The Food of Vietnam

‡
I dedicate this book to all the wonderful street vendors, home cooks and
chefs I had the pleasure of meeting and cooking with throughout
Vietnam.
Thank you for sharing your stories and family recipes with me.
This book would not have been possible without the great work of some
very special and extremely talented people, who all make up the ‘Dream
Team’: Alan Benson, Suzanna Boyd, Leanne Kitchen, Michelle
Noerianto, Sarah Hobbs, Chris Nair, Sarah Odgers and Katri Hilden.
A big thank you to all the crew at Hardie Grant who are such a pleasure
to work with: Paul McNally, Lucy Heaver and Roxy Ryan.
‡ A journey to discover food & heritage
++ saigon & south

HO CHI MINH CITY
MEKONG DELTA
PHU QUOC
++ from coast to countryside

MUI NE & PHAN THIET
DA LAT
++ salt water people

NHA TRANG
QUY NHON
HOI AN
++ princes & paupers

HUE
VINH
NINH BINH
++ the dragon & the turtle

HANOI
HA LONG BAY
++ mountain people
SAPA
BAC HA
MAI CHAU
‡ Basic recipes
‡ Glossary
‡ Copyright Page
Growing up in Australia, food was an intrinsic link to my Vietnamese
heritage and culture. Everything ‘Vietnamese’ I’d learnt as a child was
passed on to me through the memories and knowledge of my parents,
and the other families in my Vietnamese community. They shared
these gifts with us, within our own ‘little Vietnam’ in the Sydney
suburb of Cabramatta. Our lifestyle, cooking and language were a
version of our parents’ own upbringing.
Through all this, I was inspired to go to Vietnam. I felt a pull to discover the
country and people on my own, and to hopefully understand more about the lives
of my parents and my own life in Australia. But first I needed to follow the
strongest of my passions — my dream of opening my own restaurant, where I
could showcase traditional Vietnamese food within the contemporary Sydney
dining scene. My restaurant, Red Lantern, is more than a restaurant to me. It has
been my dream fulfilled, but it has also taken me beyond my dreams and around
the world, to expand my life and love of food and culture — far more than I ever
could have asked for.
It brought to me Vietnam, where my journey to further understand my heritage,

history and culture still continues, years later. Heavily schooled in southern
cuisine, I wanted to learn about the country’s regional specialties, travelling not
only to particular spots to visit my family, but also to areas where I had no
relatives, links or knowledge: a discovery for the soul and the stomach!
In this book I begin my culinary discovery in southern Vietnam, where I trace

my extended family. I meet my mother’s sisters — Aunties Eight and Nine, who
show me where they, and my Mum, were brought up. After sharing their
favourite family recipes and street-food spots, they introduce me to my cousins
from the Mekong Delta.
Meeting my huge family who live along the mighty Mekong River was truly
life-changing. I relish their river lifestyle, and remember this experience so
fondly; it is the first time that I have felt such a connection to the land —
catching our own fish, prawns (shrimp), bush rats and snakes, and harvesting our
own rice, herbs and vegetables. Growing our own food, knowing the smell of
rain moving closer, raking the water to retrieve our catch, nurturing the livestock
and plants — all these things made every plate of food we ate together ever so
rewarding, and at the same time made me appreciate the interplay of generations
of people, animal and plants.
Returning to Vietnam coincided with a period of change and development

throughout the country. Vietnam had recently opened its doors to the global
market, and international trade and business flooded in. The traditional and
sometimes ancient ways of life — farming, producing, cooking, selling — were
now being challenged to stay relevant, or be updated to suit the modern,
developing world.
I am fascinated and in awe of the deftness the people display in much of their
daily work — skills and knowledge handed down from generations before.
Literally hundreds of years of knowledge accumulate through each person, and
I’m conscious how lucky I was to be experiencing and recording practices that
may well be lost to future generations.
Later I visit the fishing folk of Mui Ne, who work the ocean waters by night, and
in the early mornings prepare tonnes of seafood by hand, expertly cutting,
slicing, drying and packing their catch for sale right along the beachfront. In the
quiet fishing town of Quy Nhon, I learn the ancient art of handmaking tofu, and
visit the famous Thien Huong Pagoda, where I am taught age-old vegetarian
dishes, before being blessed by the pagoda’s revered Buddhist monk.
The terrace fields of Da Lat, filled with exotic vegetables, local flowers and
herbs, reflect the colonial influences of the French, who introduced the coffee
plantations that now flourish under local hands, and satisfy the country’s own
huge appetite for coffee drinking, their coffee also exported around the world.
This first journey through Vietnam taught me so much, and I’m still learning
something new every day. A lifetime of travelling, talking and eating throughout
the country may not be enough to discover all that Vietnam has to share, but the
people’s stories and their memories are all in some way tied up in any single dish
that is prepared; each technique is the word and practice of someone before
them. I love to listen and watch as knowledge, history and culture is told through
the form of food.
‡
Each place I visit, I meet people who are
hospitable, welcoming and sharing. The
Vietnamese never miss an opportunity to have a
laugh. Their ability to make fun of themselves is
the key to their resilience.
Ho Chi Minh City, once known as Saigon, is Vietnam’s largest city. It lies along
the Saigon River, some 80 kilometres (50 miles) from the South China Sea. With
9 million people and over 6 million motorbikes, this bustling, chaotic,
cosmopolitan city always fills me with so much excitement and energy.
I head directly to Ben Thanh Market, a must-see for any visitor. Built by the
French in 1912, it is surely Saigon’s most colourful and vibrant market and has
everything you need, from fabrics and cooking gear to souvenirs, dry goods and
fake Gucci bags. But I’m here specifically for the street food and fresh produce,
and to cook one of Saigon’s most loved dishes: ‘Canh chua ca’, a tamarind and
pineapple soup with fish, okra, tomato, elephant ear stems and fresh herbs.
I’m blown away by how fresh and cheap everything is. Pineapples, three for $1;
tomatoes, 50 cents a kilo; herbs, a ridiculous 10 cents a bunch! With a spring in
my step I move on to the seafood section, where most species are still kicking.
Vietnamese love their produce super-fresh — alive where possible. My soup
calls for mudfish, a fatty freshwater fish with great texture. The elderly lady
selling them has no teeth and a great big smile, so I am drawn to her. She scales
the big fish and chops it into thick cutlets, bone on. It costs $3 — a bargain!
Finding the soup ingredients is easy, but the market is so busy it takes two hours
to find a spot where we are not in anyone’s way. The soup-making takes five
hours to film, with locals demanding I make enough for them to all have a taste
(you’ll find a similar tamarind seafood soup).
One of the locals tells me of a street-food dish I have to try. The only details she
gives are: ‘It’s on Hai Ba Trung in District 1, just past Dien Bien Phu Street. She
makes the best green papaya salad in town!’ So off I go in search of the Green
Papaya Lady — but Hai Ba Trung is one of the longest streets in Saigon, so I’m
not going to get my hopes up. As I pass Dien Bien Phu, I notice motorbikes
pulling to the kerbside, all lined up in front of a cart with a cabinet filled with
shredded green papaya. This has to be her!
As I approach her cart, she asks if I want to eat in or take away. Eat in? How do I
do that, I ask. She points across the road, where her daughter is waving at me,
directing me to cross the road. The street is busy, three lanes on either side, and
the traffic is thick, so it takes a while to get through. The daughter hands me a
plastic mat and tells me to sit under a tree, where many other locals sit waiting
for their salad. She takes multiple orders and shouts out to her mother, ‘Ten
portions!’ Mum is busy, working frantically to serve the motorbikes that are
lined up for takeaways. Five minutes later, she carries ten portions of green
papaya salad on a tray, crossing the road dodging traffic, trying not to get run
over.
This is Saigon street food at its best: raw, chaotic, fun, quirky and delicious. I sit
for hours watching the mother and daughter teamwork: the shouting of orders
across the road and the weaving through the traffic is enthralling to observe.
As the sun fades and Saigon lights up, the energy of the city reaches another
level. More street-food vendors appear as locals finish work, looking for a light
snack before dinner. I notice a great-looking cart selling beef skewers, fish balls,
wok-tossed corn with chilli, and beef rolled in betel leaves.
I’ve always wanted to cook on one of those classic food carts, so I chase after it
as it is wheeled down the street. Tuan, the owner, kindly allows me to use it, and
even volunteers to help me. Together we wok-toss thin slices of beef with
lemongrass, garlic, chilli and wild betel leaf. The aroma of the lemongrass and
garlic and the sweet scent of the betel leaf wafting through the streets attracts a
queue of locals, who want to buy our dish. It is a winner, they love it!
The next morning we make our way to Cau Ong Lanh, a market neighbourhood
in which both my parents grew up. Both sides of the family owned wholesale
fruit stalls — Mum’s side selling mangoes, durian, jackfruit and dragon fruit,
Dad’s side selling custard apples, rambutans, longans and lychees. The stalls
were passed on to them from their parents, and my parents then passed the stalls
over to their siblings when they left Vietnam. My grandmother, cousins, aunties
and uncles still live there today and the market is still active, but on a much
smaller scale. This area is my favourite place to visit in all of Saigon.
To me, Cau Ong Lanh is the ‘real Saigon’; it feels as though nothing has
changed for hundreds of years. The locals experience a lifestyle similar to the
generation before them. The closeness of the community here — both in
proximity and in kind — can be shocking at first, but for me always admirable
and unique. The bond these people share relies heavily on the cramped
environments in which they live. And as much as this style of living is based in
poverty, the richness of the relationships within the community cannot be
replicated. Walking through its narrow laneways gives a true sense of the
lifestyle of the Vietnamese people. Every time I return to visit my family here I
imagine a life I might have had if my family didn’t flee Vietnam. I may have run
my own noodle cart, or stayed within the family business of selling fruit; maybe
I would’ve still ended up in the restaurant industry, and worked my way up to
having my own place. Cooking, eating and spending time with my family in Cau
Ong Lanh makes me appreciate the simpler things in life. We focus conversation
on food, family and neighbourhood gossip and life feels a little less complicated
for a moment.
Another area I love to visit is Hoc Mon, an hour’s drive from the city, where my
Aunty Eight lives. I actually don’t know my aunty’s real name; I’ve only ever
addressed her by the number eight.
In Vietnamese culture, your parents are always regarded as number one, and the
first child as number two, the second as number three and so on. It is rude to
address your elders with their name; you must only address them by the position
they are in the family. On my mother’s side there are twelve children, and on my
father’s side there are ten, so growing up trying to remember each uncle and
aunty’s number was a little tricky.
Aunty Eight runs a wholesale corn business; she receives truckloads of corn each
day from Da Lat, in the central highlands. Her team sorts the corn into eight
different grades, the lowest grade sold to make corn flour and the highest for
grilling or making sweet puddings. My aunt kindly shares a recipe using the first
grade corn when it is young and still white. Using it unripened releases a milky
sap, which results in the pudding being slightly thickened, with great texture. My
Aunty Eight is fun, loud and is always the life of the party, but she is extremely
shy in front of the camera. This side of her I just adore watching.
‡
Every time I return I imagine a life I might have
had if my family didn’t flee Vietnam. I may have
run my own noodle cart, or stayed within the
family business of selling fruit.
Green papaya is a very versatile ‘vegetable’. It can be pickled,
poached in soups, or simply shredded and tossed in fresh salads.
When choosing a green papaya, pick out the firmest one, and make
sure it has no blotchy areas. If green papaya is left to ripen, it simply
becomes a papaya fruit.
SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal
ingredients
1 small green papaya, about 180 g (6½ oz) 200 g (7 oz) Cooked pork belly (see
Basics), thinly sliced 200 g (7 oz) cooked tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and
deveined, then sliced in half lengthways 5 mint leaves, thinly sliced
5 Asian basil leaves, thinly sliced
5 perilla leaves, thinly sliced
5 coriander (cilantro) leaves, thinly sliced 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham
dipping sauce (see Basics) 1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics)
1 tablespoon crushed roasted peanuts

½ teaspoon Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 1 red chilli, sliced
preparation
Peel the papaya, then cut into fine julienne strips. Submerge the papaya in cold
water for 4 minutes, then drain. (This keeps the crisp texture of the papaya.) In a
large bowl, combine the papaya, pork belly, prawns, sliced herbs and nuoc mam
cham. Toss together well.
Turn the salad out onto a serving platter. Garnish with the fried shallots, peanuts,
garlic chips and chilli.
Garnish with extra herb leaves if desired and serve.

This is one of my favourite summer salads. It is colourful, textural and
has such complex flavours. Salmon is not native to Vietnam, but has
become very popular in the last few years. Most of the salmon served
in Saigon comes from either Norway or Australia, although salmon is
now being farmed in the northern mountains of Sapa, where low water
temperatures are ideal for raising salmon.
ingredients
200 g (7 oz) salmon fillet, skin and bones removed 150 g (5½ oz/½ cup) Pickled
vegetables (see Basics)
1 handful watercress sprigs

5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced 5 mint leaves, roughly sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly sliced 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips (see
Basics) 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 1 red bird’s eye chilli, sliced
SALMON MARINADE
1 garlic clove, crushed
2 teaspoons caster (superfine) sugar 1½ tablespoons fish sauce
1 red bird’s eye chilli, sliced preparation
Combine all the marinade ingredients in a bowl, stirring until the sugar has
dissolved. Add the salmon and turn to coat. Cover and marinate for 30 minutes.
Chargrill the salmon over medium–high heat for 3 minutes, or until mediumrare,
making sure it is well coloured on the outside. Remove from the heat and allow
the salmon to rest for 5 minutes.
Flake the salmon flesh into a bowl, removing any small bones. Add the pickled
vegetables, watercress, herbs, garlic chips and dipping sauce. Mix together well,
then turn out onto a serving platter.
Garnish with the peanuts, fried shallots and chilli and serve.
This recipe belongs to my Aunty Nine. We cooked and filmed this
dish together just outside her house in Saigon. Her recipe calls for
mudfish, but barramundi would also work well. Mudfish is a species
of fish that lives and thrives in mud or muddy waters. Snakehead fish
is also a type of mudfish.
ingredients
150 g (5½ oz) minced (ground) pork
2 fresh black fungus (wood ears), finely diced 1 garlic clove, finely diced
1 red Asian shallot, finely diced
1 teaspoon sugar
2 teaspoons fish sauce

½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper 1 whole barramundi, about 700 g (1 lb 9
oz), cleaned and gutted 2 tablespoons Spring onion oil (see Basics) 1 bunch
coriander (cilantro), roots trimmed
2 tablespoons crushed roasted peanuts

12 dried round rice paper sheets, about 22 cm (8¾ inches) in diameter 150 g (5½
oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions 1 bunch
perilla, leaves picked
1 bunch mint, leaves picked
1 Lebanese (short) cucumber, cut into 3 cm (1¼ inch) batons Nuoc mam cham
dipping sauce (see Basics), to serve preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the pork, mushroom, garlic, shallot, sugar, fish sauce
and white pepper. Mix together well, then set aside.
Make two deep, sharp incisions down both sides of the fish along the rib cage,
following the backbone, from the tail up towards the head. Cut where the
backbone meets the head and where it meets the tail. Now carefully lift out the
rib cage, leaving a boneless pocket to stuff the fish.
Using your hands, stuff the pork mixture into the pocket, then tie the fish up with
kitchen string.
Half-fill a steamer, wok or large saucepan with water and bring to a rapid boil
over high heat. Place the fish in the steamer, then cover and steam for 30
minutes.
Remove the fish from the steamer and place on a serving plate. Drizzle with the
spring onion oil, then garnish with the coriander and crushed peanuts. Place the
fish on the table for serving, along with the remaining ingredients.
Each diner then dips the rice paper sheets, one sheet at a time, in a large bowl of
warm water until the sheets soften. Diners then roll the rice paper sheets around
some steamed fish, noodles, perilla, mint and cucumber, before dipping them
into some nuoc mam cham.
It was so much fun cooking this dish on the streets of Saigon in
District 1. Every time I walk past Hai Ba Trung Street, I always look
out for Tuan, the street vendor who kindly let me borrow his cart to
cook this dish. He is there every night without fail, and always with a
great big smile on his face.
ingredients
2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 lemongrass stem, white part only, finely diced 2 garlic cloves, finely diced
2 chillies, finely diced, plus extra to garnish 300 g (10½ oz) lean beef sirloin,
thinly sliced 1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 teaspoons sugar
15 betel leaves, roughly sliced coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish preparation
Add the oil and lemongrass to a smoking-hot frying pan or wok. Cook for 5–10
seconds, or until fragrant, then add the garlic and chilli.
Now add the beef and stir-fry for 2 minutes. Season with the fish sauce, soy
sauce and sugar, add the betel leaves and stir-fry for a further minute.
Transfer to a plate and garnish with the coriander and extra chilli. Serve with
steamed jasmine rice.
‡ TIP
When dicing lemongrass, always use a sharp heavy knife. Don’t discard the
green tips of a lemongrass stem — steep them in hot water and enjoy as
lemongrass tea.
This is a very popular dish throughout southern Vietnam. You can
serve it all mixed up in a noodle bowl, or you could arrange the
ingredients on a platter and let diners wrap the ingredients in fresh
lettuce leaves or rice paper sheets. My favourite street vendor who
serves this dish is found in my parents’ old neighbourhood in District
1, called Cau Ong Lanh.
ingredients
2 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

6 spring onions (scallions), white part only, thinly sliced and pounded to a paste
using a mortar and pestle, plus some sliced green ends to garnish 2 garlic
cloves, finely diced
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) pork neck, thinly cut across the grain into slices 3 mm (⅛ inch)
thick

12 bamboo skewers, or 6 disposable wooden chopsticks sliced lengthways down
the middle 250 g (9 oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet
instructions 5 mint leaves, roughly sliced
5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly sliced
1 Lebanese (short) cucumber, halved lengthways and sliced
2 handfuls bean sprouts

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 4
tablespoons Spring onion oil (see Basics) 4 tablespoons Fried red Asian
shallots (see Basics)

preparation
In a large mixing bowl, combine the sugar, fish sauce, honey and pepper. Mix
until the sugar has dissolved, then add the bashed spring onion, garlic and pork.
Toss to coat the pork well, then pour the vegetable oil over the top. Cover and
marinate in the refrigerator for 2 hours, or overnight for an even tastier result.
When you’re nearly ready to cook, soak the skewers in water for 20 minutes to
prevent scorching. Thread the pork onto the skewers, discarding the remaining
marinade.
Chargrill the skewers over medium–high heat for 1–2 minutes on each side, or
until cooked through and nicely browned.
Divide the noodles among serving bowls. Top with the herbs, cucumber and
bean sprouts, then sit the pork skewers on top.
Drizzle each bowl with the nuoc mam cham and spring onion oil. Sprinkle with
the fried shallots, crushed peanuts and green spring onion slices and serve.
Native to South-East Asia, pomelo is found all through Vietnam. It is
the largest citrus fruit in the world and I absolutely love it for its
sweet, tangy tones, and its juicy flesh and pulp. Don’t mistake
pomelos for grapefruit, as they are far superior, although you can
substitute them here. If you have any pomelo left over, do what
Vietnamese do — dip it into salt and chilli for a snack.
ingredients
50 g (1¾ oz) dried shrimp

1 garlic clove, finely diced
1 large pink pomelo, or 2 small pink pomelos (see Tips) 200 g (7 oz) picked mud
crab meat (see Tips) 5 mint leaves, sliced
5 perilla leaves, sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, sliced
5 Asian basil leaves, sliced
1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 2 teaspoons Fried garlic chips
(see Basics) 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 1
large red chilli, sliced
crushed roasted peanuts, to garnish preparation
Soak the dried shrimp in water for 1 hour, then drain and set aside.
Add the oil to a hot frying pan. Add the garlic and cook for 5–10 seconds, or
until fragrant.
Add the dried shrimp and stir-fry for 3 minutes, or until crispy and golden
brown. Remove from the pan and allow to cool.
Peel and segment the pomelo. Break into bite-sized pieces, then place in a large
mixing bowl. Add the cooled garlic and shrimp mixture, the crabmeat, herbs,
fried shallots, garlic chips and nuoc mam cham. Toss together well.
Transfer to a dish, garnish with the chilli and peanuts. Serve garnished with extra
herbs if desired.
‡ TIPS
The pomelo can be substituted with grapefruit.
++
Instead of mud crab you can use blue swimmer or spanner crab.
Swamp cabbage is also known as water spinach or morning glory, but
I always find it strange calling my favourite green vegetable morning
glory. I have had this dish on my Red Lantern restaurant menu for the
last ten years. Guests love it as it is simple and so incredibly
flavoursome.
ingredients
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 tablespoon julienned fresh ginger

200 g (7 oz) swamp cabbage (water spinach), torn into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths,
discarding the bottom 3–5 cm (1¼–2 inches) of the stems 1 tablespoon
fermented red bean curd, mashed
2 teaspoons sugar
½ teaspoon toasted sesame seeds Fried garlic chips (see Basics), to garnish
preparation
Heat a wok over high heat. Add the oil, then add the ginger and garlic and stir-
fry for 5–10 seconds, or until fragrant. Add the swamp cabbage and, using a
wooden spoon, work the greens around in the wok until they start to wilt.
Add the bean curd, sugar and a pinch of sea salt and stir-fry for a further 3
minutes.
Turn out onto a plate and garnish with the sesame seeds and garlic chips. Serve
with steamed jasmine rice.
This recipe belongs to my Aunty Eight. She is the queen of corn.
Every time I see her, be it at a wedding, family gathering, birthday or
when she is just picking me up from the airport, Aunty Eight always
seems to be carrying a heavy sack of corn, which she hands out as
gifts.
ingredients
220 g (8 oz/1 cup) dried peeled yellow mung beans 1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cups)
coconut milk
12 young white corn cobs

150 g (5½ oz) sugar
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) coconut cream
1 tablespoon toasted white sesame seeds

preparation
Soak the mung beans in water for 1 hour, then drain and set aside.
Put the coconut milk and mung beans in a large saucepan. Bring to the boil, then
reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the mung beans
soften, stirring occasionally to stop the beans sticking to the base of the pan.
Meanwhile, peel the husks off the corn. Shave the corn kernels into a bowl,
using a sharp knife.
Add the shaved corn to the mung bean mixture and stir for 5 minutes, or until the
pudding thickens. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for a further 10 minutes,
until the corn softens. Now add the sugar and coconut cream and stir again.
Cook for a further 3 minutes.
Transfer to small bowls, garnish with a sprinkle of the sesame seeds and serve.
The Mekong River is the twelvth largest river in the world and the seventh
longest in Asia. It travels through five other countries, offering unique and
diverse freshwater ecosystems specific to each region, before winding its way
through Vietnam, where it spreads into hundreds of waterways that make up the
Vietnamese Delta. Known as the ‘Vietnamese rice basket’, the Delta is now the
world’s largest rice producer and exporter.
The lower Mekong Basin is one of the most interesting regions of Vietnam,
purely for its array of specialty dishes and produce. A four-hour drive from
Saigon brings us to Can Tho city, and as we check into our hotel, I tell the crew
to have an early night: we have to rise before the sun to catch the colourful
floating markets.
It is super early — not even the roosters are awake. We are ushered onto a long-
tail boat, but no one says a word as we are all still half-asleep. After a twenty-
minute silent boat ride we arrive at the floating market and everyone’s face
suddenly lights up with surprise and excitement. We are now wide awake and
our cameraman is already on his feet with camera on shoulder, eager to capture
everything on film.
We are surrounded by hundreds of boats, all specialising in one particular fruit or

vegetable. The colours are just incredible; it’s like being in a candy store for
photographers. Everywhere you turn, stunning and vibrant colours are popping
out of the landscape!
The river people of the Mekong live on houseboats, river stilt houses, fishing
boats and in urban townships, making the massive waterway a hive of activity
during the day, with thousands of boats trading and exporting goods.
Large boats transfer mounds of plump mangoes, rambutans, watermelon,

cabbage, lettuce, lychees, rockmelon and jicama to smaller boats that then
transport their buy to markets in Saigon, while along the riverbanks I witness the
daily lives of the Mekong Delta people.
There is no sense of privacy here. Everything is open to public viewing. You see
people bathing in the river, kids brushing their teeth, ladies combing their hair,
mums steaming noodles… it’s a real feast for the senses.
I really enjoy cruising this area of the Mekong; there is so much activity and
colour. My favourite thing is seeing the floating food vendors — not street
vendors, but boat vendors. Small boats row past selling noodle soups, congee,
salads or grilled meats to larger boats. As I order my cold vermicelli noodles
with chargrilled pork, a floating cafe rows past, so I order a hot Vietnamese
coffee with condensed milk… I am a very happy man.
It is 8 am and the hustle and bustle of the market is all over; I’m glad we got
there early. We move on to a small village an hour away along the Mekong
called Rach Goi, in search of my great uncle, the brother of my Chinese
grandfather. He is the local Chinese herbalist, so he won’t be hard to find.
Some local schoolkids quickly show me to Great Uncle’s store. He is in his 70s,
but ever so healthy and bubbly — and most unexpectedly, he speaks with me in
English. I feel quite emotional as I didn’t get the chance to meet my grandfather
or anyone from his side of the family, so to meet his brother was very special.
After Great Uncle examines my health by simply holding onto my wrist and
looking into my eyes, he offers some words of wisdom: ‘We need to eat more
slow food and fill our body with a balance of cold and hot foods — yin and
yang.’ He then shares a recipe for one of his favourite medicinal soups, made
with his secret concoction of Chinese herbs, slow-cooked with pork ribs (see
recipe). I steam the pork ribs for three long hours, with all the flavour extracted
from the bones and all the Chinese herbs and dried fruits. It is so clean and
aromatic, and with every mouthful I can taste the goodness — definitely my
favourite dish of the Mekong Delta region so far.
Keen to delve deeper into the culture of the Mekong Delta, I head further south
to meet up with more family members, this time on my grandmother’s side. We
arrive at a small house right on the riverbank, where 40–50 people greet us.
Amazingly, they are all family! They are just as excited to meet the crew as I am
to meet them. One young cousin eagerly asks, ‘Do you want to go catch coconut
rat with me? It tastes delicious!’
I burst out laughing, as it is not a question I hear often. We scurry off into the
jungle in search of the coconut rat. Now, these rats are not your standard rodent
rats, as these ones nest up in coconut trees. They are clean and their flesh is
sweet, as they feed only on coconuts.
My cousin climbs up the tree like a little monkey, so I nickname him ‘Funky
Monkey’. He shakes the nest as I wait below, stick in hand. One coconut rat falls
at my feet, looks directly at me, and shoots off as I chase it, slapping my stick
down trying to hit it on the head. It is too quick, or I am too slow, so I apologise
to my cousin for failing to catch it. He giggles and says, ‘No worries, let’s go
catch some snakes!’
I end up spending three days with my family along the Mekong, immersing
myself in the culture and lifestyle of the Mekong River people.
My uncles and I wake early in the mornings and jump straight into the river to
freshen up. My aunties then spend the majority of the day harvesting rice from
the green paddies while the men go fishing for mudfish, tilapia and snakehead
fish, and the children pick plump succulent mangoes, jackfruit, lychees and
durian from the fruit orchards.
All the produce is then collected and packed onto longboats, then the eight-hour
journey up the Mekong River to the wholesale markets in Saigon begins.
Everything about my family’s livelihood here revolves around the Mekong

River. This mighty river is the water source for their rice crops and fruit
orchards, supplies them with hundreds of kilograms of fish each day, and is also
their main means of transport.
I begin to marvel at just how many Vietnamese families along the Mekong Delta
rely solely on the river to survive. This amazing river gives my family and
millions of others nourishment and life.
‡
Large boats transfer mounds of plump mangoes,
rambutans, watermelon, cabbage, lettuce,
lychees, rockmelon and jicama to smaller boats
that then transport their buy to markets in Saigon.
When I cooked this dish on a small boat along the Mekong River, it
was so choppy that my cutting board and knives almost rolled into the
water. I don’t know how I managed to complete this recipe on such a
rocky boat that seemed only minutes away from sinking, but I did. A
memorable experience that I wouldn’t want to experience again.
School prawns are much loved by Vietnamese, due to their sweetness
and crunch, so please don’t ever peel school prawns. You can trim
their heads and legs, but do leave the shell on, as the beauty of these
small prawns lies in their crispy texture.
ingredients
200 g (7 oz) boneless raw pork belly, thinly cut into 2 mm (1/16 inch) slices 200 g
(7 oz) raw school prawns (shrimp), tip of heads, legs and tails trimmed 2
tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
2 tablespoons finely diced garlic

4 tablespoons finely diced lemongrass, white part only

2 red Asian shallots, finely diced
3 spring onions (scallions), sliced into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths coriander
(cilantro) sprigs, to garnish
preparation
Place the pork and prawns in two separate mixing bowls. To each bowl add 1
tablespoon fish sauce, ½ tablespoon sugar, ½ teaspoon pepper, 1 tablespoon
garlic and 1 tablespoon lemongrass.
Combine the ingredients in each bowl well. Cover and marinate for 15 minutes.
Add the oil to a hot frying pan. Fry the shallot and the remaining 2 tablespoons
lemongrass for 5–10 seconds, or until fragrant. Now add the pork and cook over
high heat for 2 minutes, or until browned.
Add the prawns and stir-fry for 2 minutes, until the prawns change colour, then
add the spring onion and toss for another minute.
Transfer to a plate or bowls and garnish with coriander. Serve with steamed
jasmine rice.
When my great uncle introduced me to this dish, he called it a
‘medicinal broth’. Straight away, this brought back old memories of
my father brewing a potent Chinese herbal remedy, which I was made
to drink when I was ill. It was horribly bitter, and the only way I could
drink it was by covering up my nose. Luckily, my great uncle’s
medicinal broth was nothing like my father’s. It is aromatic, fragrant,
clean and well worth the time and effort.
ingredients
300 g (10½ oz) short spare ribs, chopped into bite-sized pieces ½ teaspoon sea
salt
1 teaspoon dried raisins

5 g (⅛ oz) dried ginseng
5 g (⅛ oz) dried lotus seeds 5 g (⅛ oz) dried goji berries 5 g (⅛ oz) dried black
prune 5 g (⅛ oz) dried lilly petals 5 g (⅛ oz) pearl barley
5 g (⅛ oz) dried longon
5 g (⅛ oz) dried white vegetable root preparation
In a mixing bowl, rub the pork ribs with the salt.
Bring 2 litres (68 fl oz/8 cups) water to the boil in a very large saucepan.
Add all the remaining ingredients to a medium-sized clay pot, then sit the pork
on top. Pour in enough water to cover the pork by 5 cm (2 inches) — about 400–
500 ml (13½–17 fl oz).
Put the lid on the clay pot, then carefully place the clay pot into the simmering
water, making sure the hot water is level with the top of the clay pot. Put the lid
on the saucepan and simmer for 3 hours.
Carefully remove the clay pot from the simmering water. Serve the hot soup with
++ TIP
You can purchase the herbs and seeds from your local Chinese herbalist.
I was introduced to this dish by my cousins who live on the banks of
the Mekong. They use a species known as elephant fish, found only in
the Mekong River. Elephant fish is prized for its delicate scales, which
puff and crisp up when flash-fried — the crunch is amazing. Back in
Sydney I tried to recreate this dish with every local fish available, but
failed because the scales were too thick and tough — impossible to
chew. But recently I asked my fishmonger to deliver some small silver
bream and it worked perfectly. Be sure to tell your fishmonger not to
scale the fish, and to be gentle with it, as you want as many scales
intact as possible.
ingredients
1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cups) vegetable oil 1 whole elephant fish or silver bream, about
600–700 g (1 lb 5 oz–1 lb 9 oz), cleaned and gutted, but not scaled red chilli
strips, to garnish coriander (cilantro) or spring onion (scallion), to garnish
GINGER FISH SAUCE
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons white vinegar 1 tablespoon diced garlic
1 tablespoon diced red chilli

20 cm (8 inch) knob of fresh ginger, pounded to a paste using a mortar and pestle
(about 4 tablespoons)
1 tablespoon lime juice
preparation
To make the ginger fish sauce, combine the fish sauce, sugar, vinegar and 125 ml
(4 fl oz/½ cup) water in a small saucepan. Bring to the boil, remove from the
heat, transfer to a bowl and allow to cool. Once cooled, stir in the garlic, chilli,
ginger and lime juice. Set aside.
Add the oil to a large wok and heat to 180°C (350°F), or until a cube of bread
dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds. Carefully slide the whole fish
into the oil and cook over high heat for 5 minutes.
Remove the fish to a platter. Drizzle with 4 tablespoons of the ginger fish sauce
and garnish with the red chilli strips and coriander or spring onion. Serve with
steamed jasmine rice and the remaining ginger fish sauce.
‡ NOTE
You can use whole snapper as a substitute; however the snapper will have to
be scaled for this recipe.
You will not find a lot of coconut milk, curry powders or curry pastes
in Vietnamese cooking. However, as you travel further south down the
Mekong River, close to the Cambodian border, you will notice these
three ingredients used quite regularly. The northern Vietnamese also
have their own version of this dish, but no coconut milk is used, so
their dish is not as wet as the southern version.
ingredients
50 g (1¾ oz) dried glass noodles 3 dried black fungus (wood ears) ½ teaspoon
red curry powder
½ teaspoon ground turmeric
½ teaspoon chilli flakes
1 tablespoon sugar

2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 onion, one half diced, the other half cut into wedges 1 lemongrass stem, white
part only, finely diced 400 g (14 oz) eel fillets, boned but with the skin left on,
cut into 3 cm (1¼ inch) pieces 3 tablespoons coconut milk

