Vietnamese

While pho originated in the north of Vietnam, it has become a national dish. Carts and small shops sell it everywhere, usually for breakfast (since I’m a big fan of savory breakfasts, this was ideal for me). The clear, fragrant beef broth is the flavorful base of this dish, and the sliced sirloin, noodles, and condiments provide the texture. (The sirloin must be sliced as thinly as possible, because it cooks in the serving bowl; freeze it for 30 minutes or so to facilitate thin slicing.) Information on Thai fish sauce—nam pla—is on page 500. Rice vermicelli (mai fun) is available at most supermarkets and all Chinese markets, and is sometimes called “rice stick.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

Chinese celery has a wonderfully intense and rather wild flavor when eaten raw, which explains why it is always cooked before serving, as in this simple stir-fry. It looks like pencil-thin stems of Western celery with roots attached, and in a bunch, it could be mistaken for Italian parsley because the leaves are similar. At a Chinese or Viet market, choose Chinese celery that looks crisp and fresh (check the roots) and use it within a couple of days of purchase.

I often pan-sear steaks Vietnamese style, with lots of garlic, black pepper, and Maggi Seasoning sauce, a favorite condiment of the Vietnamese. Thinly slice the steaks so guests may help themselves with chopsticks, plus the juices released are delicious mixed into a bowl of rice. Or, make the steaks part of a Western knife-and-fork meal (bit-tet is the Viet transliteration of the French bifteck) and serve with crispy fried potatoes instead of rice (see Stir-Fried Beef with Crispy Fried Potatoes, page 140, for guidance on cooking the potatoes).

In classic stir-fries such as this one, beef, a special-occasion meat in Vietnam, is paired with a vegetable that is equally prized and costly. Here, it is cauliflower, traditionally considered a luxury vegetable in Vietnam because it used to be grown only in the cool areas around Dalat. To allow these precious ingredients to shine, they are treated simply with little sauce and only a few other ingredients. Taking a cue from Chinese cooks, I use flank steak for stir-frying. Cut across the grain into small pieces, it cooks up to an inimitable tenderness. To complement the beef, I select cauliflower that tastes sweet, looks dense, and feels heavy for its size.

In the Viet kitchen, preserved dried meats include not only Chinese sausages and jerky, but also these fine, salty pork shreds, named for their resemblance to cotton fibers. Mixed into a bowl of hot rice (add a pat of butter for richness) or creamy rice soup (page 67), the chewy shreds add savory depth to otherwise plain foods. They also turn up tucked into baguette sandwiches (page 34) or sprinkled atop rice crepe rolls (page 270). You may buy thit ruoc bong in tubs at Viet delis and Chinese markets (called pork sung or pork fu in Chinese), but I prefer to make my own. That way, there is no MSG and I know that quality ingredients were used. Eaten a little at a time, a batch lasts months. Use boneless pork loin that has been trimmed of any pearlescent silver skin and fat; Chinese markets often sell such well-trimmed cuts. Or, you can purchase a boneless center-cut pork loin roast, cut and trim the center portion, and reserve the balance for another use.

This recipe is my re-creation of a dish prepared by Le Thang, the chef and owner of the now-defunct Dong Ba restaurant in Little Saigon in Westminster, California. The modest eatery, named after the famous outdoor market in Hue, showcased the rustic dishes of central Vietnam, and although the mì Quang noodle soup and bánh bèo chén (rice pancakes steamed in small bowls) were superb, the minced pork was my favorite. Conceptually, this dish is similar to the recipe for Caramelized Minced Pork (page 131), but it takes on a distinctive central Vietnamese character from the bold use of lemongrass, chile, garlic, and shrimp sauce. Indeed, the generous amount of lemongrass acts as more of a main ingredient than a seasoning, while the chopped shrimp, roasted peanuts, and toasted sesame seeds add layers of flavor and texture. The result is salty, sweet, spicy, rich, and dangerously addictive. Enjoy this dish with plenty of rice, adding some cucumber to each bite for a cool and crunchy contrast.

