, she bakes it in the oven, a method that yields more concentrated flavor. That’s her secret. My recipe utilizes Mrs. Hieu’s approach, but since pork shank can be hard to roll and tie securely (the meat slides around), I forgo tying it and instead roll the meat in heavy-duty foil. Food coloring gives this cold cut its characteristically pinkish red rind, without which it is rather gray. You may decide against this superficial yet cheery touch, but it is authentic.

When ground meat or meat paste is enhanced by other seasonings and cooked in an unusual manner, rather than just boiled, it is elevated to the realm of cha, a term used for fancier charcuterie. So if the name of a dish includes the word cha, expect to be seduced. Here, the meat paste receives a dose of cinnamon, which adds a deep spicy-sweet flavor without being cloying (much as it does to many savory Middle Eastern dishes). To accentuate the perfume and color that cinnamon lends to the paste, the mixture is traditionally spread onto a large section of bamboo and cooked on a spit over a wood fire. As the bamboo spins, a chewy skin forms and a heady aroma wafts through the air. When cut from the bamboo, the ready-to-eat sausage is curved like pieces of cinnamon bark. In the States, my mom tried substituting a large metal juice can for the bamboo and an electric rotisserie for the spit. If things weren’t just right, the paste slipped off the can and was ruined. The method here, which uses an inverted baking sheet, is much easier, although it doesn’t yield the characteristic curved shape. The taste, however, is splendid, especially when the sausage is made with strong, sweet Vietnamese cassia cinnamon.