1 bunch rice paddy herb, roughly chopped (or coriander (cilantro) stalk and leaf)
1 bunch saw-tooth coriander (cilantro), roughly chopped 2 red bird’s eye
chillies, finely diced soy sauce, for dipping
preparation
Soak the noodles in cold water for 20 minutes. Drain and cut into 10 cm (4 inch)
lengths.
Meanwhile, put the dried mushroom in a separate bowl, cover with cold water
and soak for 20 minutes. Drain and thinly slice.
Combine the curry powder, turmeric and chilli flakes and set aside. In another
small bowl, combine the fish sauce and sugar with 2 tablespoons water. Mix well
and set aside.
Heat a wok over medium heat. Add the oil, garlic, diced onion and lemongrass
and stir-fry for 1 minute, or until fragrant. Increase the heat to high, then add the
eel and stir-fry for 2 minutes.
Add the curry powder mixture and stir-fry for 1 minute. Now add the noodles,
sliced mushroom, onion wedges and fish sauce mixture. Toss well, then pour in
the coconut milk and stir-fry for 2 minutes.
Garnish with the peanuts, rice paddy herb, saw-tooth coriander and chilli. Serve
with steamed jasmine rice, and a bowl of soy sauce for dipping.
As you may have already noticed, I use a lot of fish sauce in my
cooking — well, all Vietnamese do. Fish sauce adds another
dimension to your dishes, as well as a unique ‘umami’ flavour. Now
let me introduce you to its more pungent cousin, shrimp paste, made
by drying tiny shrimp in the sun for three months, mixing them with
salt, grinding them into a powder, then fermenting them in a jar for
another few months. Sounds awful I know, but the flavours that are
released when added to your cooking are out of this world. Please
don’t be scared — give it a go.
ingredients
300 g (10½ oz) small raw school prawns (shrimp), heads and legs trimmed 2
tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon finely diced garlic

1 tablespoon finely diced red Asian shallot ½ teaspoon freshly cracked black
pepper
1 teaspoon shrimp paste, mixed with 1 tablespoon water 2 small red chillies,
thinly sliced, plus extra to garnish 4 spring onions (scallions), cut into 4 cm
(1½ inch) lengths coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish
MARINADE
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon chilli powder
preparation
Combine the marinade ingredients in a mixing bowl. Mix well to dissolve the
sugar, then add the prawns and toss to coat. Cover and leave to marinate for 20
minutes.
Heat the oil in a hot wok. Drain the prawns then stir-fry over medium–high heat
for 2 minutes, or until the prawns begin to change colour.
Add the garlic, shallot, pepper, shrimp paste, chilli and spring onion and stir-fry
for a further minute.
Garnish with coriander and extra chilli and serve with jasmine rice.
Black sticky rice flour and dried basil seeds can be purchased at your
local Thai or Vietnamese market. The glutinous textures of the
dumplings may take some getting used to, but sticky sweets are much
loved in Vietnam and throughout Asia.
SERVES 4
ingredients
1 rockmelon wedge
1 watermelon wedge
DUMPLINGS
100 g (3½ oz) glutinous rice flour 40 g (1½ oz) black glutinous rice flour (if
unavailable you can substitute with regular glutinous rice flour) 40 g (1½ oz)
rice flour
¼ teaspoon sea salt
5 drops vegetable oil

80 g (2¾ oz) dark cooking chocolate, chopped into 16 pieces SWEET
COCONUT MILK
150 ml (5 fl oz) coconut milk 3 teaspoons chopped palm sugar (jaggery) small
pinch of sea salt
¼ teaspoon basil seeds
preparation
To make the dumplings, combine all the flours and salt in a mixing bowl. Make a
well in the centre and pour the oil and 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) warm water into
the well. Mix all the ingredients together and knead until smooth and pliable,
adding just a little more warm water if required.
Divide the mixture into 16 even portions and roll into balls. Make a dimple in
each ball with your little finger, then fill the dimple with a piece of the chocolate.
Seal the ball and roll to ensure it is smooth and round.
Combine all the sweet coconut milk ingredients, except the basil seeds, in a
small saucepan. Bring to the boil, then remove from the heat. Stir in the basil
seeds, transfer to a bowl, then cover and refrigerate.
Fill a large saucepan with hot water and bring to a rapid boil. Gently slide the
dumplings into the boiling water. Cook for 3–4 minutes, or until the dumplings
float.
Meanwhile, cut the rockmelon and watermelon into balls using a melon baller.
To serve, spoon the warm dumplings into shallow bowls and surround them with
the melon balls. Spoon the sweet coconut milk mixture into the bottom of the
bowls and serve.
This dessert showcases some of the amazing produce of the Mekong
Delta region: plump mangoes, sweet pineapple, juicy watermelon,
fresh mint, coconut and cashews. Jenny Pham, our chef at Red
Lantern, incorporated this refreshing dish into our summer menu. It
was a winner!
SERVES 4
ingredients
1 ripe mango, weighing about 500 g (1 lb 2 oz), peeled and diced 300 ml (10½ fl
oz) thickened (whipping) cream 220 ml (7½ fl oz) coconut cream
1½ tablespoons caster (superfine) sugar
2 teaspoons powdered gelatine

unsalted crushed roasted cashews, to garnish WATERMELON, PINEAPPLE &
MINT SALSA
100 g (3½ oz) watermelon, seeds removed, flesh finely diced 100 g (3½ oz)
pineapple, peeled, core removed, flesh finely diced 1 tablespoon icing
(confectioners’) sugar
2 teaspoons lemon juice

10 mint leaves, thinly sliced
preparation
Put the mango flesh in a food processor and blend to a smooth purée. Set aside.
Place the cream, coconut cream and sugar in a small saucepan and stir over
medium heat for 3 minutes, or until well combined and heated through.
Pour 2–3 tablespoons hot water into a small bowl and sprinkle the gelatine over.
Whisk with a fork to dissolve the gelatine.
Stir the mango purée into the warm cream mixture, then strain through a fine
sieve, into a jug. Add the gelatine mixture and stir well to combine.
Pour 185 ml (6 fl oz) of the panna cotta mixture into four glasses. Cover with
plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for 4–6 hours, until set.
Near serving time, combine all the salsa ingredients and mix well.
Serve each panna cotta topped with the salsa and a sprinkling of cashews.
We are at Ho Chi Minh City airport. Our excess luggage is 150 kilograms (330
pounds); luckily Vietnam Airlines is our main sponsor, so we’re hoping this
gives us some leeway. We board our tiny light plane to fly to one of the most
underdeveloped tourist islands in the world — Phu Quoc.
As the plane gears up to take off, I notice a cart with half our luggage and
equipment still on the tarmac. I wave our air steward over, pointing out the
window, and ask what all our gear is still doing down there. He calmly replies,
‘Oh not to worry, it’ll arrive on the next plane.’
I turn to Macca, our cameraman, and we both laugh. Luckily he has carried his
camera on board, or else we wouldn’t be able to film anything when we arrive.
We arrive at our hotel, located right on the beach; the sky is blue and the water is
still and crystal clear. With no luggage to check in, we strip off and run directly
to the water. There is not a soul in sight, the sand is cool and pure white — I
think we have just landed in paradise.
Apart from its pure beauty, Phu Quoc is also known to produce the best fish
sauce in the world. The Vietnamese consume over 200,000,000 litres
(53,000,000 gallons) of fish sauce every year. Divide that by a population of
about 88 million, and that’s about 23 litres (6 gallons per person). Can you
believe it? I can. Fish sauce is the essential ingredient for Vietnamese cooking —
we use it in everything.
We make our way to Phu Quoc’s largest fish sauce factory. We are still ten
minutes away, but the pungent smell already permeates the surrounding area.
Our sound engineer Rob is worst affected. He can’t stand the smell. Covering his
nose with his shirt, he refuses to step foot into the factory. Now Rob is built like
a bullock, but really he is nothing but a big girl! He stays in the van as I check
the place out.
I am astounded at what I see. Two hundred enormous wooden vats, each

containing ten tonnes of fishy goodness. Seven tonnes of fresh black jaw
anchovies are coated with three tonnes of sea salt and are left to ferment for 14
months. During this time the sea salt draws out all the liquid from the anchovies.
The clear amber liquid is then pressed out from the vats, creating first-press
premium fish sauce.
The quality of this sauce is amazing. Yes the smell is pungent, but the flavour is
not overly salty, and has subtle sweet caramel undertones. It is unlike any other
fish sauce I’ve tried, and I must say far superior to the Thai varieties. When
buying fish sauce at your local Asian market, always go for the premium
Vietnamese fish sauce. It is slightly more expensive, but well worth it, as it does
not contain any added salt, sugar or water. It is pure ‘fish water’!
I’d really like to cook a dish in the fish sauce factory among all the wooden vats,
as it feels like being in an old winery, but none of the crew are too keen on the
idea of spending four hours among the thick aroma of fermenting fish. So we
decide to charter a fishing boat and head out to deep waters to try our luck on
catching squid.
I’ve never caught my own squid before. I am simply given a hand line with a
thing called a ‘squid jig’ attached to it. It has four hooks and is in the shape of a
small fish. All I have to do is throw it in the water and wait.
And wait I do… for three hours, in fact. The captain says we should try again
tomorrow as he can see a strong storm heading our way. Squinting my eyes,
looking into the distance, I see that he is right — the sky is dark, almost black.
But we don’t have another day to spare, so Michael our director insists that we
give it another hour. The sea is getting choppy, our boat is swaying heavily from
side to side. The captain decides to shine strong bright lights into the water to
attract the squid. It works — I finally get one!
I burn some charcoal, remove the squid’s ink sac, and simply coat the squid with
sea salt and pounded red chillies before chargrilling it. By the time we are almost
finished filming the dish, it is already dark, raining heavily, the sky is angry and
loud, lightning is striking all around us.
We are still out in deep water, but we have not yet taken the final dish shot. The
boat is rocking way too much for Macca to use his tripod. So he places the dish
on the floor and lies down with the camera in front of him. He presses record,
and as the tape rolls, a sequence of lightning strikes in the distance, in front of
the camera. When he stops rolling, we play the shot back to see if he captured
the lightning strikes. Indeed he has! The lightning looks computer generated, but
I can assure you it was real. It looks incredible — my favourite food shot of all
time.
The proximity of the sea and a nearby mountain chain give Phu Quoc a unique
climate, with regular rainfall, conducive to growing another local product that
has put Phu Quoc on the world culinary map: high-quality pepper.
Visiting a Phu Quoc pepper plantation is an amazing experience. The vines are
slender and tall, the colours vibrant red and bright green. The family I visit has
been growing peppercorns for four generations, and it is great to see that they are
still using traditional farming techniques.
All the peppercorns are handpicked. The family’s three young children are
responsible for gathering up all the mature peppercorns that have fallen to the
ground; mum, dad and the aunties and uncles pick the young green peppercorns
off the vines, while grandma scatters and rakes all the collected peppercorns in
the backyard for drying under the sun.
The peppercorns are rotated manually every hour for four days, and I love the
fact that they only use organic fertiliser — no chemicals. The end result is a
delicate, spicy, sweet, floral, aromatic and crisp pepper, renowned as one of the
finest in the world.
I can’t resist cooking a dish featuring these marvellous peppercorns. So I grab

one of their free-range chickens, pick a handful of fresh green peppercorns
straight from the vine, pluck a young green coconut from their palm tree and
slowly braise the chicken in these wonderful ingredients (see recipe), and simply
allow the natural flavours to speak for themselves.
‡
The Vietnamese consume over 200,000,000
litres of fish sauce every year. Divide that by a
population of 88 million, and that’s about 23 litres
per person.
If you are ever on Phu Quoc island and can’t seem to find this dish in
any restaurant, don’t worry. Just go to the fresh seafood market, buy
yourself some juicy tiger prawns, take them to any street-food vendor
or restaurant and ask them to make ‘Tom rang muoi’ for you. Be sure
to leave the shells on, as the crispiness they add really makes this dish.
ingredients
2 teaspoons sea salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground white pepper 1 teaspoon five-spice
1 teaspoon sugar
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) vegetable oil 6 large raw tiger prawns (shrimp), left
unpeeled (although you can trim the tip of the heads and legs if you prefer)
250 g (9 oz/2 cups) cornflour (cornstarch) or potato starch 1 tablespoon finely
diced red Asian shallot

2 red chillies, sliced
4 spring onions (scallions), sliced into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths 1 lime, halved or
quartered
preparation
Dry roast the salt, pepper and five-spice in a frying pan or wok until fragrant. Tip
the mixture into a bowl and allow to cool. Add the sugar, mix well and set aside
to infuse.
Add the oil to a large wok or deep frying pan and heat to 180°C (350°F), or until
a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds.
Dust the whole prawns with the cornflour. Add only two prawns at a time to the
hot oil, to keep the oil at a constant high heat. Cook for 2–3 minutes, then
remove the prawns using metal tongs or a slotted spoon and drain on paper
towels. Repeat with the remaining prawns.
Bring a frying pan to medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the prawn cooking oil,
then add the shallot, garlic, chilli and spring onion and cook until fragrant.
Now add the prawns, tossing as you sprinkle them with the toasted five-spice
mix, making sure you coat the prawns well.
Remove the prawns to a bowl. Top with the spring onion mixture from the pan
and serve with the lime for squeezing over.
Citrus curing or cold cooking is one of my favourite preparation
methods. It is such a healthy, fresh and clean way to cook, as the acid
in the lemon or lime actually cures your meat or fish. In this salad you
can substitute sardines with thinly sliced salmon, squid, kingfish,
prawns (shrimp), or even beef sirloin.
ingredients
3 tablespoons white vinegar
2 teaspoons sugar
1 onion, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon salt
juice of 4 limes
250 g (9 oz) sardine fillets
6 fish mint leaves or green mint leaves, sliced 6 Vietnamese mint leaves, sliced 1
teaspoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips
(see Basics) 2 teaspoons Garlic oil (see Fried garlic chips recipe in Basics) 2
tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

1 red chilli, sliced
preparation
In a small bowl, combine the vinegar and 1 teaspoon of the sugar and stir until
the sugar has dissolved. Add the onion and allow to sit for 15 minutes. Drain the
onion, discarding the liquid, and set aside.
In a large bowl, combine the salt, lime juice and remaining 1 teaspoon sugar. Stir
until the sugar has dissolved, then add the sardines and leave to marinate for 10
minutes. The sardines will start to change colour as the lime juice starts to cure
them.
Gently squeeze the sardines until there is no juice dripping from them. Transfer
the sardines to a fresh bowl, discarding the liquid.
Add all the sliced herbs, the pickled onion, fried shallots, garlic chips, garlic oil
and nuoc mam cham and mix well.
Transfer to a platter. Serve garnished with the peanuts and chilli, and extra herbs
if desired.
This dish was taught to me by a local Phu Quoc fisherman. He told
me he would regularly make this dish on board his boat, while out in
the deep sea, where he would not have many ingredients to cook with.
It took him only 30 seconds to describe the recipe to me. I also made
this dish on a fishing boat, after catching my own squid. So try to get
the freshest squid you can — alive and kicking if possible. As you can
see, the recipe is incredibly simple, but it is oh, so delicious.
ingredients
1 whole squid, about 600 g (1 lb 5 oz)
2 red bird’s eye chillies, sliced

LEMON SAUCE
2 tablespoons lemon juice

½ teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon ground white pepper

preparation
Pull away the squid’s head, slice it open and remove the guts, cartilage and ink
sac. Pat both sides dry with paper towels or a clean cloth. Place on a chopping
board, skin side up. Using a sharp knife, cut a crisscross pattern into the squid,
being careful not to cut all the way through.
Pound the chilli to a paste using a mortar and pestle. Mix in the salt until well
combined.
Evenly coat both sides of the squid with the salt and chilli mixture. Chargrill the
squid over medium–high heat for 3 minutes on each side, or until golden brown.
Meanwhile, put the lemon sauce ingredients in a dipping bowl and mix well.
Cut the squid into bite-sized pieces and serve with the lemon sauce.
After visiting the pepper plantations in Phu Quoc, I am convinced that
Vietnam produces the best peppercorns in the world. Never before had
I tried peppercorns that were as floral, sweet, aromatic and spicy, yet
delicate. I now try to use fresh green peppercorns instead of the dried
black variety in my cooking wherever I can — and I urge you to as
well.
SERVES 4 as part of a shared meal
ingredients
50 g (1¾ oz) fresh green peppercorns, or green peppercorns in brine 2
tablespoons finely diced garlic 3 teaspoons sea salt
2 teaspoons sugar
1 chicken, about 1.5 kg (3 lb 5 oz), cleaned and chopped into quarters

2 tomatoes, diced into 2 cm (¾ inch) pieces 1 carrot, diced into 1 cm (½ inch)
pieces 1 tablespoon Annatto oil (see Basics) 2 litres (68 fl oz/8 cups) young
coconut juice 8 whole red Asian shallots, peeled ½ onion, cut into 4 wedges
4 crisp Vietnamese baguettes

preparation
Lightly bruise half the peppercorns using a mortar and pestle. Transfer to a large
mixing bowl. Add 1 tablespoon of the garlic, 2 teaspoons of the salt, 1 teaspoon
of the sugar and mix well. Add the chicken and turn until well coated. Cover and
marinate in the refrigerator for 1 hour.
Place a large saucepan over high heat. Add the oil, remaining garlic and
remaining peppercorns and fry for 5–10 seconds, or until fragrant. Now add the
chicken and seal on both sides until lightly browned.
Add the tomato, carrot and annatto oil. Stir, then add the coconut juice, whole
shallots, onion, fish sauce and the remaining 1 teaspoon sugar and 1 teaspoon
salt.
Bring to the boil and skim off any impurities that rise to the surface. Turn the
heat down to medium–low and allow to simmer, uncovered, for 40 minutes.
Transfer to a deep bowl, garnish with the peppercorns from the stew and serve
with the baguettes.
I visited Phu Quoc island many years ago while backpacking through
the country. I was on a tight budget, so I found a cheap straw
bungalow that cost only $8 a night. It was right on a beach, and every
evening, the owner would cook everyone dinner. This dish was one of
my favourites. The mussels were so plump and fresh, and the sweet
basil tossed through matched them perfectly.
ingredients
1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) black mussels
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) chicken stock or water

2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 red bird’s eye chilli, sliced, plus extra to garnish 1 tablespoon oyster sauce
1 tablespoon fish sauce

1 handful Asian basil leaves, plus extra to garnish 1 teaspoon potato starch
2 teaspoons sugar
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper preparation
Scrub the mussels and remove the hairy beards. Discard any broken mussels, or
open ones that don’t close when tapped on the bench. Rinse well.
Heat a wok over high heat. Add the stock and mussels, cover with a lid and cook
for 5 minutes, or until the mussels open. Discard any unopened mussels, then
strain the mussels, reserving the cooking liquid.
Put the wok back over medium heat. Add the oil and gently fry the garlic and
chilli until golden. Add the mussels and increase the heat. Toss through the
oyster sauce, fish sauce and Asian basil, then add 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of the
reserved cooking liquid.
Blend the potato starch with 1 tablespoon water, then toss it through the mussels
to thicken the sauce. Season the mussels with the sugar and pepper, garnish with
the extra sliced chilli and Asian basil and serve.
Mui Ne is a small coastal town in the Binh Thuan province of south-eastern
Vietnam, around 200 kilometres (125 miles) from Ho Chi Minh City. Many
Saigon locals and tourists make the drive here to enjoy the long stretches of
beach, to wind down and escape the bustling city.
I am here, however, to check out the fresh seafood market, located right on Mui
Ne beach.
It is 6 am and the market is absolutely pumping! On shore, there is a sea of

conical hats; wholesale seafood buyers await the arrival of the fishing boats with
their daily catch.
Within minutes, the water’s edge is completely occupied by blue and yellow
fishing boats. They anchor, then transfer their catch onto round doughnut-
looking bamboo boats, which are then rowed to shore to sell their goods to the
highest bidder.
It is utter mayhem. There is screaming, shouting, arguing and haggling, with

heads. Large rusted scales are getting a real workout, weighing out hundreds of
kilos of the freshest seafood I’ve ever seen. Piles upon piles of prawns (shrimp),
squid, clams, snails, fish, crabs, stingrays and even starfish are scattered on the
sand. Buyers handpick the best-quality items, which are then sold on to smaller
markets, restaurants and hotels.
I am amazed to see how the seafood is transported from the beach. Ladies fill
two 20 kg (44 lb) baskets with seafood and carry the baskets on each end of a
long bamboo yoke, which is then balanced and carried on their shoulder. They
carry these heavy baskets on one shoulder, often for distances of 5 kilometres (3
miles). I decide to give it a crack, but I only get a mere 10 metres (30 feet)
before I need to stop, as balancing that amount of weight on one shoulder is
extremely difficult and painful. Local ladies point and laugh hysterically at me
— I am completely and utterly embarrassed, and in absolute awe of these
hardworking, tough and incredibly strong women.
In an effort to save face, I quickly leave the scene and head to the Phan Thiet
local wet market to catch up with my parents, who are spending some time with
my Uncle Four. My dad’s brother, Uncle Four, runs a tiny noodle stall there with
his wife and daughter, selling a pork rib broth served with silky soft rice noodles.
This recipe (see Pork Rib Broth with Soft Rice Noodles) belonged to my father,
who then passed it on to Uncle Four, who has been making a living from it for
the last six years. The soup is wonderful and a favourite among the locals, so
naturally I have to showcase it, but I also want my parents to cook it with me,
just to keep it authentic.
What I’m not prepared for, though, is the constant bickering from my parents
while we film the recipe. Dad says, ‘Now marinate the pork ribs with a
tablespoon of fish sauce!’ Then Mum intervenes and says, ‘No that’s not enough!
You need two!’
Dad then says to marinate it for an hour, but Mum wants to marinate it for two,
so they argue about that as well. The recipe goes on and they both can’t agree on
a single thing.
This is something I had to put up with throughout my whole childhood — Mum

and Dad fighting about food. They would get so worked up about it that Dad
would end up sleeping on the couch!
The recipe cooking and filming goes on for hours, due to the fact that they can’t
agree on anything. I can see that Dad is getting really wound up, so I tell him to
relax and to keep that smile up for the camera, but this just irritates him even
more. So we end up cutting the segment short, and use my uncle’s already made
broth instead, which is clear, aromatic and full of flavour.
Now all I have to do is serve a line of hungry locals at my uncle’s noodle stall. It
sounds easy enough — blanch a handful of rice noodles, add some pork ribs,
ladle hot broth over the noodles, then top the bowl with fresh herbs and bean
sprouts. I’ve done this a million times, so I’m feeling pretty confident.
As I serve a piping-hot noodle soup to my first paying customer, my uncle’s

eldest daughter intervenes and snatches the bowl off me, shouting, ‘What are
you trying to do, send us broke? We sell our noodles for VND10,000 (50 cents),
but the bowl you are serving is worth VND30,000! You’re giving them too many
pork ribs. If they want extra pork ribs, they have to pay accordingly!’
So with my second bowl, I reduce the pork ribs by half… but still she continues
to yell at me. ‘Listen — a bowl with one rib is worth VND10,000; two ribs is
VND20,000; and three ribs is VND30,000. Got it?’
By this stage everyone at the market is laughing at me — but it’s working, as the
queue for my pork rib soup is getting longer. I completely sell out in thirty
minutes. Luckily I am now in my family’s good books again.
There is one more stop I have to make in Phan Thiet, to visit the family who
supply the wonderful handmade rice noodles for my uncle’s stall. My uncle
receives 15 kg (33 lb) of noodles every day, and they arrive piping hot, so I just
have to see where they come from and how they are produced.
The family’s small noodle workshop is located right across the road from the
beach. It is very dark. There seems to be no electricity; the only light coming in
are thin beams of sunlight shooting in from small holes in the corrugated roof.
The room is blackened from burning charcoal, and it is hot like a sauna as it is
constantly filled with steam.
Two brothers work as a team, one pouring a thin layer of rice batter onto round
stainless steel trays, then feeding these into a steamer fuelled by burning rice
husks. After a few minutes the younger brother removes a steaming-hot round
sheet of rice noodle and slices it into thin strips. The noodles are then bagged,
weighed, and delivered straight to noodle vendors on the back of a motorbike.
Never have I seen such fresh soft silky rice noodles. I feel so lucky that I am able
to visit these cottage industries that produce goods by hand and have managed to
keep age-old cooking techniques alive.
‡
This is something I had to put up with through my
childhood — Mum and Dad fighting about food.
They would get so worked up Dad would end up
sleeping on the couch!
I don’t often get to cook razor clams, so when I saw them for sale by
the bucketload on Mui Ne beach, I just had to buy some. Razor clams
are named for their long and narrow fragile shells, which are shaped
just like cut-throat razors. Their flesh is sweet and their texture similar
to tender squid — and just like squid, never overcook them, or they
will be rubbery.
ingredients
450 g (1 lb) razor clams or pipis 225 g (8 oz/1 cup) Pickled vegetables (see
Basics) ½ small onion, thinly sliced
5 mint leaves, sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, sliced 5 saw-tooth coriander (cilantro) leaves, sliced 5
Asian basil leaves, sliced
1 teaspoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips
(see Basics) 2 teaspoons Garlic oil (see Fried garlic chips recipe in Basics) 3
tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

1 red chilli, sliced
preparation
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil. Add the clams and cook for 1
minute. Remove the clams using a slotted spoon and submerge them in an ice
bath to stop them overcooking and to retain their texture.
Remove the clams from their shells and place in a large mixing bowl, discarding
the shells. Add the pickled vegetables, onion, herbs, fried shallots, garlic chips,
garlic oil and nuoc mam cham. Mix together well.
Transfer to a plate, garnish with the peanuts and chilli and serve.
This particular dish, ‘Goi cuon’, is probably one of the most well
known of all Vietnamese dishes. You’ll find it served on streets
throughout the country. These rice paper rolls are extremely healthy,
really simple to prepare and boast wonderful colours, but making nice
tight rolls can be a bit challenging. The trick is to not have your water
boiling hot, not leave your rice paper in the water bowl for more than
three seconds, and not to overfill your rolls. Practice makes perfect.
ingredients
18 dried round rice paper sheets, about 22 cm (8¾ inches) in diameter 18 small
cooked tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled, deveined and sliced in half lengthways
1 bunch perilla, leaves picked
75 g (2¾ oz/1 cup) shredded iceberg lettuce 125 g (4½ oz) cooked pork neck,
thinly sliced 1 bunch mint, leaves picked
80 g (2¾ oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions
24 garlic chives
Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics), to serve preparation
Fill a large bowl with warm water. To assemble the rolls, cut six sheets of rice
paper in half and set aside. Dip one whole rice paper sheet in the water until it
softens, then lay it flat on a plate. Dip a half-sheet of rice paper in the water and
lay it vertically in the middle of the round sheet. This will strengthen the roll,
preventing the filling breaking through.
In the middle of the rice paper, place three pieces of prawn in a horizontal line
about 4 cm (1½ inches) from the top. Below the prawns add some perilla leaves,
lettuce, pork, mint and noodles.
To form the roll, first fold the sides into the centre over the filling, then fold the
bottom of the rice paper up and over. Roll from bottom to top to form a tight roll,
and just before you complete the roll, add two pieces of garlic chives so that they
stick out at one end.
Serve with nuoc mam cham for dipping.

My father’s younger brother, Hiep, fell into some trouble in Saigon
about ten years ago. He had no choice but to move his entire family to
Phan Thiet to start a new life. He and his wife decided to start a street-
food stall in the wet markets, selling only one dish — this pork rib
broth with soft rice noodles. Each bowl costs about 50 cents, and it is
this dish that has kept a roof over their heads.
ingredients
1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) pork ribs, chopped into 6 cm (2½ inch) pieces (ask your butcher
to do this)
2 tablespoons black peppercorns

8 spring onions (scallions), white parts only 8 dried baby squid, barbecued or
chargrilled over medium heat for 3 minutes on each side, until crisp 1
tablespoon sea salt
2 tablespoons sugar

2 kg (4 lb 6 oz) fresh rice noodles, at room temperature, separated into 200 g (7
oz) portions MARINADE
1 tablespoon sea salt
2 tablespoons sugar
8 red Asian shallots, roughly pounded using a mortar and pestle
1 tablespoon crushed garlic

TO SERVE
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) bean sprouts
1 bunch coriander (cilantro), leaves picked 1 bunch garlic chives, sliced into 4
cm (1½ inch) lengths 1 bunch mint, leaves picked
2 tablespoons Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 2 tablespoons Fried red Asian
shallots (see Basics)
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

2 limes, halved
preparation
Combine the marinade ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Add the pork rib
pieces and toss well to coat. Cover and marinate for 2 hours, or overnight for a
better result.
Put the marinated pork ribs in a large stockpot. Add the peppercorns, spring
onions, grilled baby squid and 5 litres (169 fl oz/20 cups) water.
Bring to the boil, then skim off any impurities for 10 minutes, or until clear.
Reduce the heat to a low simmer, cover and cook for 2 hours.
Now stir in the salt, sugar and fish sauce. Cook for a further 10 minutes, then
remove from the heat.
Bring another large saucepan of water to the boil. Separately blanch each portion
of noodles for 5 seconds, then drain and place in ten separate bowls. Add some
pork rib pieces to each bowl, then cover the noodles with the pork broth.
Top each bowl with bean sprouts, coriander, garlic chives, mint, and a sprinkle
of garlic chips and fried shallots. Finish with a pinch of pepper, some sliced
chilli and a squeeze of lime.
I was lucky enough to have packed a bag of charcoal and a small wire
grill when I visited the wholesale seafood market in Phan Thiet. There
were scallops, clams, oysters and mussels in abundance, all stacked up
in large pyramid-shaped piles. I couldn’t help but cook up some
scallops, right there and then. They were deliciously succulent and
sweet. Here I use tamari, as it is richer in flavour and colour than
regular soy sauce. Another added bonus is that tamari is gluten free.
ingredients
70 ml (2¼ fl oz) tamari
1½ tablespoons lemon juice ½ teaspoon chilli oil
1 teaspoon finely diced lemongrass, white part only 1 garlic clove, crushed
1 tablespoon brown sugar

2 makrut (kaffir lime) leaves, stems removed, finely sliced

16 scallops, roe removed
1 long red chilli, seeded and julienned coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish
preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the tamari, lemon juice, chilli oil, lemongrass, garlic,
sugar and half the lime leaves. Whisk well to dissolve the sugar, then set the
dressing aside.
Heat a flat chargrill pan or frying pan to very high. Add the vegetable oil.
Add the scallops to the pan and allow to cook for 30 seconds before turning.
Take care not to cook the scallops all the way through, as they will continue to
cook once taken off the heat. The scallops should be slightly caramelised around
the edges.
Remove the seared scallops to a serving platter (or to individual clean scallop
shells, if you have some). Spoon the dressing over, garnish with the remaining
lime leaves, chilli and coriander and serve.
ingredients
1 tablespoon dried mung beans

10 cooked tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined vegetable oil, for
brushing
1 spring onion (scallion), green part only, thinly sliced 50 g (1¾ oz) caramelised
pork (from the Pan-fried rice cakes recipe), diced Spring onion oil (see
Basics), for drizzling Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics), for
drizzling BATTER
125 g (4½ oz) rice flour
¼ teaspoon ground turmeric
pinch of sea salt
50 ml (1½ fl oz) coconut cream
60 g (2 oz/⅓ cup) leftover cooked jasmine rice preparation
Soak the mung beans in cold water overnight. Strain, then steam over high heat
for 15 minutes. Set aside.
To prepare the prawn floss, dice six of the prawns as finely as possible. Using a
mortar and pestle, pound the chopped prawns until you have a smooth paste.
Slice the remaining four prawns in half lengthways, then slice each half into
three pieces and set aside.
Place a small saucepan over low heat and add the prawn paste. Using a fork, stir
the mixture regularly and press it down the bottom of the pan using the back of
the fork. The idea is to dry the prawn meat — it should not colour, and you
should notice a small amount of steam being released from the prawns. After
20–30 minutes the prawn meat should be dry, fibrous and crisp. When it gets to
this stage, remove from the heat and allow to cool to room temperature.
For the batter, combine the rice flour, turmeric and salt in a bowl and mix well.
Add 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water, the coconut cream and the cooked rice. Stir
to combine, then blend using a hand-held stick blender until smooth.
Heat an eight-mould banh khot pan over medium–high heat and brush the
moulds with vegetable oil. Add a tablespoon of batter to each mould, turning the
pan in a circular motion to run the batter up the edges of the moulds. Add a
pinch of steamed mung bean, sliced spring onion, a piece of chopped prawn and
some caramelised pork to each mould. Place the lid over the pan, reduce the heat
slightly and cook for 2–3 minutes, or until the batter is cooked through.
Remove the lid. Using a teaspoon, remove the pancakes from the moulds and
transfer to a serving plate.
Sprinkle a large amount of the prawn floss over each pancake. Drizzle with
spring onion oil and nuoc mam cham and serve.
Steamboats are a great dish to cook when entertaining guests. They
are interactive, communal, and guests pretty much cook their own
meal. All you need to do is buy the fresh seafood and make the simple
broth; the rest is up to them. I always serve this dish at my family
Christmas dinner — it’s stress free! You can also be creative with
your stocks — you can make vegetable, pork, fish, mushroom or even
tom yum spicy stocks.
ingredients
3 litres (101 fl oz/12 cups) chicken stock
2 tablespoons sugar

½ Chinese cabbage (wong bok), washed and sliced into 4 cm (1½ inch) pieces 1
bunch mustard greens, washed and sliced into 4 cm (1½ inch) pieces 1 bunch
chrysanthemum leaves (tan o), washed and torn into 10 cm (4 inch) pieces
(optional) 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) raw tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) boneless barramundi fillets, sliced into 5 mm (¼ inch) thick
pieces 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) mussels, scrubbed well, hairy beards removed 500 g
(1 lb 2 oz) cleaned squid tubes, cut into 1 cm (½ inch) rings 12 scallops, on
the half-shell
225 g (8 oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions 125
ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) light soy sauce, for dipping 4 bird’s eye chillies, thinly
sliced
preparation
You’ll need a portable gas stove for cooking at the table, and a steamboat hotpot.
In a large saucepan, combine the stock, salt, sugar and fish sauce. Mix well and
bring to the boil.
Meanwhile, on separate platters, arrange the greens, seafood and noodles. Pour
the soy sauce into small dipping bowls and add some sliced chilli.
Place the gas stove and steamboat hotpot in the middle of the dinner table.
Transfer 2 litres (68 fl oz/8 cups) of the hot stock mixture to the steamboat. Turn
on the gas, light the pilot, and turn it on.
When the stock starts to simmer, each person dips some greens and seafood into
the stock until cooked. They then retrieve their cooked ingredients with their
chopsticks and ladle some of the hot broth into their bowls.
As the greens and seafood cook, the broth becomes increasingly flavoursome.
When the broth starts to boil down, replenish the pot with more stock.
Fruit shakes, or ‘Sinh to’, are outrageously popular in Vietnam. There
are dedicated streets just for Sinh to vendors. When in Vietnam, I have
a fruit shake every day. Sinh to varieties include jackfruit, avocado,
mango, dragon fruit, papaya, strawberry, banana and more.
Condensed milk is the key though.
SERVES 4
ingredients
1 dragon fruit, peeled and sliced 135 g (5 oz/1 cup) crushed ice
1 tablespoon condensed milk

preparation
Place all the ingredients in a blender and blend for 20 seconds, or until the ice
has dissolved.
Serve in tall glasses.

