Vietnamese

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.

Leftover mashed potatoes work wonderfully in this recipe.

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.

The term giò is used not only for the ubiquitous meat paste, but also for describing any charcuterie that is log shaped. Most giò-style charcuterie is wrapped in banana leaf, including this wonderful sausage spiked with dill and crushed black peppercorns. Because beef is a luxury meat in Vietnam, giò bo is a special treat. It is not commonly sold at delis and markets, which is fine because it is simple to make at home. Lean top round steak (a.k.a. London broil) yields great flavor and a fine texture.

A cornerstone of Vietnamese cooking, this smooth meat paste is the most important recipe in the charcuterie repertoire and forms the base of three sausages in this chapter. It is also used to make meatballs (page 86), acts as the binder for Stuffed Snails Steamed with Lemongrass (page 42), and may be shaped into dumplings similar to French quenelles and poached in a quick canh-style soup (page 61). This recipe, which calls for chicken rather than the traditional pork, is my mother’s modern American approach to gio. Chicken, a luxury meat in Vietnam that is affordable here, is easier to work with and yields a particularly delicately flavored and textured paste. Additionally, chicken breasts and thighs are readily available at supermarkets, while pork leg, the cut typically used, isn’t. A recipe for the pork paste appears in the Note that follows.

Giò lua is the most widely eaten of all the Vietnamese charcuterie. A kind of Vietnamese mortadella, the smooth, light-colored sausage is sliced and tucked into baguette sandwiches (page 34), eaten with regular or sticky rice, or presented as part of a charcuterie assortment with pickled vegetables. Cut into matchsticks, it is used as a garnish for bún thang, a popular Hanoi noodle soup (page 217). Although giò lua is stocked in the refrigerated food aisle of nearly every Vietnamese deli and market, I make mine at home. It’s easy. All you need is some meat paste, which may be freshly made or thawed, a piece of banana leaf, and some foil. You shape the paste into a log, wrap it in the foil and then in the leaf, and then boil it. The finished sausage will keep for up to a week in the refrigerator, but it is at its best soon after cooking, when the flavor of the banana leaf still lingers on the meat.

This stew is so popular that practically every Viet cook has his or her own version. I have read recipes that call for curry powder, annatto seeds, tomato paste, and beer. But this is how my mother learned to make bò kho decades ago. Although in Vietnam it is traditionally eaten for breakfast, here in the States it has become lunch or dinner fare in the Vietnamese American community. It may be served in shallow bowls with warm French bread for sopping up the flavorful sauce, or it may be spooned over rice or wide rice noodles (bánh pho). The addition of chopped Vietnamese coriander or Thai basil leaves is something that my parents picked up when we lived in Saigon. Also, despite the name, this is not a kho dish. Here, kho means “to simmer” or “to stew.” No caramel sauce is involved. Traditionalists like to use the boneless beef shank sold at Chinese and Viet markets for this dish, which they cook for hours to yield a chewy-tender result. Once in the States, my family switched to beef chuck, which is flavorful, suited to long cooking, and more readily available.

The Vietnamese love exotic meats, and when such delicacies are unavailable, they enjoy dishes that mimic the real thing. This northern stew features a stand-in for ba ba, a freshwater snapping turtle that thrives in the south, where heavy rains offer it perfect muddy living conditions. Since the turtles are hard to find in the drier, colder north, cooks there add extra pork instead. The original southern stew also calls for pork belly. Although I’ve never tasted the real stew, I grew up eating the mock version, which, with its brilliant yellow color, robust flavors, and varied textures, is excellent in its own right. The fried tofu has a meaty consistency, and thick rounds of unripe plaintain (peel included) add interesting starchiness, astringency, and texture. Both ingredients soak up the sauce and complement the savory, rich chunks of pork. While pork shoulder works well, the best way to imitate ba ba meat and the classic stew is to use skin-on boneless pork shank (available at Chinese and Viet markets). It provides a nice balance of chewy meat and gelatinous skin to imitate the turtle, while its fat recalls the original pork belly. The sour cream is a substitute for a tangy fermented rice mash called me, a favorite northern Vietnamese ingredient that is scarce in the States. Fresh red perilla and garlic add the final flourishes to a delicious combination of flavors. Serve the stew with plenty of rice.

Here’s a wonderful kho that transforms an unusual-looking but exceptionally flavorful beef cut into elegant, tasty morsels. The cut, known as rough flank (a.k.a. beef nam or beef plate), is a favorite for stewing and other types of long cooking. You have probably eaten slices of it in restaurant bowls of pho, where it is typically identified as flank (though it is not the same as the flank steak used for stir-fries). It is usually displayed as upright rolls in Chinese and Vietnamese markets; when unrolled, it is long and narrow, with loosely textured meat separated by layers of tough membranes. If you are unfamiliar with the cut, it may appear strange at first, but I urge you to try it. Look for meaty pieces with a minimal amount of membrane. If the cuts are small, buy two pieces, select the choicest parts for this recipe, and save the trimmings for another use, such as pho (page 209). In this recipe, the beef is tied into small rolls that are simmered for hours. It absorbs the seasonings and softens, while still retaining a characteristic slight chewiness. Sliced into beautiful spirals, the meat is presented in a pool of dark, savory sauce. Each intense bite is beefy, bittersweet, salty, and gingery. Enjoy the dish with bowls of hot rice.

