East Asian

Shaped like half-moons, the plain buns are used like rolls: they are split open, a morsel of roast pork, duck, or char siu (barbecued pork) is tucked inside, and if there is a sauce, a little is drizzled over the meat. The resulting tiny sandwich is a great hors d’oeuvre or starter course. Steamed buns made from scratch take time. It is worth the effort to make your own dough for filled buns, but when you want the buns only as a small side dish, a shortcut may be in order.

Rice is king in the Vietnamese kitchen, but wheat also plays a role in foods such as these steamed buns. A classic Viet riff on Chinese bao, the buns encase a hearty vegetable-and-meat mixture, with a creamy wedge of hard-boiled egg in the center. Traditional bao are made from a yeast-leavened dough, but many Vietnamese Americans leaven the dough with baking powder. This New World innovation is faster and the dough is easier to manipulate. The buns are also more stable in the steamer than the yeasted version, which can sometimes deflate during cooking. Viet delis sell soft ball-sized bánh bao, but I prefer more manageable baseball-sized ones. I use bleached all-purpose flour, which yields slightly lighter-colored buns than unbleached flour. Like all bao, these buns are great for breakfast, lunch, or a snack. They will keep in the refrigerator (stored in an airtight container) for a few days and are easily reheated, making them a great homemade fast food. For additional flavor, serve them with a simple dipping sauce of soy sauce and freshly cracked black pepper.

When preparing this Chinese classic, Vietnamese cooks, like their northern neighbors, often rely on canned creamed corn, once considered an exotic foreign import in Asia. The velvety sweet-savory result fuses East and West. Here in the States, fresh corn is plentiful, and making this soup with kernels cut from the cob yields bright flavors that aren’t cloying. Neither cornstarch nor egg is needed to create a creamy texture. The natural starch in the corn provides it. Some cooks add a variety of embellishments to the soup, but I prefer to keep it simple, using only sliced shiitake mushrooms for their flavor, texture, and visual appeal. Make sure you use the sweetest corn possible, whether from your local market or farm stand, fresh or frozen.

Wonton noodle soups are often on the menus of Vietnamese noodle shops, but they are seldom as nuanced as those prepared by Chinese cooks. Years ago, while living in Southern California, I wanted to find out the Chinese secret to good wonton noodle soup, so I asked my friend Victor Fong. Born and raised in Chinatown, Los Angeles, he took me to the local Mayflower Restaurant, a tiny locals-only establishment on a side street. The noodles had a perfect chewy-tender texture, the crinkly wontons encased a toothsome pork and shrimp filling, and the golden broth was complex and not darkened by too much soy sauce. The owners and their chef turned out to be ethnic Chinese from Vietnam, and though friendly, there were coy about what went into their noodle soup. After eating many bowls at Mayflower and some trial and error at home, I came up with my own version of this noodle soup classic.

This soup borrows heavily from Vietnam’s northern neighbor. Mì vit tiem is one of my mom’s favorites, and she is partial to a version made by her friend Mrs. Tan, who, along with her husband, once owned a Chinese barbecue restaurant in San Diego. Unlike pho, which most Viet home cooks know how to make, mì vit tiem is usually left to the pros. The trick is cooking the duck legs until tender (but not mushy), mahogany brown, and deeply seasoned. The traditional approach is to marinate them, flash fry them for color, and then simmer them in the broth. Some cooks even refry the legs right before serving. When my mom finally asked Mrs. Tan for her secret, she divulged that she roasted and then steamed the duck legs, instead of frying and simmering them. Her method evenly colors the duck, seals in the seasonings, preserves the integrity of the meat, and easily removes much of the fat. I developed this recipe using Mrs. Tan’s method. Traditionally, the duck leg is served whole on the side for diners to attack with chopsticks and spoons. Since that is hard to do, even for a native chopstick user like me, I slice the meat and serve it in the bowl.