I’ve worked my way up to the central highlands of Vietnam, to a small romantic
town called Da Lat. We’re about 300 kilometres (185 miles) from Saigon and
1500 metres (4900 feet) above sea level, but by road the journey takes up to six
hours. The town’s location helps keep it a little less trafficked by foreign tourists,
but local Vietnamese tourists fill the town in the busy season, escaping the
stifling summer heat of the lower-lying regions.
Once known as ‘Le Petite Paris’, Da Lat’s ageing architecture still retains some
of the grandeur of the past — but with some love and attention, it could easily
become, once again, the sparkling city of the central highlands.
As we drive into town, it feels like I’m in the French Alps during springtime,
with French villas and mountains covered in tall pine trees. The refreshingly
cool weather offers perfect conditions for growing the top-quality herbs and
vegetables that Da Lat is so well known for.
Naturally, my first stop is the very pretty Da Lat market, and luckily I arrive
early enough to watch the wholesalers selling their produce to the stallholders.
Hundreds of enormous trucks empty their loads of fresh artichokes, broccoli,
cauliflowers, avocados, strawberries, potatoes, carrots and an array of herbs onto
the surrounding streets and footpaths of the central market.
This area is like a city within itself at this hour — there is so much activity, and
the most amazing colours.
I immerse myself in the middle of all the chaos, among the food vendors who are
selling warm sticky rice and noodle soups to the market people. They are all
really excited to see a camera crew in their workplace. I am pulled in all
directions, each vendor wanting me to showcase their particular product. I love
their passion and how proud they all are of their produce.
The name Da Lat, which originates from the hill tribe people of this region,
means ‘Stream of the Lat people’. The Lat people are highly gifted in
agriculture, and today Vietnam is the world’s largest coffee producer, with 85 per
cent of the crop being grown in the Da Lat central highlands.
The French introduced coffee-growing to Da Lat in 1857, and it is now one of

Vietnam’s major sources of income, with almost 2 million tonnes exported per
year. Most of the coffee plants produce robusta beans, with the production of the
more superior arabica beans increasing every year.
We head high into the mountains, deep in the pine forests, to search for a
particular variety called ‘ca phe chon’, also known as ‘weasel coffee’. Mr Toan,
a local weasel coffee farmer, tells me that this prized coffee is the most
expensive in the world, fetching up to $40 a cup.
Mr Toan explains the process in the most simplistic and logical way.
‘The weasels skilfully pick the ripest red coffee berries to feast on. As the
weasels digest the berries, enzymes within the animal break down and remove
the bitter taste of the bean, when it’s in the digestive tract, before the beans are
expelled a few days later. My children then collect the expelled beans, wash
them, and dry them in the sun before I give them a light roasting.’
Mr Toan grinds some of his fine coffee, presses it into a Vietnamese coffee filter,
then fills it with boiled water. I sit patiently and watch the coffee drip slowly into
my glass.
From ‘poo to brew’, this coffee is incredibly full-bodied, but without the
customary bitterness and acidity. It has sweet notes, with a hint of subtle caramel
and chocolate. It is wonderfully aromatic with long, clean flavours. After
sampling this memorable drop, I now understand why coffee connoisseurs
around the world are obsessed with this variety of coffee beans.
The more time I spend in Da Lat, the more I come to realise just how much the
French influenced Vietnamese cuisine. Not only did they introduce coffee to
Vietnam, but also foods such as the much-loved baguette, pâté, mayonnaise,
cheese, and even beef.
As a kid, I used to have a baguette for my school lunch almost every day, and
that baguette was always filled with pâté, mayo and some cold-cut meats.
However, I never realised that my traditional Vietnamese ‘Banh mi’ (see recipe)
was actually a typical French pork baguette.
So many dishes in Vietnamese cuisine have French origins, the most obvious
being ‘Pho’, a Vietnamese beef noodle consommé-like soup that is believed to
have originated from the French beef dish ‘Pot au feu’; both dishes use marrow
bones and charred onion for superior colour and flavour. The Vietnamese never
consumed beef before the French colonised Vietnam — cows and buffaloes were
only working animals, used for ploughing fields. But today, beef is loved by
most Vietnamese. You will find pho restaurants throughout the country, and
street-food vendors selling the popular Vietnamese version of steak and pommes
frites, called ‘Bistek’.
In the late 1800s, the French also introduced exotic vegetables to Vietnam —
vegetables such as asparagus, tomato, potato, cabbage, carrot, cauliflower,
beetroot (beet), broccoli, choko, pumpkin (winter squash), artichoke, zucchini
(courgette), green beans, kohlrabi and celery, which are not native to Vietnam
but are now abundantly grown around Da Lat.
I spend the next few days searching for recipes featuring these introduced
vegetables. One of my favourite ingredients from Da Lat is the pumpkin flower,
which can be wok-tossed in a stir-fry, blanched and added to salads, or simply
stuffed and flash-fried. Da Lat is famous for its varieties of edible flowers, so I
buy a whole bunch from a local organic farm and take it to one of the oldest
French-built hotels in town, called the Da Lat Palace. I set up my bench outside
the hotel, next to their vintage Citroën overlooking French villas and churches,
and prepare my pumpkin flower dish, which I stuff with pounded prawns
(shrimp) and fresh dill (see recipe).
Cooking this dish in Da Lat, surrounded by French architecture and grandeur,

transports me back to Indochine — a colonial Vietnam that I was too young to
know about, but an era I am determined to discover and learn more about.
++
As a kid, I often had a baguette for my school
lunch, filled with pâté, mayo and some cold-cut
meats. I never realised my traditional ‘Banh mi’
was actually a typical French pork baguette.
Pumpkin flowers are used mainly in central and southern Vietnamese
cooking. They can be tossed into salads, stir-fried, put in a clear soup,
or stuffed and flash-fried. Out of South-East Asia, you may find it
difficult to obtain pumpkin flowers, in which case you can use
zucchini (courgette) flowers instead. Dill in Vietnam seems more mild
in flavour than in Western countries, so you may like to use a little
less here if you find your dill tastes a bit strong.
SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared starter
ingredients
150 g (5½ oz) peeled and deveined raw prawns (shrimp)

1½ tablespoons picked dill
12 pumpkin (winter squash) or zucchini (courgette) flowers, stems intact,
stamens removed 2 egg whites, lightly beaten
175 g (6 oz/1 cup) potato starch or cornflour (cornstarch) vegetable oil, for deep-
frying
1 lime, halved
preparation
Pound the prawns to a fine paste using a mortar and pestle. Transfer to a large
mixing bowl. Add the fish sauce, garlic and half the dill, then season with sea
salt and freshly ground black pepper. Knead with your hands for 2 minutes to
bring the ingredients together and make a homogenous mix.
Carefully stuff each pumpkin flower with a teaspoon of the prawn paste.
Holding them by the stems, coat each flower with the egg white, then dust each
flower with potato starch until dry, shaking the excess starch off.
Add enough oil to one-third fill a large wok or deep saucepan and heat to 180°C
(350°F), or until a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds.
Working in three batches, fry the flowers for 1–2 minutes, or until crisp, without
allowing them to brown. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper
towels.
Arrange the flowers on a long platter or in individual serving bowls and garnish
with the remaining dill.
Serve as a shared starter, with lime halves for squeezing over.

This dish is a vegetarian’s dream — full of unusual, interesting
vegetables, and so tasty! Called ‘su hao’ in Vietnamese, kohlrabi is a
strange-looking vegetable. Kohlrabi is actually a German word, ‘kohl’
meaning cabbage and ‘rabi’ meaning turnip. It is crunchy, succulent
and dense, and tastes a bit like a water chestnut and cabbage
combined. Before using your clay pot, remember to submerge it in
cold water overnight. This will ensure that it doesn’t crack over high
heat.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) green beans 100 g (3½ oz) straw mushrooms 1 bitter melon
1 kohlrabi
1 carrot
1 tablespoon vegetable oil 2 teaspoons finely diced garlic 4 tablespoons light soy
sauce 2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

100 g (3½ oz) fried tofu puffs, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon sesame oil

coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish preparation
Trim the beans and cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths. Slice the mushrooms in half.
Slice the bitter melon in half lengthways, remove the seeds, then cut into 2 cm x
3 cm ( ¾ inch x 1¼ inch) chunks. Peel the kohlrabi and carrot, then cut into the
same size as the bitter melon.
Bring a medium-sized saucepan of water to the boil. Blanch the vegetables

separately for 2 minutes each batch. Immediately transfer each batch to an ice
bath to stop the cooking process and to keep the vegetables crisp.
Place a clay pot over high heat. Add the vegetable oil and fry the garlic for 10
seconds, or until fragrant.
Now add the soy sauce, sugar, pepper and 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water. Bring
to the boil, then add the blanched vegetables and the tofu. Stir well and allow to
simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in the sesame oil.
Garnish with coriander and serve with steamed jasmine rice.

It’s funny that in Vietnam, choko (chayotes) is much loved and served
in many restaurants, but it is widely despised in Australia, firstly
because it grows like a weed, and secondly because parents would
simply boil the hell out of chokos, then force-feed their children the
‘bland’ green ‘vegetable’. Vietnamese cooks enjoy the texture of
choko and add ingredients such as beef, garlic, spring onions, soy
sauce, fish sauce and pepper to it, making it much more interesting
and delicious.
ingredients
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon sugar

200 g (7 oz) lean sirloin or beef fillet, thinly sliced 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 chokos (chayotes), peeled and cut into long, thin batons 4 spring onions
(scallions), cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to
garnish
1 long red chilli, sliced
2 tablespoons light soy sauce
preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the pepper, 2 teaspoons of the sugar, and 1
tablespoon of the fish sauce. Mix well, then add the beef and toss to coat. Cover
and leave to marinate for 10 minutes.
Add the oil to a hot frying pan and fry the garlic until fragrant. Add the beef and
stir-fry for 1 minute, then remove the beef and set aside.
Add the choko to the hot pan, then add the remaining 2 teaspoons sugar, 1
tablespoon fish sauce and 1 tablespoon water. Stir, then cover and cook over
medium heat for 5 minutes.
Remove the lid, add the spring onion and beef and toss well for a further minute.
Transfer to a plate and garnish with the coriander. Combine the chilli and soy
sauce to make a dipping sauce.
Serve with steamed jasmine rice and the dipping sauce.

My parents owned their own restaurant for 20 years. They rarely ate at
home because they worked 100-odd hours a week. When they did find
time to eat at home, I remember it always being this dish, as it is
quick, simple to make and light to eat. Just reading the recipe, I can
smell the beef hitting the hot pan of garlic…
ingredients
2 large handfuls watercress, trimmed and washed 1 small onion, thinly sliced
1 tomato, thinly sliced
2 tables poons vegetable oil

300 g (10½ oz) lean sirloin or beef fillet, thinly sliced ¼ teaspoon freshly
cracked black pepper 2 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see
Basics) 1 red chilli, sliced
VINAIGRETTE
100 ml (3½ fl oz) white vinegar
2 teaspoons Garlic oil (see Fried garlic chips recipe in Basics) or vegetable oil
1 tablespoon sugar
preparation
Place the vinaigrette ingredients in a bowl and mix well to dissolve the sugar. In
a mixing bowl, combine the watercress, onion and tomato. Dress with the
vinaigrette and set aside.
Add the oil and garlic to a hot wok or frying pan. Stir-fry over medium heat for
30 seconds, or until fragrant.
Turn the heat up to high. Add the beef and stir-fry for 1 minute, or until
browned, then season with the pepper and a pinch of sea salt.
Add the beef to the salad, then drizzle with the nuoc mam cham and toss
together well.
Transfer to a plate, garnish with the chilli and serve.

Oyster mushrooms are so versatile. They are named for their caps,
which can fan out to 25 cm (10 inches) and are the shape of an oyster.
These mushrooms have a sweet anise aroma and are wonderfully
textured. If you want to keep this dish vegetarian, simply use soy or
tamari sauce instead of oyster sauce.
ingredients

2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
200 g (7 oz) green beans, trimmed and cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths 100 g (3½
oz) oyster mushrooms, torn in half 2 teaspoons light soy sauce
1 tablespoon oyster sauce
2 teaspoons sugar

½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish
preparation
Heat a large frying pan or wok over high heat. Add the vegetable oil and fry the
garlic for 5–10 seconds, or until fragrant.
Add the beans and stir-fry for 2 minutes, then add the mushrooms, soy sauce,
oyster sauce, sugar, sesame oil and pepper. Toss for a further minute.
Transfer to a plate, garnish with coriander and serve.
SERVES 6
ingredients
170 g (6 oz) plain (all-purpose) flour ¼ teaspoon sea salt
100 g (3½ oz) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1 cm (½ inch) cubes 1½
tablespoons caster (superfine) sugar 1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon cold water
1 pomegranate
VIETNAMESE COFFEE CURD
3 eggs
40 g (1½ oz) caster (superfine) sugar
2 teaspoons agar agar

50 ml (1½ fl oz) freshly brewed Vietnamese coffee or strong espresso coffee
3 tablespoons sweetened condensed milk

preparation
Sift the flour and salt into a large mixing bowl. Rub in the butter using your
fingertips until the mixture has an even sandy texture. Make a well in the centre,
then add the sugar, lemon juice and cold water. Lightly mix to form a smooth
paste, taking care not to overwork the pastry, so it doesn’t shrink during cooking,
and adding just a little more cold water if needed to bring it together. Shape the
pastry into a round disc, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 20 minutes.
Divide the pastry into six equal portions. Working quickly, roll each pastry
portion out separately to about 3 mm (⅛ inch) thick. Cut out six 11 cm (4¼ inch)
diameter discs using a round pastry cutter. Ease the pastry discs into six greased
8 cm (3¼ inch) flan (tart) tins, taking care not to stretch the pastry.
Cover the pastry with sheets of foil and weigh the foil down evenly using baking
beads or uncooked rice. Rest for 20 minutes in the refrigerator.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 190°C (375°F).
Bake the tart shells for 20 minutes, then remove the foil and baking beads. Turn
the oven down to 170°C (340°F) and bake for a further 10–15 minutes, or until
the pastry is an even golden brown colour. Remove the tart shells from the tins
and transfer to a wire rack to cool.
To make the coffee curd, beat the eggs in a stainless steel mixing bowl. Add the
sugar and beat until the sugar has dissolved. Sprinkle the agar agar into the
mixture and whisk again to incorporate. Stir in the coffee and condensed milk.
Place the bowl over a saucepan of gently simmering water, ensuring the bottom
of the bowl does not touch the water. Continue whisking until the mixture
thickens, scraping down the side of the bowl with a spatula occasionally so it
doesn’t become grainy. Pour into a chilled container to cool, placing some
plastic wrap directly on top of the curd to prevent a skin forming.
When the curd is completely cool, pipe it into the cooled tart shells.
Cut the pomegranate in half. Over a bowl, tap the pomegranate with the back of
a spoon to release the seeds. Spoon the seeds over the tarts and serve.
Less than a two-hour drive from Cam Ranh, we arrive at Nha Trang, the busiest
coastal city in Vietnam. Foreign and local tourists flock here for its pristine
beaches, islands and scuba diving. Yes, there is that tacky tourist element in the
centre of town, but if you venture out a little, you’ll find a wonderful village
atmosphere that makes Nha Trang such a special place.
It’s 7 pm; we drive past a busy roundabout, where I see a man on the kerb with
his wok. He is right on the corner and he is cooking with fierce heat — flames
rise high, illuminating the dark night. I have to stop the bus and see what he is
cooking! He is a one-man show: all he has is his wok, gas bottle, bag of egg
noodles, a cold-box full of assorted seafood, a container of garlic chives, bean
sprouts and bottles of sauces.
I sit down on a tiny red stool, order my meal and just watch the people of Nha
Trang do their thing — I just love street food.
I’m having such a good time that I decide to film my introduction to Nha Trang
right here, sitting on the street, eating my meal, right in front of Mr Hot Wok
cooking up a storm.
So I begin my spiel, the camera is rolling — and then I hear a loud crash and
bang. Right in front of me, at the roundabout, two motorbikes have collided.
Plastic shatters, both riders have fallen off their bikes and are now lying on the
road. Traffic stops, people from everywhere come to their aid, picking their
bikes up and helping them onto their feet. Both riders check to see if the other is
hurt. Thankfully they are okay, and apart from a few broken plastic parts off
their bikes, all is good. They both return to their motorbikes and off they go…
I couldn’t help marvelling at what I’d just seen. There was no cursing, no
blaming, no voices were raised. On each rider’s part there was simply a sincere
concern for the other’s well-being. Once they confirmed that the other party was
not hurt and that there wasn’t much damage to their bikes, they just picked up
their bikes and off they went.
If this had happened back in Sydney, an agressive stand-off would probably have
ensued, with threats of physical violence or court action. But in the fifteen years
I have been visiting Vietnam, I have never seen any road rage whatsoever. All
the honking of horns you hear is not from motorists saying ‘Get out of my way!’
or ‘What the F**K do you think you’re doing?’ It’s more them saying, ‘Take
care, I’m just behind you, coming through…’
You have to think that with 88 million people and 60 million motorbikes in
Vietnam, there seems to be minimal road rage about, for all the people sharing
the road. It’s quite incredible.
After the crowd disperses, we reshoot my opening piece about Nha Trang.
Halfway through, Mr Hot Wok fires his smoking wok, throws his oil in,
followed by the garlic and seafood — and the whole thing ignites so fiercely that
the flames sear the hair on the back of my head. I couldn’t see it happening, as
he was behind me, but I could definitely smell it.
It has been such an eventful night, but I do eventually get to complete my

opening piece to Nha Trang!
The next morning I’m eager to hit the beach, as the heat hits a high of 40°C
(104°F). I jump into the not-so-cold water to cool down. When I return to my
towel, a lady selling fresh lobsters greets me. I think I have gone to heaven.
For $10, she chargrills the lobster right on the beach. As the lobster is grilling,
she bastes it with a delicious spicy seafood-based sauce. But wait, it gets better.
Once she serves up the lobster, she asks if I would like a cold beer with it. This is
street food taken to another level!
The lady’s name is Lan, and I ask if she would mind us filming her cooking her
lobster. She agrees, but refuses to give up her spicy seafood sauce recipe.
‘It’s my secret recipe — if I give it to you, then other street-food vendors could
learn my sauce on your show and I may lose business.’
I totally understand where she is coming from. My parents were very secretive
with their recipes too, for fear that the noodle shop next door would learn their
recipes, replicate them and steal some of their business.
As Ms Lan chargrills the lobster, I make my own version of the spicy sate sauce.
I simply grind up some dried shrimp, cook it in some vegetable oil along with
lots of garlic, spring onion (scallion), dried chilli, chilli oil, oyster sauce, fish
sauce and crabmeat, then simmer it for 30 minutes. This sauce (see recipe in
Basics, to go with the Chargrilled lobster recipe) is slightly different from Ms
Lan’s, but it is still so good, especially with the lobster.
After we film the making of the sauce, Ms Lan tells me that the local council are
going to ban vendors selling food on the beach. If they get caught, they will face
a hefty fine.
I am dumbfounded — why would the council do that? Wouldn’t this incredible

food experience that I’ve just had bring more business to Nha Trang? For me,
this is such a unique dining experience, and one that is not easily replicated
anywhere else in the world.
So, if you do make it to Nha Trang and there is no longer a Ms Lan offering you
her delicious lobster and secret spicy sauce along the beachfront, then I am sorry
for all of us. One can only hope the council members will come to their senses
and change their mindset on this.
Another ‘must try’ in Nha Trang is a great local seafood restaurant at the north
end of the main street, Tran Phu. The restaurant is called Muoi Do, and it has a
great array of live seafood out the front to choose from. They will cook it any
way you like, and even better, they only charge street-food prices.
‡
For $10, a lady chargrills the lobster right on the
beach. But wait, it gets better: she asks if I would
like a cold beer with it. This is street food taken to
another level!
Sate sauce is one of the best sauces you can serve with mud crab.
Don’t mistake it for the Indonesian satay peanut sauce; it is
completely different. Vietnamese sate sauce is made from slowly
cooking a variety of dried seafoods with garlic, spring onions, dried
chilli and chilli oil. I always make up a lot, so I can keep a bottle of it
in my fridge for a quick stir-fry, or to stir through noodle soups.
ingredients
2 live mud crabs, about 400 g (14 oz) each (see Tip) vegetable oil, for deep-
frying
potato starch or cornflour (cornstarch), for dusting 3 red Asian shallots, finely
diced
2 garlic cloves, finely diced

4 tablespoons Sate sauce (see Basics) 3 spring onions (scallions), cut into 5 cm
(2 inch) lengths 2 long red chillies, thinly sliced on the diagonal
preparation
To prepare your crabs humanely, place them in the freezer for 1 hour to put them
to sleep. Remove the upper shell of each crab, pick off the gills, which look like
little fingers, and discard them. Clean the crabs under running water and drain.
Working one at a time, place each crab on its stomach and chop it in half with a
heavy cleaver. Now chop each half into four pieces, chopping each piece after
each leg. With the back of the cleaver, gently crack each claw — this makes it
easier to extract the meat.
Half-fill a large wok or deep saucepan with oil and heat to 200°C (400°F), or
until a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 5 seconds.
Dust the crab pieces with the potato starch, shaking off the excess. Deep-fry the
crab in batches for 3 minutes, turning over once, until golden brown. Remove
from the wok and drain on paper towels. Remove the oil, reserving 2
tablespoons, and clean out the wok.
Heat the reserved oil in the wok, then add the shallot and garlic and fry over
medium heat for 1 minute, or until fragrant. Now add the sate sauce and stir for 1
minute. Add the crab and spring onions and toss, making sure to coat the crab
well.
Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with the chilli. Serve with steamed
jasmine rice and finger bowls.
++ TIP Instead of mud crab you can also use blue swimmer or spanner crab.
Nha Trang is famous for these pork skewers. Just head to Le Loi
Street to find restaurants chargrilling these delicious skewers out on
the street. But go in the early evening, as you won’t get a seat if you
leave it too late.
ingredients
300 g (10½ oz) minced (ground) pork 300 g (10½ oz) fish paste (available from
Asian fishmongers) 1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon freshly ground white pepper

12 spring onions (scallions), sliced 2 garlic cloves, finely diced
12 disposable wooden chopsticks, soaked in water for 20 minutes 125 ml (4 fl
oz/½ cup) vegetable oil 12 dried round rice paper sheets, about 22 cm (8¾
inches) in diameter
1 bunch Vietnamese mint, leaves picked 1 bunch mint, leaves picked
1 Lebanese (short) cucumber, halved and thinly sliced lengthways 3 star fruit
(carambola), thinly sliced 12 garlic chives, sliced into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths
HOISIN DIPPING SAUCE
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) hoisin sauce 1½ tablespoons white vinegar
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) milk
3 teaspoons crushed roasted peanuts
1 red chilli, diced
preparation
To make the hoisin dipping sauce, combine the hoisin sauce and vinegar in a
saucepan. Place over medium heat and stir through the milk. Continue to stir
until just before boiling point is reached, then remove from the heat and allow to
cool. Sprinkle with the peanuts and chilli and set aside.
Using a large mortar and pestle, pound the pork and the fish paste together into a
fine, smooth paste.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the fish sauce, sugar, salt and pepper. Mix well
until the sugar has dissolved. Now add the pounded pork and fish paste, the
spring onion and garlic, and thoroughly combine all the ingredients.
Knead the paste and pound handfuls of it in the bowl until the paste reaches an
elastic consistency.
Form 12 sausage shapes from the paste, then form each one around the top two-
thirds of a chopstick.
Heat a chargrillpan or barbecue grill to medium. Brush the skewers with the
vegetable oil and cook them for 8 minutes, turning the chopsticks every 2
minutes.
Working with one at a time, dip the rice paper sheets in a large bowl of warm
water until they just soften. Remove the sausages from the skewers and place
along the middle of the rice paper. Add some mixed herbs, cucumber, star fruit
and garlic chives, then roll to enclose the filling. Serve with the hoisin dipping
sauce on the side.
When you are in Nha Trang, you have to keep an eye out for the local
lobster ladies who cruise the beachfront with their charcoal grills. It is
the best street-food dining experience you will ever have — and if you
ask nicely, they’ll sell you a cold Vietnamese beer with it too.
ingredients
2 live lobsters, about 700 g (1 lb 9 oz) each
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) Sate sauce (see Basics)
1 lemon, cut into wedges

preparation
To kill the lobsters humanely, place them in the freezer for 1 hour. Remove the
lobsters from the freezer and bring to room temperature.
Turn the lobsters upside down on a chopping board. Slice them in half
lengthways, from the tail to the top of the head and remove the digestive tract.
Use a sharp knife to split the claws only on the side that will face up first.
Place each half-lobster, meat side down, on a barbecue or chargrill pan that has
been preheated to medium. Cook for 7 minutes, then turn the lobster halves over
and baste the lobster meat with the sate sauce. Cook for a further 7 minutes.
Serve hot, with the lemon wedges.

Chinese celery is the same species as the European variety. However,
it has hollow thin stalks and a more superior flavour. The leaves look
quite herb-like, almost like parsley. When purchasing Chinese celery,
look for crisp stems and vibrant green leaves. You’ll find it at Asian
grocers. It is a vital ingredient in this soup, so don’t substitute it with
anything else.
ingredients
6 Chinese celery stalks

2 long red chillies, sliced, plus extra to serve 1 garlic clove, sliced
6 spring onions (scallions), sliced, keeping the green and white parts separate 2
litres (68 fl oz/8 cups) fish stock or water 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) fish sauce,
plus extra for dipping
1 teaspoon sugar
600 g (1 lb 5 oz) blue eye cod cutlets, or other firm white fish cutlets 3 tomatoes,
sliced into wedges
juice of 2 limes
90 g (3 oz/1 cup) bean sprouts
preparation
Pick the leaves off the celery stalks and reserve for later use. Cut the celery
stalks into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths.
In a mortar, combine the celery, chilli, garlic and slices of white spring onion,
then lightly pound with a pestle into a coarse paste.
Transfer the mixture to a saucepan, stir in the stock and bring to the boil. Add the
fish sauce, sugar and fish, then bring back to the boil, skimming off any
impurities. Reduce the heat to a low simmer and cook for 10 minutes.
Now add the tomato, slices of green spring onion and celery leaves, and cook for
a further 5 minutes.
Remove from the heat, then transfer to a large bowl. Stir in the lime juice and
top with the bean sprouts.
Serve with steamed jasmine rice, and a side dipping sauce of the extra fish sauce
and sliced red chilli.
You will find this dish being cooked at any street-food stall or
restaurant along the central coast of Vietnam. It is a local favourite, as
it is simple, fresh and delicious. It only takes a few minutes to cook
and makes a great beer-drinking dish.
SERVES 4–6 as a snack
ingredients
12 scallops, roe removed, placed on the half-shell 3 tablespoons Spring onion oil
(see Basics) 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

preparation
Heat a chargrill pan or barbecue to medium heat. Sit the scallops over the hot
grill, in their half-shells, and cook for 2 minutes. Turn the scallops over in the
shells and cook for a further 2 minutes.
Transfer the scallops to a plate. Drizzle each scallop with about 1 teaspoon of the
spring onion oil and about 1 teaspoon nuoc mam cham and sprinkle with the
peanuts.
Serve immediately, as a snack with beer.

SERVES 4–6
ingredients
1 ripe mango, peeled and sliced
flesh of 1 young coconut, chopped or sliced Coconut tamarind ice cream (see
Basics), to serve PUFFED BLACK & WHITE STICKY RICE
2 teaspoons black sticky rice
2 teaspoons white sticky rice

vegetable oil, for pan-frying
COCONUT TAPIOCA PEARLS

50 g (1¾ oz/⅓ cup) tapioca pearls 200 ml (7 fl oz) coconut cream
2 tablespoons sugar
preparation
To prepare the puffed sticky rice, put the black rice and white rice in two
separate heatproof bowls. Cover with hot water and set aside to soak for 1 hour.
Drain the black and white rice separately in a colander. Evenly spread the black
rice along one side of a steamer tray, and the white rice on the other side of the
tray so the colours don’t leach together. Steam the rice for 15 minutes.
Transfer to a preheated 120°C (235°F) oven and dry for 30–40 minutes. Remove
from the oven and leave to cool to room temperature.
Fill a medium saucepan 2.5 cm (1 inch) deep with oil and heat until hot. Briefly
fry the rice in small batches over medium–high heat, stirring to prevent
browning — the rice will puff up quickly once placed in hot oil. Drain on paper
towels, cool to room temperature and store in an airtight container.
For the coconut tapioca pearls, bring 1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cups) water to the boil in
a small saucepan. Pour in the tapioca and cook for 5–10 minutes, or until plump
and translucent. Strain, then cool under cold running water to stop the cooking
process.
Meanwhile, in another saucepan, mix together the coconut cream, sugar, salt and
100 ml (3½ fl oz) water and bring to the boil.
Stir the refreshed tapioca pearls into the coconut cream mixture and bring back
to the boil. Take off the heat and cool to room temperature. The pearls will
bloom further while cooling.
To serve, spoon the coconut tapioca into deep bowls. Top with the mango slices,
a generous sprinkle of the puffed sticky rice, the coconut flesh and a scoop of
coconut tamarind ice cream.
Nestled between Hoi An and Nha Trang is the small, quiet fishing town of Quy
Nhon. Driving in here the view is so picturesque, with tall mountains
overlooking the still, turquoise waters.
Quy Nhon is a real change of pace. It’s off the tourist trail, so you get to
experience a typical local village. Its attraction for me is the real insight it offers
into the daily lives of the local people. As I walk the streets in the early morning,
I meet a street vendor with a tiny space on the street. She is selling pork belly
and tells me she has to wake up at 4 am to secure that small space. Another
gentleman I speak to has been selling his fresh herbs and vegetables, in the exact
same spot on that street, every day for about the last sixty years.
Through these locals I learn so much about the region and the foods that are
created here. A wise elderly man tells me of a close friend of his named Mrs Ha,
who is well known for making the best silken tofu in town, by hand. I absolutely
love tofu, and my mission in life is to convert those who despise it — and
believe me, I have already converted many.
Mrs Ha’s home is set in a small, quiet village just on the outskirts of town. Her
home is gorgeous, surrounded by tall bamboo trees, old wooden horse carts,
buffaloes and stacks of hay. Steam rises from all corners of the yard, emanating
from oversized blackened woks, fuelled by sticks, simmering Mrs Ha’s freshly
pressed soy milk. I see Mrs Ha in the yard behind an old stone mill, grinding the
soaked soya beans. It seems like nothing has changed here in a hundred years.
I consider it an honour to see this. Just being here watching Mrs Ha and her
family work in these traditional ways, where techniques have not changed
throughout five generations of tofu-making — well, it is becoming a rare sight in
the world, and so lucky am I to be part of it for a moment.
As I sit here learning the art of creating handmade tofu, I begin to appreciate tofu
even more. It’s incredible, the amount of hard work that goes into making those
silky-soft curds.
Firstly, Mrs Ha soaks the soya beans in water for 24 hours. The beans are then
ground and pressed through a stone mill to produce the soy milk. The milk is
brought to the boil, then simmered in the large woks for half an hour before
being strained through a large sheet of muslin (cheesecloth). A natural coagulant
is then added to the milk that begins to form thick tofu curds. The curds are
transferred into wooden moulds, where the tofu is pressed down with heavy
weights for 15 minutes. The tofu is then taken out of the moulds, sliced and
delivered to the markets still steaming hot — what a process.
I buy a block of Mrs Ha’s silken tofu, simply stuff it with finely diced
lemongrass and chilli, then flash-fry it until both sides of the tofu are crisp. The
soft and firm textures work wonderfully, and the lemongrass and chilli flavours
coating the tofu make it even more delicious. After trying this dish (see recipe),
our cameraman and director, who both never really liked tofu, are easily
converted. Ha! Another two bite the dust…
The laidback lifestyle in Quy Nhon is infectious. Even though work is hard in
the scorching heat, locals move at a pace that suits them. I decide to do the same,
so I hitch a ride on the back of a buffalo cart to the Thien Huong Pagoda. Now it
does take quite some time to get there, but I do get to learn more about the
famous pagoda from my buffalo driver, Mr Quang.
One hundred years ago a young boy was herding his buffaloes when he found an
old, small statue of Buddha on the ground. He took the statue home to his
parents, who did some research and learnt that the statue dated back to the
Nguyen Dynasty. The village saw this as a great omen, so they decided to build a
pagoda at the exact spot where the statue was found. Today, it is called the Thien
Huong Pagoda, one of the most famous pagodas in Vietnam. The head of the
pagoda is known as Master Monk. He was born on the seventh day, in the
seventh month, in 1977. These numbers are incredibly lucky in both Vietnamese
and Chinese culture, so he is believed to have spiritual healing powers, as well as
the power to predict the future.
Thousands of Vietnamese fly from all over the country to Quy Nhon to meet
him. Before opening a business, they seek his advice and get him to walk
through their workplace for a blessing and to consult on the feng shui.
At the pagoda I am greeted by young boys in dark brown robes. They are all
orphans, many of them with a disability. The head monk takes them in, teaching
them Buddhism, and tries to help them assimilate back into the community. The
pagoda is a lifeline for so many children in the area.
The boys tell me the Master Monk is due back later in the afternoon from a trip
to Germany. Master Monk is now well known not only in Vietnam, but also
around the world.
Locals from Quy Nhon have come to the pagoda to help prepare a vegetarian
feast for his return. The town’s best cooks are here, lending a helping hand. I
benefit from it too, as I get to learn many new delicious vegetarian dishes. One
particular dish I have to cook is rice stir-fried with lotus seeds, carrots, green
peas and shiitake mushrooms. The rice is transferred into a parcel made of fresh
lotus leaves. It is then steamed for five minutes and served with fresh lotus
flowers and chilli — a stunning-looking dish (see recipe).
By the time we finish cooking, some 200 people have arrived to welcome the
Master Monk back home. Three long trestle tables are covered with vegetarian
dishes. His car arrives, he steps out to a royal reception. This guy is treated like,
well, Buddha himself. I am already in awe of him.
He walks directly towards me and hands me some long-life beads. He blesses

them and puts them on my wrists. I feel very honoured and fortunate to have met
him and be blessed by him. After much feasting and ceremony, I leave the
pagoda a very happy and lucky man.
‡
As I sit here learning the art of creating
handmade tofu, I begin to appreciate tofu even
more. It’s incredible, the amount of hard work
that goes into making those silky-soft curds.
I went to visit two old ladies who have been hand-making thin
vermicelli noodles in Quy Nhon for the last 40 years. They are in their
90s, but still strong and still working hard. They soak the rice
overnight, then grind it in a stone mill to make a batter. They then
cook the batter in a wok over low heat until it becomes a thick dough.
The dough is then kneaded until their arms get tired, then pressed
through a noodle-cutter, creating extremely thin strands. The noodles
are then layered onto bamboo mats and steamed. After watching how
much work goes into making these noodles, I have never wasted a
strand.
ingredients
12 bamboo skewers

6 garlic chives, thinly sliced
12 raw king prawns (shrimp), unpeeled, heads and tails attached
1 teaspoon fish sauce

12 fresh thin thread vermicelli noodles (available from Asian markets)

12 dried round rice paper sheets, about
22 cm (8¾ inches) in diameter
1 green mango, peeled and julienned
1 green banana, halved and thinly sliced lengthways 1 Lebanese (short)
cucumber, halved and thinly sliced lengthways
6 iceberg lettuce leaves

Soak the bamboo skewers in water for 20 minutes to prevent scorching.
Bring the oil and garlic chives to a simmer in a small saucepan. Stir, then remove
from the heat. Transfer the garlic chive oil to a bowl and set aside.
Thread one prawn onto each skewer. Brush with the fish sauce, then chargrill
over medium heat for 2 minutes on each side, or until cooked.
Meanwhile, place the vermicelli noodles in a microwave-safe bowl and heat in

the microwave for 1 minute on high. Now coat the noodles with the garlic chive
oil and sprinkle with the peanuts.
Working with one sheet at a time, rehydrate the rice paper sheets in warm water.
Place on a clean work surface, then top with a noodle, an unpeeled prawn, some
mango, banana, cucumber and lettuce. Roll from the bottom up, folding the sides
in to form a tight roll.
Repeat this process and serve with nuoc mam cham for dipping.
If you like fish cakes, Quy Nhon is the place to visit. Nowhere else in
Vietnam has as many artisans specialising in fish cakes. There are
hundreds of varieties to choose from. These fish cakes can be eaten on
their own, tossed in salads, put in a crisp baguette or added to noodle
soups.
ingredients

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) skinless, boneless Spanish mackerel fillets, cut into 1 cm (½
inch) cubes ½ teaspoon sea salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper ¼ teaspoon sesame oil
5 spring onions (scallions), white part only, thinly sliced vegetable oil, for deep-
frying
Place the fish sauce in a small bowl next to a large mortar and pestle.
Using the mortar and pestle, begin to pound the fish into a paste, frequently
dipping the pestle into the fish sauce to prevent the fish sticking to it.
(Alternatively, blend the fish in a food processor by pulsing the flesh and
regularly scraping down the sides of the bowl.) Now add the salt, pepper, sesame
oil, garlic and spring onion.
Continue to pound until you have used up all the fish sauce and combined all the
ingredients together — and the paste, including the spring onions, has become
fine, smooth and quite elastic. You’re after a smooth purée.
Transfer the fish paste mixture into a bowl, then use oiled hands to form the
mixture into 5 cm (2 inch) patties, about 2 cm (¾ inch) thick.
Add 2–3 cm (¾–1¼ inches) vegetable oil to a large non-stick frying pan and heat
over medium heat. Add the fish cakes in batches and fry for 4 minutes on each
side, or until golden.
Serve the fish cakes on their own as a snack, or wrap them in lettuce leaves,
adding some noodles and herbs to the parcel.
Serve with nuoc mam cham for dipping.