Seventy-five years of French domination left many influences in the Viet kitchen. Because I grew up eating these stuffed tomatoes on a regular basis, it never crossed my mind that they were adapted from a traditional French idea. It should have: farci means “stuffed” in French and tô-mát is a Vietnamese transliteration of the French tomate. My edition of Larousse Gastronomique offers nine recipes for stuffing tomatoes. Here’s a tenth, flavored with a shot of fish sauce, of course. As a hybrid dish, these savory, slightly tangy tomatoes can be enjoyed with chopsticks as part of a traditional Viet dinner or with knife and fork as part of a Western-style meal. For the best results, select firm, slightly underripe tomatoes that will hold their shape nicely after cooking.

Simple to prepare, this traditional dish is meant to be eaten in small quantities with lots of rice. The pork cooks slowly in a skillet with salty-sweet seasonings until it starts rendering a little fat and turns reddish brown. The caramelized, crispy results recall the delicious bits that stick to the bottom of the pan when you sear meat. The final addition of scallion lends a touch of color. You can also eat this minced pork with com nam (page 241), cooked rice shaped by hand into compact balls or logs. When I was a child, my father used a wet dish towel to knead hot rice into thick logs, which he then let cool before slicing. My siblings and I would pick up a piece with our fingers, firmly press it against some of the minced pork, and eat it out of hand.

Smooth, well-seasoned meat and seafood pastes have many uses in the Vietnamese kitchen. Here, a pinkish orange salmon paste is shaped into small cakes before undergoing a two-step cooking process: an initial steaming to cook the cakes, followed by broiling, grilling, or frying to crisp the outside. The cakes are sliced and served as an appetizer or dunked into Simple Dipping Sauce (page 309) and eaten with rice for dinner. If you have enjoyed Thai fried fish cakes (tod mun), these will remind you of them. When my mother came to the States, she substituted salmon for the rich-tasting tuna she had used in Vietnam. I have since prepared the cakes with the ahi tuna available here, but the results were too firm and dry. The fattier salmon is superior. If you can’t find skinless salmon fillet, buy 2 1/3 pounds of skin-on fillet and remove the skin before you cut the fish into chunks. The cakes can be frozen after they are steamed and then thawed and crisped for a good last-minute meal or snack. The recipe is also easily halved, but I advise you to make the whole batch and tuck away the extras for when you need a quick dish.

This steamed fish recipe, given to our family by our Chinese Vietnamese friend Uncle Su, is special. During cooking, the bold seasonings mix with the sweet fish juices to create a wonderful sauce for flavoring the flesh and a bowl of hot rice. Fresh salmon steaks or fillets are a fine substitute for the heads, which my parents prefer. You can also try the sauce atop other moderately flavored fish that have some richness to their flesh, such as sablefish. Avoid lean, dense fish, such as halibut or swordfish, which dry out and toughen when steamed.

Cha gio, which originated in Saigon are among Vietnam’s national dishes. They are often misleadingly translated as spring rolls, because they seem like a riff on the Chinese spring roll, or as imperial rolls, a translation of pâté imperial, their French moniker. But these rolls are not reserved for royalty, nor are they exclusively eaten during the Spring Festival (Chinese New Year). And their filling, wrapper, and accompaniments are uniquely Vietnamese. Out of culinary pride, I encourage people to call these rolls cha gio, their southern Viet name. The rolls are made in varying sizes. Cooks with great manual dexterity create thumb-sized rolls. Lacking such skill and patience, I make stubby cigar-sized ones and cut them up before serving. Larger ones also involve less labor when frying up enough for a special lunch or dinner. Some Vietnamese American cooks use Filipino lumpia or Chinese spring roll wrappers, which are made of wheat flour and fry up crisp, but an authentic flavor is lost. For the best results, use rice paper made of all rice flour or of rice and tapioca flours.