Root Vegetable

Here is a curry with big flavors, thanks to lots of lemongrass, curry powder, ginger, and chile flakes. The coconut milk unifies all the elements and enriches the dish. For the best Viet flavor, buy Vietnamese-style curry powder (page 327) at an Asian market. Serve the curry in a shallow bowl with a baguette for dipping or spoon it over rice or noodles.

Anyone who has tried to cook Chinese fried rice knows how challenging it can be to do it well. While the Vietnamese repertoire has a number of fried rice dishes, it also includes an easier alternative called com tron, freshly cooked rice tossed with a handful of ingredients. In this recipe, you can use whatever meats or seafood you have on hand, such as Char Siu Pork (page 142), any Vietnamese sausage (see chapter 6), roast chicken, grilled pork, or shrimp, along with bell pepper, egg strips, and scallion to create a beautiful mixture of colors, shapes, and textures.

Vietnamese cooks roast chickens in three ways: on the stove top in a pan with a little liquid for succulence, over charcoal for charred smokiness, or in the oven for crispy skin. The method mostly depends on the kind of heat source available. For example, ovens were traditionally luxurious home appliances in Vietnam. In 1966, my mom’s oven was a metal box indirectly heated by hot charcoal set underneath and/or on top. When the Americans came, she was able to salvage a modern oven for her Saigon home kitchen. After we arrived in America, Mom delighted in roasting this easy garlicky chicken for our family. With a reliable oven and affordable chicken, we ate ga ro-ti regularly with rice for dinner, sliced up and stuffed into a baguette sandwich (page 34) for lunch or a snack, and arranged atop sticky rice (page 246) for breakfast or lunch. When preparing ga ro-ti (which takes its name from the French term for roasting), use the more succulent parts—drumsticks, thighs, wings—for the best flavor.

When my family lived in Vietnam, these noodles were considered special because Western noodles (called nui, the Viet phonetic equivalent of the French nouilles) and butter were expensive imports. Once we arrived in the United States, we indulged in them to the point that they were no longer dear. In fact, I forgot about them for years, only to rediscover their garlicky, buttery, nutty goodness at a Vietnamese French restaurant in Westminster, California. Nowadays, I prepare these noodles not just because they are a comfort food from my youth, but also because they are good. The unusually savory quality of the dish is due to Maggi Seasoning, a soy sauce–like condiment and Vietnamese staple that was most likely introduced to Vietnam by the French. It is fine to use dried pasta for this recipe, though fresh fettuccine or even flat Chinese egg noodles yield a superior dish.

Here is a soup that my father taught me. In a ceviche-like approach, raw fish is marinated with onion, ginger, and cilantro. The semicooked mixture is then placed in the bottom of soup bowls, and the final cooking is done by the hot rice soup. When brought to the table, the seemingly plain white soup conceals a pleasant surprise of fish. Pair it with one of the salads in Chapter 1 for a Vietnamese soup-and-salad meal.

Warm, creamy, and comforting, chao is a staple of the Viet diet. It is eaten at all times of day, and is the magical antidote for whatever ails you—a stomachache, a cold, a hangover. With less than a cup of rice, you can create a pot of soup that will feed people in biblical proportions because it keeps thickening as it cooks and sits, requiring ever more liquid to thin it down. At its most basic, chao is rice simmered in liquid—water, homemade stock, or canned broth (the latter two are best)—until all its starch has been released. The thick finished soup is a versatile canvas. For a flavorful savory addition, eat it with Salted Preserved Eggs (page 101) or a sprinkle of Cotton Pork shreds (page 134). For richness, put a raw egg into the bowl before ladling in the hot soup. For a simple seafood soup, drop in raw peeled shrimp just before serving. Or, make one of the four chao recipes that follow.

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.

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).

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.

The Vietnamese name for this fast pickle literally translates as “sour stuff.” Although it doesn’t sound enticing, it is exactly what you want to serve whenever you need a simple garnish (or side) that is tart, sweet, and crunchy. I keep a jar of it in the refrigerator for stuffing baguette sandwiches (page 34), for serving alongside grilled meats such as Grilled Garlicky Five-Spice Pork Steaks (page 143), and for adding to Duck and Chinese Egg Noodle Soup (page 220). Some people like the vegetables on the sweet side, but I prefer a tangy flavor and therefore use less sugar. When selecting daikons, look for evenly shaped, firm, smooth, unblemished roots.