I learnt this recipe from a lady who also taught me how to make my
own tofu. Her name is Mrs Ha, and she and her family have been
making fresh tofu in Quy Nhon for five generations. Eating freshly
made tofu is so different to eating tofu that has been packaged and
sitting in a refrigerator for a week. If you ever get the chance to
purchase freshly made tofu, please do so!
ingredients
450 g (1 lb) silken or firm tofu
1 lemongrass stem, white part only, finely chopped 1 red bird’s eye chilli, finely
chopped 1 tablespoon finely diced garlic
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon sugar

coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish sliced chilli, to garnish
soy sauce, to serve
preparation
Drain the tofu and cut into 5 cm x 10 cm (2 cm x 4 inch) chunks. Leave on the
chopping board, or transfer to a tray.
In a bowl, combine the lemongrass, chilli, garlic, salt, sugar and pepper and mix
together. Reserve half the spice mixture, and use the remainder to coat the tofu
on both sides.
Heat a large frying pan over medium–high heat. Add the oil and fry the tofu for
3 minutes on each side, or until browned and crisp. Transfer to a serving plate.
Add the remaining spice mixture to the pan and cook for 1 minute, or until
fragrant. Spoon the mixture over the tofu.
Garnish with the coriander and sliced chilli and serve with soy sauce and
jasmine rice.
Wrapping food in banana leaves for cooking imparts great aroma and
flavour to the dish itself. If you can’t get hold of fresh banana leaves,
use lotus leaves here, or even baking paper as a last resort. Be sure
that your water is rapidly boiling before steaming your fish, as you
want the fish to cook quickly and hold its texture.
ingredients
20 g (¾ oz) dried glass noodles
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon sea salt
2 tablespoons salted soya beans

300 g (10½ oz) boneless barramundi or other firm white fish fillet, cut into 4
pieces 2 pieces banana leaf, each measuring about 20 cm x 25 cm (8 inches x
10 inches)
1 long red chilli, julienned, plus extra to serve 1 tablespoon Garlic oil (see Fried
garlic chips recipe in Basics) soy sauce, for dipping
preparation
Put the noodles in a bowl, cover with cold water and soak for 20 minutes. Drain
and cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths.
In a small bowl, combine the sugar, fish sauce, salt and pepper and mix well.
Add the soya beans and stir them through. Add the fish to the bowl and turn the
pieces to coat with this mixture. Set aside.
Run the banana leaves through an open flame a few times, or place on a medium
heated grill, until they darken and become pliable — about 10 seconds on a
naked flame, or 30 seconds on a grill.
Place two fish portions in the centre of each banana leaf. Top each with half the
noodles and chilli, and drizzle each with half the garlic oil. Fold up the sides to
form a parcel and fold the leaf over the fish and noodles.
over high heat. Cover and steam the parcels for 7–10 minutes.
Carefully remove the parcels from the steamer. Serve with steamed jasmine rice,
and a small bowl of soy sauce and sliced red chilli for dipping.
Originally from Hue, this dish was served to emperors who demanded
creative gourmet dishes for every meal. It is now cooked at temples
throughout the country, as the lotus is rich in Buddhist symbolism.
ingredients
12 lotus seeds

5 fresh shiitake mushrooms, diced
100 g (3½ oz/⅔ cup) green peas
100 g (3½ oz/⅔ cup) diced carrot
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 740 g (1 lb 10 oz/4 cups) cooked and
chilled jasmine rice 2 small fresh lotus leaves; soaked dried lotus leaves can
be substituted 1 lotus flower, to garnish (optional) soy sauce for dipping
sliced red chilli, to serve
preparation
Simmer the lotus seeds in a small saucepan of water for 10 minutes. Drain, allow
to cool briefly, then remove them from their shells.
Heat a frying pan or wok over high heat. Add 1 tablespoon of the oil and stir-fry
the lotus seeds and vegetables for 2 minutes. Stir in the salt and pepper, then
remove from the pan and set aside.
In the same pan, heat the remaining oil, then stir-fry the rice for 3 minutes.
Remove from the pan and set aside.
Lay one lotus leaf inside a large bowl, putting the rough side of the leaf down
first, followed by the other leaf. Arrange the stir-fried vegetables on top of the
lotus leaves, spreading them out evenly.
Now scoop the fried rice into the bowl, over the arranged vegetables. Fold the
lotus leaves over to enclose the rice, then press down firmly until flat.
over high heat. Place the lotus leaf parcel in its bowl in the steamer, then cover
and steam for 5 minutes.
Remove the bowl from the steamer, then turn the lotus leaf parcel upside down
onto a serving plate. With a sharp knife, carefully make two long cuts on the first
layer of lotus leaf, from corner to corner crisscrossing each other, then peel the
four sections back. Repeat with the bottom lotus leaf. You should be left with
eight triangular leaf sections folded back, exposing the vegetables and rice.
Garnish with a lotus flower, if desired, and serve with a side dipping sauce of
soy sauce and sliced red chilli.
Vietnamese chicken salad, or ‘Goi ga’, is much loved throughout the
country. As I was walking through the early-morning Quy Nhon
markets, I noticed a lot of fresh jellyfish being sold; Vietnamese cooks
would mainly add jellyfish to noodle soups. Here I have added
jellyfish to the Goi ga, and it works perfectly. Jellyfish carries flavour
and is a textural delight.
ingredients
1 single chicken breast, skin removed
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) chicken stock
30 g (1 oz) dried jellyfish strips (available from Asian food markets) 75 g (2¾
oz/1 cup) finely shredded white cabbage 10 perilla leaves, roughly chopped
10 mint leaves, roughly chopped
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly chopped 1 teaspoon Toasted rice powder (see
Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 1 teaspoon Garlic oil (see
Fried garlic chips recipe in Basics) ¼ red onion, cut into rings
3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 1 red bird’s eye chilli, thinly
sliced
preparation
Place the chicken breast in a small saucepan and cover with the stock. Bring to
the boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Poach the chicken for 15
minutes, or until just cooked through. Remove the breast from the stock and
allow to cool. (Reserve the stock for another use.) Meanwhile, rinse the jellyfish
under cold running water for 30 seconds and place in a large mixing bowl. Add
the cabbage, herbs, rice powder, garlic chips, garlic oil and onion.
Finely shred the cooled chicken breast, then add to the salad and gently toss
together well. Add 2 tablespoons of the nuoc mam cham, mix gently and transfer
to a serving bowl.
Dress the salad with the remaining nuoc mam cham. Sprinkle with the peanuts,
fried shallots and chilli and serve.
Travelling through Vietnam, you learn patience. Our journey from Quy Nhon to
Hoi An is seven hours by road. When we arrive, the sun has already set. There
are no street lights, but the entire town is dotted with thousands of colourful
lanterns, lighting up ancient old buildings and cobbled streets, a slow-flowing
river and pretty foot bridges. Have I arrived at a movie set, I wonder. This place
is so incredibly charming and romantic, it can’t be for real. As I stroll through
the ancient town — one of the few places in Vietnam with many of the original
buildings and streets preserved — I soon realise it is like this all the time. There
is no special festival going on, this is everyday Hoi An.
The beautiful port town of Hoi An began as a trading centre along the Thu Bon
River. The town was a crossroads of economic and cultural flows throughout
Vietnam and South-East Asia from the end of the sixteenth century to the early
nineteenth century. It was also the gate through which Buddhism and
Christianity were introduced to Vietnam in the seventeenth century.
Walking through town, I notice an obsession with food. I am surrounded by

street food, market food, restaurants, cafes, and even little old ladies sitting on
the streets with a steam pot and a kerosene lamp. The kerosene lamps signify
what it is they are selling — duck embryo eggs. I just have to try one! Now
before you squeal, you must understand that before the French colonised the
country, Vietnamese people only ever ate fertilised eggs. It was the French who
introduced unfertilised eggs: boiled, scrambled, poached and the much-loved
omelette. However, even today, many Vietnamese love their embryo eggs.
I take a seat at the egg stall and ask our cameraman to start rolling. As I crack
the egg open, my director says, ‘Cut! I don’t think we should feature this embryo
egg on television Luke. It might freak people out and we may get hate mail.’
I quickly bark back. ‘My family ate these embryo eggs all the time when I was
growing up. It is a delicacy for us, and on top of that, they are delicious! Just
because people in the Western world have never eaten or seen them before does
not make it wrong or horrible to eat them! We are making a cooking program on
foods of Vietnam, and this is one of them. Cameraman, let’s roll!’
As I peel away the shell, the thin membrane is exposed. I pierce the membrane
and drink its juices, and it is wonderfully delicate and clean — like sipping on a
duck consomme. The entire film crew can hardly watch. The cameraman
actually has one hand over his mouth, and one eye closed. I take the embryo out
of its egg and reveal its tiny formed body, fertilised for only 15 days. I bite into
its soft but crisp flesh, crunching on its head, bones and beak. The entire crew
have left the scene and have just left the camera rolling on record, but I don’t
care. I am in a moment of culinary joy. This is real food, in real Vietnam…
The next morning I am excited: I have managed to track down the family who
makes the much-loved Cao Lao noodle! Only one family in Vietnam knows how
to make this noodle, and Hoi An is the only town where you can try it. The
noodle reminds me very much of the Japanese udon, but has more of a bouncy
consistency and subtle grain texture. The secret to the noodle, it is said, is the
local water, which is taken from Ba Li Well, with its colour and flavour being
attested to the added ingredient of burned ash.
At 8 am, when I arrive at the Cao Lao noodle-making family home, they are
already at work. This family has been making the Cao Lao noodle for 300 years,
the secret recipe passed down from one generation to the next. The building they
are working in seems just as ancient as the recipe.
Everything is made by hand. The entire extended family work day and night to
produce the noodle — even the grandparents, in their 80s, are rolling and
kneading the dough. First the rice grains are soaked overnight, then cooked for
half an hour and kneaded until smooth. The dough is then rolled and steamed,
before being cut with giant cleavers into long noodle lengths. The noodles are
then covered in banana leaves and steamed once again, before being distributed
to the entire town.
Apart from the wonderful noodles, nostalgic buildings, tasty street food, secret
laneways and illuminated lanterns, the other sight that will take your breath
away is the vibrant green rice paddy fields surrounding Hoi An. I could sit in
front of one all day and watch the slender rice stalks gracefully sway from side
to side with the passing breeze. For me, looking out at rice fields has the same
calming, soothing effect as looking out to the ocean.
I hire a bicycle for $1 a day, then ride out to China Beach, where there is a long
stretch of the lushest rice paddy fields you will ever see. I am taken back by its
beauty, and today I am in luck — there are many rice farmers out working, while
some are taking a lunch break. I rest my bike against an old tree and make my
way over to ask what they are cooking.
The farmers tell me they always prepare the simplest dishes out on the field —
just a meal with good protein, herbs and vegetables to give them the energy they
need to do the long hours of back-breaking work in the intense heat. To me, their
ingredients look gourmet: whole mudfish, fresh mint, rice paper, vermicelli
noodles, bean sprouts, cucumber, star fruit (carambola), and of course a dipping
fish sauce. But they have no cooking utensils, or any form of stove or grill to
cook the fish. An elderly man explains, ‘Look around us — this entire rice field
is covered in dry rice stalks for us to use. Just place a sharp bamboo stick
through the fish, pierce the stick vertically in the ground, stack a mound of dried
rice stalks over the fish in a pyramid, then simply light it.’
Excited, I offer to cook their lunch, and they agree with joy. So I carve a sharp
edge on one end of a thin bamboo stick with my knife. I pierce the stick through
the mouth of the fish and out its tail, then dig the stick into the ground. Then I
pour some water into the fish’s mouth to keep it moist, and cover the fish with
all the dried rice straw I can find, until it looks like a mini teepee. I light the
straw and it ignites rapidly. I stand right back, thinking I may have placed too
much straw around that poor mudfish.
This ingenious cooking technique chars, smokes and steams the fish at the same
time. After 5 minutes, the fire has burnt out. I remove the charred straw to find
the fish completely black and burnt to a crisp. Peeling the skin back, I am
rewarded with the most moist and succulent white flesh. Something takes over
me: I forget the other ingredients in the recipe and start eating the fish, just as it
is, on that bamboo stick. I feel like a caveman, but it is just so delicious. Moist,
soft, smoky and perfectly cooked, the mudfish is yet another revelation.
‡
Besides the nostalgic buildings, wonderful
noodles, tasty street food, secret laneways and
illuminated lanterns, the vibrant green rice paddy
fields surrounding Hoi An will also take your
breath away.
The Vietnamese love eating unripened or green fruits, such as green
papaya, guava, fig, jackfruit and of course mango. Green mango has a
lovely firm texture, with both sweet and tart notes. Pair it with salty
dried anchovies and you have a great flavour combination.
ingredients
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
100 g (3½ oz) small dried anchovies, washed and drained (see Tip) 2 green
mangoes, peeled and julienned
5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced
5 mint leaves, roughly sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly sliced 5 Asian basil leaves, roughly sliced
1 long red chilli, seeded and julienned 1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see
Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam
cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

preparation
Fill a wok or deep saucepan one-third full of oil and heat to 180°C (350°F), or
Deep-fry the anchovies in two batches for 3 minutes each time, or until brown
and crisp. Remove and drain on paper towels.
In a mixing bowl, combine the mango, herbs, chilli, fried shallots and garlic
chips. Add the crisp anchovies and nuoc mam cham and toss well.
Transfer to a plate or shallow bowl, garnish with the peanuts and serve.
++ TIP Dried anchovies can be substituted with dried whitebait.

I cooked this dish in the garden of one of Hoi An’s most beautiful
restaurants, called Brother’s Cafe. Built by the French in the early
1900s, it has the most spectacular landscaped garden along the river.
Be sure to get a table outside in the evening to enjoy the view. The
chefs there were easily able to source fresh young coconuts for me,
but if you have to use tinned young coconut juice, omit the sugar in
the recipe as tinned coconut juice contains added sugar.
ingredients

1½ tablespoons sugar
2 lemongrass stems, white part only, finely diced 4 garlic cloves, finely diced
2 long red chillies, finely diced
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into bite-sized pieces

250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) young coconut juice ½ onion, cut into wedges
In a mixing bowl, combine the fish sauce and sugar and mix until the sugar has
dissolved. Add half the lemongrass, half the garlic, half the chilli and all of the
chicken. Toss the chicken to coat, then cover and marinate in the refrigerator for
1 hour, or overnight for an even tastier result.
Heat a large saucepan or wok over medium heat. Add the oil and the remaining
lemongrass, garlic and chilli and stir-fry for 1 minute, or until fragrant and
slightly brown.
Increase the heat to high, then add the chicken and seal for 2 minutes on each
side, or until browned all over.
Now add the coconut juice and onion. Cover and cook over medium heat for 5
minutes, or until the sauce has reduced by half.
Transfer to a bowl, garnish with coriander and serve with steamed jasmine rice.
This recipe belongs to Mr Lam, a local shoemaker in Hoi An. He
invited me back to his home and we cooked the dish together. I found
it a fascinating cooking technique — roasting the chicken in a clay pot
over charcoal. The sugar cane releases its natural sweet juices and
actually steams the chicken at the same time. A very simple, country-
style dish, but an awesome one.
ingredients
1 teaspoon five-spice
1 tablespoon Annatto oil (see Basics) 1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon shaoxing rice wine 2 tablespoons fish sauce

1 whole chicken, about 1.5 kg (3 lb 5 oz), cleaned and cut into quarters 315 g (11
oz/1 cup) rock salt
1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) fresh sugar cane, chopped into 2 cm x 10 cm (¾ inch x 4 inch)
pieces preparation
In a large mixing bowl, combine the five-spice, annatto oil, honey, rice wine,
fish sauce and garlic. Mix well, then add the chicken and turn to coat. Cover and
marinate in the refrigerator for 2 hours, or overnight for a better result, turning
the chicken occasionally.
Put the rock salt in a large clay pot, then lay the sugar cane on top. Place the
chicken on top of the sugar cane. Cover and cook over medium heat for 40
minutes, or until the rock salt ceases to pop.
Transfer the chicken to a plate and serve with steamed jasmine rice or
Vietnamese baguettes.
You will need a smoking-hot wok to make this dish successful. The
wok needs to be so hot that when your beef hits the oil, flames should
ignite. This gives a nice char to the beef, as well as a lovely smoky
flavour, and that’s when you can taste the ‘breath’ of the wok. When I
cooked this dish on camera, my flames rose up so tall that they burnt
the sound engineer’s fluffy boom microphone. He was not a happy
man, but I did warn him…
ingredients
2 tablespoons oyster sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon sugar
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) beef sirloin, cut into 1.5 cm (⅝ inch) cubes

1 garlic clove, finely diced ½ small onion, cut into large dice 2 clumps (about 4
tablespoons) fresh green peppercorns, still on the vine (if not in season, these
are available in jars in brine from Vietnamese supermarkets) 50 g (1¾ oz)
butter
coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish soy sauce for dipping
sliced red chilli, to serve preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the oyster sauce, sesame oil, sugar and 1 tablespoon
hot water. Add the beef and toss to coat. Cover and marinate for 10 minutes.
Heat a large wok over high heat until smoking hot. Add the vegetable oil, then
add the beef — there is no need to drain it, but don’t add the marinade in the
bottom of the bowl. Seal on each side for 1 minute — the beef should be charred
and the wok flaming. (If you don’t have a large wok, cook the beef in two
batches. This will ensure that the heat stays at a constant high temperature so the
beef doesn’t stew.) Add the garlic, onion, peppercorns and butter to the wok and
stir-fry for a further 2 minutes. The beef should now be medium-rare.
Season with a pinch of sea salt and coarse cracked black pepper and garnish with
coriander.
Serve with steamed jasmine rice or crisp Vietnamese baguettes and a side
dipping sauce of soy sauce and sliced red chilli.
I had the pleasure of working with one of Hoi An’s most talented
chefs and restaurateurs — Duc. He owns three fabulous restaurants,
Mango Rooms, Mango Mango and the newly opened Mai Fish. Born
in Vietnam, and raised in Texas, Duc has lived in Mexico, New
Zealand and Japan. The guy has been everywhere, and it definitely
shows in his cooking.
ingredients
200 g (7 oz) round piece of tuna steak

black sesame seeds, to garnish MANGO SALSA
1 mango, peeled and diced 1 garlic clove, crushed
2 coriander (cilantro) sprigs, sliced 1 tomato, diced
½ onion, diced
juice of 1 lime, plus extra to serve SESAME HERB CRUST
½ teaspoon dried oregano ½ teaspoon white sesame seeds, toasted ¼ teaspoon
black sesame seeds, toasted ¼ teaspoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon finely julienned fresh ginger

2 coriander sprigs (cilantro), thinly sliced 4 Vietnamese mint leaves, thinly sliced
2 Asian basil leaves, thinly sliced ½ teaspoon pounded fresh ginger ½
teaspoon pounded garlic ½ teaspoon pounded onion preparation
Combine all the mango salsa ingredients in a bowl with a pinch of sea salt and
freshly ground black pepper. Mix well and set aside.
In a shallow dish, combine all the sesame herb crust ingredients. Add a pinch of
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper and mix together well. Roll the tuna in
the mixture, coating it well.
Heat a non-stick frying pan or wok to medium–high heat. Add the oil, then sear
the tuna for 45–60 seconds on all sides, until browned.
Remove the tuna to a board and cut into slices 2 cm (¾ inch) thick.
Arrange the tuna on a bed of the mango salsa. Drizzle with a squeeze of lime,
sprinkle with black sesame seeds and serve.
This is an amazing dish created by rice farmers who work long, hard
hours in the rice paddy fields. If, like me, you don’t have a rice paddy
field in your backyard, then I suggest that you wrap your fish in two
layers of banana leaves, throw it on the barbecue and cook over
medium–high heat for 10 minutes on each side.

ingredients
1 thin bamboo stick or metal skewer, about 60 cm (24 inches) long 1 snakehead
fish or silver bream, weighing 600–800 g (1 lb 5 oz–1 lb 12 oz), cleaned and
gutted 5 kg (11 lb) rice straw or dried grass
3 spring onions (scallions), green part only, finely shredded, to serve (optional)
preparation
This recipe needs to be cooked in an open outdoor area — well away from
children.
Insert the bamboo stick through the fish’s mouth, through its body and out the
tail. Move the fish along so it’s sitting in the middle part of the bamboo stick.
Now dig the base of the stick into the ground, deep enough to make the stick
stand upright on its own, with the fish’s mouth pointing to the sky.
Pour 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water down the fish’s mouth, and then around it
form a pyramid-like shape with the rice straw, enclosing the fish on the stick.
Set the rice straw alight and move away. When the rice straw has finished
burning, the fish is ready.
Scrape off any charred skin with a sharp knife, then eat the fish directly off the
stick, or serve on a platter with some shredded spring onion.
The pandan leaf is a fantastic ingredient. The leaf is long, green,
narrow and pointy at the tip, and when cooked releases an amazing
sweet aroma. Another essential tool you need for barbecuing
Vietnamese food is a folding wire grill. It will make things a whole lot
easier.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) boneless, skinless chicken thighs 2 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
1 tablespoon oyster sauce

5 spring onions (scallions), white part only, thinly sliced 2 garlic cloves, finely
diced
2 banana leaves
14 pandan leaves
4–6 small Vietnamese baguettes, opened out coriander (cilantro) stems, to serve
mint leaves, to serve
1 long red chilli, thinly sliced
toasted sesame seeds, to garnish
preparation
Cut the chicken thighs into three even pieces lengthways, then cut these strips
into three even pieces widthways.
In a mixing bowl, combine the fish sauce, sugar, pepper, oyster sauce, spring
onion, garlic and oil. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Add the chicken and
marinate for 1 hour, or overnight for a better result.
Heat a chargrill pan, griddle pan or barbecue to medium heat.
Open a wire barbecue grill and lay one banana leaf on one side of the wire grill.
Now take seven pandan leaves and bruise them by slapping them between your
hands, to release their aroma.
Lay the bruised pandan leaves on top of the banana leaf, then place the chicken
on top of the pandan leaves.
Now bruise the remaining pandan leaves and lay them on top of the chicken,
followed by the other banana leaf.
Close the wire grill, enclosing all the ingredients together, then place it over the
barbecue. Cook the chicken for 15 minutes on each side, or until cooked
through.
Divide the chicken among the baguettes and add some coriander and mint.
Garnish with the chilli and sesame seeds and serve.
Alternatively, instead of baguettes, you can simply serve the chicken with
This dish is known in Vietnamese as ‘Tam huu’. You will not find it
served in any of the restaurants in Hoi An, as it is a very old
traditional recipe that families would only cook at home on special
occasions. If you happen to know anyone from Hoi An, then make
this dish and impress them. And remember, it’s called Tam huu.
ingredients
12 small spring onions (scallions), green part only, or the greens from 6 long
spring onions, cut in half
1 green mango, peeled and julienned

12 cooked tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined, leaving the tails attached
1 bunch Vietnamese mint, leaves picked
1 bunch Asian basil, leaves picked

1 bunch coriander (cilantro), roots trimmed, sliced into thirds
200 g (7 oz) Cooked pork belly (see Basics), thinly sliced
Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics), for drizzling
2 tablespoons Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics)
preparation
Fill a saucepan with water and bring to a simmer. Blanch the spring onions for 1
minute, then remove with tongs and drain on paper towels. Set aside.
Arrange the mango along a platter in 12 small portions. Place one prawn on a
chopping board, then on top of the prawn stack two mint leaves, two Asian basil
leaves, one coriander sprig and lastly one piece of pork belly.
Now wrap a blanched spring onion strip around the prawn, herbs and pork to
hold them together, then tuck the spring onion under itself to form a nice tight
parcel. Place the prawn and pork parcel on top of the mango. Repeat with the
remaining ingredients
Drizzle with nuoc mam cham and garnish with the fried shallots. Serve as a pre-
dinner snack or starter.
The lovely, historical city of Hue is nestled in an ideal location between the
foothills of Bach Ma National Park, the coastline of central Vietnam and the
picturesque Perfume River. The town spreads over both sides of the river, and
feels quiet and peaceful — until peak hour hits, when the roads and bridges are
drowned in the sounds and exhaust fumes of tens of thousands of motorbikes.
The entire population en route, it would seem!
The city is known for its imperial ruins. These beautiful remains of architectural
estates from 200 years ago suffered greatly from neglect and damage during the
several wars that have been fought in Vietnam since.
The best way to explore the ruins, relics and emperor tombs of Hue is by xic lo,
or cyclo — Vietnam’s version of a rickshaw. You’ll have no problem finding
one. Bit of advice though: always discuss and agree on the fee prior to hopping
on. I pay my driver 100,000 dong for the hour, which works out to be about $5.
As he takes me down a pretty tree-lined street, I pick up the sweet scent of
lemongrass. I follow my nose and end up at a local restaurant, where a young
girl stands outside chargrilling the most aromatic lemongrass skewers, with the
fragrant smoke drifting through the entire area.
I stick my head into the restaurant; all the tables and chairs are stacked towards
the back, with the main dining floor area covered with piles upon piles of mint,
lemongrass, coriander, spring onion, chilli, star fruit (carambola), bean sprouts
and young green mustard leaves. It is the day’s prep, and it looks daunting, but
five ladies sit on tiny plastic stools, each with a knife in hand, plucking, slicing,
shredding and cleaning, all in deep conversation, with lots of smiles and
laughter. Yes this is hard work, with long hours, but this is all part of cooking,
and instead of complaining about the amount of work to be done, they are
engrossed in chatter, making the heavy prep load enjoyable, not a chore.
Outside, the young chargrill girl, Hien, tells me she has been working at the
restaurant for three years, and that their specialty is their succulent meat skewers.
A seasoned mixture of pork skin, pork paste, pork fat, minced (ground) beef and
garlic is wrapped around sticks of lemongrass, then chargrilled and served with
rice paper, fresh herbs, star fruit and a dipping fish sauce (see recipe). They are
so popular that each day she needs to make over a thousand skewers! At any one
time, Hien has several dozen on the grill, and as the fat drips slowly and
gracefully onto the charcoal, it releases an incredible smoky aroma back up onto
the meat. I can’t resist. I take hold of two skewers, slide the meat in a baguette
roll and go for it. The tenderness and flavour of the meat, together with the scent
of the lemongrass and the smokiness of the charcoal, is just awesome…
After my very enjoyable breakfast, I make my way to the biggest market in Hue,
the Dong Ba, where you can find anything from fabric and gold to fake watches,
fresh flowers and street food. But what catches my eye is a laneway behind the
market, scattered with a deep layer of red shallot and garlic skins. The skins are
coming from a large market stall that sells heavy sacks of shallots and garlic by
the tens of kilos. What I can’t believe is that this stall peels and preps every bulb
before it goes to sale.
Shockingly, the workers in this stall have been peeling the bulbs for 20 years,
and are all gradually losing their eyesight due to the strong compounds in the
shallots and garlic. Such hard-working people, risking their vision just to earn a
dollar, and after all their gruelling work, they still welcome me into their
workplace and offer to take me to their favourite local eateries. One lady
suggests I check out Ba Do, a tiny place run by the very well known ‘Lady in
Red’, who specialises in varieties of steamed Hue savoury rice cakes.
The kitchen is miniature, filled with five chefs sitting on low wooden stools,
each with an enormous marble mortar between their legs, filled with kilos upon
kilos of peeled prawns (shrimp). With both arms, they each raise a large heavy
wooden pestle high over their heads, then pound the prawns as hard as they can
into a paste. Fragments of prawn paste shoot past my face, onto the walls and
ceiling. Unfazed, the chefs continue to smash and pound until the paste becomes
smooth and elastic. The paste is then moulded, steamed, brushed with egg wash,
and then steamed again. This prawn terrine is just one of many dishes that is
prepared for the day; another four dishes follow. Large pots filled with super-
thick glutinous rice batter are stirred, then distributed into small parcels of
banana leaves with prawn, or folded with pork into slender bamboo leaves.
Tapioca flour cakes are steamed until translucent and sticky.
The final dish, which catches my interest, is rice cakes steamed in little
ramekins, topped with pork crackling, prawn floss, chilli and sweet fish sauce. A
great little snack that I just have to learn how to make.
The Lady in Red kindly allows us to film in front of her home — a beautiful
traditional Vietnamese home with wooden doors, painted sky blue and green.
As we start filming the making of the recipe, I feel a dark shadow hovering over
my shoulder. It is the Lady in Red’s mother — a toothless, grumpy 85-year-old
woman standing right behind me, watching every move I make. As I begin to
combine my batter of tapioca flour, corn flour, glutinous rice flour, rice flour,
water and salt, I can hear Mrs Grumpy mumbling something to herself. As I start
to pour the batter into the ramekins, she barks in my ear, ‘You are making such a
mess! Who taught you how to cook?’
When I begin to make my prawn floss, she demands that I first pour some oil
into the wok — but I wanted to dry-roast my prawn floss, not fry it in oil, as it
will become too moist. But she persists, grabbing the bowl of oil and pointing it
in the direction of my wok. So I pretend to put lots of oil in, but really, I only
allow a few drops to make contact with my wok. That keeps her happy for an
entire two seconds.
When I place my pounded prawns into the wok, she shouts, ‘You need more
heat! Turn the fire up, more oil, put garlic in, put shallots in, more oil!’
My prawn is no longer to be prawn ‘floss’, just stir-fried pounded prawns. So I

ask her just to take over and do it her way. She jumps at the chance, ripping the
ladle from my hands. I finish the dish as quickly as I can, to give her a rice cake
to sample. Thankfully, she gives me the nod of approval. I am extremely relieved
it is over. This old lady is the ultimate Rice Cake Nazi!
‡
Fragments of prawn paste shoot past my face,
onto the walls and ceiling. Unfazed, the chefs
continue to smash and pound until the paste
becomes smooth and elastic.
There are many different pancakes or crêpes in Vietnam. In the central
regions, they are small and wrapped with rice paper; in the south, they
are much larger and wrapped with young mustard green leaves, and
known as ‘Banh xeo’, meaning ‘sizzling crêpe’. Hue, however, has its
own version, called ‘Banh khoai’, which is smaller, much thicker, and
crispier.
ingredients
vegetable oil, for stir-frying
200 g (7 oz) raw school prawns (shrimp), legs and heads trimmed 200 g (7 oz)
boneless raw pork belly, fat trimmed, thinly sliced 2 eggs, beaten
2 spring onions (scallions), sliced 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) bean sprouts
Hue hoisin dipping sauce (see Basics), to serve BATTER
25 g (1 oz) plain (all-purpose) flour
1 teaspoon ground turmeric

