Vietnamese

Sometimes listed on restaurant menus as fresh spring rolls or summer rolls, salad rolls, along with pho, have come to embody Vietnamese food to many non-Vietnamese. They typically combine the elements of a classic Vietnamese goi (salad) but wrapped in rice paper. Southern Vietnamese cooks usually slip a few aromatic Chinese chives into the mix. The chives, dark green, flat blades with a mild garlic flavor, are sold in Asian markets and are also easily grown from seeds. If they are unavailable, omit them and the rolls will still be tasty. Part of the genius of Vietnamese cooking is in how simple ingredients can be crafted into something that is both flavorful and attractive. These rolls reflect that talent.

There is one sandwich in the Vietnamese repertoire and it is a tour de force. Garlicky meats, marinated daikon and carrot, chiles, cucumber, and cilantro tucked into a baguette moistened with mayonnaise and Maggi Seasoning sauce, bánh mì merges European and Asian food traditions. Each mouthful reflects how Vietnamese cooks co-opted French ideas to create new foods. All bánh mì use the same basic framework of ingredients, though a minority of makers use margarine or butter instead of mayonnaise. At Vietnamese delis, you make the call on the main protein element. The dac biet (special) is basically “the works,” a smear of liver pâté and slices of various cold cuts that show off the art of Vietnamese charcuterie (pages 156 to 171). Follow the custom of Viet deli owners and use your imagination to fill the sandwich. Just make sure it is boldly flavored. Pieces of grilled lemongrass beef (page 28), oven-roasted chicken (page 80), five-spice pork steaks (page 143), or char siu pork (page 142; pictured here) are excellent. Seared or grilled firm tofu or left over roasted lamb or beef will work, too. The bread doesn’t have to be one of the airy Vietnamese baguettes made with wheat and rice flours. (In the past, the best baguettes in Vietnam were made from wheat flour only and displayed an amazing crumb and crust.) You can use a regular baguette (though neither sourdough nor too crusty) or a Mexican bolillo (torpedo-shaped roll).

Loaded with beef, crunchy texture, and heady sweet flavors, this specialty of southern Vietnam echoes Chinese mu shu pork and Malaysian and Singaporean poh piah. But instead of rolling the filling in a wheat flour–based wrapper, rice paper is used. Bò bía are traditionally made by street vendors in a to-go format that recalls a Mexican burrito. When we lived in Saigon, my sister Ha and her best friend, Loan, were addicted to the rolls. On the way home from school, my parents or our driver would take them by one of the hawkers strategically positioned on a street corner, hot wok at the ready. Hand rolls and money were exchanged through the car window, with the girls giggling as they dove into their favorite snack. Because we don’t have those wonderful street vendors here, our family makes bò bía at home as a prelude to a big meal or the focus of a light lunch. We set things up at the table for everyone to assemble his or her own rolls. Th is do-it-yourself approach is ideal because these rolls, unlike salad rolls (page 32), can be messy and should be eaten as soon as they are made.

Years ago, I tasted these grilled beef skewers at a restaurant in Orange County’s Little Saigon, where they were served with a hoisin-based peanut sauce. When I got home, I researched the recipe in cookbooks published in Vietnam decades ago and developed this recipe, which includes shrimp sauce (mam tôm) to give the beef a distinctive savory depth. Typical of food from Vietnam’s central region, these skewers are rich and a bit salty. Dipped in the earthy sauce, they are addictively good—the perfect match for a cold beer, margarita, or gimlet. Tri-tip steak (from the bottom loin), a flavorful cut that California cooks like to grill, is ideal for these skewers. A thick piece of flap steak (from the short loin), which is oft en used for carne asada, also works well. For the true flavors of the Southeast Asian table, grill the beef over charcoal or a gas grill. In the absence of a grill, use the broiler.

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.

The first time I included pumpkin in a coconut-scented laksa was for a Bonfire Night supper in 2004 (see The Kitchen Diaries). The soup had to be sensational to make up for our distinct lack of fireworks (I think we wrote our names in the air with sparklers). Rich, sweet-sour, mouth-tinglingly hot, and yet curiously soothing, it had everything you need in a soup for a frosty night. There is much pleasure to be had in the constant tweaking of a recipe to change not its essential character but its details. And so it has been with this soup. I have since gone on to remove the tomatoes or add some shredded greens as the mood and the state of the larder take me. Such improvisations, many made at the last minute, need to be done with care: you don’t want too many flavors going on. Vietnamese soups such as this are traditionally ingredient rich but should never taste confused. By the same token, to simplify it too much would be to lose the soup’s generosity and complexity and therefore its point. The laksa appears complicated at first but in practice it is far from it. Once you understand the basics, the recipe falls into place and becomes something you can fiddle with to suit your own taste. The basic spice paste needs heat (ginger, garlic, tiny bird’s eye chiles); the liquid needs body and sweetness (coconut milk, rich stock); the finish needs sourness and freshness (lime juice, mint, cilantro). The necessary saltiness comes from nam pla and tamari rather than salt itself. These notes in place, you can feel free to include noodles, tomatoes, greens, sweet vegetables, or meat as you wish. What matters is balance.

