EatingAsia

Lao-ish Dilled Fish Soup

Dill and tua nao (fermented soy beans). Northern Thais stir-fry the two together with garlic and chilies and eat the dish with sticky rice

I'm the sort of cook that lights upon an ingredient, falls in love (or falls in love again, if I'm reliving an old infatuation), does it to death, and then moves on. The affair is usually intense, torrid ... then one day my eye and taste buds alight on something else, and it's over.

I've had a thing going with dill since I wrote this post on bitter flavors in Lao cuisine. This fling of ours, dill and I, has shown surprising staying power; it's been almost four months and to date shows no sign of fading.

My time in the kitchen is not devoted solely to Asian food, and part of dill's appeal is that, to my mind, it's neither a solely 'Western' nor an entirely 'Eastern' herb. In fact my strongest dill-related food memories are from my childhood in Michigan and our time in Lao. As a kid I loved pungently dill-y tartar sauce (the mayonnaise might have had something to do with it as well), and the dish that made the biggest impression during a few sojourns in Luang Prabang is a chicken stew that paired the herb with coconut milk.

The other afternoon I got a craving for the latter, but I abhor supermarket chicken and hadn't had time to hit the morning market. So I used fish instead, lightened the dish up a bit with fish stock, and produced a delicious fascimile. If you doubt the appropriateness of pairing dill with coconut milk think of creamy dill dishes you might have had in the past - dilled potatoes, for instance. It's not such a big leap to just think of coconut milk as substitute for cream.

Lao-ish Dilled Fish Soup

Serves 2 enthusiastic eaters or 4-6 regular eaters

If you love dill you'll like this dish (it's also really easy and pretty quick). In Lao, Isaan, and northern Thailand dill is used like a vegetable; instead of removing the frilly fronds and throwing away the stalk cooks chuck the lot into the pot. Mushrooms are optional. If you want to take this from a soup to a stew cut the fish stock to 1 1/4 cups and increase the amount of coconut milk. Serve with rice (or stir in some pieces of cooked potato) and a simple dish of greens stir-fried with a splash of fish sauce, a pinch of sugar, and perhaps a few chopped chilies.

If you're not a fish fan you could substitute chicken stock and chicken for the fish stock and fish. I'd add the chicken in step 1 and tack on enough extra cooking time for it to reach tenderness.

2 3/4 cup fish stock

2 leeks, white part only, sliced down the middle lengthwise and then cut into 2-inch/5 cm strips

5 or so black peppercorns

3 thick slices of galangal (kha)

a big bunch of dill, stems and all, washed - 5 stems roughly chopped and set aside and the rest cut in half (across the stalks)

Optional: about 8 ounces oyster mushrooms, stems removed if you like and cut or torn in half (other mildish mushrooms such as enoki or straw mushrooms could be substitute)

about 1 lb. firm, white-fleshed fish, such as snapper, sea bass, etc. (a river fish would work well here too - salmon is another option), cut into chunks

1/4 - 1/2 cup coconut milk

1/2 tsp. fish sauce

small bunch of chives, roughly chopped

3 lime leaves, layed on top of each other, rolled tightly into a cigar shape, and cut into the finest slivers

1. Put the fish stock into large saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the leeks, peppercorns, galangal, the half-stalks of dill ,and the mushrooms, if using. Bring the liquid to a boil, then lower the heat, cover the pot, and let simmer until the leeks (and mushrooms, if using) are tender, about 10 minutes.
2. Remove the lid, add the fish, and cook through, just a few minutes. Add the coconut milk (less for a lighter soup) and heat through but don't bring the soup to a boil.
3. Add the fish sauce, taste for salt, and add more if necessary, by the quarter teaspoon.
4. Stir in the chives, the reserved roughly chopped dill, and the lime leaves.
5. Remove from the heat and serve. 

Souvenirs ...

...from a trip we made twenty-three years ago.

Plus ca change ... (The more things change ...)

'Tis the Season ...

...in Singapore and Malaysia, at least, for yu sheng (yee sang, in Cantonese), a dish of raw fish tossed - for luck - with sweet, sour, fresh, fried, and crispy ingredients. Both Singaporeans and Malaysians lay claim to this Chinese New Year banquet fixture, but it probably originated in China's Guangdong province. Read more in the Wall Street Journal, here.