My mother dislikes the slight astringency of this salad, but my father loves it. One day he secretly taught me how to make the salad. I was tickled then as now by its wild and tangly appearance, juicy texture, and earthy flavors. The element that brings the ingredients together is Vietnamese balm (kinh gioi), a splendid herb with hints of lemongrass and mint. You will find giant, burgundy teardrop-shaped fresh banana blossoms (illustrated on page 174), which are technically buds, in the produce section of Chinese and Vietnamese markets. Select one that feels firm and solid (not spongy) and has a tightly closed tip. The smaller the better because there is less astringency in the bracts (petal-like leaves) and flowers, which are both used here. The blossoms and balm are at their peak in the summer.

Traditionally deep-fried, shrimp toasts can be greasy affairs. During frying, the toasts soak up lots of oil and the shrimp topping often slides off the bread. A few years ago, chef Susana Foo, in her eponymous cookbook, offered an excellent solution for making this popular Chinese snack: baking the toasts. Her idea caught my eye, and I was fast to adapt the method for a Vietnamese version. The end product is a crispy, pinkish orange hors d’oeuvre that is delightfully grease free.

You know you’ve got a taco problem when you make a duck breast recipe from a destined-to-be-classic Chinese cookbook and think, “Wouldn’t these be good in tortillas?” Yes, that’s what happened to me when I tried Eileen Yin-Fei Lo’s simple baked duck breasts from Mastering the Art of Chinese Cooking. I served them for a Chinese dinner that night, but pretty soon I was playing around with a riff on five-spice powder, combining Asian and Mexican ingredients and rubbing them into the breasts before using Lo’s baking technique. A sweet, sour, and spicy plum salsa was just the thing to cut through and complement the deep flavors of the rich duck.

When I visited Tokyo and Kyoto with my friend Devra a couple years back, I didn’t want to leave. I would say it was the beautiful aesthetic, the attention to design and style, the amazingly efficient trains, but really, of course, it was the food. I was especially excited when I learned how much the Japanese revere the sweet potato, one of my all-time favorite foods. In season (fall and winter), street vendors hawk stone-roasted ones—paler-fleshed and sweeter than ours. Famous cookbook author Harumi Kurihara showed me how she loves to mash miso into roasted sweet potatoes, so when I returned home, I knew that even the orange-fleshed varieties here would take beautifully to Japanese flavors. For a kick of bitterness that nicely offsets the earthy miso, use broccoli rabe instead of the broccolini.

Like many food-oriented folk, I have a serious kimchi obsession going. But I didn’t want just any old kimchi recipe in this book. And I knew just where to turn in search of a recipe that has a little something extra: my friend Deb Samuels, cooking teacher and coauthor with Taekyung Chung of The Korean Table: From Barbecue to Bibimbap. Deb keeps up on all things Korean, and she told me that not only is it becoming more fashionable to salt kimchi less than traditional recipes call for, but also that the water-soaking process probably can be skipped entirely. She also said one of her favorites is a white kimchi with a main ingredient of Asian pear, which happened to already feature strongly in my Korean Short Rib Tacos (page 92). Why not try a kimchi with cabbage and pear together? Of course, she was right on the money. Look for Korean chili powder, which has a distinctive heat but a mellow, sweet undertone, in Asian supermarkets; for kimchi, there really is no substitute. Once you have your ingredients, this kimchi could hardly be simpler to make, and the slight sweetness and crunch it gets from the pear make it positively haunting. Besides using it on the tacos, use it on Kimchi, Ham, and Fried Egg Pizza (page 107) and Fried Rice with Cauliflower and Kimchi (page 136).

