Vietnamese

My Dad and I used to catch small perch at the local harbor for this soup. Amid the sailboats and cabin cruisers, we would lower our poles, the lines baited with thawed frozen peas, to catch the three- to four-inch-long fish, the American equivalent of Vietnamese ca ro. We would bring home about a dozen fish, and my mom would gut them for this classic Viet combination of sweet fish, sharp mustard greens, and ginger. One day, Mom protested that cleaning the fish took too much time, so we stopped catching them, and the soup didn’t grace our table for years. On a trip to Vietnam, I saw a fishmonger at Ben Thanh market in Saigon cleaning ca ro, which reminded me of how good this soup is. Back home, I decided to use whole tilapia, which is sometimes identified as ca ro in Viet markets. It worked just like traditional ca ro in this soup, but its larger size made it much easier to prep and cook. Now, this brightly flavored soup is back on my table as an ideal balance for bold, rich foods like Grilled Lemongrass Pork Riblets (page 145). Whole tilapia is sold at Asian and Latin markets.

My mom often prepared this southern noodle bowl for weekend lunches. It is remarkably easy to make, and with the exception of the beef topping, all of the ingredients are at room temperature and can be readied ahead of time. Noodle dishes like this one are popular at Vietnamese American restaurants, where the topping options usually include grilled pork, grilled pork and shrimp, or grilled chicken. The stir-fried beef version is homey fare that rarely appears on menus. I have provided directions for four other versions of this rice noodle bowl at the end of the recipe, for anyone who wants to replicate his or her favorite restaurant dish.

To put a tasty canh on the table nightly requires that you make the most of staple ingredients like gio, a raw meat paste used extensively in the Viet kitchen. In fact, I freeze small amounts of this meat paste for whipping up classics like this fragrant soup laden with dumplings made from it. As the dumplings poach, they flavor the broth. Edible chrysanthemum leaves (cai cuc) add their deep green color and musty floral perfume. Called tong ho in Cantonese and shungiku in Japanese, the greens are sold at Asian markets and are easy to grow, too. Watercress may be substituted.

One way to imbue canh with flavor is to include lots of vegetables. This recipe, along with Opo Squash Soup (page 60) and Chicken Dumpling and Chrysanthemum Leaf Soup (page 61), amply illustrates this technique. Here, the broth is further enriched with the addition of dried shrimp, which contribute both brininess and color. When I want a more special presentation, I cut the shrimp in half horizontally to yield two symmetrical halves. Once in the hot soup, the halves curl into beautiful spirals. This light soup is a great addition to nearly any Viet meal.

Opo squash, a popular light green–skinned Asian gourd, shows off its delicate sweetness in this quick soup, which blends the opo with chicken or pork to yield a rich flavor that tastes like the broth simmered for hours. Look for opo squash at Asian or farmers’ markets, selecting specimens that are blemish free and feel heavy for their size. When you gently squeeze the squash, it shouldn’t yield to its spongy core, a sign of overmaturity. If an opo squash is unavailable, zucchini may be substituted. The flavor will be milder but still tasty.

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.

If you have ever been a guest at a Vietnamese eight-course fish feast (a variant of Saigon’s famed seven-course beef dinner), you will have tasted a fish goi made with marinated raw fish, which you scooped up with a shrimp chip or the like. In our family, we have long enjoyed this lightly cooked version, created by my aunt Bac Hang. She makes the salad with the teeny, tiny silverfish (not to be confused with the insect) sold at Chinese and Vietnamese markets. Piled high on a plate, the mound of white fish accented by orange carrot slivers, red onion, and chopped fresh herbs is beautiful. The silverfish are sold thawed in the seafood case, or in bricklike blocks in the frozen section (the latter look like freeze frames of a school of swimming fish). You will pay a little more for thawed silverfish because the excess water—and its weight—has been drained away. I usually buy the frozen package for long-term keeping. Silverfish have little flavor on their own, but they readily absorb the flavors of other ingredients, resulting in a delicious salad.

Roughly translated as “useful water”, this versatile broth serves as the basis for many of my Chinese-style noodle soups, including duck soup (page 220) and wonton soup (page 222). While you can use all pork bones, I prefer to combine pork and chicken for a more delicate flavor.

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.

