Asian

Lemongrass stalks are used as skewers throughout Southeast Asia, where lemongrass grows like . . . well, grass. (It will grow that way for you, too, if you stick a couple of stalks in the ground, especially if you live in a warm climate and keep it well watered.) Simply trim the stalks, skewer the shrimp on them, and grill; you can gnaw on the stalks when you’ve finished the shrimp. Serve these with Nam Prik (page 586) or Soy Dipping Sauce (page 583). For information on Thai fish sauce (nam pla), see page 500.

Tamarind is a large seed pod grown and used in the cuisine of almost every equatorial country. Its pulp is processed into a dark brown paste, which is used as you might tomato paste, concentrated stock, or, for that matter, ketchup—as a simple flavor enhancer that completely changes the nature of the sauce into which it is stirred. You can make your own paste (page 585) or buy the paste now sold in bottles at many Asian stores. (There is also a kind of instant tamarind powder, which is not very good.) The bottled paste is concentrated to increase its strength, so if you use homemade tamarind paste, double the quantity (or add to taste). As for this recipe, you can use the same process to make almost anything in a tamarind sauce, but shrimp, because it requires minimal cooking time, is by far the easiest. I like to brown the shrimp first for a little more flavor, but you could actually start this recipe with the second step and add the shrimp after the onion. The dish is best when quite sour and not—as happens at too many restaurants—a sticky combination of sweet and sour.

Because this dish has only two ingredients, finding the best shrimp is of utmost importance. In Hong Kong, where only live fish is considered fresh, live shrimp are common. Here you may find them at some fishmongers (especially in Chinese neighborhoods) and even in some Western supermarkets. The wine traditionally used for this dish in the south of China is Mei Kuei Lu Chiew and is quite strong and a little sweet; you can find it at many Chinese markets. Shopping hassles aside, this dish is worth trying. Serve it with an assortment of other Chinese dishes or as a starter.

The usefulness of miso is nearly unlimited, and it can convert the simplest of ingredients into an exotic dish, a secret of much of Japanese cooking. Here the fermented soybean paste is combined with scallops and a little seasoning, then allowed to sit for a while before being grilled or broiled. It’s a traditional dish, in some parts of Japan the home-cooking equivalent of slathering something with barbecue sauce before cooking. For ease of use and strict authenticity, the miso should be thinned—it’s too thick to use straight—with mirin, the sweet, golden-colored wine made from rice (and Japan’s most important sweetener before the introduction of white sugar). Mirin, too, comes in a naturally brewed form called hon-mirin; it’s preferable to aji-mirin, which may be boosted with corn syrup; check the label. But the amount of mirin is so small, and its flavor in this dish so subtle, that you can use a fruity, sweet white wine in its place or even honey. If you can, try this with Asparagus Salad with Soy-Mustard Dressing (page 190) or a plain salad. And a bit of short-grain rice, of course.

Simple and incredibly delicious. If you prefer a thick sauce, like that served at many Chinese restaurants, add cornstarch (as directed) at the end of cooking; it’s by no means necessary, however. Use the smallest clams you can find, preferably just an inch or so in diameter. Cockles, which are even smaller, are often the best choice; manila clams (which are brown) are also good. Serve this dish with Basic Long-Grain Rice (page 506).

Here’s a salad that combines the fresh tartness of green—unripe—mangoes with a little stir-fried meat. Unripe mangoes are more common than the ripe variety at most supermarkets, but if you can’t find them, substitute Granny Smith apples. Nam pla—Thai fish sauce—is described on page 500. Palm sugar is authentic but pretty indistinguishable from brown sugar.

The first time I had this salad—it was in Saigon—I ate so much of it I could barely eat anything else. So, obviously, you can make it as a main course (serve it with rice). Technically, it’s a starter and a great use for leftover steak. For a traditional, unusual, and wonderful Thai version, toss the beef with 1/4 cup Khao Koor powder (page 587) before dressing. For information on nam pla, see page 500.

The ideal herb for seasoning this salad is rau ram, which is not impossible to find if a well-stocked Asian store or supermarket is in your area; you can pick up your Thai fish sauce (page 500) while you’re there. The best alternative is a combination of cilantro and mint, which comes pretty close. If you don’t have precooked chicken, just simmer chicken breasts (bone-in are best) in water to cover for 10 to 15 minutes. When the meat is done, pull it from the bone (continue cooking the bones, perhaps with a few vegetables like carrots and onions, to make stock) and chop or shred.

You could call this chicken salad Thai-style, but whatever you call it—you’ll see larb, larp, laarb, and other variations on menus—this is a quick, delicious, appetite-rousing starter. Teaming it with any of the more substantial Thai dishes in this book and some rice makes for an impressive meal. (If you need information on nam pla, see page 500.) Most laarb served in this country is made from chicken, and certainly that’s good and easy. But laarb is even more delicious made with pork shoulder or beef tenderloin. In any case, this is one place where you should mince the meat together with the garlic by hand; food-processed meat is just a little too mushy here. The process shouldn’t take more than five minutes, though, so don’t be put off.