½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda (baking soda) 150 ml (5 fl oz) coconut cream
150 ml (5 fl oz) soda water
FOR SERVING
lettuce leaves, washed
1 bunch mint, leaves picked
1 bunch Vietnamese mint, leaves picked 1 star fruit (carambola), sliced
preparation
Combine all the batter ingredients in a bowl. Whisk well and set aside for 10
minutes.
Meanwhile, fry off the prawns and pork. Place a frying pan over medium heat.
Add 1 tablespoon oil, half the crushed garlic and all the prawns, and stir-fry for 3
minutes. Remove the prawns and set aside.
Wipe the pan clean, then place back over medium heat. Add another 1
tablespoon oil, the remaining crushed garlic and the pork belly, and stir-fry for 3
minutes. Set aside.
Arrange the lettuce leaves, herbs and star fruit on a large platter.
Heat a 20 cm (8 inch) heavy-based non-stick frying pan over medium heat. Add
2 tablespoons oil. Once the oil is hot, add a thin layer of batter to the pan,
swirling to coat the base of the pan. Add 1 tablespoon of the beaten eggs, then
add some prawns, pork, spring onion and bean sprouts.
Fry for 2 minutes, or until the base of the pancake is crisp and browned. Fold the
pancake in half and slide it out of the pan.
Repeat this process with the remaining batter and filling ingredients.
Eat the pancake with the lettuce, herbs and star fruit, with Hue hoisin dipping
sauce on the side.
Lemongrass is an essential ingredient in Vietnamese cooking. Not
only does it impart a wonderful gingery citrus flavour to food, but it
also has medicinal qualities. I grow lemongrass in my garden, so I
also dry the stems to make my own lemongrass tea. Make this dish at
your next Sunday barbecue and impress all your friends. The aromas
released during grilling are amazing.
ingredients
12 lemongrass stems, green ends trimmed to about 20 cm (8 inches) 2
tablespoons vegetable oil
3 tablespoons chilli sauce
3 tablespoons hoisin sauce

6 warm crisp Vietnamese baguettes, split in half lengthways 6 coriander
(cilantro) stalks
2 bird’s eye chillies, sliced
SAUSAGE MIXTURE
100 g (3½ oz) minced (ground) beef 200 g (7 oz) minced (ground) pork 20 g (¾
oz) cooked and shredded pork skin (available from Asian markets), optional
20 g (¾ oz) pork fat, minced (ground) (available from Asian butchers)

3 spring onions (scallions), white part only, finely diced 2 teaspoons sugar
preparation
Combine the sausage ingredients in a mixing bowl. Knead for 5 minutes, or until
all the ingredients have combined together well. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour
to allow the flavours to develop.
With wet hands, divide the meat mixture into 12 portions, then roll each portion
into a sausage shape.
Thread each sausage onto a lemongrass stem and brush with a little oil.
Heat a barbecue grill or chargrill pan to medium–high. Cook the skewers for
about 6 minutes, turning every few minutes, until cooked through.
Remove the meat from the lemongrass skewers and distribute two portions per
baguette. Spread 2 teaspoons each of chilli sauce and hoisin sauce into each
baguette. Add a coriander stalk, some chilli and serve.
ingredients
1½ tablespoons tapioca flour
¼ teaspoon sea salt
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) lukewarm water

400 g (14 oz) small raw tiger prawns (shrimp)

1 tablespoon finely diced red Asian shallot ½ teaspoon freshly ground black
pepper 35 g (1¼ oz) pork crackling (available from Asian markets), broken
into 1 cm (½ inch) pieces 20 small Asian ramekins, each about 30 ml (1 fl oz)
capacity 100 ml (3½ fl oz) Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)
DIPPING SAUCE
3 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons vinegar
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) prawn broth (reserved from the main recipe)

2 red chillies, chopped
preparation
In a large mixing bowl, combine the rice flour, tapioca flour and salt. Make a
well in the centre and pour in half the warm water.
Using your hands, stir the ingredients together, kneading the dough until well
combined. Now add the rest of the warm water and stir it all together using a
wooden spoon, until you have a fine liquid batter. Stir in 2 teaspoons of the
vegetable oil and allow the batter to rest for 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, bring a small saucepan of water to the boil, add the prawns and cook
for 5 minutes. Remove the prawns using a slotted spoon, reserving 125 ml (4 fl
oz/½ cup) of the prawn broth for the dressing. Peel and devein the prawns and
set aside.
over high heat. Place as many ramekins in the steamer tray as you can — you
will probably need to work in four batches. Cover and steam the ramekins for 1
minute to heat them through. Now fill each ramekin two-thirds full with the
batter. Cover and steam for 5 minutes. Repeat this process until the batter and
ramekins are used up.
Meanwhile, pound the cooked prawns using a mortar and pestle until finely
crushed. Put a frying pan over low heat and add the crushed prawns, garlic and
shallot. Stir-fry for 10 minutes, or until the prawns are completely dry and
stringy — this is called ‘prawn floss’. Turn off the heat, add the pepper and
continue to stir-fry for a further 3 minutes. Set aside.
For the dipping sauce, combine the sugar, vinegar, reserved prawn broth and fish
sauce in a bowl. Mix until the sugar has dissolved, then stir in the chilli.
Remove the ramekins from the steamer. To each ramekin, add a teaspoon of the
prawn floss, two pieces of pork crackling, and a teaspoon of nuoc mam cham.
Serve warm, as a snack, with the dipping sauce on the side.
This salad is a local delicacy in Hue, and you’ll find it only in Hue, as
nowhere else in Vietnam can grow this special green fruit, which is
actually a green fig known as ‘trai va’. After I picked the figs off the
tree, I had to boil the firm fruit for 40 minutes to soften them. As Hue
is the only place you can get them, I have used young jackfruit in the
following recipe. If you ever happen to find green figs, use five of
them in place of the jackfruit.
ingredients
150 g (5½ oz) tinned young jackfruit, rinsed in cold water, then cut into small
pieces, or 5 green figs, if you can find them 300 g (10½ oz) fried tofu puffs,
thinly sliced 10 mint leaves, roughly sliced
10 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly sliced 5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced
5 fish mint leaves, roughly sliced (optional) 5 saw-tooth coriander (cilantro)
leaves, roughly sliced 3 tablespoons sesame seeds, toasted

1 long red chilli, sliced or julienned DRESSING
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
3 tablespoons warm water
3 teaspoons pineapple juice

1 bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced preparation
Combine all the dressing ingredients in a bowl. Mix well to dissolve the sugar
and set aside.
If using the figs, place the whole figs in a large saucepan and cover with water.
Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Remove the
figs with a slotted spoon. Allow to cool, then peel, cut in half and finely slice.
Place the figs (or jackfruit) in a mixing bowl. Add the tofu, herbs, sesame seeds
and a pinch of freshly ground black pepper. Dress with 4 tablespoons of the
dressing.
Turn out onto a serving platter, garnish with the peanuts and chilli and serve.
ingredients
3 dried shiitake mushrooms
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon sugar
100 ml (3½ fl oz) pickling liquid (from the Lemongrass & chilli beef rice paper
rolls recipe) 25 g (1 oz/¼ cup) bean sprouts 50 g (1¾ oz) oyster mushrooms
50 g (1¾ oz) enoki mushrooms 50 g (1¾ oz) fresh black fungus (wood ears) 2
tablespoons vegetable oil, plus an extra 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) for deep-
frying 50 g (1¾ oz) fresh lotus root (optional), peeled and thinly sliced into
rounds
6 red radish slices

¼ red onion, cut into rings
6 cherry tomatoes, cut in half 10 perilla leaves, roughly sliced 10 mint leaves,
roughly sliced 1 handful Vietnamese mint leaves, sliced 1 teaspoon Fried
garlic chips (see Basics) snow pea (mangetout) sprouts, to garnish FRIED
BEAN CURD
50 g (1¾ oz) dried bean curd stick 150 ml (5 fl oz) light soy sauce 75 ml (2½ fl
oz) shaoxing rice wine
2 tablespoons sugar
DRESSING
3 tablespoons lemon juice

30 ml (1 fl oz) tamari
1 garlic clove, crushed
½ teaspoon pickled chilli

preparation
To prepare the fried bean curd, put the bean curd stick in a heatproof bowl, cover
with boiling water and leave to soften for 20 minutes. Remove from the water
and squeeze out the excess moisture.
In a small saucepan, combine the soy sauce, rice wine and sugar. Stir over high
heat until the sugar has dissolved, then add the bean curd. Remove from the heat
and allow to infuse at room temperature.
Meanwhile, place the shiitake mushrooms in a small saucepan and cover with
hot water. Add the salt and sugar and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and
simmer for 20 minutes, or until plump and tender. Drain and allow to cool.
Remove the stalks, slice the mushrooms thinly and set aside.
Pour the pickling liquid into a small bowl and add the bean sprouts. Set aside.
Tear the oyster mushrooms into bite-sized pieces, following the gill lines.
Remove the root from the enoki mushrooms and separate them. Tear each black
fungus into three pieces.
Add the oil to a hot wok and stir-fry the mushrooms for 30 seconds, or until
slightly coloured and wilted down. Remove from the wok and set aside.
Heat the 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) oil in a small saucepan to 180°C (350°F), or
until a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds. Chop the
infused bean curd stick into 1 cm (½ inch) pieces, then carefully place into the
hot oil and fry for 3 minutes, or until crisp. Remove from the oil and drain.
If using the lotus root, fry it in the hot oil for 2 minutes, or until golden and
crisp. Drain, season with sea salt and ground white pepper and set aside.
Whisk the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. In a large mixing bowl,
combine all the mushrooms with the bean curd, salad vegetables, herbs and
garlic chips. Add 2 tablespoons of the dressing and toss to combine.
Transfer to a serving bowl and top with one more tablespoon of dressing.
Garnish with the snow pea sprouts and fried lotus root, if using, and serve.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) pork neck, cut into lengths about 3 cm x 1 cm (1¼ inches x ½
inch) 3 tablespoons sugar

100 ml (3½ fl oz) vegetable oil
4 cooked tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined 100 g (3½ oz) pork floss
(available from Asian grocers) crushed roasted peanuts, for sprinkling 1
tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam
cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 3 tablespoons Spring onion oil (see Basics)
10 cm (4 inch) length of spring onion (scallion), green part only, thinly sliced
on the diagonal 1 red bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced BATTER
60 g (2 oz/⅓ cup) rice flour
30 g (1 oz) wheat starch (available from Asian grocers) preparation
To caramelise the pork, place it in a small saucepan along with the sugar, fish
sauce and enough water to cover the pork. Cook over high heat until the water
has nearly evaporated, turning the pork occasionally. Once the water has
evaporated, there should be a sticky caramel coating on the pork. Remove from
the heat and allow to cool — the pork should be very sweet, salty and sticky.
Once cooled, finely shred the pork and set aside.
To make the batter, combine the rice flour, wheat starch, a pinch of sea salt and
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water in a small saucepan. Place over medium heat,
stirring with a whisk to form a smooth batter. As the mixture thickens, begin
stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon.
When the mixture has reached a smooth gluey consistency, remove from the
heat. Transfer onto a 3.5 cm (1½ inch) deep baking tray, measuring 22 cm x 30
cm (8¾ inches x 12 inches), lined with plastic wrap. Using a spatula, smooth the
mixture out, into an even layer about 1 cm (½ inch) thick.
Cover the tray well with plastic wrap. Steam over high heat for 15 minutes.
Remove from the steamer and allow to cool.
Remove the top layer of plastic wrap from the cooled rice cake. Turn the tray
over, inverting the rice cake onto a chopping board, face side down. Tap the
bottom of the tray and lift it off the rice cake. Remove the plastic wrap. Using a
sharp knife, cut the rice cake into 2 cm (¾ inch) squares and set aside.
In a large frying pan, heat the vegetable oil over high heat. Add the rice cakes
and cook for 3 minutes, or until golden brown and crisp underneath. Reduce the
heat to medium, turn the cakes over and cook for a further 3 minutes. When
golden brown on both sides, remove from the pan and arrange on a platter.
Slice the prawns in half lengthways, then cut each half into three pieces. Lay the
prawn pieces over the rice cakes. Sprinkle with an even layer of the shredded,
caramelised pork, then the pork floss, peanuts and fried shallots. Spoon the nuoc
mam cham and spring onion oil over, garnish with the spring onion and chilli
and serve.
ingredients
80 g (2¾ oz) rice vermicelli noodles 400 g (14 oz) piece of untrimmed beef
sirloin

3 tablespoons finely diced lemongrass, white part only 2 red bird’s eye chillies,
thinly sliced 2 garlic cloves, crushed

18 dried round rice paper sheets, about 22 cm (8¾ inches) in diameter 1 bunch
perilla, leaves picked 1 bunch mint, leaves picked
75 g (2¾ oz/1 cup) shredded iceberg lettuce Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see
Basics), to serve PICKLED VEGETABLES
375 ml (12½ fl oz/1½ cups) white vinegar 220 g (8 oz/1 cup) sugar
12 carrot batons
12 daikon batons
12 celery batons
12 cucumber batons
preparation
To pickle the vegetables, combine the vinegar, sugar and salt in a saucepan. Stir
well and bring to the boil, then remove from the heat and allow to cool. Put the
vegetables in a clean container and pour the cooled pickling liquid over to
completely submerge the vegetables. Cover with a lid and leave to pickle for 3
days before using.
Add the noodles to a saucepan of boiling water and bring back to the boil. Cook
for 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and allow the noodles to stand in the water
for a further 5 minutes. Strain and rinse under cold water, then leave to dry. It is
best to have the vermicelli cooked and strained for at least 30 minutes prior to
rolling, to allow the noodles to dry a little and stick together.
Remove the fat and sinew from the beef, then cut the fillet into 24 slices about 3
mm (⅛ inch) thick. (Placing the beef in the freezer briefly makes it easier to slice
thinly.) Set aside.
Heat the oil in a hot wok until smoking. Add the lemongrass, chilli and garlic
and stir-fry for 30 seconds, or until fragrant. Add the beef and stir-fry for 2
minutes, then add the fish sauce and continue to cook until the sauce has
evaporated. Remove the beef from the wok and allow to cool to room
temperature.
To assemble the rolls, cut six of the rice paper sheets in half. Fill a large bowl
with warm water and dip one whole rice paper sheet in the water until it softens.
Shake off any excess water and lay the rice paper sheet flat on a plate. Dip a half
sheet of rice paper in the water and lay it vertically in the middle of the round
sheet. This will strengthen the roll, so the filling doesn’t break through.
In the middle of the rice paper, place two large perilla leaves in a horizontal line,
about 4 cm (1½ inches) from the top. Below the perilla add two mint leaves, two
slices of the beef, 1 baton of each pickled vegetable, some lettuce and noodles.
To form the rolls, first fold the sides into the centre, over the filling, then the
bottom of the paper up and over. Roll from bottom to top, forming a tight roll.
Serve with the nuoc mam cham.
As the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh, Vinh was once a town full of historical sites,
and was even said to hold the remains of an ancient citadel, but all have been
destroyed and lost after the battering it received during the French and American
wars of last century.
Vinh is now an industrial town, with transport, factory and agricultural industries
set within a scene that takes its lead from 1980s-style Soviet architecture. Many
passers-by would probably not spend much time in Vinh, stripped as it is of its
cultural relics and original features. I’m here with the sole purpose of trying a
local delicacy — rice-paddy eel.
En route from Hue to Vinh, we stop off at an in-between town called Quang
Ninh. I’ve been told that these parts are some of the poorest in the region.
Certainly during my visit, the sun is so hot, the grass is dry and the water levels
low, making it seem somewhat bleaker than it may usually be.
I stop at a roadside store for a pot of tea and begin to talk to the family there.
They tell me that in wet season, the water from the coast rises so high that it
comes up knee high, right across the flat, filling their home and flooding the
highway that they live next to.
‘So what do you do, then?’ I ask.
‘Well, we pile all our belongings onto our wooden bed, and just have to wait for
the water to go down, which usually takes about four days.’
I gaze across at the traditional Vietnamese-style bed, which looks like a

kingsized frame, but with no mattress, only a platform made of heavy timber. I
glance around their little place, set by the roadside on Highway 1, and find it
hard to imagine it filled with water — and even more incredulously, try to
imagine the family hanging out on a bed for four days, waiting. What else can
they do I suppose, but wait?
On their mantelpiece, I notice some fish carvings made from wood. ‘Are they
good luck charms?’ I ask the wife.
She replies, ‘This area of Quang Ninh is one of the poorest in Vietnam. When
times are tough, we cannot afford to buy meat or fish. So we can only supply
rice for our children. Come dinnertime, we set the table with steamed rice and
our wooden carvings of fish to make out that as a family, we are having a
fulfilled meal.’
As she tells me this story, tears run down my face. It is incredibly sad, but also
such a great symbol of courage and resilience.
We finally make it to Vinh, where I head directly to meet my young expert eel-
catcher, by the name of Dung. He walks me to an area surrounded by rice paddy
fields that are submerged in water.
He tells me he had placed eel traps in the fields the night before. We both roll
our shorts up and head in to retrieve the traps. As my feet squish into the wet
mud, I quickly sink in, thigh high. I’m not feeling too confident, as I can’t see
where my legs are, or what other species live in these fields.
Dung reassures me by saying, ‘Don’t worry Luke, there are only snails, eels,
crabs, snakes and rats in these fields — they’re harmless.’ I thank Dung for
putting me at ease!
As we walk towards the centre of the field, I see a trap sticking vertically out of
the mud. The eel trap is made from a 50 cm (20 inch) length of bamboo; the
closed end is filled with worms, and the open end is enclosed by a coneshaped
trapping device, also made from bamboo, which allows the eel to slither in, but
prevents it slithering out again. In the ten traps, we find twelve eels — a very
successful day indeed.
I wash the eels in salt and limestone, marinate them in fish sauce, lemongrass,
turmeric, curry powder and tiny red shallots, then cook them over some glowing
charcoal. The smoky aroma lures in some passers-by, so I buy a case of beer and
share my chargrilled eel with the friendly locals and listen to their stories of
Uncle Ho himself. All of them are so very proud that their fearless leader was
born in their small town of Vinh.
It is most unexpected, I have the most fantastic time filming in Vinh. Again it is
the locals that make the experience so memorable.
We notice some black rain clouds rolling in; we’ve already had such great luck
in catching some really interesting local specialties, such as rice paddy eel, and
netting up school prawns (shrimp) in the river, that we decide a bit of rain won’t
do much harm and continue on with our plans.
The market floor soon turns into a soupy mess and the sky darkens further with
fat droplets of rain. As I talk with vendors and farmers, discussing a good dish to
cook, we begin to draw a crowd of locals, some of whom are the most
rambunctious lot of people I’ve met on any of my travels.
I guess I should have known that pulling up to the markets with a film crew in
tow would cause quite a commotion!
What transpires? Well it’s hard to describe the energy, but my film crew are in
fits of laughter, trying desperately to hold back their delight at the raucous mob
that have surrounded my cooking cart. They are all poking fun at me, laughing
and helping me cook my Pork ribs braised in young coconut juice (see recipe),
being as cheeky for the camera as they can be.
You know the feeling when a shared energy pulses through a crowd of people —
this moment is one of them, with the rain and storm building, the shoppers riding
and darting in and out of cover while the market vendors are laughing all around
me.
It’s one of my fondest memories and a great example of the spontaneity and
playfulness of Vietnamese people.
‡
My film crew are in fits of laughter, trying
desperately to hold back their delight at the
raucous mob that have surrounded my cooking
cart.
You may have tried betel leaves in Thailand, served raw to
accompany certain dishes. In Vietnam, we like to stir-fry or grill betel
leaves, as they release a wonderful sweet incense-like aroma into
dishes. You can often find fresh betel leaves at your local Asian
market.
ingredients
1 whole barramundi, about 600–700 g (1 lb 5 oz–1 lb 9 oz), cleaned and gutted
ground white pepper, for seasoning
1 bunch betel leaves

1 long red chilli, julienned 4 spring onions (scallions), finely shredded
DRESSING
10 cm (4 inch) knob of fresh ginger, peeled and chopped 4 large garlic cloves,
peeled and chopped 1 red chilli, chopped
2 tablespoons sugar
preparation
To make the dressing, pound the ginger, garlic and chilli to a paste using a large
mortar and pestle. Transfer to a mixing bowl, add the remaining dressing
ingredients and 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) water. Mix well to dissolve the sugar and
set aside.
Generously season both sides of the fish with sea salt and white pepper. Heat a
chargrill to medium heat. Cover the grill with enough betel leaves so that the
bottom side of the fish will be protected when placed on the grill.
Chargrill for 12–15 minutes, depending on the size of the fish. When turning the
fish over, replace the charred betel leaves with fresh ones, then chargrill for a
further 12–15 minutes, or until cooked through.
Transfer the fish to a serving platter. Drizzle the fish with the dressing, garnish
with the chilli and spring onion and serve.
There are over 400 species of eel around the world, found in both
fresh and salt water. Although eels look like snakes, they are actually
fish, and are really delicious to eat, so don’t be afraid to cook with
them. You can ask your fishmonger to bone the eel if you prefer.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) eel fillets, boned, with the skin on, cut into 5 cm (2 inch) pieces
1 small handful coriander (cilantro) sprigs MARINADE
1 teaspoon red curry powder
1 teaspoon ground turmeric

2 lemongrass stems, white part only, finely diced 2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 bird’s eye chilli, finely diced ½ teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon sugar

preparation
Combine all the marinade ingredients in a large bowl and mix to dissolve the
sugar. Add the eel and toss to coat with the marinade. Cover and set aside to
marinate for 20 minutes.
Heat a chargrill pan to medium. Drain the eel, reserving the marinade. Cook the
eel for 3–4 minutes on each side, brushing with the reserved marinade as it
cooks.
Transfer to a bowl or platter and garnish with the coriander. Serve with steamed
jasmine rice.
I cooked this dish right in the middle of the Vinh market. As soon as
we started filming, locals began surrounding me, curious to know
what I was cooking. They didn’t care about the camera — they kept
shouting out what I was missing and what I was doing wrong. By the
end, they grabbed my tools, took over my cooking cart and actually
cooked the dish themselves. It was so much fun, with lots of laughs,
and one of my favourite cooking segments of the series.
ingredients
1 red Asian shallot, diced
1 teaspoon oyster sauce
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons crushed garlic

300 g (10½ oz) pork spare ribs, cut into 2 cm x 3 cm (¾ inch x 1¼ inch) pieces
(ask your butcher to do this) vegetable oil, for deep-frying
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) young coconut juice 1 onion, sliced into wedges
In a mixing bowl, combine the shallot, fish sauce, oyster sauce, sugar, salt,
pepper and 1 tablespoon of the garlic. Mix well to dissolve the sugar, then add
the pork ribs and stir to coat well. Cover and leave to marinate for 20 minutes.
One-third fill a large wok or deep frying pan with oil and heat to 180°C (350°F),
or until a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds.
Drain the pork ribs, reserving the marinade. Deep-fry the pork ribs in small
batches over medium heat for 3 minutes, or until brown. Remove using a slotted
spoon and drain on paper towels.
Pour the coconut juice and reserved marinade into a saucepan and bring to the
boil. Add the pork ribs, reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes.
Increase the heat to medium–high and cook for a further 5 minutes, or until the
coconut juice has reduced to one-quarter of its original volume.
Add the onion, remaining garlic and a pinch of black pepper. Stir constantly for
5 minutes, then turn off the heat.
Transfer the ribs to a serving platter and garnish with coriander. Serve with
You will find betel leaves chargrilling on streets all throughout
Vietnam, their sweet aroma luring you in. Vendors will serve these
betel leaf rolls on bamboo skewers, on top of rice vermicelli noodles,
wrapped in lettuce leaves, or simply in a crisp baguette. You can serve
them any way you like. They are extremely easy to make.
ingredients
400 g (14 oz) minced (ground) beef
2 lemongrass stems, white part only, finely chopped 4 spring onions (scallions),
white part only, finely chopped 1 garlic clove, finely chopped
2 teaspoons ground white pepper
1 bunch betel leaves

200 g (7 oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions 1
tablespoon Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried red
Asian shallots (see Basics)
1 teaspoon crushed roasted peanuts

preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the beef, lemongrass, spring onion, garlic, salt and
white pepper. Cover and allow the flavours to infuse for at least 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, remove the stems from the individual betel leaves and wash in cold
water. Lay the leaves flat on a cloth to dry.
To form the rolls, lay a large betel leaf (or two smaller leaves), shiny side down,
on a board with the stem end of the leaf pointing towards you. Spoon
approximately 1 tablespoon of the beef mixture onto the bottom edge of the leaf.
Work the mixture into a sausage shape using your hands, then roll the leaf from
bottom to top, folding in the sides to enclose the meat, and place the seam flat on
your board to stop the leaf unrolling.
Repeat this process until you have used all of the beef. The mixture should make
about 20 rolls.
Cook the parcels, seam side down, on a chargrill pan or barbecue hotplate over
medium heat, for about 5 minutes, turning to colour all over, until cooked
through.
Arrange the cooked parcels over a bed of noodles. Drizzle with the nuoc mam
cham, garnish with the fried shallots, peanuts and chilli and serve.
Tamarind soup is my all-time favourite Vietnamese soup. My mother
used to make it every week for me. It is called ‘Canh chua’ in
Vietnamese and has such great balance of flavour — sour from the
tamarind, sweet from the pineapple, tart from the tomatoes and
bamboo, and salty from the fish sauce. I always cook this dish for
someone who hasn’t tried Vietnamese food before, as it is a great
introduction to the cuisine.
ingredients
50 g (1¾ oz) tamarind pulp
1.5 litres (51 fl oz/6 cups) fish stock

75 g (2¾ oz/⅓ cup) sugar
½ sweet pineapple, peeled and cut into bite-sized pieces 100 g (3½ oz) pickled
bamboo shoots (available from Asian grocers) 200 g (7 oz) baby squid,
cleaned but not skinned 200 g (7 oz) small raw tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled
and deveined, tails left attached 1 tomato, cut into wedges
5 okra, trimmed, then sliced on the diagonal
1 green banana (optional), peeled and cut into 1 cm (½ inch) slices 1 elephant
ear stem, peeled and sliced (optional; omit if unavailable) 1 teaspoon Garlic
oil (see Fried garlic chips recipe in Basics) 1 bunch rice paddy herb, roughly
sliced
1 bunch saw-tooth coriander (cilantro), roughly sliced 2 teaspoons Fried garlic
chips (see Basics) 2 red chillies, sliced
preparation
Dissolve the tamarind pulp in 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) hot water. Work the pulp
until it has dissolved, then strain the liquid through a fine sieve into a clay pot,
discarding the pulp.
Add the stock, fish sauce and sugar to the clay pot and stir until the sugar has
dissolved. Stir in the pineapple and bamboo shoots and bring to the boil.
Add the squid and prawns and bring back to the boil, discarding any impurities
that rise to the top.
Add the tomato, okra, and the green banana and elephant ear stems, if using.
Bring back to the boil, then transfer to serving bowls. Drizzle with the garlic oil,
garnish with the herbs, garlic chips and chilli and serve.
Kohlrabi is a root vegetable that is much loved in Vietnam as it can be
eaten both raw or cooked. It is crisp and tastes a bit like a water
chestnut crossed with cabbage. When buying tamarind, be sure to buy
it in block form. Don’t go for the ready-made pastes, as their flavour
is inferior to the blocked pulp.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) peeled and julienned kohlrabi 100 g (3½ oz) peeled and julienned
carrots 100 g (3½ oz) peeled and julienned beetroot (beet) 2 tablespoons
sugar

300 g (10½ oz) lean beef eye fillet, trimmed and sliced into 3 mm (⅛ inch) slices
2 tablespoons Tamarind water (see Basics) 1 handful saw-tooth coriander
(cilantro) leaves, sliced
1 handful Vietnamese mint leaves

2 tablespoons Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 2 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham
dipping sauce (see Basics)
1 red bird’s eye chilli, sliced
preparation
In a bowl, combine the kohlrabi, carrot, beetroot and sugar. Mix well and set
aside for 10 minutes, then drain.
Place a frying pan over high heat. Add the oil and fry the garlic until fragrant.
Add the beef, season with the pepper, then stir-fry the beef for no more than 3
minutes — only until just cooked through. Transfer the beef to a bowl, add 1
tablespoon of the tamarind water and toss to combine.
In another bowl, combine the kohlrabi, carrot, beetroot, saw-tooth coriander,

Vietnamese mint, garlic chips and tamarind beef. Add the remaining tablespoon
of tamarind water and the nuoc mam cham.
Toss the salad to combine all the ingredients. Garnish with the peanuts and chilli
and serve.
Ninh Binh, the ancient tenth-century capital of Vietnam, seems to have it all —
royal relics, caves and pristine rivers. It has to be one of the most beautiful areas
I have seen in Vietnam.
Travelling by road, five hours from Vinh, the landscape changes from wide rice-
paddy terraces to tall limestone hills. The Ninh Binh region is littered with
caves, hot springs, limestone karsts, and shallow rivers splitting through lush rice
paddy landscapes which run to the foot of the surrounding mountains of Cuc
Phuong — the first forest area in Vietnam to claim national park status; it also
happens to be the place my mother was named after.
With its rich culture and history, Ninh Binh is considered one of the original
sacred lands, with many of its ancient sites being heritage listed. This area had
been a secret location outside the shores of Vietnam, but with its vast
unadulterated beauty it couldn’t remain secret for long.
Ninh Binh is often referred to as an ‘inland Ha Long Bay’. It is a rural town in

development, growing from a purely agricultural economy to encompass
industrial sectors such as cement quarries and steel factories, and also tourism.
Both local and foreign tourists are attracted to the unique landscape of Ninh
Binh and its main river, Ngo Dong, which winds gracefully through the small
village of Tam Coc.
One of the main incomes for the Tam Coc locals is rowing small boats along the
picturesque Ngo Dong River for tourists. At the dock, there are so many boats
jammed next to each other that I can’t even see the colour of the water. As
chaotic as it seems, it is nevertheless fairly organised. Local tourists flock to the
river by the busload, so I decide to go for a bicycle ride through the quaint
village until things quieten down a little.
As I ride past vast greenery and beauty, I notice two ladies wearing conical hats,
knee-deep in a shallow pond. They look like they are picking bright pink flowers
that are just in bloom. When I stop to get a closer look, I’m amazed to see that
the pink flowers are actually thousands of fluorescent-pink snail eggs, clumped
together on green leaves — the ladies were on the lookout for snails! I jump in
and join them and pick out about a kilo of plump, juicy snails, which I plan to
cook up while floating down the Ngo Dong River.
By the time I return to the dock, the crowds have thankfully subsided. I grab my
ingredients, then negotiate my price with a rower named An Hai, who has been
rowing for a living for the past twenty or so years.
The ride along the river is incredibly peaceful, pretty and romantic. We row past
rice paddy fields, tall limestone karsts and through dark mystical caves — the
perfect place to bring your sweetheart… but instead I get to prepare my snails.
As I cook my snails in a clear broth of ginger, lime leaves, lemongrass and chilli
(see recipe), An Hai decides to change his rowing technique by using his feet
instead of his arms. I see all the other passing rowers switching to their feet also.
Apparently, the rowers in Tam Coc are famous for this unusual rowing
technique, so we have a bit of a chuckle and continue on.
I then notice, high up on the tallest peak, a small pagoda overlooking the entire
Tam Coc area. So I ask An Hai how we get up there.
‘No cars can get to the peak, it’s too steep. The only way is by foot — but you
have to climb 1000 big stone steps!’
I look at my cameraman in excitement. ‘What an amazing view we would have

from up that high!’ I exclaim.
His response: ‘No way am I lugging all my camera gear up 1000 steps, mate!’
So off we go, up those 1000 steps, with each crew member carrying either a
tripod, light stands, camera gear, cooking equipment or fresh ingredients.
The crew are not happy! I haven’t seen such grumpy faces during the entire trip.
The steps are extremely uneven and wide, making them harder to climb. After
fifty steps we are all exhausted, struggling to catch our breath — and it doesn’t
help that it’s a 40°C (104°F) day. Before trekking up here, we were all so
focused on not forgetting any cooking or camera gear that none of us
remembered to take any drinking water, so we are dehydrated as well.
Nobody is talking to me, hating every part of me, for making them climb up this
steep mountain. So I put on a brave face and make sure I’m the first one up
there, so I can prove to them that it wasn’t all that bad. But truthfully, it is tough;
my knees are shaking uncontrollably from pain.
An hour later, I finally make it up to the highest peak. All of a sudden, the pain
instantly disappears. The 360-degree view of Tam Coc is just spectacular —
absolutely breathtaking! It is a surreal moment. I stand there for a good twenty
minutes looking out at its beauty, following the river snaking its way through
small villages, ancient buildings, caves, paddy fields, tall trees, limestone karsts
and majestic mountains.
One by one, the crew make it to the top, their shirts soaking wet from the heat. I
tell you what, if looks could kill… but as soon as they look out onto the view,
their disgruntled faces transform with smiles of joy.
No one says a word; we all just stand there in silence, enjoying the moment.
After everyone catches their breath, we set up the camera, and I make my Citrus-
cured goat salad (see recipe) in front of the most picturesque backdrop ever.
I urge everyone to visit this beautiful town and do the trek up Dancing Dragon
Mountain, known by the locals as Hang Mua.
You will not regret it, as the view makes the hike worthwhile. Just remember to
take some drinking water…
‡
We row past rice paddy fields, tall limestone
karsts and through dark mystical caves — the
perfect place to bring your sweetheart… but
instead I get to prepare my snails.
This recipe belongs to Hai, a young gentleman who showed me how
to speak ‘duck’. Hai raises 200 ducks and has to feed them five times
a day. When it is feeding time, he simply calls out ‘here kiddy kiddy
kiddy, arrgh, arrgh, arrgh’, then they all appear from the surrounding
rice paddy fields for their feed. Quite incredible to watch. Here is his
delicious pork recipe.
ingredients
1 tablespoon sugar