Bún thang is one of the most complex expressions of Vietnamese culinary prowess. Requiring many ingredients and much time, this popular Hanoi soup is traditionally reserved for special events and holidays such as Tet. The golden broth contains chicken, pork, and dried squid or shrimp. The toppings may include those items, too, in addition to egg shreds, gio lua (sausage), and salted duck egg yolk. At the table, shrimp sauce gives the broth extra depth, and if it is affordable, male belostomatid beetle extract (ca cuong) is added from the tip of a toothpick, imparting a mesmerizing fragrance. Aficionados of the soup can be particular. In a 1996 essay, food writer Bang Son asserts that its refinement is not for merely appeasing hunger, insisting that it be served in fine china on a joyous occasion to cherished loved ones. While my mom isn’t that fanatical, she is a stickler for certain traditional notions, such as serving bún thang piping hot. In my kitchen, I omit the beetle juice because the chemical version sold in the United States overwhelms the delicate flavors of the soup. Also, though bún thang is often savored in smallish bowls as part of a multicourse meal, I prefer to serve it in big ones.

Unlike the other salads in this chapter, this one uses vinegar in the dressing, rather than lime juice, for its tart edge. Raw cabbage and vinegar are great partners here, just as they are in any coleslaw. Using a mortar to make the dressing is important, as it allows the garlic and chile to bloom. First, pound the garlic and chile. When they have broken up, switch to a circular motion, using the pestle to mash the mixture against the curved walls of the mortar, an action Vietnamese cooks refer to as smearing (quet) food. A richly hued orange-red paste emerges that has a perfume and flavor that cannot be achieved with a machine or hand chopping.

This heady combination of seafood and tomato comes from the north, where it is traditionally made from small rice-field crabs called cua đong. To extract enough flavor, cooks use many crabs, removing their back shells and pounding their bodies. The crushed crab is combined with water, carefully filtered, and finally mixed with fermented shrimp sauce (mam tom) to create a broth base. When heated, the crab solids rise to the top, forming a rich, seafood-laden floater that is the signature of the soup. Sections of the floater are carefully spooned atop round rice noodles (bun) before the broth is ladled into each bowl. A garnish plate of raw vegetables, limes, and fresh herbs accompanies the soup. When I was a child, our family re-created this soup by using the tiny rock crabs foraged among the rocks at the local harbor. Nowadays, I make this more convenient and equally tasty version. Unlike many Vietnamese Americans (including my mom), I don’t use canned bún riêu cua soup base. Rather, I start with a live Dungeness crab and mix its meat and tomalley with ground shrimp and egg for the floater. Since Dungeness crab season (November through May) doesn’t coincide with tomato season, I use premium canned tomatoes instead of fresh ones. If you are substituting other types of crab, you will need enough to yield 6 ounces of meat.

Among Vietnamese noodle soups, bun bo Hue is second only to pho in popularity. But while pho is delicate and nuanced, bun bo is earthy and spicy, characteristic of central Viet cooking and of the elegant yet rustic table of Hue, the former imperial capital. And although its name suggests an all-beef affair, the soup actually combines beef and pork. To make great bun bo Hue, I heed the advice of our family friend Mrs. Nha, a Hue native who insists that the broth be made with beef bones, not the pork bones widely used today. From my mom, I learned to sauté the onion and boneless meat for a deeply flavored broth. On my own, I discovered that simmering the annatto in the broth yields a nice rich color. (Most cooks fry the seeds in oil to release their color and then add the oil to the finished broth.) Shop for the various meats you need at a Viet or Chinese market, where you will find beef shank (shin) in long pieces, boneless pork leg with a layer of fat and skin, and slices of pork hock, often prepackaged in Styrofoam trays.

Despite the fun and convenience of eating pho at a local noodle soup spot, nothing beats a homemade bowl. What inevitably makes the homemade version đac biet (special) is the care that goes into making the broth, the cornerstone of pho. One of the keys to a great broth is good leg bones, which are often sold at supermarkets as beef soup bones. Avoid neck bones; instead, look for soup bones made up of knuckle and leg bones that contain marrow. At Asian markets, beef leg bones are precut and bagged in the meat department. Vietnamese markets will sometimes have whole leg bones at the butcher counter, and you can specify how you want them cut. A butcher who divides large sections of beef carcasses into small retail cuts is likely to have good bones. For the most fragrant and flavorful broth, I recommend the bones of grass-fed or natural beef.