Not surprisingly—Vietnamese food is only occasionally hot—this isn’t as blistering as the vegetarian Thai version on page 174. You can buy Vietnamese chili garlic paste at any store selling Asian ingredients; it keeps nearly forever in the refrigerator. Fish sauces like nam pla and nuoc mam are discussed on page 500. Palm sugar is available at many Asian markets, but brown sugar is indistinguishable in flavor.

Nori, the familiar seaweed used for rolling sushi, is a popular snack in Korea, especially when treated this way. And if you use the pieces of nori to pick up clumps of rice—a common after-school snack—you may find yourself making this frequently.

Back in the days when I tackled such challenging projects, I made my own paneer, the fresh cheese that is integral to this dish of spicy spinach. Although you can buy paneer at markets specializing in Indian ingredients (and you can find these in almost every city), there is a superb substitute, and it’s sold everywhere: tofu. Like paneer, tofu is a fresh, quickly made cheese; it just happens to have a soy base rather than a cow’s milk base. But both are supremely bland, tender, and delicate. The curry powder used here should not be especially fiery or laden with black pepper, but on the sweet side, containing spices like nutmeg, cardamom, and cinnamon. (If you’re making your own, you’ll find a recipe on page 593; if you’re buying, just try to avoid mixes labeled hot.)

Haaq is actually the name of a bitter green from Kashmir, not unlike spinach but perhaps a little more strongly flavored. In any case, spinach is used as a substitute throughout India, and this simple preparation is widespread. Neither mustard oil nor the amount of chile (I use only one) is key; but asafetida—also known as hing—the odd yellow powder (it’s made from a resin that is exuded by the roots of the plant) with the off putting aroma, most definitely is. In fact, this is the place to use it and learn to love it, as I believe you will. You can serve this as a side dish (in which case halve the quantities) or as a main course,with rice. It’s also often served with fried fish on top of it.

Stir-fried vegetables are almost as common in Southeast Asia as they are in China, and even the spices are similar. But the addition of dried shrimp and the use of nam pla are dead giveaways that this dish is from Indochina. It’s usually made on the fiery side, so feel free to increase the chiles if you like. Information on fish sauces like nam pla is on page 500. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: Green beans, parboiled broccoli or cauliflower, or a mixture of onions and peppers. All will take a little longer than fast-cooking watercress.

Wonderfully sweet, this side dish is the Japanese equivalent of butter-glazed carrots. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: Butternut or other winter squash or carrots.

The vegetables in Vietnam are as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen, and, because there was still little refrigeration when I visited the country, they were fresher than most. This might explain why I enjoyed the simple vegetable stir-fries so much. Then again, it may be the nam pla—or, to use the Vietnamese term, nuoc mam. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: you can use whatever vegetables you like here—you want a total of three to four cups for four people—as long as you follow the basic principles of stir-frying (page 311).

If you’re going to the trouble of making dosa—all the soaking, pureeing, and overnight resting—it’s sensible to make the amount called for in the preceding recipe (plus it’s not like 4 cups of rice and 1 cup of dal cost much more than half those amounts). But it’s unlikely you’ll have the griddle stamina or appetite to make it through all that batter. Hence, uttapam—a fancy version of dosa. These are perfect for lunch—I usually fry a couple and eat them with whatever leftovers there are from the dosa meal the night before. And although it might be untraditional, I season them with a pinch of chaat masala (page 594), but feel free to omit it if it doesn’t appeal or you don’t have it on hand. If you’re using a pancake griddle, you should be able to cook two uttapam at a time; or you could have two nonstick griddles going at the same time.

One of the few recipes in which eggplant is boiled. It’s an unusual preparation, and a good one, but you can also sauté it, as in Sautéed Eggplant (page 456). Small eggplants are almost always preferable to large ones, and the Japanese know this better than anyone; you don’t even see large eggplants there. (If you must use a larger eggplant, try to get a very firm one, which will have fewer seeds.) Typically, this is made with wasabi powder; but I had it prepared with Dijon mustard in Japan, so I consider this version perfectly legitimate.

There are two keys to this salad. The first is buying dry, pressed tofu (bean curd), which is sold at most Asian food markets and some natural food stores. It’s much firmer than regular tofu and has a dense, chewy texture and a brown skin. (If you can’t find it, use extra-firm tofu and press it yourself; see page 491.) The second key is allowing the salad to marinate long enough for the tofu to absorb the dressing. That part’s easy, but it does require advance planning.

Usually served as a panchan (side dish or small appetizer), this makes a fine little salad, too. Like many panchan, it contains sesame oil. To trim bean sprouts—a process I consider unnecessary but many people worldwide believe essential—simply pull off the thin little tail.