When I lived in Peterborough, New Hampshire, in the early 1990s, I had two obsessions. The first was the lettuce mix from organic farming pioneer Rosaly Bass, who charmed me so much I signed up for a subscription that let me pick what I wanted off her land all season long. (I tended to swing by at midnight after a long day as editor of the weekly Monadnock Ledger and shovel up carrots by moonlight.) The second was this powerfully sharp dressing, made by chef Hiroshi Hayashi at his elegant, health-minded Japanese restaurant, Latacarta. While Rosaly’s farm is still going strong, Hayashi long ago closed the restaurant and started the Monadnock School of Natural Cooking and Philosophy, but he still makes this vegan dressing. I use it to dress simple salads of butter lettuce with cherry tomatoes and carrots, taking care to slice the carrots into a perfect julienne the way I remember Hayashi did. The dressing also makes an excellent dip for crudités.

The Hindus paint a red dot, or bindi, on their foreheads as an ancient form of ornamentation that also indicates a focal point of meditation: the third eye, the site of the bright inner flame that burns in our mind’s eye. People living in the warmer climates of Latin America wear a bindi of another sort, a cucumber slice stuck to their forehead to keep cool on a hot day. This practice has always fascinated me. The sure knowledge that as the afternoon wore on the wearer’s sweat would salt that cucumber also made me hungry. The crisp, acidic rush of tsukemono, or Japanese pickles, brings focus and refreshment as an accompaniment to grilled fish, rice dishes, and sashimi. It can also be eaten on its own in a meditative moment.

Growing up, I hated this Korean fermented delicacy. My father would drag me miles away to the Korean supermarket down an alley to buy this stuff. He would bring it home and literally evacuate the house when he broke the seal on the jar. It wasn’t until I started working at Momofuku that I learned that I really love kimchi, and that there are many, many levels of potency throughout the kimchi-producing kitchens in this country. The Momofuku cookbook has a ridiculously tasty kimchi recipe (among others). Or use your favorite brand of cabbage-based kimchi in this recipe.

You can find ground bean sauce, a gloopy paste of fermented soybeans, salt, sugar, and sesame oil, in Asian grocery stores or order a jar online.

Shiso, also known as “beefsteak plant,” is a pungent, wild-tasting herb native to North America but typically sold only in Japanese markets. Often served with sushi, shiso is essential here for bringing the flavor of the fish to life. Dry sake served cold rounds out this dish well.

A kanten dessert is the Japanese equivalent of Jell-O, and its consistency can be adjusted by adding more or less liquid. This version is soft in texture, and the mellow flavor of pears is set off by the rich, spiced crunch topping. It’s important to blend the kanten after it cools in order to achieve a smooth, creamy texture. If you can’t find agar-agar (see page 102) in powder form, simply grind the flakes in a coffee grinder for 1 minute.

Pockets made from fried tofu skins are convenient for making a quick finger food for parties, and they don’t require any dipping sauce. Find the pockets in Japanese markets in the dry foods or refrigerated section; they come preseasoned with sugar and soy. You’ll find kimchi, the sweet and spicy fermented cabbage condiment, at the same store. Although it originated in Korea, kimchi is also very popular in Japan.

Yuba, also called tofu skin, is sturdy and easy to work with. Its crisp texture when baked makes it an ideal wrapper for spring rolls. Find dried or frozen yuba sheets at Japanese food stores.

In many parts of the world, breakfast is a savory affair. Throughout Asia, hearty congee is a favorite morning dish, eaten with condiments ranging from stir-fried pork to fried garlic. This version gets a citrus zing from lemongrass (shown below) and ginger. Normally made with white rice, the grain most widely available in Asia, congee can be made using any whole grain. Soaking the rice overnight cuts the cooking time in half.

This brothy, colorful soup is a potent tonic that will cure what ails you. Miso paste, made from fermented soybeans, is an essential component of Japanese cuisine. As with yogurt and other fermented products, miso is most beneficial uncooked, so stir it into the soup only after turning off the heat. Wakame is a mild-tasting green sea vegetable most commonly used in the traditional miso soup that accompanies sushi. Burdock root (shown below) has a texture reminiscent of water chestnuts. It grows wild throughout the United States and can also be found in Japanese markets. After slicing burdock root, soak it in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. If burdock root isn’t available, simply use more of the other vegetables.