While beef pho may be the version that most people know and like, chicken pho is also excellent. In recent years, there has been a renewed interest in pho gà within the Vietnamese American community, and a handful of restaurants are specializing in the delicate noodle soup. Some of them use free-range gà chay or gà đi bo (literally “jogging chicken” or “walking chicken”), yielding bowls full of meat that has a flavor and texture reminiscent of traditionally raised chickens in Vietnam. If you want to create great chicken pho yourself, take a cue from the pros and start with quality birds. If you have never made pho, this recipe is ideal for learning the basics. It calls for fewer ingredients than other pho recipes, so you can focus on charring the onion and ginger to accentuate their sweetness, making a clear broth, and assembling steamy hot, delicious bowls. While some cooks flavor chicken pho broth with the same spices they use for beef pho, my family prefers using coriander seeds and cilantro to distinguish the two.

For Vietnamese living abroad, a trip to Saigon would be incomplete without a visit to Ben Thanh Market, a huge maze of fresh food and sundries. Near the center is a food court where vendors hawk popular Viet treats. As you sample their wares, you are apt to strike up conversations with other gluttonous Viet kieu (Vietnamese expats). On one occasion, a man from Texas visiting his family for Tet told me part of his daily routine while in Vietnam included eating mien gà, which was so deliciously light that it allowed him to order more dishes from other vendors. This noodle soup is easy to prepare. Most versions contain shallot, garlic, and chicken giblets, but our family enjoys a simpler preparation that focuses on just a few ingredients, most of which go into the hot stock moments before serving and are then ladled directly into the waiting bowls, with no fancy assembly required. For a nice lunch, present large servings of this soup with a special-event salad (pages 46 to 55). Or, offer it in smaller portions for an elegant beginning to a celebratory meal. This recipe is easily halved.

A specialty of Central Vietnam, these preserved vegetables pack plenty of punch in each garlicky, savory, sweet, and crunchy morsel. Served as a small side dish, they are a flavorful addition to any meal and even make a bowl of plain rice satisfying. Traditionally, the vegetables are cut into thick, stubby sticks, salted, and then partially dried outdoors on bamboo trays before they are left to sit in a mixture of fish sauce, sugar, and garlic. Here in the States, the oven speeds up the process considerably. I use small young daikons and large carrots and cut them into rounds instead of sticks.

When you want a salty-sweet addition to your food, look to these bits of golden radish. The pickle is made using the packaged salted radish, commonly labeled salted or preserved turnip, sold at Chinese and Vietnamese markets (check the dried vegetable aisle). The plastic packages come in different sizes, and the radishes are packed in a variety of forms, from minced to whole. I prefer to start out with chunky thick strips the size of a finger and cut them myself. Don’t be put off by any musty smells emanating from the package. After the contents are rinsed, soaked in water, and seasoned, the off odor disappears and the crisp strips become a wonderful and rather delicate treat. In less than an hour, the radish is ready for eating or long-term storage. I snack on the strips straight from the jar, or serve them with rice or chopped up in bowls of Hanoi Special Rice Noodle Soup (page 217).

Lovely to look at, these rosy shallots are also wonderful to eat. Their delightful tanginess and mild bite cut the richness of foods like beef or pork kho and Viet sausages, headcheese, or pâté. They are also good in a Western salad or sandwich. Tipplers might even try a few in a gin on the rocks. These shallots are a must for Tet celebrations. In fact, there is a traditional Tet couplet that includes dua hânh as one of the required foods for the holiday. My family doesn’t wait for the Lunar New Year to eat them, however. My mom and I make them year-round, using this recipe from my late aunt, Bac Dao. A widow most of her life, she often prepared large batches of various foods and divided them up among her family and friends. These shallots were usually among her gifts. Use small shallots (sold at Asian markets in red plastic net bags, each weighing about a pound) that are firm and without sprouts or mold. If shallots aren’t available, substitute red pearl onions (sold at most supermarkets).

My mom, who was born in Northern Vietnam grew up with this regional pickle. Quan, my brother-in-law, is addicted to it, and when he visits her, he never fails to find the jar that she always keeps in her fridge. While dua góp sometimes contains different ingredients, such as green papaya, this combination of cauliflower, bell pepper, and carrot offers a nice balance of flavor, color, and texture. Traditionally the pickle is served with rich meats and fried fish, but the vegetables are great alone as a quick nibble or as part of a charcuterie platter (Vietnamese or otherwise), antipasto spread, or sandwich plate.