This kho involves a little more work than the pork and eggs kho on page 146. You must first marinate the meat and then sear it before it settles into its long simmer. The extra steps produce a rich, roasty undercurrent of flavor that permeates the dish. These riblets have special meaning for my mom because her family prepared them for their month-long Tet festivities. An entire pig was slaughtered for the celebration, and the ribs were used in this kho. Since it reheats well, it is the perfect make-ahead dish for the Lunar New Year, a time when everyone is supposed to relax, rather than slave in the kitchen. When purchasing the ribs, remember to ask the butcher to cut them into strips for. For the best flavor, sear the riblets on a grill.

A classic southern kho, this combination of pork and eggs spotlights the importance of texture in Vietnamese cooking. The cut used here is pork leg (fresh ham), purchased and cooked with the skin (rind) attached. The meat is slowly simmered until tender, with a slight dryness off set by the unctuous skin and fat. The eggs develop an interesting contrast of chewy white and buttery yolk, while the sauce made from coconut juice is softly sweet. You may need to abandon your fear of fat when preparing this dish. It is important to use a piece of pork leg with its fat and skin intact, or the meat will be dry and lack richness. The cut is widely available at Viet and Chinese markets and sometimes at regular supermarkets. The meatier upper butt of the leg (the portion typically used for smoked hams) is best, rather than the lower shank. At the table, you may eat just the meat, using chopsticks to detach and set aside the unwanted bits. Crunchy Pickled Bean Sprout Salad (page 193) is a traditional accompaniment, along with plenty of rice. Viet cooks vary the size and type (duck or chicken) of eggs they use. I prefer medium chicken eggs. Canned coconut juice works in place of the liquid inside a fresh, young coconut. Choose a brand with the least amount of sugar for the best flavor.

These addictive bite-sized riblets are perfumed by lemongrass, and the addition of caramel sauce to the marinade—a trick of the trade often used by food vendors in Vietnam—imparts deep color and flavor. Honey is a fine substitute that results in a slightly sweeter finish. Removing the tough membrane from the underside of the rack (a technique borrowed from American barbecue masters) and a long marinade yield riblets that are chewy-tender. The rack of spareribs must be cut through the bone into long strips. Don’t attempt this yourself. Instead, ask your butcher to do it. Serve the riblets as an appetizer or with rice for a satisfying meal. For a Viet twist on the classic American barbecue, pair the ribs with Grilled Corn with Scallion Oil (page 183) and a green salad or Russian Beet, Potato, and Carrot Salad (page 186).

When my nieces and nephews were toddlers, they loved this oven-roasted pork, tinged with char. They requested it whenever they visited grandma’s house, and she would cut it into tiny pieces and serve it atop sticky rice. I share their enthusiasm but savor the pork in many other ways, too: with regular rice, as a filling in steamed bao (page 265), stuffed into baguette sandwiches (page 34), added to wonton noodle soup (page 222), and as part of moon cake filling (page 300). A mainstay of Chinese barbecue shops and a Viet favorite, xa xiu is the Vietnamese transliteration of the Cantonese char siu (thit means meat.) To make the pork look appetizing, it is often prepared with food coloring, sold by the bottle at most Viet markets. But chemical coloring isn’t needed here. The marinade imparts an appealing reddish brown.

The menu at Vietnamese restaurants in the United States often includes an inexpensive, homey rice plate with grilled pork chops flavored with Chinese five-spice powder, garlic, and onion. Unfortunately, I have often found the dish disappointing, with the rib chops dry and thin. Even with a knife and fork, the meat—typically broiled, rather than the advertised grilled—is hard to cut. After a number of dissatisfying rice plates, I decided to make the pork at home. To avoid dry meat, I opted for pork shoulder steaks. The slightly fatty, flavorful steaks turned out to be perfect for absorbing the bold marinade and remained moist after grilling. Sliced up before serving, the meat is easily managed with chopsticks, too, and I include a dipping sauce for extra flavor. Serve the pork with rice and a salad or a stir-fried or sautéed vegetable for a light meal. Add a soup such as Opo Squash Soup (page 60) and you have a traditional Vietnamese menu. Use any left overs for baguette sandwiches (page 34) or Mixed Rice (page 245).

This is a fine example of a Vietnamese hybrid dish. In many Viet cookbooks, the prescribed method for cooking potatoes is the double-fry approach (a Belgian technique introduced by the French), which yields nongreasy potatoes that are crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. Atop the perfectly fried potatoes is a mound of stir-fried beef, the juices of which penetrate the potatoes to give them great savoriness. Enjoy this East-meets-West dish as is, with a boiled green vegetable or green salad to round out the meal. Or, treat it like a stir-fry and eat it with rice (as I like to) as part of a traditional Viet meal.