300 g (10½ oz) pork neck, thinly sliced 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 garlic cloves, diced
2 red Asian shallots, diced
½ red capsicum (pepper), thinly sliced lengthways 1 tomato, quartered
100 g (3½ oz) sweet pineapple, peeled and cut into bite-sized pieces 1 onion,
sliced into wedges
4 spring onions (scallions), cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths ½ bunch Asian
celery, about 30 g (1 oz), washed and cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths
coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish light soy sauce for dipping
SAUCE
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon white vinegar

2 teaspoons tomato sauce (ketchup)
1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 teaspoon cornflour (cornstarch), dissolved in 2 teaspoons water preparation
Combine all the sauce ingredients in a small bowl. Mix well to dissolve the
sugar and set aside.
In another bowl, combine the sugar and fish sauce and stir until the sugar has
dissolved. Add the pork and pepper, then toss to coat the pork with the marinade.
Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 2 hours.
Heat a wok over high heat. Add 1 tablespoon of the vegetable oil, followed by
the garlic and pork and stir-fry for 3 minutes. Remove and set aside.
Heat the remaining oil in the wok, then add the shallot, capsicum, tomato and
pineapple and stir-fry for 3 minutes.
Return the pork to the wok. Pour in the prepared sauce and stir. Now add the
onion, spring onion and celery and stir-fry for a further 2 minutes, until the sauce
thickens.
Garnish with coriander. Serve with steamed jasmine rice and a side dipping
sauce of light soy sauce and sliced red chilli.
I’ve always wondered if it were the French who introduced eating
snails to Vietnam. But the more I think about it, it could just as well
have been the Vietnamese who first introduced it to the French, as the
Vietnamese eat absolutely anything — if it moves, they’ll eat it!
Snails are extremely popular in Vietnam. You will see snail street-
food stalls everywhere serving many different varieties, cooked many
different ways. This recipe is my favourite — simple, aromatic and
delicious. If you can’t get your hands on fresh snails, then the tinned
variety are okay to use.
ingredients
300 g (10½ oz) snails
2 lemongrass stems, bruised and cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths 6 lemon leaves
or regular lime leaves — not makrut (kaffir lime) leaves, plus extra, finely
shredded, to serve (optional) 2 red bird’s eye chillies, bashed
4 cm (1½ inch) knob of fresh ginger, pounded to a paste using a mortar and
pestle coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish sliced red chilli, to garnish
(optional) DIPPING SAUCE
2 tablespoons sugar

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) water
1 red chilli, diced
1 teaspoon diced garlic
1 teaspoon sliced lemongrass, white part only 2 lemon leaves, thinly sliced;
alternatively, use regular lime leaves, but not makrut (kaffir lime) leaves
preparation
Combine all the dipping sauce ingredients in a small bowl. Mix well to dissolve
the sugar and set aside.
Wash the snails in salted water three times, leaving them to sit in the water for
about 10 minutes each time.
Put the lemongrass, lemon leaves, chillies and ginger in a saucepan. Add 500 ml
(17 fl oz/2 cups) water and bring to the boil.
Add the snails, then cover and cook for 5 minutes.
Transfer the snails and broth to bowls. Garnish with coriander, and the extra
shredded lemon leaves and sliced chilli, if desired. Serve with the dipping sauce.
I strongly urge more Westerners to eat goat meat. About 70 per cent of
the world’s population eats the meat, but only 4 per cent of
Australians. Goat meat is incredibly tasty and is actually leaner than
chicken, as it has a very low fat content. When cooked properly, goat
is not at all gamey, so please do give it a go. If the skin has any hair on
it, use a blowtorch or pass it over a naked flame to burn it off, then
brush clean with paper towels.
ingredients
2 tablespoons finely diced fresh galangal

300 g (10½ oz) goat meat, skin on, thinly sliced 3 tablespoons lime juice
1 handful rice paddy herb

1 handful saw-tooth coriander (cilantro) 1 lemongrass stem, white part only,
thinly sliced 1 small onion, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon Toasted rice powder (see Basics) 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds

1 red bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced HOISIN DRESSING
1 red bird’s eye chilli, finely diced 2 tablespoons hoisin sauce
1 teaspoon sugar
preparation
Combine the dressing ingredients in a small bowl. Mix well to dissolve the sugar
and set aside.
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil. Add the salt and galangal. Bring
back to the boil and add the goat. Reduce the heat and simmer for 3 minutes.
Remove the goat, drain and allow to cool. Place in a bowl and toss with the lime
juice. Leave for 10 minutes — the acid in the lime will continue to ‘cure’ the
goat meat.
Drain the goat and place in a mixing bowl. Add the herbs, lemongrass, onion,
rice powder, sesame seeds and peanuts. Drizzle with the dressing and toss well.
Transfer to a serving bowl, garnish with the chilli and serve.

This is the perfect summer salad. Green mango, crab, mint and
lychees make a refreshing combination. If you have some green
mango left over, pound some sea salt, sugar and chilli using a mortar
and pestle and dip your green mango into this tasty mixture. Now you
can call yourself a real Vietnamese.
ingredients
1 green mango, peeled and julienned 4 fresh lychees, peeled and sliced into
quarters 5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced
5 mint leaves, roughly sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves, roughly sliced 5 Asian basil leaves, roughly sliced 1
long red chilli, diced
1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 1 teaspoon Fried garlic chips
(see Basics) 1 cooked blue swimmer crab, meat picked, with two claws
reserved 3 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics)

preparation
Combine all the ingredients, except the peanuts and crab claws, in a mixing
bowl. Toss well.
Transfer the salad to a plate or shallow bowl. Sprinkle with the peanuts, garnish
with the crab claws and serve.
Asparagus was introduced to Vietnam by the French when they
colonised Vietnam in the late 1800s. It is now used in many dishes
throughout the country. If you want to keep this dish completely
vegetarian, use light soy sauce or tamari instead of oyster sauce and
fish sauce.
ingredients

200 g (7 oz) asparagus, woody ends trimmed, sliced into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths
70 g (2½ oz) oyster mushrooms 70 g (2½ oz) fresh black fungus (wood ears),
sliced 1½ tablespoons fish sauce
2 teaspoons oyster sauce

½ teaspoon sugar
pinch of sea salt
pinch of freshly ground black pepper 1 long red chilli, sliced
¼ teaspoon toasted sesame seeds preparation
Add the oil to a hot wok, followed by the garlic. Fry for 5–10 seconds, or until
fragrant. Add the asparagus and stir-fry for 2 minutes.
Add all the mushrooms and toss for 30 seconds. Now add the fish sauce, oyster
sauce, sugar and 1 tablespoon water. Toss for a further 1 minute, then add the
salt and pepper.
Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with the chilli and sesame seeds. Serve
Slow-braising beef ribs with cassia bark, star anise, cloves and
sichuan peppercorns makes a perfect winter meal. A simple dish that
will have your guests asking, ‘Wow, how did you get the meat to fall
off the bone like that?’
ingredients
2 kg (4 lb 6 oz) beef short ribs, cut by your butcher through the bone into 3 cm
(1¼ inch) lengths 1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cups) vegetable oil 4 spring onions
(scallions), white part only, cut into 3 cm (1¼ inch) lengths coriander
(cilantro) sprigs, to garnish 2 long red chillies, thinly sliced on the diagonal
BRAISING MIXTURE
½ cassia bark stick
4 star anise
½ teaspoon whole cloves
½ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper ½ teaspoon whole sichuan peppercorns
50 g (1¾ oz) knob of fresh ginger, peeled and sliced 4 garlic cloves, bruised
4 tablespoons shaoxing rice wine

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) light soy sauce

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) Chinese black vinegar 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) young
coconut juice 70 g (2½ oz) rock sugar
2 pieces dried mandarin peel (available from Asian grocers) preparation
Separate the ribs by cutting between the bones.
Add the oil to a large saucepan and heat to 180°C (350°F), or until a cube of
bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds. Fry the ribs in small
batches until golden brown, then drain on paper towels.
In another large saucepan, combine all the ingredients for the braising mixture.
Add the ribs and stir to combine. Pour in enough water to cover by about 5 cm (2
inches) and bring to the boil, skimming off the impurities as they rise to the
surface.
Reduce the heat to a simmer and continue skimming until no more impurities
rise up. Simmer for a further 1½ hours, or until the meat is tender and nearly
falling off the bone.
Remove the ribs from the saucepan and keep warm. Pass the braising liquid
through a sieve to remove the whole spices and ginger.
Return the liquid to the saucepan and bring to the boil. Add the spring onion,
reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes, or until the spring onion is tender.
Arrange the ribs on a serving platter. Drizzle with the sauce, garnish with
coriander and serve with the chilli on the side.
Hanoi is Vietnam’s capital and second largest city. It is a charming and beautiful
old city, which only a few years ago celebrated 1000 years of existence. Much of
the nostalgia experienced here is due to the melding of original Chinese,
Vietnamese and French architecture and the city layout.
Located beside the famous Hoan Kiem Lake, Hanoi’s old quarter retains its
original 36 streets, their origins dating back to the thirteenth century, and their
names announcing the product that once was traded there, like silver street, hat
street, fish street, medicine street, cotton street and so on. Nowadays the streets
don’t specialise so much in only one product. Luckily for me, Cha Ca Street still
dishes up the delicious Hanoian specialty, ‘Cha ca’: snakehead fish fillet, pan-
fried at the table in a turmeric and dill marinade, then tossed in a vermicelli,
peanut and herb salad. An absolute must-try dish on your visit to the old town.
Hundreds of years of Hanoian life and history are captured in these energetic
streets, once connected to major waterway routes via canals. Hanoi was crowned
capital and political hub of French Indochina in 1902. The beautiful wide
boulevards, streets and timeless French villas and estates that make this city such
a charming visual experience can be equally as telling of the slavery and war that
engulfed the community during French colonial rule.
Today, Hanoi is a city on the move, and as everywhere in Vietnam, street food is
a major part of the culture. For the Vietnamese, street food is more than just a
convenient way of eating; it’s a lifestyle, which I feel is the envy of many in the
West. Street food in Hanoi seems more accessible than it is in Saigon these days.
As I walk through the old quarter, street food seems to be everywhere — from
early morning until late evening.
Now if you want to see the streets come alive with activity, you have to get up
super early, as the Hanoians like to wake before sunrise to exercise or to simply
eat breakfast, so this is when the street-food vendors also come out to play.
One of my favourite street-food vendors is Chi Hong, and she has been selling a
local dish called ‘Bun cha’ for 20 years. Just off Hang Cot Street, under the
railway bridge, I walk down a narrow lane until I reach her house. At 6 am, the
doors and windows are wide open. It is a tiny, narrow home with stuff
everywhere; there is not much room to move. Large bags are stacked on top of
each other in front of old tall wooden cupboards that sit next to two single beds,
which double as sofas during the day.
Chi Hong enters with 10 kg (22 lb) of pork belly and asks me to start slicing.
I’ve come to learn her recipe, but I guess she has other plans. I find some space
on her floor, place a thick chopping board on top of a small plastic stool and
begin to thinly slice the belly and place it in a large tub, as Chi Hong adds spring
onion (scallion), red Asian shallots, honey, salt, pepper and fish sauce.
As we slice and massage the meat with the tasty marinade, Chi Hong tells me
her father passed down this very same recipe to her, and now the whole family is
involved with the street-food business. She lives with her two sisters, who each
have husbands and kids — and they all live in the same cramped home. Each
morning, they wake at 4.30, buy their fresh produce from the markets, and spend
four hours prepping for the day.
By 8 am my 10 kg of pork belly is all marinated; half thinly sliced, half made

into small patties. Now we have to set up the stall. We unpack the plastic
furniture and set up ten tables of four along the street, fire up some charcoal on
the kerb and start chargrilling the belly and pork patties. Within half an hour, the
smoky aroma lures people in and the breakfast rush begins. The grilled meat is
served with a warm delicate sweet fish sauce, pickled green papaya, fresh herbs,
vermicelli noodles and crushed roasted peanuts — all for less than $1!
After breakfast, I walk through the old quarter to discover more local dishes and
see a little stall with a tiny table out front, with cans of soft drink and beer —
only the tops are cut out of the cans and there are two tiny black feet sticking out
of each one. The feet belong to freshly killed black chickens. This stall gets baby
Silkie chickens, places them upside down in a can, stuffs them with Chinese
medicinal herbs, adds some rice wine and soy sauce, then steams them until
tender. They don’t look all that appetising, but they are so incredibly tender and
delicious. Oh, and the stallholder says they are good for you, too.
A few doors down, I notice a long queue forming. Scooters and motorbikes also
pull up; they shout out their order to an elderly man and wait on their bikes. The
elderly man sits in front of two large pots, both on high heat. He lifts the first lid
up with his left hand, revealing some muslin (cheesecloth), which is stretched
tight around the large pot. He then ladles some thin rice batter onto the muslin,
distributing it evenly in a circular motion, then places the lid back on. He repeats
this process with the other pot, all of this taking no longer than five seconds. His
movements are elegant and swift, like he has been doing this all his life.
The batter is steamed for less than a minute; he then passes the super-thin rice
noodle on a flat bamboo stick to his wife, who places a mound of ground pork,
thinly sliced mushrooms and red Asian shallot on top and rolls it up. She tops the
rolled noodles with blanched bean sprouts, cucumber, mint and a drizzle of
warm fish sauce. The whole process has such technique and the finished dish
looks so amazing that I have to sit down and try one. Each noodle is made to
order, and is worth the wait. The noodles are extremely thin, soft and silky, the
fish sauce not too salty, and the herbs add such fragrance and texture.
After spending some time eating my way through this nostalgic city, I notice that
the Hanoian palate is very different to that in the rest of the country, particularly
the south. Food in Hanoi is not at all bland, but it is more elegant — simpler but
refined. Flavours are light and delicate: not as spicy as in the centre, and not as
sweet and complex as the south.
A great example is the much-loved ‘Pho’. In Saigon, southerners cook pho for
8–10 hours, using 10 different spices, and they eat it with added bean sprouts,
saw-tooth coriander (cilantro), rice paddy herb, basil, chilli, spring onion
(scallion), chilli sauce, fish sauce and hoisin sauce. In Hanoi, you simply get a
beef broth with rice noodles, slices of beef, some sliced spring onion and that’s
it. Not too many spices are used, only star anise, black cardamom, cloves and
peppercorns, so the broth is clean and clear. I must admit, I do prefer the
northern-style pho, but my parents will not be happy if they ever find out…
++
A little stall has a tiny table out front, with cans
of soft drink and beer — only the tops are cut
out of the cans and there are two tiny black feet
sticking out of each one. The feet belong to
black chickens.
Hanoi is the only place in Vietnam that produces young green rice
flakes, and is famous for it. The young glutinous rice grains are
harvested green, when not yet mature. They are roasted, then pounded
flat, and can be eaten as is, or used in cakes or cooked with seafood.
You can purchase green rice flakes at your local Asian market. They
are known in Vietnamese as ‘com’, pronounced ‘kohm’.
SERVES 4 as a shared starter

ingredients
150 g (5½ oz) young green rice flakes
300 g (10½ oz) pork paste (available from Asian butchers; see Tip) 500 g (1 lb 2
oz) large raw tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined, leaving the heads
and tails attached vegetable oil, for deep-frying
preparation
Sprinkle the rice flakes over a flat tray.
With oiled hands, take a heaped tablespoon of the pork paste. Shape the paste
around the body of one prawn, leaving the head and tail uncovered, and pressing
the paste tightly to coat the prawn evenly.
Repeat with the remaining paste and prawns.
Roll the prawns in the rice flakes, creating a thick coating of flakes around the
pork paste. (It’s okay for the coated prawns to sit for a short time while the oil is
heating.) Half-fill a large wok or deep saucepan with oil and heat to 180°C
(350°F), or until a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds.
Add the prawns in batches and fry for 3 minutes each batch, or until the coating
is crisp. Drain on paper towels and serve warm.
‡ TIP If you can’t get pork paste, pound 200 g (7 oz) minced (ground) pork, ½
tablespoon sea salt and a pinch of ground white pepper to a smooth paste
using a large mortar and pestle.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) minced (ground) pork 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) raw pork belly, thinly
sliced 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet
instructions 200 g (7 oz) bean sprouts
1 bunch perilla, leaves picked 1 bunch Asian basil, leaves picked 1 bunch
Vietnamese mint, leaves picked 1 bunch mint, leaves picked
vegetable oil, for brushing
MARINADE
1 tablespoon dark soy sauce

10 spring onions (scallions), thinly sliced 100 g (3½ oz/2 cups) roughly chopped
garlic chives 55 g (2 oz/½ cup) finely diced red Asian shallots 4 tablespoons
crushed garlic

DIPPING SAUCE
2 tablespoons sugar
1 small red chilli, diced
1 tablespoon lime juice

preparation
Combine the marinade ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix together well. Put
the minced pork in another mixing bowl, then add half the marinade mixture and
mix until well combined.
Add the pork belly slices to the remaining marinade and turn to coat well.
Cover and marinate both meats in the refrigerator for 2 hours, or overnight for an
even tastier result.
Near serving time, place the noodles, bean sprouts and herbs on separate platters
or bowls and place in the middle of the table.
Using oiled hands, form the minced pork mixture into small balls, then slightly
press down on each ball to form patties, about 5 cm (2 inches) in diameter and 1
cm (½ inch) thick.
Heat a charcoal grill or barbecue to medium–high. Brush the patties with oil and
cook for 4 minutes on each side, then remove to a platter. Now cook the pork
belly for 2 minutes on each side, or until brown. Arrange on the same platter and
place on the table.
While the patties are cooking, make the dipping sauce. Combine the fish sauce,
vinegar, sugar and 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) water in a saucepan. Mix well to
dissolve the sugar, then bring to the boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the
chilli, garlic and lime juice. Transfer the warm dipping sauce to dipping bowls
— one for each diner.
Each guest should have their own dipping bowl, with all the ingredients at hand.
To eat, take a mixture of the noodles, bean sprouts, herbs and meat, and dip into
the warm dipping sauce with each mouthful.
This dish is called ‘Cha ca’, and is one of Hanoi’s most loved dishes.
So much so that there is an entire street named after it, where you can
find many restaurants serving only this dish. A must-visit on Cha Ca
Street is a restaurant called Cha Ca La Vong, which has been serving
this dish for four generations.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) boneless snapper fillets, skin on 4 spring onions (scallions)
2 garlic cloves, peeled
2 teaspoons ground turmeric
1 teaspoon red curry powder

250 g (9 oz/1 cup) plain yoghurt

½ teaspoon shrimp paste

½ bunch dill
1 lemon, halved
100 g (3½ oz) bean sprouts
100 g (3½ oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions

250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) preparation
Cut the snapper into 4 cm (1½ inch) pieces, place in a bowl and set aside.
Remove and discard the roots from the spring onions. Chop off the spring onion
whites, reserving the green stems, and place in a mortar. Add the garlic and
pound to a paste with a pestle.
Add the spring onion paste to the fish, along with the turmeric, curry powder,
yoghurt, fish sauce, shrimp paste, sugar and 2 tablespoons of the oil. Roughly
chop one-third of the dill, add to the fish and gently mix together.
Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 1 hour.
Finely shred the green spring onion stems. Chop the remaining dill and set aside.
Heat a large frying pan over medium heat. Add the remaining oil, then fry the
fish fillets on one side for 1 minute.
Turn the fillets over, then cook for a further 2 minutes. Squeeze the lemon into
the pan and cook for a further minute, or until the fish is cooked through.
In a mixing bowl, toss together the bean sprouts, shredded green spring onion
stems, remaining dill and the noodles. Transfer to a serving platter and arrange
the fish on top.
Garnish with the peanuts, drizzle with the nuoc mam cham and serve.
ingredients
2 kg (4 lb 6 oz) oxtail, chopped by your butcher into 3 cm (1¼ inch) pieces
4 tablespoons sea salt

4 large onions, unpeeled
150 g (5½ oz) unpeeled fresh ginger
1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) beef brisket
190 ml (6½ fl oz/¾ cup) fish sauce
80 g (2¾ oz) rock sugar
1.6 kg (3½ lb) fresh rice noodles, at room temperature — you will need about
200 g (7 oz) per person 400 g (14 oz) trimmed beef sirloin, thinly sliced 4
spring onions (scallions), sliced
coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to garnish 2 bird’s eye chillies, sliced
1 lime, cut into wedges
SPICE POUCH
8 cloves
5 star anise
2 cassia bark sticks, each about 10 cm (4 inches) in length
1 tablespoon black peppercorns

40 cm (16 inch) square of muslin (cheesecloth) preparation
Put the oxtail in a large saucepan and pour in enough cold water to submerge it.
Add 3 tablespoons of the salt. Soak for 1 hour, then drain.
To prepare the spice pouch, dry roast each spice separately in a frying pan over
medium heat until fragrant. Allow the spices to cool, then coarsely grind using a
mortar and pestle. Add the ground spices to the muslin square and tie up tightly
in a knot. Set aside.
Heat a barbecue grill or chargill pan over medium–high heat. Cook the onions
and ginger for 15 minutes, turning regularly, until blackened on all sides. Allow
to cool, peel off and discard the blackened skins, then roughly chop.
Put the oxtail, brisket and 6 litres (203 fl oz/24 cups) cold water in a stockpot
and bring to the boil. While the stock is boiling, constantly skim any impurities
off the surface for 15 minutes, to ensure a clean, clear broth, then reduce the heat
to a low simmer.
Add the fish sauce, remaining 1 tablespoon salt, the rock sugar, onions, ginger
and spice pouch. Cover and simmer for 3 hours, or until the stock has reduced to
almost half.
Strain the stock through a muslin cloth. Remove the brisket, set aside to cool,
then thinly slice.
Blanch each portion of noodles in a saucepan of simmering water for 5 seconds.

Drain, then transfer to serving bowls.
Place three or four slices of brisket on top of the noodles, followed by three or
four slices of raw sirloin. Pour over the hot stock to cover the noodles and beef.
Garnish each bowl with some spring onion, a pinch of freshly ground black
pepper and a coriander sprig. At the table, add the chilli and a squeeze of lime.
ingredients
40 g (1½ oz) dried black fungus (wood ears) 40 g (1½ oz) bean thread vermicelli
noodles 1 jicama, peeled and julienned
200 g (7 oz) minced (ground) pork
200 g (7 oz) crabmeat
½ onion, finely diced
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons ground white pepper

20 dried round rice paper sheets, about 20 cm (8 inches) in diameter 1 egg white,
lightly beaten
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) rice vermicelli noodles, cooked according to packet instructions
1 large handful perilla, leaves roughly sliced 1 large handful mint, leaves
roughly sliced 1 large handful Vietnamese mint, leaves roughly sliced 250 ml
(8½ fl oz/1 cup) Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 3 tablespoons
Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics)

preparation
Put the mushrooms in a bowl, cover with water and soak for 20 minutes. Drain
and thinly slice.
Meanwhile, soak the bean thread vermicelli noodles in a bowl of water for 20
minutes. Drain and cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths.
Place the sliced jicama in a piece of muslin (cheesecloth) and squeeze out its
juice, discarding the juice. Put the jicama in a large mixing bowl, along with the
mushrooms, soaked bean thread vermicelli noodles, pork, crabmeat, onion,
sugar, salt, pepper and fish sauce.
Knead the mixture in the bowl for 10 minutes, or until your arms get tired —
you’re after a smooth, homogeneous mixture here.
Working with one sheet at a time, submerge a rice paper sheet in a large bowl of
warm water until it softens. Transfer the sheet to a chopping board or work
surface.
Take 1½ heaped tablespoons of the noodle mixture and place it on the bottom
edge of the rice paper. Fold the two adjacent sides, one on top of the other, into
the centre. Roll from the top to form a nice firm roll, and secure with a dab of
egg white. Repeat until you have filled all the rice paper sheets.
One-third fill a wok or deep saucepan with oil and heat to 180°C (350°F), or
until a cube of bread dropped into the oil browns in 15 seconds.
Fry the parcels in three batches for 6 minutes each, or until lightly browned and
crisp.
Distribute the cooked rice vermicelli noodles among serving bowls and top with
the herbs. Cut the parcels into the bowls.
Drizzle some of the nuoc mam cham over each bowl. Garnish with the fried
shallots and peanuts and serve.
When my family arrived in Australia as boat people in the late 1970s,
we didn’t have any money. Many of our family dinners consisted of
only a bowl of steamed rice and a cube of fermented bean curd. It
wasn’t much, as we couldn’t afford much else, but due to its intense
flavour, a cube of fermented bean curd went a long way — as it does
here.
ingredients
1 small duck, cleaned
vegetable oil, for brushing
2 spring onions (scallions), finely shredded 1 long red chilli, julienned
MARINADE
2 tablespoons red fermented bean curd

4 tablespoons white fermented bean curd, plus 2 tablespoons of the bean curd
water
3 tablespoons sugar
3 cm (1¼ inch) knob of fresh ginger, peeled and pounded to a paste using a
mortar and pestle (you need 2 tablespoons pounded ginger)
2 teaspoons sesame oil
preparation
Combine all the marinade ingredients in a bowl and mix until well combined.
Coat the duck all over with the marinade. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator
for 2 hours, or overnight for a better result. At the end of marinating, do not
drain the duck or pat it dry.
Roast and rotisserie the duck over charcoal over medium heat for 30 minutes, or
roast in a preheated 180°C (350°F) oven for 1½ hours, basting occasionally with
a little extra oil.
Slice the duck lengthways through the middle of the breast bone, then cut down
one side of the backbone to cut the duck in half. Cut down the other side of the
backbone and discard it. Remove the wingtips and neck.
Cut each duck half between the breast and thigh to give you four pieces, then use
a heavy knife or cleaver to chop the duck into 2 cm (¾ inch) pieces.
Serve garnished with the spring onion and chilli.

Baguettes are one of many great things the French introduced to
Vietnam. However, Vietnamese have adapted the French baguette and
made it their own, making it more fluffy, airy and with a crispier
finish. This allows us to add a variety of fillings to them, or to dip
them in curries or slow-cooked stews, soaking up all the sauce.
SERVES 6
ingredients
1 large banana leaf

1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) pork leg meat, finely minced (ground) — ask your butcher to put
the pork leg through the mincer on its finest setting 2½ tablespoons fish sauce

2 Lebanese (short) cucumbers, sliced lengthways 12–18 long coriander (cilantro)
sprigs 6 spring onions (scallions), cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths 2 small red
chillies, sliced
light soy sauce, for seasoning
preparation
Soak the banana leaf in warm water for 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, fry the salt in a dry wok over medium heat for a few minutes, until
aromatic.
Place the pork, fish sauce and salt in a food processor, then pulse to a very fine
paste.
Dry the banana leaf and use it to line a 10 cm x 20 cm (4 inch x 8 inch) loaf (bar)
tin, leaving plenty of leaf overhanging each edge of the tin. Spread the pork
paste along the centre of the tin, then firmly fold the banana leaf edges over to
enclose the pork and form a tight parcel. Secure the parcel with kitchen string.
Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a simmer. Add the tin with the banana
leaf parcel and simmer for 1 hour. Remove from the water and allow to cool.
Remove the banana leaf parcel from the tin. Unfold the banana leaf and turn the
terrine out onto a chopping board. Cut into slices about 1 cm (½ inch) thick.
To assemble the rolls, cut the baguettes lengthways along one side, but not all
the way through. Divide the pork, cucumber, coriander, spring onion and chilli
among the rolls. Season with a splash of soy sauce and a pinch of sea salt and
freshly ground black pepper. Serve immediately.
Apart from ‘Pho’, this dish is one of my all-time favourite breakfast
dishes.
You have to get up very early to eat this dish in Hanoi, as food stalls serve this
dish from 6 am to 9 am. If you are up early, check out Banh Cuon Phuong at 68
Hang Cot. If you wake up late, head for 101 Ba Trieu, the only place that serves
it all day.
ingredients
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus extra for brushing 2 garlic cloves, diced
300 g (10½ oz) minced (ground) pork 4 fresh black fungus (wood ears), thinly
sliced
1 teaspoon fish sauce

½ teaspoon sugar
1 bunch perilla, leaves picked 1 bunch Vietnamese mint, leaves picked 1 bunch
mint, leaves picked
2 handfuls bean sprouts

2 tablespoons Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) 2 Lebanese (short)
cucumbers, sliced into batons 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) Nuoc mam cham
dipping sauce (see Basics) 2 red bird’s eye chillies, sliced BATTER
200 g (7 oz) rice flour
60 g (2 oz/½ cup) tapioca flour ½ teaspoon sea salt
preparation
Put the batter ingredients in a mixing bowl with 600 ml (20½ fl oz) cold water.
Whisk to a smooth batter, then allow to rest for 20 minutes.
Heat a wok over medium heat, then add the 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil. Fry
the garlic and shallot for 30 seconds, or until fragrant, then add the pork,
mushrooms, fish sauce, sugar and a pinch of sea salt and freshly ground black
pepper. Stir-fry for 4 minutes, then transfer to a bowl and set aside.
Brush a round tray with vegetable oil and place it on your bench next to the
stove. Heat a thin 20 cm (8 inch) non-stick frying pan over low heat and brush
with oil. Pour 3 tablespoons of the batter into the pan, turning the pan quickly in
a circular motion to cover the base with a thin layer of batter — the thinner the
better!
Cover the pan with a lid and cook for 45 seconds.
Remove the lid and slide the thin noodle sheet onto your oiled tray. Scoop 1
tablespoon of pork mixture onto the noodle sheet, then fold over to form an
open-ended roll. Transfer to a plate.
Repeat this process using the remaining batter and pork mixture, adding more oil
to the pan as necessary.
Top the rolls with the herbs, bean sprouts, fried shallots and cucumber. Drizzle
with the nuoc mam cham, garnish with the chilli and serve.
Ha Long, or Descending Dragon Bay, is not only a stunning natural landscape,
but an ancient site steeped in folklore and stories of gods and dragons, who are
said to have descended to Earth to protect their people and land from invaders.
Locals describe the body of the dragon in the landscape, moving their hand over
the shapes of the Ha Long mountains, depicting her back and tail, then curling
their hand at the heart of the bay, where the dragon mother’s head is said to lie.
Pulling into Ha Long City, nothing is given away by this uncharismatic port
town; indeed, the magic lies offshore, in the mirrored waters of the bay itself,
shrouded in a cloud of mist.
The ever-changing colours of the sky throughout the day are dramatic and
breathtaking, and its clear turquoise waters make Ha Long Bay a highly popular
tourist destination, informally nicknamed the ‘eighth wonder of the world’.
Hidden inside the bay are four floating fishing villages, populated by 1600 locals
who live here permanently, protected and shielded by some 3000 mountains and
island formations surrounding them.
Here, the youngest children have never even walked on solid ground — some
not until primary school age. I cannot imagine what it must be like for these kids
to have never felt the earth beneath their feet.
As I hop off my boat and onto their floating homes, I pay attention to my each
and every step, trying to distribute my weight carefully while crossing floating
platforms; meanwhile the kids jump and run, without a second thought to the
motion underfoot.
The kids have floating schoolhouses for their early school years, and later go to
the mainland for further schooling. Most houses have at least one dog that acts
as a security guard. Many parents and families work at home, or on nearby ocean
farms; most opt to farm their own fish, right beneath their lounge room floors.
I’m here to meet Mr Thai, a local fisherman who has three generations living in
this floating village. He invites me into his home, which I consider a great
privilege — rarely are outsiders allowed to set foot on the floating houses.
Mr Thai explains that the idea of constructing floating villages in Ha Long Bay
arose thousands of years ago. In the past, fishermen had to set out very early in
the morning from the mainland; once they caught their catch, they then had to
make the long journey back. But living directly on the water, among their fishing
grounds, cuts their travel time by half, allowing them to spend more time with
their family.
Mr Thai’s home looks to stay afloat on top of six large blue barrels. There are no
doors, everything is open; there is absolutely no privacy in these homes.
His wife sits on the veranda, rocking their son, who is sleeping in a hammock.
Their wooden floorboards are painted pastel green, and under the boards,
swimming around underneath his house, are thousands of fish that Mr Thai has
caught in the past months, which he sells, when they grow bigger, for 150,000
Vietnamese dong per kilo (about $7.50).
But it is not fish that I am here to cook: it is the special Ha Long mussels, which
are ever so juicy and plump.
Mr Thai suggests that I simply throw them on the grill and finish them off with
spring onion oil and peanuts, but I’d really like him to try something different —
something he hasn’t tried before. I’d like him and his family to sample mussels
cooked in a light lemongrass-infused coconut sauce, with Vietnamese mint and
chilli (see recipe).
Mr Thai says he is unfamiliar with my fragrant mussel dish, but is looking

forward to trying it.
As I am cooking, he yells out for some cold beer — and all of a sudden, out of
nowhere, a lady comes rowing past and passes him a few cold ones. She is the
local corner shop and bottleshop it seems; she rows around the floating village
and brings goods to your front door.
As I begin to plate the dish, he grabs a mussel from the bowl, sips the coconut
sauce from its shell, and is very impressed with the intricate, delicate flavours.
He’s so delighted with the dish that he demands I cook some more, as he wants
to invite his neighbours!
I’m a bit nervous, as there are 150 homes with 500 inhabitants in this village. I
can’t cook for all of them, but I’m able to cook another four serves and keep his
next-door neighbours happy at least.
Now if you are unable to score an invitation from a local to visit their floating
home, do what the Vietnamese tourists do: ask the skipper of your boat to take
you to one of the many floating farms that sell live crab, mantis prawns (shrimp),
cuttlefish, squid, mussels, clams and over fifteen species of fish. Pick out what
you want, then ask the chef on board your boat to cook it any way you like.
Or do what I did, and buy a few live red crabs and cook them yourself, by lightly
coating them with potato starch, then flash-frying them with chilli, garlic, spring
onions (scallions), salt and freshly ground black pepper.
In Ha Long Bay you will find hundreds of old wooden Chinese-looking boats,
known as junks, on offer to tourists. Some can carry up to 80 people, but I
suggest that you find a smaller junk that takes no more than 20 people, so you
can have a more intimate Ha Long Bay experience.
You’ll need to spend at least one night on board cruising the entire area.
However, there is so much seafood variety here that you’ll really need a couple
of days to sample everything on offer.
This is the best way to experience Ha Long Bay, and my favourite part of being
here. The seafood is so incredibly fresh, diverse, and literally right at your
doorstep.
‡
As I am cooking, Mr Thai yells out for some cold
beer — and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a
lady comes rowing past and passes him a few
cold ones.
Right in the middle of Ha Long Bay is a floating market with different
netted areas where you’ll find lobster, clams, mantis prawns (shrimp),
varieties of fish, squid, cuttlefish and crab. I chose the best-looking
red crabs and made this dish right on the edge of the floating markets.
You can’t get much fresher than this, but do use the freshest crabs you
can get hold of.
ingredients
2 live blue swimmer or mud crabs, 400 g (14 oz) each vegetable oil, for deep-
frying
potato starch or cornflour (cornstarch), for dusting 3 red Asian shallots, finely
diced 2 garlic cloves, finely diced
3 spring onions (scallions), cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths 2 long red chillies,
thinly sliced on the diagonal SALT & PEPPER SEA SONING
1 teaspoon ground white pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon ground ginger

½ teaspoon five-spice
preparation
To kill your crabs humanely, place them in the freezer for 1 hour, or submerge
them in an ice bath for 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, combine the salt and pepper seasoning ingredients in a bowl and set
aside.
Remove the upper shell of each crab, pick off the gills, which look like little
fingers, and discard them. Clean the crabs under cold running water and drain.
Working one at a time, place each crab on its stomach and chop it in half with a
heavy cleaver. Now chop each half into four pieces, chopping each piece after
each leg. With the back of the cleaver, gently crack each claw — this makes it
easier to extract the meat.
Half-fill a large wok or deep saucepan with oil and heat to 200°C (400°F), or
Dust the crab pieces with the potato starch, shaking off the excess. Deep-fry the
crab in batches for 3 minutes, turning over once, until golden brown. Remove
from the wok and drain on paper towels. Remove the oil, reserving 2
tablespoons, and clean out the wok.
Heat the reserved oil in the wok, then add the shallot and garlic and fry for 30
Return the crab to the wok with the spring onion and chilli. Add the salt and
pepper seasoning to taste.
Serve with steamed jasmine rice and finger bowls.