Lao Bitter

Our first trip to Laos, in 1994, was our virgin foray into Southeast Asia. We were living in Hong Kong, and had lived in and travelled around China, but everything south was, to us, The Unknown.

We had three weeks around Christmas. Someone told me Laos was 'incredible' - or maybe I read it somewhere - and so we booked tickets and took the plunge. Landing in Vientiene was a jolt. The city (if you could even call it a city, then), with its single traffic light, seemed as far from Hong Kong as the moon. With their ready smiles and soft voices, Laos were to 'Hongkies' as day is to night. And the food!Lounging riverside, eating sticky rice with spicy dips and laap, garlicky grilled sausages and soups fragrant with intriguingly unfamiliar leaves and herbs, it was hard to believe we were merely two hours from delicate dim sum.

On that trip we encountered flavors that simultaneously delighted and confused, dishes that mixed Asian ingredients with those we associated with the West. In Luang Prabang we were served a French-influenced uncooked salad of watercress and runny-yolked boiled eggs dressed with a light gado-gadoish peanut dressing. On the surface of an otherwise Thai tom kha gai-like stew of chicken, galangal, and coconut milk floated a surprising flurry of chopped fresh dill. Zest and slivered leaves of kaffir lime lent a pleasing astringency to egg-based tarts.

Bitterness is a flavor we'll always associate with Laos - not the bright, sharp bitterness of a raddichio salad or the caustic, mouth-drying bitternes of arugula (rocket) gone to seed, but the mellow, appetite-rousing bitterness of meaty soups and stews thick with herbs and wild greens. It's a taste and a perfume so common to the country's cuisine that it's hard to imagine a Lao meal without it.

I was reminded of that distinctive bitterness the other day when I came across boxes of long-dormant slides from that and subsequent visits to Laos. Dave's images triggered a rush of memories - of a dusty bicycle ride to a crumbling, abandoned wat in a forest outside Luang Prabang, of a gulp of lao lao and wrists tied with bracelets of white string before a bumpy (and - because our drivers had partaken too - slightly frightening) jeep journey across the Bolaven plateau, of a slow boat from Pakse to a speck of a village and the deserted ruins at its edge. Suddenly I was craving the comfort of a pungent Lao stew accompanied by sticky rice.

That night I prepared the following recipe. The kitchen smelled, to us, like the probably long-gone Luang Prabang hole-in-the-wall where we fell in love with Lao bitter.

Lao Pork and Bitter Greens Stew

Adapted from Alford and Duguid's Hot Sour Salty Sweet (page 245), a seven-year-old book that continues to surprise us and feed us well (every single recipe works, brilliantly). I've changed the quantity of some ingredients, increased the cooking time, and substituted pork ribs for the sliced pork in the original recipe. The bones add tremendous flavor and, after long cooking, slide right away from the meat. If you're averse to bones in your stew then remove the ribs and let them cool, take the meat off the bones, and return it to the pot before serving.

This comforting stew is incredibly easy to make - minimal active time and long cooking. The combination of dill, mustard greens, and lime leaves makes for a complex earthiness marked by gentle bitterness. Sticky rice is the best go-with (very easy to make - just remember to soak the rice overnight), but regular white rice will do. Heat things up a bit with a side of Thai nam prik dtaa daeng, replacing the smoked fish with a teaspoon or two of fish sauce (to taste) and fresh minced galangal, or with a Hmong scallion-chile relish from Andrea Nguyen's article on California Hmong farmers in the August-September 2007 issue of Saveur.

12-14 ounces meaty pork ribs, preferably cut into pieces no longer than 2 inches

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil

1/4 cup roughly chopped shallots (or red onion, in a pinch)

6-8 garlic cloves, chopped

4-5 cups water

1 pound Chinese mustard greens (choy sum), cut into 2-inch lengths

5 whole stalks dill

small bunch of Chinese chives, cut into 1-inch length (substitute 1/4 cup sliced regular chives)

8 lime leaves

2 Tbsp Thai fish sauce or to taste

5 scallions, white and green parts, chopped

freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat the oil in a medium heavy pot over high heat. Add the garlic and shallots and stiry-fry briefly, until they start to brown.

2. Pat the pork ribs dry with a paper towel and add to the pan. Stir-fry to brown the ribs all over. Add 4 cups of the water and then add the dill, choy sum, and chives. Tear 5 of the lime leaves into pieces and add to the pot as well. Stir to immerse the greens. Water should nearly cover the ingredients - if necessary add more.

3. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat to a gentle simmer, stirring to immerse the greens. Partially cover the pot and cook slowly for about an hour and a half, stirring occasionally to make sure all the greens are cooked. Add more water if anything starts sticking.

4. At the end of cooking time the greens should have softened and partially melted into the stew and the meat should be falling-apart tender. Add the fish sauce and taste for seasoning. At this point the stew can be set aside for a couple of hours or refrigerated overnight.

5. Just before serving, bring the stew back to a simmer. Stack the remaining three lime leaves, roll into a tight cylinder, and slice into slivers; add them to the stew, along with the scallions and lots of black pepper to taste. Serve in bowls with rice on the side.

Where to Eat in Mandalay

At this stall offering Burmese samusa salad, apparently.

Cheers to EatingAsia reader meemalee for directing me to her website, a treasure trove of Burma-related culinary videos. Makes me want to catch the next flight to Mandalay.

You Can Help Save Hong Kong's Central Street Market

Hong Kong's Central Street Market is in danger of disappearing. One of the few remaining open-air wet markets in central Hong Kong, the Central Street Market dates back to 1841. Proponents of the market don't argue for leaving it as it is, but for preserving it intelligently and sensitively, keeping in mind its historic and cultural value.

We love Asian wet markets and, if you're a regular reader of this site, you probably do too. All it takes is a quick clickety-click over here to access the petition (on the righthand sidebar), sign it, and send it. Be sure to note your city. It doesn't hurt if the Hong Kong development authorities know that potential tourists care about this historical treasure, one of the few left in Hong Kong.

EatingAsia in the Shanghai Daily - Sort Of

Well, this is pretty weird. We used to read the Shanghai Daily, when we lived in that city-under-construction back in the mid-90s.

I'm quoted in an article on fermented bean curd - but described as a 'freelance writer living in China'. It would have been nice if the reporter had referenced EatingAsia and given a link, rather than giving the impression she'd interviewed me when she hadn't, and then getting her facts wrong to boot. It also would have been nice if she'd placed the other tidbits she lifted from a certain EatingAsia post (one of my personal faves, by the way) inside quotation marks, rather than giving the impression they're her own words.

I mean, c'mon. You're a Chinese person living in China writing about a Chinese food ingredient. Do your own research! How lazy can you get??!!

Thank you, Shanghai Daily. NOT! I'm annoyed.

March 19: For an update, and the editor's response to my email, see comments below.

'But there's no good food in the Philippines!'

That's not our opinion. But it's something we've heard again and again from various quarters over the last couple of months, as we've prepared for this trip. We know it's not the truth, and you do too, if you've had even a cursory look at this book (pictured above), or visited this popular food blog.

We're in Manila, and we'll be here for 10 days (yes, Manila! a city that invariably invokes a wrinkled nose when mentioned), traversing the city and daytripping beyond it, looking for the best that the Philippine kitchen has to offer. We've hooked up with a food-loving Filipino who's travelled to every province in this country and lived in several of them, who promises to be an excellent guide (and advisor for the further explorations here that we're planning). Thanks to a certain generous EatingAsia reader, we're meeting with local chowhounds - professional and otherwise - whose work we admire. We expect this to be one excellent trip, with lots of fantastic food finds. We know there's gold here, and we don't expect to have to dig much to find it.

While this is my first visit to the Philippines, it's a bit of a homecoming for Dave, who got his initial taste of Asia a couple of (ahem) decades ago when he lived here for 6 months. Dave wasn't as food-focused then as he is now (he remembers pancit, balut, buko pie, and adobo, and that's about it), and has only the vaguest remembrances of local flavors. So it should be interesting to see how his impression of the local fare we partake of over the coming days compares with his memories.

We'll be be back in a week and a half with plenty of tales of Filipino tastiness. Until then, Selamat Makan (Happy Eating!)

After a Pooja, the Pause That Refreshes

At the pooja ('pooja' means prayers, but is also used generically to refer to an Indian religious ceremony) we met a local photographer who'd been hired by the Mariamman Temple to document the event. He led us up to a second floor balcony from where we got a bird's-eye-view (and some nice shots) of the devotees standing in a crowd, waiting to hand over their sembu of milk.