This Southern Vietnamese specialty is technically a pickle because the vegetables steep in brine, but it is eaten in large amounts, more like a salad, with intensely flavored pork and fish kho (dishes simmered in caramel sauce). The texture and flavors of the vegetables provide the perfect bright contrast to the inky, deep flavors of kho. Flat, delicately flavored Chinese chives are traditionally combined with the bean sprouts and carrot. Because these chives can be hard to find, I often substitute leafy green scallion tops. Select small scallions the width of a chopstick or medium scallions. Larger ones can be too harsh. If you can find Chinese chives, substitute a nickel-sized bunch for the scallions.

Viet cooks often deep-fry cubes of tofu until crisp and golden and then add them to a stir-fry or a simmering liquid (in this case, a mixture of fish sauce, water, and scallion). Fried tofu absorbs other flavors especially well, yet holds its shape and retains its faintly nutty overtones. The end result is a chewy, almost meaty quality. Look for regular or medium-firm tofu for deep-frying, never the silken type or the firm type that is best for grilling. Freshly made tofu (see opposite) will puff up during frying and then deflate as it cools; packaged tofu won’t do that and will be denser after it is out of the oil. Both will have excellent flavor. When building your menu, treat this recipe as the main savory dish and accompany it with a vegetable dish and/or meat-and-vegetable stir-fry, a simple soup, and rice.

Introduced to Vietnam by the French as salade russe, this salad is a fine example of how Viet cooking blurs culinary and cultural traditions. Home cooks incorporated it into their repertoire, and I grew up treating it as any other Viet vegetable dish. During the summer, my mother served it with roasted chicken that had been marinated in garlic and Maggi Seasoning sauce. While there are many versions of this salad, I prefer combining the three root vegetables with chopped egg and a creamy herb vinaigrette. Use red beets for a beautiful magenta salad, pink or golden beets for a jewel-toned salad. For an interesting barbecue menu, serve the salad with Grilled Lemongrass Pork Riblets (page 145), Grilled Corn with Scallion Oil (page 183), and a lightly dressed green salad.

In Vietnam, small clay charcoal-fired braziers are used to cook dishes like this smoky eggplant topped with scallion and served with a garlic-chile dipping sauce. Here in the States, I often make this dish in the summer when the farmers’ market is brimming with an incredible array of eggplants. (The vegetable is at its sweetest in August and September.) You can cook the eggplant over a gas burner, or even bake it, but you’ll have the best results on a grill. Small globe eggplants, meaty Italian eggplants, and slender Japanese eggplants all work well for this recipe.

This elegant and easy-to-prepare stew is one of my favorite vegetarian dishes. The Garnet sweet potato (usually mistakenly labeled a yam) has bright orange flesh, and the raw peanuts deliver protein and crunch. When peanuts are boiled, simmered, or steamed, they become beanlike, revealing their true identity as legumes. You may need to look for shelled raw peanuts at Chinese and Southeast Asian markets, as they are rarely carried in regular supermarkets. I often use pinkish tan–skinned banana squash for this recipe, which is typically sold in pieces wrapped in plastic. It is easy to peel and you can buy just as much as you need for the stew. Select a piece that has deep-colored flesh, more orange than yellow. Or, you may use your favorite winter squash, such as butternut, in place of the banana squash.

This is probably the most commonly served salad in the Vietnamese repertoire. Festive looking and tasty, goi dua chuot often makes an appearance at our family celebrations. In fact, my mother made it for the one hundred guests at my wedding reception. Vietnamese delis pack this popular salad for their customers with the dressing on the side. But those versions are often prepared with cucumbers that have thick, waxed skins. I recommend pickling or English cucumbers, as their skins are thin and not waxed and their flavors are superior. Small, briny bay shrimp are easily distributed throughout the salad, to accent every bite, while the chicken and pork lend richness. For an extra note of authenticity, serve the salad with Fried Shrimp Chips (page 37) or Toasted Sesame Rice Crackers (page 320) for scooping up bitefuls.

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.

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.