When I opened my restaurant more than ten years ago, I cooked pipis
almost every night, as they were so readily available. Nowadays,
you’ll be lucky to find them on Sydney restaurant menus as they are
scarce. Every time I see them in the markets of Vietnam, I jump at the
chance to buy some and cook them for friends. They are delicious, fun
to eat and make a great drinking dish to enjoy with beer.
ingredients
1 lemongrass stem, bruised, then cut into 5 cm (2 inch) lengths 500 g (1 lb 2 oz)
pipis
1 tablespoon sugar

1½ tablespoons oyster sauce

1 tablespoon finely diced red Asian shallot 2 teaspoons potato starch or cornflour
(cornstarch), blended with 1 tablespoon water 2 long red chillies, thinly sliced
2 handfuls Asian basil leaves

preparation
Bring 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water to the boil in a saucepan. Add the
lemongrass and pipis. Cover and cook for about 4 minutes, or until the pipis
open slightly. Discard any pipis that do not open.
Meanwhile, combine the sugar, fish sauce and oyster sauce in a bowl. Mix until
the sugar has dissolved and set aside.
Strain the pipis, reserving the broth.
Heat a wok to high. Add the oil, garlic and shallot, followed by the pipis, then
wok-toss for 1 minute.
Add the oyster sauce mixture and 3 tablespoons of the broth from the pipis. Toss
for a further minute, then add the potato starch mixture.
Finally, add the chilli, pepper and Asian basil and toss to combine.
Enjoy straight away, with a cold beer.

Ha Long Bay is famous for its mussels. They are plump, juicy and
really sweet. When you buy delicious mussels like these, make sure to
never overcook them. After they begin to open their shells, you need
only another minute and they are done: take them out of the wok and
enjoy straight away.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) black mussels, scrubbed well, hairy beards removed

2 tablespoons diced lemongrass, white part only 2 red Asian shallots, crushed

250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) light coconut milk 2 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 long red chilli, sliced
½ bunch Vietnamese mint, leaves picked preparation
Bring a large saucepan or wok of water to a rapid boil. Add the mussels and
cook until the mussels slightly open. Remove from the pan and set aside.
Discard any mussels that do not open.
Add the oil to a hot wok, then the lemongrass. Cook for 30 seconds, or until the
lemongrass is fragrant. Add the shallots and garlic and stir-fry for 1 minute.
Pour in the coconut milk and fish sauce. Stir in the sugar and bring to the boil.
Once the liquid comes back to the boil, add the mussels and toss for 1 minute.
Add the pepper, chilli and Vietnamese mint. Toss for a further minute and serve.
Mantis prawns are also known as sea locusts. They can reach 30 cm
(12 inches) in length and have so many legs that they look very much
like a heavily armoured caterpillar. They are incredibly sweet and are
a delicacy in Vietnam, found in abundance in Ha Long Bay. If you
can’t get your hands on some, then substitute them with fresh yabbies.

ingredients
2 x 375 ml (12½ fl oz) bottles of Vietnamese beer 8 live mantis prawns (shrimp),
jumbo king prawns, yabbies or scampi 4 makrut (kaffir lime) leaves, thinly
sliced juice of 2 limes
preparation
Pour the beer into a large saucepan. Submerge the prawns in the beer until they
get drunk and fall asleep. Mix the lime leaves through.
Remove the prawns from the beer and place on a steamer rack or in a steamer
basket, over the pan of beer. Steam over high heat for 8 minutes.
Put the lime juice in a small bowl and season with sea salt and freshly ground
black pepper.
Serve the prawns with the seasoned lime juice and a fresh cold beer.
ingredients
1 tablespoon dried yeast

1 teaspoon sugar, plus an extra 2 tablespoons 335 g (12 oz/2¼ cups) plain (all-
purpose) flour ¼ teaspoon sea salt

½ teaspoon baking powder
FILLING
200 g (7 oz) caramelised pork (from the Pan-fried rice cakes recipe) finely diced
8 tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and deveined, then finely diced 10 water
chestnuts, finely diced
preparation
In a small bowl, mix together the yeast, the 1 teaspoon sugar, 30 g (1 oz/scant ¼
cup) of the flour and 3 tablespoons warm water. Leave to stand for 30 minutes.
Mix in the remaining flour and 2 tablespoons sugar, along with the salt, oil and
another 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) warm water. Knead the mixture until smooth and
elastic. Roll the dough into a ball, cover with plastic wrap and leave to stand for
2½–3 hours.
Mix together the filling ingredients and set aside.
Knock back the dough and spread it out on a floured board or bench. Sprinkle
the baking powder evenly over the surface, then knead for 5 minutes.
Divide the dough into two even portions and place the piece you are not working
with in a covered bowl.
Divide the other half into 12 even portions. Roll them out flat, then place 1
tablespoon of the filling mixture in the centre. Shape each portion into a ball
around the filling, with the smooth surface up. Put each bun on a small square of
baking paper. Repeat with the remaining dough and filling, then cover and leave
to stand for 30 minutes, or until doubled in size.
over high heat. Reduce the heat to medium; the water should still be boiling.
Transfer as many buns, still on the baking paper squares, as possible to the
steamer, leaving 2.5–5 cm (1–2 inches) between the buns.
Cover and steam for 10–15 minutes, or until the filling is hot when tested with a
skewer, making sure the buns are not in contact with the boiling water. Serve
hot.
Sapa is 336 kilometres (208 miles) north-west of Hanoi, a 12-hour drive, or eight
hours by train. It is a popular tourist destination, not just for its beautiful
mountain scenery, but also its ethnic minorities, notably the Hmong, Yao, Tay,
Zay and Xa Pho people. Considered descendants of the grassy highlands of Tibet
and Siberia, they were once nomads, practising slash and burn agriculture,
hunting and foraging, before settling into the hills of Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia,
Myanmar and Thailand, where they have more recently become farmers.
Sapa was claimed by the French in the late 1880s and posted as a military-run
frontier town, before slowly becoming a summer holiday retreat for wealthy
French people, who enjoyed its cool crisp mountain air.
We begin our journey from Hanoi train station. We have a choice of three
classes: hard seats, hard sleeper or soft sleeper. It is an overnight trip, so I opt for
a soft sleeper, thanks. The train leaves at 9.30 pm; by 9.45 pm I realise I am
absolutely famished. Then I remember that I’d packed some fresh ingredients for
the next morning’s shoot. So I take out my portable gas stove, wok and chopping
board, then slice up some garlic, onion, tomato, chilli and beef to do a quick,
cheeky stir-fry. My oil goes into my hot wok, then the garlic, chilli and onion.
Thirty seconds later, Michael, our director, lured by the enticing aromas, pokes
his head in, then the whole crew is in my room, all as hungry as me.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Michael says, ‘Why don’t we film it? Luke on the train from
Hanoi to Sapa cooking a simple stir-fry!’
So we quickly set up our lights and begin filming in my cramped cabin. We

didn’t get permission to film or cook on the train, so we only had one shot at it.
It took less than 20 minutes to complete — our quickest recipe shoot ever!
We arrive at the Vietnamese–Chinese border town of Lao Cai at 5.30 am. Eyes
only half open, we are ushered onto a 30-seater bus. We make our way up the
winding mountain road, through thick, magical mist. The views are breathtaking.
The cascading rice paddy terraces are works of art, created by families who tend
to the fields almost year round, aided by diligent buffaloes. If you are lucky
enough to visit just before harvest, you’ll see lush, watery terraces of gold and
green, set across layers of mountains and valleys that twinkle in the sunlight.
At 6.30 am, lined up right in front of our hotel, is a group of Red Dzao ladies
selling young bamboo shoots, fresh corn, honey and wild mushrooms. They are
dressed in traditional garb, which brightens up the morning with their fire engine
red headpieces, and heavy silverware around their necks and wrists. Their smiles
are big, real and refreshing, so I buy a bottle of honey, harvested by smoking out
wild beehives high up in the trees among the mountains.
For breakfast I simply dip a freshly baked crisp hot baguette into the fine,
delicate wild honey. It is incredibly light and elegant — definitely the first thing
you should try in the Sapa region! After finishing almost half the bottle, I make
my way to the Sapa markets, where my senses are overloaded with excitement.
Walking down the cobbled stair entrance, I’m instantly hit with the fresh aromas
of food being fried, chargrilled, braised or steamed, then the vibrant colours and
fragrance of herbs and vegetables. I then walk through the meat and seafood
section, where vendors carve, chop and slice with grace. There don’t seem to be
any pungent smells; everything is just so incredibly fresh.
I notice a lady filleting some meat, but it is not as red as beef. ‘Fresh buffalo
meat,’ she explains. ‘It is much leaner than beef. Locals in Sapa actually prefer it
to beef, and it’s not at all tough, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ I buy a kilo from
her and continue on, inspired to find another ingredient I haven’t seen or tasted
before. And there it is: a strange heart-shaped pale green vegetable, called
kohlrabi. It is surprisingly crunchy and succulent. The seller’s name is Anh Thu,
and I decide to make her a salad using both buffalo meat and kohlrabi.
Anh Thu kindly allows us to film right in front of her stall. First I slightly pickle
some kohlrabi and carrot with sugar and white vinegar. Then I slice the buffalo
meat as thinly as I can, as I want to cook it really quickly in a hot wok with some
oil and garlic. As the super-hot wok begins to smoke, I add the buffalo and my
wok lights up in a tall flame. The whole market seems to stop, then local ethnic
groups rush over for a closer look. I add the buffalo to my salad of pickled
kohlrabi, carrot, fresh mint, crispy garlic, red Asian shallots and a light fish
sauce dressing (see recipe). Anh Thu has a taste test, and gives the Black Hmong
onlookers and me her nod of approval.
We begin chatting about their favourite Hmong dishes and they point out a stall
selling only ‘black’ chicken, which is a breed of Silkie chicken, and I notice that
these chickens have five toes, not four. They look very similar to the ones I saw
in Hanoi that were steamed in a can, only these guys are much bigger. My
Hmong friends suggest I chargrill the chicken with galangal and lemon leaf, as it
will need fragrant roots and herbs to balance out its strong flavours.
I set up a tiny charcoal grill on the main street. As we begin to film, an elderly
Black Hmong man approaches and asks what I’m cooking. He slurs his words
and reeks of rice wine, and leans on me as he tries to stay upright. He then picks
up my uncooked chicken and tries to take it. I snatch it off him and say, ‘I
haven’t even cooked it yet! Why don’t you come back in 30 minutes and I’ll let
you try some.’ He wanders off, so I make a marinade of galangal, shallots, fish
sauce, lemongrass, lemon leaves, sesame seeds, and my leftover Sapa honey. I
rub it all over the chicken and begin to chargrill it. The aromas are incredible —
so much so that our drunken Hmong man returns for his promised taste!
He heads straight to the chargrill and tries to pick up the chicken, but it is way
too hot to handle and he drops it — luckily onto my bench and not the ground. I
finally chop up my black chicken and garnish it, and pass him a piece to try, but
instead he snatches the whole plate out of my hands and walks off with it! The
whole crew burst out laughing. What else could we do?
The next day, I head high up in the hills to the village of the Red Dzao people.
The scenery here is spectacular. Throughout the morning a magical mist rolls in
and out across tall mountains and waterfalls. I spend my day outdoors, jumping
in ice-cold water to catch my own salmon, trekking up mountains to pick wild
shiitake mushrooms, and then finishing the day bathing in an old wooden barrel
set among old tall trees, filled with hot water and 17 medicinal herbs and plants.
I absolutely adore the picturesque northern Sapa regions — the people, the
culture, history, produce and, of course, the incredible food.
‡
We make our way up the winding mountain road,
through thick, magical mist. The views are
absolutely breathtaking: the cascading rice paddy
terraces are works of art.
Sapa was the first place I ever tried buffalo meat. I found it sweeter,
more tender and lighter in colour than beef. I was sold on buffalo meat
when the Sapa market butchers told me it is leaner than beef, being
low in fat and calories, but high in protein.
ingredients
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) kohlrabi, peeled and julienned 1 carrot, julienned
100 ml (3½ fl oz) white vinegar

300 g (10½ oz) buffalo or lean beef eye fillets, sliced into 5 cm x 3 mm (2 inch x
⅛ inch) strips ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 handful Vietnamese
mint leaves
1 handful Asian basil leaves
1 handful perilla leaves

1 tablespoon Fried garlic chips (see Basics) 4 tablespoons Nuoc mam cham
dipping sauce (see Basics)

2 tablespoons Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics) preparation
In a large bowl, combine the kohlrabi, carrot, vinegar and sugar. Mix well, then
cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 1 hour.
Remove the kohlrabi mixture from the fridge and drain. Place in a serving bowl.
Place a frying pan over high heat. Add the oil and stir-fry the garlic for 5–10
Add the meat and sprinkle with the pepper. Stir-fry for no longer than 3 minutes,
or the meat will be tough. Remove from the pan and add to the kohlrabi mixture,
along with the herbs and garlic chips.
Dress with the nuoc mam cham, garnish with the peanuts and fried shallots and
serve.
Hmong people love to eat ‘black chicken’ — a breed of Silkie chicken
that has black skin, black flesh and even black bones. It is known in
Vietnamese as ‘ga ac’, which translates as ‘cruel chicken’. The
Hmong people love the dark chicken for its deep, gamey flavours.
ingredients
1 small free-range chicken, or 2 x 800 g (1 lb 12 oz) black chickens, each cut
into 4 portions watercress sprigs, to garnish
2 long red chillies, julienned
MARINADE
1 teaspoon sea salt

4 red Asian shallots, finely diced 1 lemongrass stem, white part only, finely
chopped 3 tablespoons fish sauce
2 teaspoons chilli powder
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds

4 lemon leaves, or makrut (kaffir lime) leaves, thinly sliced 2 tablespoons Sapa
honey, or regular honey 50 g (1¾ oz) fresh galangal, peeled, then pounded to
a paste using a mortar and pestle preparation
Combine the marinade ingredients in a large mixing bowl and mix well.
Add the chicken pieces, rubbing the marinade over and under the skin. Cover
and marinate in the refrigerator for 2 hours, or overnight for a better result.
Heat a barbecue grill or chargrill pan to medium–high heat. Add the chicken and
cook for 15 minutes on each side.
Place the cooked chicken on a chopping board, skin side up, and use a heavy
cleaver to chop the legs and breasts into a total of eight pieces.
Arrange the chicken on a platter and garnish with the watercress and chilli. Serve
Ethnic minorities in Sapa rarely eat meat; their staple diet is mainly
vegetables and tofu. You can find delicious, steaming-hot, freshly
pressed tofu being sold at the Sapa markets. If you are not a tofu fan,
please give this recipe a go. It will convert you forever.
ingredients
200 ml (7 fl oz) vegetable oil
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) silken tofu, drained and cut into 3 cm (1¼ inch) cubes

1 tablespoon finely diced red Asian shallot 1 bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced
4 ripe tomatoes, roughly chopped
2 teaspoons sugar

3 spring onions (scallions), cut into 1 cm (½ inch) lengths

Add the oil to a large wok or deep frying pan and heat to 180°C (350°F), or until
a cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 15 seconds.
Pat the tofu dry with paper towels. Working in two batches to ensure the oil stays
hot, carefully add the tofu to the hot oil and cook for 5 minutes, or until crisp.
Remove the tofu with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels.
Transfer the deep-frying oil into a deep bowl, cool and keep to use another time,
leaving about 1 tablespoon of oil in the wok.
Add the garlic, shallot and chilli to the wok and stir-fry over medium heat for 1
minute, or until fragrant.
Add the tomatoes, salt, sugar and fish sauce. Stir and allow the tomatoes to break
down.
Pour in 100 ml (3½ fl oz) water, bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a low
simmer for 10 minutes. Stir in the spring onion and simmer for 1 minute more.
Arrange the tofu on a serving plate, then spoon the tomato mixture over. Garnish
with coriander and serve.
I trekked high up in the hills of Sapa for several hours, foraging for
wild shiitake mushrooms. After picking a few kilos, I also picked
some choko leaves that I saw growing, and this was just about all I
needed to make a simple stir-fry for lunch. I prepared the dish on top
of a tall mountain and felt like I was cooking above the clouds — it
was a magical experience.
ingredients

200 g (7 oz) fresh shiitake mushrooms, stems trimmed 1 bunch choko leaves or
water spinach, cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths ½ teaspoon freshly ground
black pepper

preparation
Add the oil to a hot wok, then add the garlic and shallot and stir-fry over medium
heat for 1 minute, or until fragrant.
Add the mushrooms and stir-fry for 1 minute, then add the choko leaves and stir-
fry for 2 minutes, or until wilted.
Sprinkle with the pepper, soy sauce and a pinch of sea salt, then stir-fry for a
further minute.
Serve with steamed jasmine rice.

Pigs in the Sapa region are all free range, and are all a breed of black
pig, which are smaller than other varieties, but much more tender to
eat. If you are not cooking this dish in Sapa, try to source kurobuta
pork, which is regarded as the highest quality due to its marbling
content.
ingredients
300 g (10½ oz) pork neck, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds

MARINADE
2 spring onions (scallions), sliced, then bashed to release the flavour 4 table
spoons finely diced lemongrass, white part only 3 tablespoons fish sauce
1 teaspoon sugar
1 tablespoon honey

preparation
Combine the marinade ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix well. Add the pork
and toss until well coated. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator overnight.
When you are nearly ready to cook, soak 12 bamboo skewers in water for 30
minutes, to prevent scorching.
Thread the pork onto the skewers and chargrill on each side for 3 minutes.
Mix the sesame seeds with a pinch of sea salt. Serve on the side, for dipping the
skewers into.
Steamboats are a perfect dinner-party dish. They are super easy, as all
you need to do is cook the broth and slice up your ingredients. Your
guests then do the rest, cooking their own meal! It’s an interactive and
fun way to cook.
ingredients
1.5 kg (3 lb 5 oz) whole salmon, gutted 4 tomatoes, cut into wedges
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) silken tofu, cut into cubes 1 kg (2 lb 3 oz) soft rice noodles 1
Chinese white cabbage, sliced
1 bunch watercress
1 bunch water spinach
1 bunch mustard greens

BROTH
4 lemongrass stems, bruised
4 cm (1½ inch) knob of fresh ginger, peeled and sliced 15 dried shiitake
mushrooms, soaked in water for 30 minutes and drained 2 black cardamom
pods
2 star anise
2 coriander (cilantro) roots, washed well 2 tomatoes, diced
2 long red chillies, sliced
1 tablespoon Sate sauce (see Basics) ½ pineapple, peeled, cored and sliced juice
of 2 limes

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) fish sauce preparation
Cut the head off the salmon and reserve. Fillet the salmon, reserving the bones
and trimmings for the broth. Cut the fillets into 3 cm x 5 cm (1¼ inch x 2 inch)
chunks. Cover and refrigerate while making the broth.
To make the broth, put the salmon head, bones and trimmings in a stockpot. Add
the lemongrass, ginger, mushrooms, cardamom, star anise and coriander roots.
Cover with 3 litres (101 fl oz/12 cups) water and bring to the boil. Skim off all
the impurities until the broth is clear, then reduce the heat to a low simmer and
cook for 1 hour.
Stir in the remaining broth ingredients and simmer for a further 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, distribute all the remaining raw ingredients on separate platters and
place around a portable gas cooker in the middle of the dining table. Place the
stockpot on top of the cooker and turn it up to medium heat.
When the stock starts to simmer, each person dips their own ingredients in the
hot broth until cooked. They then retrieve their cooked ingredients with their
chopsticks and ladle some of the hot broth into their bowls.
Only nine kilometres (five and a half miles) from the Chinese border, and about
a three-hour drive from Sapa, is the small township of Bac Ha. Its famous
Sunday livestock and craft market draws hundreds of Hmong, Red Dzao, Flower
Hmong and Zay villagers from the surrounding mountains, dressed in vivid and
often intricately embroidered garb. Almost everyone walks to the market, some
of them incredible distances, most accompanied by their livestock: piglets,
puppies, cows, calves, ponies, ducks — you name it, you can buy it.
At 6 am, Bac Ha is already buzzing with thousands of people. It feels more like a
festival or bazaar than a Sunday market. Absolutely everything is up for sale.
There is a separate area for livestock, another for fruit and vegetables, another
for fresh flowers, dry goods, clothing fabrics and handicrafts — and of course a
food section, where vendors are cooking on extremely large charcoal-fuelled
woks, filling the entire market with steam and smoke. One of the cooks tells me
she is cooking a local specialty called ‘Thang co’. In response to my puzzled
look, she kindly scoops a few ladles of the stuff onto a plate for me.
It has every texture imaginable. Some bits are soft, some chewy, some
gelatinous, crunchy and bony. I still can’t work out what I am actually eating.
‘Well,’ she explains, ‘it’s a slow-cooked stew of horse guts, horse penis, and a
medley of medicinal barks and herbs — delicious isn’t it?’
I suddenly find it extremely difficult to swallow, so I return my plate and quickly

move on to another store, where I happily find the tastiest ginger chicken ever
(see recipe), served with an unusual accompaniment of chickpea jelly, which is
eaten instead of rice. Several drunken men with ruddy red faces keep offering
me shots of their homemade corn wine. The first shot almost rips my throat out,
burning my chest like rocket fuel. The second shot isn’t as bad, but still not
pleasant. By the third, I begin to enjoy it. The fourth, well I can’t really
remember…
Their wives make the potent corn wine during the week. On Sundays, while the
men sell their livestock, the women are busy selling their home brew. At the end
of the day, when the men sell all their livestock, they all gather together at the
food stalls, eat horse penis and drink lots and lots of corn wine. But if they don’t
sell all their livestock, they still all get together, eat horse penis and drink lots
and lots of corn wine. When all the corn wine is polished off, the men pass out
along the side of the dirt roads! The wives then track them down and physically
throw them on the back of their horses and walk them home. I can’t believe the
strength of these women — a hilarious and memorable thing to see.
Just outside Bac Ha village are rolling hills carpeted with green tea plantations.
Two young girls in conical hats come running after me, wanting to take me
around their family area. After a quick tour they pass me a small bag of dried
green tea leaves. On the front is a handwritten note in English that reads: ‘Hello,
this green tea is from Phong Hai town, made by my family. Can you help me?
This tea only costs 20,000 VND. Merci beaucoup!’
A cute note like that is hard to resist, so I head down to the house to meet the
family and pay for the tea. The girls’ parents offer me some corn wine, but there
is no way I can drink any more of it. However, the father insists I try it, saying
his corn wine is more refined than most, as his mother has been making it for 40
years and is the best wine distiller in town. So I take some tiny sips, and the man
is right. The corn wine is actually really nice and reminds me of a premium
Japanese sake. Excited and impressed I ask what makes his mother’s corn wine
so different to the ones I tried at the markets. He replies, ‘You should ask her
yourself; her house is not far away. She can show you how it’s done.’
He makes a quick phone call to his mum and draws me a small map. I pay for
my tea and set off to find her. Our bus arrives at her village, but our grumpy
driver Truong refuses to drive the bus down the narrow hilly dirt road that leads
to her house. He turns off his engine and demands that we go in by motorbike.
So we have no choice but to hire a few motorbikes and ride in.
The lady’s name is Xuan and she is from the Flower Hmong tribe. She has a
huge smile, dark leathery skin and a great laugh. Xuan walks me into her cute
mud house, which looks like a medieval hobbit house, and for once I feel tall.
I walk through her very low doorway to find a great big wooden barrel sitting on
an oversized wok full of rapidly steaming water. Xuan explains that the secret to
her wine lies in the fermentation of her dried corn, which takes an entire week.
Xuan scoops her fermented corn into the barrel, along with cold water, turns up
the fire, then allows the gases to evaporate and condense, creating the corn wine.
The distilling process takes two hours, so while we wait for the wine to drip into
the empty drum, I decide to make a dish for Xuan using her son’s green tea. We
rustle around in her kitchen trying to find some dry ingredients and cooking
equipment. I manage to find some rice, star anise, cassia bark, sugar, a wok,
some foil, and a duck running around outside. And that is all I need for my dish
of green tea-smoked duck (see recipe).
An hour later, we finish filming the recipe just as the corn wine completes
distilling. Xuan hands me a bottle of the wine and in exchange, I offer her my
smoked duck dish for dinner. She takes a bite and is amazed how much smoky
flavour and aroma permeates into the duck meat from such a simple recipe,
which she says she will now cook often for her family. We share a glass of her
fine corn wine, then we begin to pack up our filming gear.
Outside, we discover that it has been pouring with rain so hard that the dirt path
to her house has turned into soft wet mud. Our motorbikes get bogged straight
away, so our only option is to walk all our gear back to our bus.
We take our shoes off, roll up our pants, and endure the rain and the steep trek
back. An hour later, we are almost there — only one more hill to get over. Our
legs are shaking from walking in the deep mud, our arms tired from lugging
heavy equipment. We almost reach the top of the hill, but it is too steep and way
too slippery. One by one, we slide back down the hill, some of us losing our
balance, rolling down and getting completely covered in mud. The boys carting
our heavy generator cop it the worst. It takes them six goes to reach the top
without rolling back down again. I feel so guilty laughing after every failed
attempt, but it is just so funny watching them roll down that wet muddy hill.
Finally, completely covered in mud, we all make it back to the bus, where our
bus driver Truong has the nerve to say, ‘I told you so…’
‡
At the end of the day, when the men sell all their
livestock, they all gather together at the food
stalls, eat horse penis and drink lots and lots of
corn wine.
Almost all the chickens you see in Vietnam are free range.
Unfortunately Vietnamese love to eat them, but at least we know they
had a nice stress-free life and had the chance to roam around. This
ginger chicken dish is incredibly simple and quick to prepare, and the
end result is amazing. You can also try cooking the chicken still on the
bone, as the meat stays sweeter and juicier this way.
ingredients
1 tablespoon sugar
5 cm (2 inch) knob of fresh ginger, peeled and thinly sliced 500 g (1 lb 2 oz)
boneless chicken thighs, chopped into bite-sized pieces 2 tablespoons
vegetable oil

250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) chicken stock 4 spring onions (scallions), cut into 4 cm
(1½ inch) lengths pinch of cracked black pepper 1 long red chilli, julienned
In a mixing bowl, combine the fish sauce, oyster sauce and sugar. Mix well to
dissolve the sugar, then add the ginger and the chicken, massaging the marinade
into the flesh. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 20 minutes.
Bring a wok or saucepan to medium heat. Add the oil and garlic and cook for 1
minute, or until fragrant.
Turn the heat up high, then add the chicken (no need to drain it — just don’t add
the marinade from the bottom of the bowl). Seal the chicken on all sides. Pour in
the stock and remaining marinade and bring to the boil.
Skim off all the impurities until the mixture is clear, then cover the wok. Reduce
the heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes.
Add the spring onion and pepper, stir, then cook for a further minute.
Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with the chilli and coriander. Serve with
I discovered a small village in Bac Ha that grew a variety of red rice.
When harvested and dried, the rice grains had a lovely purple colour
— something I’d never seen before. This particular rice is also
believed to have many medicinal qualities. So I bought some purple
rice noodles and wok-tossed them with bamboo shoots and pork. The
colour was so vibrant! Unfortunately, you can’t find purple rice
noodles outside Bac Ha, so just use regular rice noodles instead. But
remember, always use room-temperature fresh soft noodles, never
ones that have come straight out of a fridge, as they will break during
cooking.
ingredients

1 garlic clove, diced
200 g (7 oz) lean pork, thinly sliced 100 g (3½ oz) cooked bamboo shoots
(generally sold in vacuum-packed bags) 300 g (10½ oz) fresh thick rice
noodles, at room temperature 1 carrot, julienned
1 spring onion (scallion), cut into 4 cm (1½ inch) lengths 1 teaspoon sugar
2 teaspoons white vinegar
2 teaspoons oyster sauce
1 teaspoon light soy sauce
2 teaspoons kecap manis

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper bean sprouts, to garnish
Add half the oil to a hot wok. Add the garlic and pork and stir-fry over medium–
high heat for 2 minutes, then add the bamboo shoots and stir-fry for a further 2
minutes.
Remove the mixture from the wok and set aside.
Wipe the wok clean and reheat. Add the remaining oil, then wok-toss the
noodles over medium–high heat for 2 minutes, until slightly charred.
Return the pork mixture to the wok. Add the carrot, spring onion, sugar, vinegar,
oyster sauce, soy sauce, kecap manis and pepper. Stir-fry for a further minute.
Serve garnished with bean sprouts and coriander.

