Asian

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.

The kormas of India, serene, rich, silken, have much in them that works with the sweetness of the parsnip—cream, yogurt, nuts, sweet spices. The Mughal emperors who originally feasted on such mildy spiced and lavishly finished recipes may not have approved of my introduction of common roots but the idea works well enough. Despite instructions the length of a short story, I can have this recipe on the table within an hour. For those who like their Indian food on the temperate side.

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.

I tend to use this chutney as a relish, stirring it into the accompanying rice of a main course. It is slightly sweet, as you might expect, but tantalizingly hot and sour too. Scoop it up with a pappadam or a doughy, freckled paratha (I have been known to use a pita bread in times of desperation). On Mondays I sometimes put a spoonful on the side of the plate with cold meats. Palm sugar (also known as jaggery) is used in Indian cooking and is available in Indian markets.

The brassicas are much revered in Chinese cooking, and dealt with elsewhere in this book, but the white cabbage, with its waxy leaves and crisp stalks, makes an excellent candidate for seasoning with the saltier accompaniments. On cold, rather gray days, the sort of day when nothing much happens, I often crave robust, dominating flavors—perhaps in a quest to inject some vigor into the occasion. Strident greens tossed in lip-tingling oyster sauce can be such a dish. In the last four or five years, this has become one of those recipes I use as a “knee-jerk” accompaniment—an alternative to opening a bag of frozen peas. It is excellent with grilled pork chops, though I have also eaten it atop a bowl of steamed rice before now.

Tamarind provides acidity with a delicious fruity tartness. It is mainly used in Indian, Thai, and Mexican cooking, although it grows in many tropical climates, including Florida. Look for the caramel-colored tamarind concentrate or paste in markets, as extracting the fruit from the pods is labor-intensive. Use the ketchup on the Indonesian Corn Fritters (page 155), Indian Spiced Scrambled Eggs (page 75), and burgers or grilled shrimp. For all of the preserving recipes, including this one, use kosher salt; unlike table salt, it is free of additives that can discolor ingredients.

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.

Galangal is a root that looks like ginger but has a sweet, perfumed taste. Find it fresh (the best choice), frozen, or powdered in Asian markets or gourmet food stores. The citrusy herb lemongrass can be grown from a store-bought stalk; place it in water on the windowsill until it sprouts before transferring it to a pot with soil. These rich fritters need a sweet, tangy sauce; if you don’t have time to make Tamarind Ketchup as the recipe calls for, use the simple Cilantro-Jalapeño Sauce (page 184), or whisk store-bought ketchup with honey, lime juice, and salt.

Shiso, also known as “beefsteak plant,” is a pungent, wild-tasting herb native to North America but typically sold only in Japanese markets. Often served with sushi, shiso is essential here for bringing the flavor of the fish to life. Dry sake served cold rounds out this dish well.

A kanten dessert is the Japanese equivalent of Jell-O, and its consistency can be adjusted by adding more or less liquid. This version is soft in texture, and the mellow flavor of pears is set off by the rich, spiced crunch topping. It’s important to blend the kanten after it cools in order to achieve a smooth, creamy texture. If you can’t find agar-agar (see page 102) in powder form, simply grind the flakes in a coffee grinder for 1 minute.

Rutabagas are a robust winter standby that lend themselves well to Asian dishes, where they can act as a sweeter stand-in for the turnips often used in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean cooking. I use chicken stock in this recipe because its richness brings all of the subtle flavors of the dish alive. The star anise lends this soup a fragrant, smoky sweetness.

Pockets made from fried tofu skins are convenient for making a quick finger food for parties, and they don’t require any dipping sauce. Find the pockets in Japanese markets in the dry foods or refrigerated section; they come preseasoned with sugar and soy. You’ll find kimchi, the sweet and spicy fermented cabbage condiment, at the same store. Although it originated in Korea, kimchi is also very popular in Japan.

Yuba, also called tofu skin, is sturdy and easy to work with. Its crisp texture when baked makes it an ideal wrapper for spring rolls. Find dried or frozen yuba sheets at Japanese food stores.

In many parts of the world, breakfast is a savory affair. Throughout Asia, hearty congee is a favorite morning dish, eaten with condiments ranging from stir-fried pork to fried garlic. This version gets a citrus zing from lemongrass (shown below) and ginger. Normally made with white rice, the grain most widely available in Asia, congee can be made using any whole grain. Soaking the rice overnight cuts the cooking time in half.

This brothy, colorful soup is a potent tonic that will cure what ails you. Miso paste, made from fermented soybeans, is an essential component of Japanese cuisine. As with yogurt and other fermented products, miso is most beneficial uncooked, so stir it into the soup only after turning off the heat. Wakame is a mild-tasting green sea vegetable most commonly used in the traditional miso soup that accompanies sushi. Burdock root (shown below) has a texture reminiscent of water chestnuts. It grows wild throughout the United States and can also be found in Japanese markets. After slicing burdock root, soak it in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. If burdock root isn’t available, simply use more of the other vegetables.

Ginkgos are infamous for the acrid smell of their fruit, but the nuts hidden inside are a treasured ingredient in Asian cuisine. In and around the Chinatown neighborhoods of many cities, you can find people under trees collecting the nuts in autumn. Go out and join them, but be sure to wear protective gloves when touching the fruit and extracting the nuts; otherwise, the smell will remain on your hands. Remove the flesh outdoors—the less you bring into your home the better. You can find canned or dried ginkgos in Asian grocery stores.

This is a very comforting, home-style dish, perfect for a blustery autumn day. Be sure to use only firm tofu for this recipe; softer varieties will fall apart during cooking. The trio of cultivated shiitake, enoki, and shimeji mushrooms is a classic combination in Japanese cooking, and it adds a nice woodsy and earthy flavor to this dish. You can use other kinds of mushrooms, too, if you’d like, everything from the humble button mushroom to fancier porcinis or chanterelles—whatever your budget allows.

This is a popular dish in Japan that I love to prepare because it has so much going for it: complex sweet and tangy flavors, a heavenly ginger and garlic aroma, and wonderful textures. I’ve included puffed rice paper “chips” to add a nice crunch and a bit of flair. With its fiery colors, this dish makes a beautiful conversation-stopping presentation. I divided my recipe into seven small parts, each of which you prepare separately, then combine everything at the end. The trick here is to make sure you finish your prep before you cook—the actual cook time for the shrimp is only 5 minutes, so you’ll have to move fast! To make the recipe easy to follow, I have paired the ingredients for each step with the instructions.