Of all the flavors that seem to bring out the rest of the cabbage family’s earthy greenness, few work as effectively as those of Southeast Asia. Ginger, green onion, and garlic have a natural affinity with chlorophyll-rich vegetables of any sort, but the saltiness of the fish sauces with which Thai and Vietnamese cooks season their food does much for cabbage leaves. I often serve this with roast duck, which appreciates such seasoning, or as a side order for a mushroom stir-fry hot with chiles and soy.

Banh mi sandwiches are a Vietnamese street food. Instead of the typical pork and mayonnaise, this version features baked tofu, an anchovy-miso dressing, and cucumber pickles. A key element of banh mi sandwiches is fresh bread—day-old bread is too dry. The best bread to use is a thin-crust white flour baguette that won’t overwhelm the sandwich fillings. Try making these sandwiches for a July picnic.

This light and flavorful noodle dish is one of my favorites. We use a lot of Asian ingredients at my Chicago restaurant, foods I shop for myself at the local Asian market. The best part of those trips is the Vietnamese place next door, where I stop regularly, shopping bags in hand, for a delicious bowl of pho before heading back to my kitchen. Lightly dipping the beef in broth to cook it, as I describe below, is referred to as “shabu-shabu” in Japan.

Vietnamese food is perhaps my favorite of all the cuisines in the world, and I would eat it every single night if I could. At the start of every Vietnamese meal, I order a Vietnamese coffee. A glass with a sweet dose of condensed milk is brought to the table with a well-worn stainless-steel filter balanced on top, dripping steaming hot coffee into the thick, sweet milk. Once brewed, it all gets stirred up and ice is added. I thought the flavors would make an excellent ice cream, and I was right.

Vietnamese cooks, particularly those from the southern region, love to add creamy richness to their sweets by drizzling on a little of this sauce (called nuoc cot dua ngot) right before serving. I don’t limit my uses to Viet preparations; this simple sauce can grace many Southeast Asian foods. Somewhat thick like yogurt, the sauce can be prepared days in advance for you to use cold, warm, or at room temperature.

Mung beans are a staple legume in many Asian kitchens, where their delicate, buttery flavor lends richness to both savory and sweet treats. Like red beans, mung beans can be made into a lightly sweet paste to be stuffed inside a baked or steamed bun or dumpling. In fact, the two bean pastes are practically interchangeable. Whereas sweetened red bean paste is vaguely chocolate-like, sweetened mung bean paste resembles marzipan, both in texture and nuanced flavor. This is a Vietnamese version of the paste, with vanilla to round out the flavor and salt to inject a little oomph. Mung beans are sold at many Asian markets and health food stores. Look for the yellow ones that have been hulled and split. The green ones still have their tough skins.

It is easy to overindulge in these chewy-soft dumplings because they slip right down your throat. Just as you are savoring the rich scallion oil, well-seasoned filling, and tangy-sweet-spicy dipping sauce, the dumpling is gone, and you must eat another. The skin of this central Vietnamese specialty is traditionally made of tapioca starch; I add a little wheat starch for firmness, lest the dough become unpleasantly rubbery. Some Viet cooks laboriously wrap each bánh bot loc in a banana leaf and steam them. I don’t have such patience and boil mine for the “naked” (tran) version. When peeling the shrimp, save the shells for a stock to use in the sauce.

Certain childhood treats stick with you, and for me these crisp turnovers are a tasty reminder of our life in Saigon. Sister Thien, our cook, and a family friend whom we called Uncle Thu, would make the dough and fill it with this delectable mixture of shrimp, pork, and jicama. Although they were hot right out of the oil, I could barely wait to dive in. My piggishness often led to a burned tongue. These are not easy to find abroad in expatriate Vietnamese enclaves, and I wasn’t able to rediscover the flavor and texture from my youth until I made them myself. For a baked version, substitute this filling for the one in the empanada recipe (page 111). Note that in the central region of Vietnam, bánh quai vac is the name of unrelated rice-or tapioca-based dumplings.

I can’t begin to quantify the sheer number of new ingredients and splendidly unexpected flavors that my friends in the Nguyen family introduced me to many years ago, but it is their barbecues that really hold a special place in my heart. Besides falling in love with the delicate, fragrant aroma of lemongrass, I couldn’t help but feel welcomed by their astounding hospitality

For a richer dressing, add half a cup of coconut milk and a couple of tablespoons of peanut butter to the dressing.

These spring rolls are so fresh tasting that they’re addictive. The beet turns the noodles a pretty pink—way cool. Wear gloves when you cut up the beet so your hands don’t turn purple—not a festive look.

Lan Pham was 2 years old when she immigrated to the United States from Vietnam with her family. Her father became a State Department official assigned to various posts in Asia and Africa and she lived in the Philippines during an earthquake and during a political uprising that closed her school. During civil unrest in Ethiopia, U.S. Marines escorted her to class. Yearly monsoons punctuated the relative calm of her high school years in Thailand. When she serves these herb-roasted allium, she tells her guests: "to taste, just one taste, and they are surprised by the sweet flavor and rich aroma. I tell them everybody knows that slow-cooked onions don't give bad breath."

Frazzled? Feast on fish! Tuna is high in vitamin B12, which stimulates the brain's production of serotonin, a neurotransmitter that helps you relax.