My older brother Lewis lives in London, so when he recently came to
visit I made him this dish. He was so impressed he demanded I put it
on my restaurant menu. I’m glad he did, as it has become a hit with
our regulars. You have to make this dish. You’ll be surprised how
simple it is to cook.
SERVES 2
ingredients
½ teaspoon cracked black pepper 1 tablespoon light soy sauce

2 duck breasts, skin on
1 cassia bark stick
2 star anise
40 g (1½ oz/½ cup) Vietnamese green tea leaves 95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) brown
sugar 100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) uncooked jasmine rice 1 handful coriander
(cilantro) leaves 2 spring onions (scallions), finely shredded 2 long red
chillies, julienned

light soy sauce for dipping
preparation
In a large mixing bowl, mix together the pepper, soy sauce, fish sauce and
sesame oil. Add the duck breasts and coat both sides. Cover and marinate at
room temperature for 30 minutes.
Bring a frying pan to medium heat. Add the vegetable oil, then cook the duck
breasts, skin side down, for 3 minutes, or until sealed and browned. Remove
from the pan and set aside.
Place some foil in a wok, then scatter the cassia bark, star anise, green tea, sugar
and rice grains on top. Place a wire rack in the wok and cover with a lid.
Turn the heat to high. When the wok begins to smoke, add the duck breasts, skin
side up, and reduce the heat to medium. Cover the wok, then leave the duck to
smoke for 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and allow the duck to rest in the wok for
a further 5 minutes.
Remove the duck to a chopping board and slice thinly. Arrange on a small platter
and garnish with the coriander, spring onion and chilli.
Serve with the baguettes and a side dipping sauce of light soy sauce and sliced
red chilli.
Tofu skin, also known as bean-curd skin, forms during the process of
making tofu. As the soy milk is being boiled, a thin layer forms on the
surface. This thin film is collected and dried, creating delightfully
textured tofu skin.
ingredients

1 banana blossom (available from Asian grocers) vegetable oil, for deep-frying
80 g (2¾ oz/½ cup) potato starch or cornflour (cornstarch), for dusting 1 sheet
dried tofu skin (available from Asian grocers), sliced into 2 cm (¾ inch)
lengths 1 handful bean sprouts
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds

1 tablespoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics)
1 handful Vietnamese mint leaves

1 long red chilli, julienned
DRESSING
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
3 teaspoons pineapple juice

1 bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced preparation
Combine all the dressing ingredients in a bowl with 3 tablespoons warm water.
Mix well to dissolve the sugar and set aside.
Add the vinegar to a bowl of water. Peel the outer purple layer of the banana
blossom until you reach the pale leaves inside.
Reserve one purple leaf, along with the small young, undeveloped baby bananas.
Begin to thinly slice the opaque banana blossom, transferring it to the bowl of
vinegar water to stop it discolouring. Soak until ready to assemble the salad, then
drain.
Half-fill a wok or deep frying pan with oil and heat to 160°C (320°F), or until a
cube of bread dropped into the oil turns brown in 30–35 seconds.
Dust each baby banana with the potato starch and flash-fry for 2 minutes, or
until crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels.
Flash-fry the tofu skin until crisp, then drain on paper towels.
Put the sliced banana blossom in a mixing bowl. Add the bean sprouts, fried
baby bananas, fried tofu skin (reserving a little to garnish), sesame seeds, fried
shallots, Vietnamese mint and 3 tablespoons of the dressing. Toss well.
Place the reserved purple banana leaf into a serving bowl, with the pointy end
sticking out. Transfer the salad onto the leaf. Garnish with the reserved tofu skin
and the chilli, drizzle with the remaining dressing and serve.
Goat is eaten a lot in Vietnam. You can find streets of restaurants
specialising only in goat, serving goat hotpot, goat in betel leaves,
goat testicles (yum), chargrilled goat, goat curry, and of course slow-
roasted goat. Goat meat is lean and healthy and has such a unique
flavour. Cooked with lemongrass, chilli and preserved bean curd, it is
not in the least gamey.
ingredients
1 whole goat leg, weighing about 2 kg (4 lb 6 oz) coriander (cilantro) sprigs, to
garnish sliced red chilli, to garnish
MARINADE
425 g (15 oz) jar preserved white bean curd, drained 4 lemongrass stems, white
part only, finely diced 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) fish sauce
1 tablespoon Vietnamese pickled ground

chillies
2 tablespoons sugar
DRESSING
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) Nuoc mam cham dipping sauce (see Basics) 1
lemongrass stem, white part only, finely diced
2 teaspoons Vietnamese pickled ground

chillies
juice of 1 lime
preparation
To make the marinade, put the bean curd in a large mixing bowl and mash with a
fork until smooth. Add the remaining marinade ingredients and mix well.
Place the goat leg in a deep roasting tray. Pour the marinade over and thoroughly
rub the marinade into the meat, ensuring it is evenly coated. Cover with plastic
wrap and refrigerate at least overnight, or preferably for 2 days.
When you’re ready to cook, remove the goat from the refrigerator and allow to
come to room temperature.
Preheat the oven to 90°C (195°F). Place the goat in the oven and place a dish of
cold water in the bottom of the oven to create some steam during cooking. Roast
for 9 hours.
Remove the goat from the oven. Allow the goat to cool slightly, and while still
warm, shred the meat into bite-sized pieces, onto a serving platter.
Combine the dressing ingredients in a bowl. Spoon the dressing over the goat.
Serve garnished with coriander and chilli.
Mai Chau is 160 kilometres (100 miles) south-west of Hanoi, and home to the
White Thai people. Descendants of migratory Thai hill-tribe communities, they
are also scattered through all the countries through which the Mekong River
travels. I am very eager to meet them and learn about their history and culture.
Our bus ride from Bac Ha to Mai Chau is spectacular. We make our way down a
narrow road that snakes around a huge mountain, passing several beautiful tall
waterfalls. But suddenly our bus stops, the brakes slammed hard. In front of us
are large heavy boulders that have rolled down the mountain, blocking our way.
We have endured a fair bit on our trip, so a few big rocks aren’t going to stop us
now. With four to five guys to each rock, we combine our strength and manage
to clear the road — all except for one boulder, which is just too big and heavy.
But I’m confident that we’ve moved enough rocks to just allow the bus to
squeeze through. The tough part is convincing our lovely driver, Truong.
As I measure the width of the bus with my arms, he begins to understand my

plan. ‘There is no way I’m driving my bus past this rock,’ he says. ‘The bus is
too wide. And it is far too slippery — can’t you see all the water on the road
from the waterfall? The right wheels will slide off the side of the cliff, and then
the bus will roll off, crashing 1000 metres to the bottom!’
Now I must admit, he is right about the dangerous slipperiness of the wet road,
but I try to reassure him that if he drives carefully and with a steady hand, the
bus could make it past, no problem. But I need the whole team’s support — so as
a team, we all have words to him, and finally convince him to drive the bus
through. We start walking to the other side of the rock to direct him through.
But then he shouts: ‘Where do you all think you’re going? If you want me to risk
my life by driving this bus through here, then I’m going to risk all your lives too.
If the bus goes down, you all go down with me — we die together. Now
everyone, get back on the bus!’
Where did we find this crazy driver, I ask myself. He is a real piece of work —
but he has a point. So we all hop back on the bus and sit on the left-hand side, so
all our weight is away from the cliff’s edge.
He starts the ignition and begins to drive steadily through. None of us dare to
look down as we are extremely close to the drop. The right wheel is millimetres
from the edge, we narrowly make it past the rock — and then he suddenly puts
his foot down on the accelerator! He didn’t want to prolong the experience any
longer, but we’ve made it, thank god. He pulls up in a safe place and rests his
head on the steering wheel in relief. We all give him a group hug, then off we go,
continuing our journey to Mai Chau.
The surrounding landscape must be seen to be believed, with emerald-green rice

fields set against a backdrop of soaring mountains. Mai Chau is a stunning place
to visit — but it is hot. Really hot.
We pull up to a typical wooden Thai stilt house to meet Nhe, who is going to
show us his village. To deal with the intense heat, his stilt house sits two metres
(six feet) above the ground, supported by legs of logs and wooden beams which
hold a massive open-plan interior where all of life’s activities unfold. This
allows airflow and ventilation throughout the house, making it slightly cooler in
the evenings. Some houses have a small partitioned sleeping room, but there are
no individual rooms, — just one large space where all the extended family sleep:
babies, parents, siblings and grandparents.
One by one, each family member comes down the stairs to greet us, all the ladies
wearing colourful tops of light green, sky blue or pink, but most of the men
topless. Nhe is in his late twenties. He doesn’t speak much Vietnamese, and I
don’t speak his Thai dialect, but we can communicate just fine.
I explain that I am here to discover how they live, what they like to cook and
how they cook it. He nods, then fetches two long sharp machetes, hands me one,
and off we go into his bamboo jungle, which is only a few hundred metres from
his house. He points to where he wants me to chop, and where he is going to
chop, then we both go at it. Five minutes later, we have chopped down one of the
thickest bamboo trees to use as a cooking utensil.
Next we harvest fresh turmeric root, lemongrass, dill and young coconut, then
proceed to his family pond where we net some beautiful fish. The water is
extremely cold, but refreshing. I make a marinade with our collected ingredients,
coat the fish, then place the whole fish in the bamboo. I pour young coconut
juice into the bamboo, enclose the end with a banana leaf, then grill the bamboo
on an open fire for half an hour. It grills and steams at the same time (see recipe).
I am so excited by this organic, rustic way of cooking. All of the ingredients are
from the land, nothing has been purchased, and everything is available from his
village — total self-sufficiency!
While the fish is cooking, we head off to find jackfruit trees to pick young green
ones, to make a young jackfruit salad with tofu (see recipe). Nhe then suggests
we pick some pomelo leaves as well to roast some suckling pig. I am like a kid
in a candy store, overwhelmed with joy.
Mai Chau is a remote village, but the local White Thai people don’t need
supermarkets or department stores. Everything is available to them from their
land. They build their homes with bamboo or wood, they grow their own fruits,
roots and vegetables, they farm their own fish, raise their own pigs, chickens and
ducks, train water buffaloes to plough their rice field, and they even have their
own ice-cold, pure, clean and clear spring-fed lake.
I am in awe of their totally sustainable way of living. I love Mai Chau for its
rustic existence, the silence of the valley, and the simplicity and humble nature
of the people who live here.
My culinary journey through Vietnam has been incredible, and I couldn’t think
of a better place to finish it. The cultural pull of this country constantly draws me
back. Food is my passion, but the people of this country inspire me to learn
more. Resilience, sustainability and family unity are the three attributes of
Vietnamese life I respect and hold close, and I am so incredibly proud to call
myself a Vietnamese–Australian.
‡
Mai Chau is a remote village, but the local White
Thai people don’t need supermarkets or
department stores. Everything is available to
them from their land.
Jackfruit is the world’s largest tree-borne fruit, sometimes reaching a
metre (three feet) high when the fruit is fully ripe. Here I use young
jackfruit, which is picked green and a lot smaller. Once boiled, young
jackfruit is quite similar to artichoke hearts. You can buy fresh young
jackfruit at your Asian grocer, and it is also available tinned.
ingredients
150 g (5½ oz) tinned young jackfruit, rinsed in cold water, then cut into small
pieces 100 g (3½ oz) fried tofu puffs, thinly sliced 1 small handful bean
sprouts
1 small handful watercress sprigs

5 mint leaves, roughly sliced 5 perilla leaves, roughly sliced
5 Vietnamese mint leaves

1 teaspoon Fried red Asian shallots (see Basics)
1 teaspoon crushed roasted peanuts

½ teaspoon toasted sesame seeds 1 red chilli, sliced
DRESSING
2 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons lime juice
½ teaspoon sesame oil
1 garlic clove, finely diced 1 red chilli, finely diced preparation
To make the dressing, combine the sugar, lime juice and soy sauce in a small
bowl and mix until the sugar has dissolved. Stir in the sesame oil, garlic and
chilli and set aside.
Add all the remaining ingredients, except the chilli, to a large mixing bowl.
Drizzle with 3 tablespoons of the dressing and toss together well. (Transfer the
remaining dressing to a clean container — it will keep in the fridge for up to a
week, to use in other salad recipes.) Transfer to a salad bowl, garnish with the
chilli and serve.
I cooked this dish in Mai Chau village on a 45°C (113°F) day, on an
open fire — the heat was unbearable. I strongly recommend that you
don’t make this dish under these conditions. After finishing the dish, I
almost passed out from heat stroke. The things I do for good TV.
ingredients
2 knobs of fresh turmeric, peeled 1 bunch dill, roughly chopped
½ teaspoon cracked black pepper
1 whole carp, about 700 g (1 lb 9 oz), cleaned, gutted and scaled 1 large bamboo
stick, about 60 cm (2 feet) long, with one end open 200 ml (7 fl oz) young
coconut juice
1 banana leaf
2 tablespoons Spring onion oil (see Basics) 1 long red chilli, sliced

spring onion (scallion) slices, to garnish preparation
Slice the turmeric and pound it into a paste using a mortar and pestle. Mix the
dill, salt and pepper through the pounded turmeric.
Coat the fish with the spice paste. Slide the fish into the bamboo stick, then add
the coconut juice, tilting the bamboo slightly so it doesn’t run out.
Seal the open end of the bamboo with the banana leaf and secure with kitchen
string or bamboo string.
Place the bamboo on a bed of charcoal, or on a barbecue preheated to medium.

Cook for 20 minutes.
Untie the bamboo, remove the banana leaf and slide the fish onto a platter.
Drizzle with the spring onion oil. Garnish with the chilli, peanuts and spring
onion slices and serve.
White Thai people call suckling pig ‘armpit pig’, because their breed
of black pig is so small that you can carry the pig under your armpit.
Suckling pig is much loved in Vietnam for its tender meat, low fat
content and ridiculously thin, crispy skin. I sometimes even dream
about it…
ingredients
2 lemongrass stems, white part only, thinly sliced 6 pomelo leaves or lemon
leaves, thinly sliced 3 spring onions (scallions), thinly sliced 1 tablespoon sea
salt
2 teaspoons five-spice
1 small whole black pig, 3–4 kg (6 lb 10–8 lb 13 oz) 350 g (12½ oz/1 cup) wild
honey 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil Vietnamese baguettes, to serve
light soy sauce for dipping
preparation
In a mixing bowl, combine the lemongrass, pomelo leaves, spring onion, salt and
five-spice. Mix together well, then insert the mixture into the cavity of the pig.
Mix together the honey and oil, then brush the mixture over the skin of the pig.
Skewer the pig to place on the barbecue rotisserie. Light your barbecue charcoal
beads and wait for the fire to die down.
When the coals are glowing, place the skewered pig onto the rotisserie and begin
to rotate the spit every few minutes over medium heat. Roast for 40 minutes,
basting the pig with the honey and oil mixture every 5 minutes.
Serve the pig with baguettes and a side dipping sauce of light soy sauce and
sliced red chilli.
You can only find sticky rice made with this bamboo technique in
areas occupied by ethnic minorities. It is known in Vietnamese as
‘Com lam’. If you can’t get your hands on the smaller thinner bamboo
sticks, you can simply steam the glutinous rice over some banana
leaves.

ingredients
400 g (14 oz/2 cups) glutinous rice
4 banana leaf portions, about 20 cm (8 inches) long, plus 1 large banana leaf,
about 1 metre (3 feet) long 4 small bamboo sticks, about 20 cm (8 inches)
long, with one end of each open preparation
Soak the rice in water overnight. Drain.
Roll the four 20 cm (8 inch) banana leaf lengths into cigar-like shapes and use
them to line the inside of each bamboo stick.
Using a spoon, carefully insert the rice into the bamboo, inside the banana leaf.
Tear the large banana leaf into four pieces and use these to seal the open ends of
the bamboo. Secure the ends with kitchen string.
Chargrill the bamboo sticks for 10 minutes over medium heat, turning every few
minutes.
To serve, peel away and discard the bamboo and banana leaves.
ingredients
1 tablespoon annatto seeds

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) vegetable oil preparation
Heat the annatto seeds and oil in a small saucepan over low heat. Heat just until
the oil begins to simmer; don’t overheat or the seeds will turn black.
Remove from the heat and set aside to cool, then strain the oil into a jar. It will
keep for several weeks in a cool, dark place.
ingredients
200 g (7 oz) raw pork belly
2 slices fresh ginger

preparation
Place the pork belly in a small saucepan and cover with cold water. Add the
ginger and a pinch of sea salt. Bring to the boil, skim off the impurities, then
reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.
Turn off the heat and leave the pork belly to rest in the broth for a further 10
minutes.
Remove the pork from the broth and allow to cool, then thinly slice and use as
required.
ingredients
200 ml (7 fl oz) coconut cream 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) full-cream (whole) milk
¼ teaspoon vanilla bean paste
8 egg yolks
2 tablespoons tamarind paste

preparation
Mix the coconut cream, milk and vanilla bean paste in a saucepan and bring to
boiling point. Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and sugar using an electric mixer
until pale.
Slowly add half the hot milk mixture to the egg yolk mixture, stirring all the
time. Now stir the egg mixture into the remaining hot milk mixture and cook
over low heat, stirring constantly with a silicon spatula, until the liquid reaches
83°C (181°F), or coats the back of the spatula. Do not allow the egg to scramble.
Strain the liquid immediately into a bowl set over an iced water bath. Stir the
liquid to bring down the temperature, then stir in the tamarind paste. Transfer to
the refrigerator and leave to chill.
Churn the liquid in an ice-cream machine in 20-minute increments for 40

minutes.
Freeze in an airtight container until required.
ingredients
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil
6 garlic cloves, finely sliced

preparation
Heat the oil in a wok to 180°C (350°F), or until a cube of bread dropped into the
oil turns brown in 15 seconds. Add the garlic and fry until golden — be careful
not to overcook the garlic, as it will keep cooking once it is removed from the
heat.
Strain the garlic through a metal sieve and place on paper towels to dry. Store the
fried garlic in an airtight container for up to 4 days.
Reserve the garlic-flavoured oil to use in salads; it will keep for up to 2 weeks if
stored in a cool place.
ingredients
200 g (7 oz) red Asian shallots 1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cups) vegetable oil preparation
Thinly slice the shallots and wash under cold water. Dry with a cloth, then set
aside on paper towels until completely dry.
Heat the oil in a wok to 180°C (350°F), or until a cube of bread dropped into the
oil turns brown in 15 seconds. Fry the shallot in small batches until it turns
golden brown, then remove with a slotted spoon to paper towels.
These are best eaten freshly fried, but will keep for up to 2 days in an airtight
container. The oil they were cooked in can also be reused.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) fresh pork liver — make sure it is bright in colour, moist and not
slimy 1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1 tablespoon finely diced red Asian shallot 50 g (1¾ oz) minced (ground) pork
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) hoisin sauce 2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons shrimp paste

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) pork stock
1 tablespoon peanut butter

1 tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch), blended with a little water until smooth 3
tablespoons crushed roasted peanuts
2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds

preparation
Place the liver on a chopping board. Holding a heavy knife in each hand, chop
the liver in a fast motion, mincing it finely.
Heat a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the oil, garlic and shallot, then
cook the pork liver and pork for 4 minutes. Add the hoisin sauce, sugar, shrimp
paste and stock, stirring until the sugar has dissolved.
Bring to the boil, then add the peanut butter and cornflour mixture and stir for 3
minutes, or until the sauce thickens. Once thickened, add the peanuts and sesame
seeds.
The dipping sauce can be refrigerated in an airtight container for 2 days, but is
best served hot.
ingredients
3 tablespoons fish sauce 3 tablespoons white vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
2 garlic cloves, chopped 1 red bird’s eye chilli, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons lime juice

preparation
Put the fish sauce, vinegar and sugar in a small saucepan with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½
cup) water. Place over medium heat, stir well and cook until just before boiling
point is reached. Remove the pan from the heat and allow to cool.
Just before serving, stir in the garlic, chilli and lime juice. Store in a tightly
sealed jar in the fridge for up to 5 days.
ingredients
625 ml (21 fl oz/2½ cups) white vinegar 440 g (15½ oz/2 cups) sugar

2 Lebanese (short) cucumbers 1 carrot, peeled
1 small daikon, peeled
1 celery stalk
½ lemon, cut into thin wedges preparation
In a saucepan, combine the vinegar, sugar and salt. Stir well and bring to the
boil, then remove from the heat and set aside to cool.
Cut the cucumbers in half lengthways and scrape out the seeds with a spoon. Cut
the cucumber, carrot, daikon and celery into 5 cm x 5 mm (2 inch x ¼ inch)
batons. Place in a 1 litre (34 fl oz/4 cup) plastic or glass container with the lemon
wedges and mix together. Pour the cooled pickling liquid over the vegetables to
completely submerge them.
Cover with a lid, place in the refrigerator and allow to pickle for 3 days before
using. Store any leftover pickled vegetables in an airtight container in the fridge
for up to 1 week.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) dried shrimp 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) vegetable oil ½ garlic bulb,
outer papery skin removed, cloves crushed 10 spring onions (scallions), white
part only, sliced
1 teaspoon chilli flakes

200 g (7 oz) crabmeat
2 teaspoons sugar
1 tablespoon oyster sauce 1 teaspoon sea salt

100 ml (3½ fl oz) chilli oil preparation
Soak the dried shrimp in 250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) water for 20 minutes, then
drain and set aside.
Pour the oil into a wok and bring to medium heat. Fry the garlic and spring
onion for 2 minutes, or until fragrant. Now add the chilli flakes, crabmeat, dried
shrimp, sugar, oyster sauce, salt and fish sauce. Stir together, then reduce the
heat to a low simmer.
Cook for 30 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes. Lastly stir in the chilli oil and
simmer for a further 5 minutes.
Use this sate sauce as a dipping sauce for noodle soups, or add it to stir-fries. It
can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.
ingredients
250 ml (8½ fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil 6 spring onions (scallions), green part only,
thinly sliced preparation
Put the oil and spring onion in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook for about 2
minutes, or until the oil just starts to simmer. Remove the pan from the heat and
allow to cool.
Do not discard the spring onion; it should be kept in the oil to garnish dishes.
Transfer the oil mixture to a clean container. It will keep in the fridge for several
days.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz) tamarind pulp preparation
Soak the tamarind pulp in 400 ml (13½ fl oz) boiling water for 10 minutes.
Break it up a little with a whisk, then leave until cool enough to handle.
Using your hands, work the mixture into a thick paste. Pass the mixture through
a sieve, discarding the solids.
The tamarind water can be stored in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 2
weeks.
ingredients
100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) uncooked glutinous rice preparation
Heat a frying pan or wok over medium heat and dry-roast the rice for 8–10
minutes, or until lightly browned, tossing it occasionally. For a smokier flavour,
allow the rice to turn a deeper shade of brown.
To make your rice powder more perfumed, you can also dry-roast the rice with
chilli, lemongrass and makrut (kaffir lime) leaves.
Remove from the heat and allow to cool, then pound to a powder using a large
mortar and pestle.
The powder is best used fresh, but can be stored in an airtight container in a cool
dark place for several weeks.
AGAR AGAR Derived from seaweed, agar agar is used as a setting agent
(mainly in desserts) in much the same way as gelatine. Unlike gelatine, however,
agar agar is a vegetarian substance. It is sold in Asian or Japanese grocery stores.
ANNATTO Annatto seeds come from the pod of a fruit called achiote. They
have a slightly sweet yet peppery flavour, and are mainly used for infusing
vegetable oil, which is then used to add a rich golden colour to food. The seeds
can be bought from Asian or Indian grocers. Making annatto oil at home is easy
(see recipe).
ASIAN BA SIL Also known as Thai Basil, this herb has purple stems, pointed
green leaves and an unmistakable aniseed-like aroma and flavour.
BAHN KOT Bahn kot are small, crisp, savoury cakes topped with prawns and
shallots, served with herbs and lettuce for wrapping, and sauces for dipping into.
They are cooked over flames in special pans with round indents for each cake.
You’ll find bahn kot pans in specialist Thai or Vietnamese food stores.
BANANA BLOSSOM This is literally the flower of the banana tree, consisting
of tight, purple, leaf-like layers. The inner layers are the most tender part and are
used both cooked and raw. They discolour upon slicing, so need to be placed in
acidulated water during preparation. Banana blossom is available year-round
from Asian greengrocers.
BETEL LEAVES The glossy, heart-shaped leaves of a perennial creeping plant,

betel leaves are chewed raw for their mild stimulant properties, and used widely
throughout South-East Asia in both cooked dishes and raw, most often as a
wrapper for salad and other ingredients.
BLACK CARDAMOM Used whole as a spice, this large, black-brown pod has a
camphor-like aroma. Its fragrance is also somewhat smoky, as traditionally it is
processed over an open fire to dry it out. The more common green cardamom
pods cannot be substituted.
CHINESE BLACK VINEGAR Also sold as Chinkiang vinegar, this is made
from glutinous rice and has a rich, mellow flavour. It is widely used in many
dishes including stews, stir-fries and sauces.
CHINESE CELERY Much smaller than regular celery, the leaves of Chinese
celery resemble parsley. Its thin stalks, which have a delicate yet fragrant
flavour, are stringless and crisp.
CHINESE CURED PORK A salted, dry-cured pork product, the finest of

which are not unlike prosciutto or Spanish jamón. Either of these make fine
substitutes.
CHINESE RED VINE GAR This rice-based vinegar is essentially the same as
Chinese white vinegar, except for its rosy colour, which is usually attained by the
addition of grains of red yeast rice.
CHINESE WHITE FUNGUS A variety of fungus, sold dried and soaked before
using. It has little flavour but a pleasant crunchy texture and is used in China in
soups, salads and desserts. It is believed to have highly medicinal qualities.
CHRYSANTHEMUM LEAVES Used as a salad green and for stir-frying in

many Asian cultures, chrysanthemum leaves have a distinctive flavour and are
said to be high in iron. They can be found fresh at Asian greengrocers.
DAY LILY BUDS Also called ‘golden needles’, these buds are from a variety of
daylily flower and are used in Chinese cookery, in both fresh and dried form.
You can use dried instead of fresh. They are easy to find in Asian supermarkets;
simply soak them in water for 20 minutes.
DRIED ANCHOVIES These small dried fish, used fried as a snack or as an

ingredient in many dishes, are widely available at Asian grocery stores. These
are the same anchovies used in making Vietnamese fish sauce, except that the
anchovies are fermented while they are still fresh, rather than dried.
DRIED BEAN CURD STICKS These are the dried skin that forms on pans of
boiling soy milk during the process of making tofu. These are dried and sold as
sheets or as bunched sticks.
DRIED BLACK FUNGUS This dried Chinese mushroom is also called ‘wood
ear’ and ‘tree ear’ mushroom as it is said to resemble ‘ears’ on the trees it grows
out of. These mushrooms need to be soaked before use and have a firm texture,
with a deep, earthy flavour.
DRIED FERMENTED BEAN CURD Also called ‘preserved tofu’, this is tofu
that has been air-dried and allowed to slowly ferment from bacteria present in
the air. It is then soaked in water, rice wine, vinegar and chillies, or sometimes
bean paste.
DRIED LONGAN This small, sweet fruit of a tropical tree is eaten fresh, but
also used dried in cooking and as a medicinal ingredient throughout parts of
Asia. It is also called ‘dragon eye’ as it resembles an eyeball when the fruit is
removed from its shell.
DRIED SHRIMP Widely used in Vietnamese cooking, dried shrimps are

favoured for the special ‘umami’ or ‘fifth taste’ element that they bring to dishes.
They are often soaked and/or pounded before using, and are not interchangeable
with fresh prawns (shrimp). They are easy to find in any Asian supermarket.
FRESH GREEN PEPPERCORNS The fruits of a flowering vine that, when

dried, are the more familiar black peppercorns. When green and fresh, they have
a piquant flavour and are highly aromatic. If not available, pickled green
peppercorns can be substituted, but the flavour won’t be as bright.
FRESH SUGAR CANE A member of the grass family, the stems and juice of
sugar cane are used in Vietnamese cooking. Fresh sugar cane is available
throughout the year from Vietnamese and Thai greengrocers. It is also available
tinned from your Asian grocer.
GALANGAL A hard, woody rhizome from the ginger family, galangal has a
distinctive flavour and cannot be substituted. Fresh galangal should be a deep
creamy colour with pink patches. Avoid galangal with brown or withered-
looking skin.
GLASS NOODLES Also known as cellophane noodles or bean thread noodles,

these very thin, wiry, dried translucent noodles are made from mung bean starch.
They are boiled to reconstitute them, then used in soups and stir-fries.
GOJI BERRIES Also called ‘wolfberries’, these are the fruit of a boxthorn
plant, mainly grown in China. The small orange-red berries are used in their
dried form and are known to contain a high nutrient value and large number of
antioxidants.
JACKFRUIT The largest tree-borne fruit in the world, jackfruit can grow up to
35 kg (77 lb). When fully grown it has starchy, fibrous, and subtly sweet flesh.
Young, or unripe fruit, has firm, less sweet flesh and is often used in cooked
dishes such as curries, whereas older, ripe fruit is eaten out of hand or in
desserts. Jackfruit can be purchased tinned if fresh fruit is not available.
JICAMA Also called yam bean, this root vegetable has a bulbous shape and a
refreshingly crunchy and juicy interior. The flavour is slightly sweet and nutty. It
can be cooked, but is also delicious eaten raw, and is used widely in Vietnam as
a salad ingredient. Asian greengrocers sell jicama.
KECAP MANIS A very thick, syrupy soy sauce from Indonesia, heavily
sweetened with sugar.
LEMON LEAVES Literally, the leaves from lemon trees, which can be used for
the aromatic, deep citrus flavour they impart to dishes. You can purchase them
from an Asian grocer, or simply pick young leaves from a lemon tree.
LIME LEAVES Also known as makrut (kaffir lime) leaves, these are the
intensely fragrant leaves of an Asian citrus fruit. They are used — generally very
finely shredded — to impart their distinctive savour to many types of dishes,
including soups, salads, curries and marinades.
LOTUS FLOWER The beautiful flower of an aquatic plant, resembling a lily.

All of the lotus flower can be eaten, including the flowers. The petals can be
cooked, or eaten raw as a salad ingredient or garnish.
LOTUS ROOT Starchy and crunchy, the roots of the lotus plant are white in
colour and have a distinctive pattern of holes running through their centre.
LOTUS SEED In Asia, lotus seeds are eaten fresh, and are also used in cooking
and for medicinal purposes. Dried lotus seeds are available from Asian
supermarkets and require soaking overnight before using.
PANDAN LEAVES The long, thin leaves of the pandan plant, also called the
screwpine plant, impart their unmistakable sweet, nutty, vanilla fragrance to a
variety of dishes, both sweet and savoury. They are also used for their colour, a
beautiful green, which tints rice and desserts.
PENNYWORT LEAVES While not all varieties of pennywort are edible, the
edible Asiatic pennywort has slim, reddish stems and smooth, rounded green
leaves. These are used in drinks, salads and in cooked dishes.
PERILLA Also called shiso, this highly fragranced herb is part of the mint
family. Its large rounded leaves are delicate and have a jagged edge, and are
either green or purple. Perilla is used in salads, as well as stews and simmered
dishes.
PICKLED CHILLI This popular bright red and very spicy condiment is often
served as an accompaniment to finished dishes.
PORK FLOSS A fine, cooked pork product with a very light texture, used as a
topping for various foods, or a filling in buns and pastries. It is also eaten on its
own as a snack. Time-consuming to make at home, it is readily available from
Asian grocers.
POTATO STARCH A white, neutral-tasting powder extracted from potatoes

and used in cooking, most commonly as a thickener. It is sometimes also called
potato flour.
PRESERVED BEAN CURD A pungent condiment made by fermenting tofu.

Not unlike strong, smelly cheeses in aroma and mouthfeel, it is packed in jars in
brine and is either white or red. The latter is coloured with ground red yeast rice,
while the former can be seasoned with a variety of ingredients — chilli, sesame,
anise, lemon, or even dried shrimp.
ROCK SUGAR Available in Asian grocery stores, rock sugar is a coarse, solid
form of sugar, considered by the Chinese to have medicinal qualities. It is widely
used in cookery, not just in desserts, but to add a sweet edge to savoury dishes.
SALTED SOYA BEANS Also called fermented soya beans, fermented black
beans and salted black beans, these beans are made by two separate processes:
first fermenting, and the second salting. They are an extremely popular
ingredient in Chinese cooking. A little goes a long way — they are very salty.
SAW-TOOTH CORIANDER A native to South America and related to

coriander (cilantro), this herb has a relatively large, oblong bright green leaf with
serrated sides. It has a much stronger flavour than regular coriander and is used
in a variety of dishes, both raw (in salads for example) and cooked (such as in
stir-fries and curries).
SHAOXING RICE WINE A famous sweetish Chinese cooking wine from the
town of the same name in eastern China, near Shanghai. It is brewed using rice
and is readily available from Asian supermarkets.
TAPIOCA FLOUR A starch derived from the cassava root. It has a neutral,
slightly sweet flavour, and is mostly used as a thickening agent.
TOASTED RICE POWDER Glutinous rice that is toasted over dry heat then
finely ground and used to give a nutty flavour and texture to dishes. It can be
purchased from Asian grocers, but is also easy to make at home (see recipe).
VIETNAMESE MINT Also called ‘rau ram’, this herb has long, thin, pointed
leaves and a very pronounced, pungent flavour.
VIETNAMESE PICKLED GROUND CHILLIES Known as ‘tuong ot’ in

Vietnamese, this blend of fresh chillies, ground garlic, salt, sugar and vinegar is
used as a table condiment, and also to season dressings, dipping sauces, soups,
salads and stir-fries. Tuong ot is widely sold in jars at Asian markets.
WATER SPINACH Also known as water convolvulus, water morning glory,

swamp spinach and ‘kang kung’, this aquatic green vegetable is widely used in
stews, soups and stir-fries. It is easy to find at Asian greengrocers.
YOUNG COCONUT JUICE This is the clear watery liquid that develops inside
immature coconuts. It is a popular drink, and also commonly used as a liquid in
cooking.
YOUNG GREEN RICE FLAKES Considered a delicacy in Vietnam, these

freshly harvested glutinous rice grains have been toasted to accentuate their
delicate, naturally sweet flavour. These are eaten out of hand when fresh, and are
also used as an ingredient in cooking. Purchase them from a Vietnamese grocery
store.
‡
First published in 2013 by Hardie Grant Books An SBS book
Hardie Grant Books (Australia) Ground Floor, Building 1
658 Church Street

Richmond, Victoria 3121
www.hardiegrant.com.au
Hardie Grant Books (UK)

Dudley House, North Suite
34–35 Southampton Street
London WC2E 7HF
www.hardiegrant.co.uk
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
Copyright text © Luke Nguyen Copyright food photography © Alan Benson Copyright location
photography © Alan Benson and Suzanna Boyd Design © Hardie Grant Books 2013
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia at www.nla.gov.au
eISBN: 9781743580745
++
Publishing Director: Paul McNally Managing Editor: Lucy Heaver Editor: Katri Hilden
Design Manager: Heather Menzies Print Designer: Sarah Odgers Cover Designer: Murray Batten
Photographers: Alan Benson and Suzanna Boyd Stylist: Michelle Noeriento
Print Production Manager: Todd Rechner Digital Editor: Hannah Koelmeyer ‡

The Food of Vietnam

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The Food of Vietnam

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++ saigon & south

++ from coast to countryside

++ salt water people

++ princes & paupers

++ the dragon & the turtle

It brought to me Vietnam, where my journey to further understand my heritage,

In this book I begin my culinary discovery in southern Vietnam, where I trace

Returning to Vietnam coincided with a period of change and development

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon crushed roasted peanuts

Garnish with extra herb leaves if desired and serve.

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 handful watercress sprigs

1 tablespoon crushed roasted peanuts

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 teaspoons fish sauce

2 tablespoons crushed roasted peanuts

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 handfuls bean sprouts

4 tablespoons crushed roasted peanuts

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon julienned fresh ginger

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

12 young white corn cobs

1 tablespoon toasted white sesame seeds

We are surrounded by hundreds of boats, all specialising in one particular fruit or

Large boats transfer mounds of plump mangoes, rambutans, watermelon,

Everything about my family’s livelihood here revolves around the Mekong

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 tablespoons finely diced garlic

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 teaspoon dried raisins

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon diced red chilli

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons crushed roasted peanuts

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon finely diced garlic

5 drops vegetable oil

2 teaspoons powdered gelatine

2 teaspoons lemon juice

I am astounded at what I see. Two hundred enormous wooden vats, each

I can’t resist cooking a dish featuring these marvellous peppercorns. So I grab

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon finely diced garlic

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

1 tablespoon crushed roasted peanuts

SERVES 4–6 as part of a shared meal

2 teaspoons sea salt

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 teaspoon ground white pepper

SERVES 4 as part of a shared meal

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 crisp Vietnamese baguettes