Dave continued to snap away long after he'd finished, so the two of us got to talking about - what else? - food. He piqued my interest with raves about a 'delicious, most refreshing' drink called moru. It's served after a pooja, free to devotees and attendees.(It's also taken just any old time, to refresh and/or aid digestion.)

After the pooja we encountered a vendor outside Mariamman temple's gate - plenty of sweet treats but no refreshing beverage. But a stall just up the street was mobbed with red-clad devotees reaching for styrofoam cups. I wormed my way into the crowd, but hesitated to grab a serving for myself; these women had just walked five kilometers barefoot, carrying pots of milk on their heads, and then stood in the temple's sweltering inner courtyard for an hour or two, waiting to deliver their offerings. I was tired and awfully thirsty, but deserving of a free cup of moru? I didn't think so.

A middle-aged lady to my rear gently pushed me forward. 'It's moru. Try it!' she urged.

She didn't have to push twice.

Moru is next to nothing - at its most basic, a blend of a little yogurt, lots of water, and salt, with a few curry leaves added for flavor - a super-thinned out salt lassi. But an incredibly, scrumptiously thirst-quenching one.

It's the salt, of course, which in small doses is just the thing when dehydration sets in (think Gatorade and other sports drinks).

It's also the way moru is - or should be - served: colder than a penguin's patooty. Behind the stall it was dipped from mammoth stainless steel vats (top photo), each holding a block of ice about 2 feet wide and a foot or so thick. Before pouring it into red plastic pitchers the moru minder 'pulled' the liquid again and again, bringing it up high before letting it fall it over the ice. By the time it was portioned into cups the moru was cold enough to induce an ice cream headache, if downed too quickly.

Yet moru's perfect thirst-quenching quality is derived from more than salt and cold. I think it's the curry leaves. In this simple preparation they lend a subtle grassy, vegetal flavor (there's nothing 'curried' tasting about moru) that, combined with the salt and the bit of body lent by the yogurt, makes a swallow of the drink not only refreshing, but substantively reviving. It's food (or at least it tastes like food) - nourishment, so to speak - in the form of a beverage as light as water.

For days after the pooja I dreamt about moru, wondering if it would taste as good if my throat wasn't parched. So, I whipped up a batch at home. Two batches, to be exact, because my bahasa Malaysia teacher (who happens to be Punjabi) told me that some moru makers like to tarka (let 'pop' in a hot pan wiped with the teeniest bit of oil) the curry leaves - along with fresh chile, onion, and black mustard seeds - before adding them to the liquid.

After comparing the two versions - basic moru and pretty simple moru - I can't decide which I like best. I do know, however, that it's essential to allow the moru to mellow in the fridge for at least six hours (overnight is best), and to serve it well chilled in an ice-free glass. I stole sips from my moru batches before and between meals, morning, noon, and evening. Conclusion: dying of thirst or not, this is one beautiful beverage.

Moru

2 large servings

Don't go crazy with the extra ingredients, if you opt to use them. The chile shouldn't burn and the onion shouldn't leave you burping. Moru should be salty, but if you're not using premium salt - kosher or sea or otherwise - reduce the amount by half to start, then add to taste. Flavoruful, full-fat yogurt is a must, to give a bit of body to what is already a very diluted beverage.

2 Tbsp delicious plain, full-fat yogurt

2 tsp salt

2 cups room temperature water

10 fresh or frozen curry leaves (or to taste)

Optional:

vegetable or mustard oil

a slice or two of green or red chile, seeds removed if it's very hot

a small piece (1-inch) of onion

2 generous pinches of black mustard seeds

1. Put the yogurt, salt, and water into the jar of a blender and mix until the salt is dissolved. Pour into a pitcher.

2. Add curry leaves and stir.

(Or: wipe a small pan with oil - leaving no more than the thinnest film - and add the curry leaves, chile, onion, and mustard seeds. Place the pan over medium heat and allow to cook just until you can smell the ingredients and a few of the mustard seeds have popped. Do not allow the ingredients to brown. Remove from pan and add to the moru; stir.)

3. Refrigerate for at least six hours or, preferably, overnight.

4. Strain out the solids, if you wish. Reintegrate the yogurt and water (they will have separated) with whisk. Serve in chilled glasses.

I'll Pass on the Pig Fetus

But the rest of Luang Prabang's Phousi Market sounds right up our alley.