CHAPTER 1

FISH SAUCE

Houston tastes like fish sauce. Seriously. For me, it’s not the smoke of barbecue or the cumin-y flavor of Tex-Mex that defines the food here. It’s fish sauce. Even before I fell completely in love with Vietnamese food, I was tasting fish sauce everywhere I went.

Fish sauce scented the phở and the bánh mì and the late-night spring rolls we’d order at the only place that was open downtown after our long shifts as line cooks were done.

Initially, I couldn’t even name this flavor I was experiencing everywhere. I didn’t realize it was fish sauce, which, if you’ve eaten much fish sauce in your life, is pretty hilarious. Fish sauce isn’t subtle. Like other delicious fermented foods—cheese, sauerkraut, pickles, even wine and beer—it’ll announce itself with a jab to the nostrils, then by firing a shot across your taste buds. It’s salty and funky, and once you’ve gotten to know it, you’ll recognize it anywhere.

But that’s the thing: Until moving to Houston, I had never tried it before. Unlike soy sauce, fish sauce had never found its way into my bag of takeout during my childhood in Nebraska and Oklahoma. In the early days, I was not much of a fan of fish sauce, and I would always choose peanut sauce or something equally crowd-pleasing when given the choice.

But in Houston, fish sauce is everywhere. Its proliferation started with the vibrant Vietnamese community here, then spread out to kitchens of all kinds. I learned to love fish sauce very slowly, over the course of long nights at Mai’s, a restaurant that catered to the late-night industry crowd. I spent lots of time there early in my time in this city. My initial resistance to the pungent little dip that came with my crispy spring rolls was worn down through proximity, perhaps: after seeing the ramekin of nước chấm appear every single time (even if I’d said I didn’t want it), I finally broke down and dipped my roll right into the mixture. Coating the vegetables and rice noodles inside the wrapper, it made my roll about a billion times more delicious—I was blown away by this substance that brought so much flavor through brininess and umami, that fifth taste that is deeply savory and rich.

Now, my kitchen is no exception to the fish sauce train—we use it constantly. For a cook, it’s a dream ingredient, the most dynamic provider of umami. It adds another dimension of flavor, and it changes depending on how you use it: raw, it gives you that umami with the pungency it’s known for; cooked, the aroma mellows out into a beautiful backdrop; and when cooked with sugar, it creates a gorgeous, balanced, savory caramel.

SO WHAT IS IT?

Fish sauce is a liquid that is extracted from whole fish (ideally, black anchovies) that have been heavily salted and left to ferment for a long period of time—usually around one year. The enzymes in the fish, as it breaks down, create a substance that is salty, funky, umami-rich, and crazy delicious.

Fish sauce is one of Vietnam’s most prized commodities, and a cornerstone of the cuisine. It’s estimated that the average Vietnamese household consumes four liters of fish sauce annually. But fish sauce is also made in Thailand, South Korea, Japan, and China, and plays a major role in many Southeast Asian dishes.

A BRIEF (INCONCLUSIVE) HISTORY OF THE ORIGINS OF FISH SAUCE

Here in the States, most people think of fish sauce as a strictly Asian ingredient. What’s interesting, though, is that some of the earliest recorded mentions of fish sauce are from the ancient Roman empire. There is archaeological evidence of factories used to make garum and liquamen, two styles of fermented fish sauce used in cooking, dating back as early as the fifth century BCE. And it’s a key ingredient in many of the recipes that appear in one of the oldest existing cookbooks from that era—De Re Coquinaria (The Art of Cooking) by Apicius. There are recipes that use garum to season mussels, to add flavor to boiled lentils, and to make a vinaigrette for roast tuna, to name a few.

So where did it originate? Rome? Or Asia? There are a few different theories. One camp suggests that fish sauce got to Asia from the Roman empire through trade routes on the Silk Road. Harold McGee, author of On Food and Cooking, traces the origin of Asian fish sauce from garum, and believes that fish fermentation preceded soy fermentation (that is, soy sauce) in China. But historian Mark Kurlansky has a different take, suggesting that fish sauce occurred as an independent idea in both the West and the East, and attributes the first production of fish sauce in Asia to Vietnam. He believes that this ancient version of fish sauce was a direct descendant of soy sauce, and that the earliest Vietnamese fish sauces were likely fermented with soybeans.

But what about Rome? Fish sauce is so identified with Asian—especially Southeast Asian—cuisine, but why don’t we think of fish sauce with Italian food? One theory equates the fall of Roman fish sauce with the fall of Rome itself. When the empire collapsed, suddenly salt became a highly taxed commodity, which threw garum production into a tailspin. Then enter the pirates. (Yes, pirates!) After the Roman empire fell, coastlines and coastal industries were unprotected, and pirates came in to destroy and pillage what they could. So, with a few very isolated exceptions, the production of Italian fish sauce was basically wiped out.

BUYING FISH SAUCE

Fish sauce consumption is on a major uptick in the United States. It used to require a special trip to an Asian market, but now I can find it easily in almost any major grocery store.

But not all fish sauce is created equal. The process of making fish sauce has a number of variables, all of which can affect the result. And, like most commercially made food products, some fish sauce is stabilized and flavored with additives that change the flavor and texture.

Red Boat fish sauce

My favorite brand of fish sauce is Red Boat, and it’s what we used in testing all of the recipes in this book. Red Boat is a newer fish sauce brand, and it’s a small-batch operation compared to some of the larger brands, like Squid or Three Crabs (in 2016, Red Boat produced about half a million liters of fish sauce, while its next competitor sold approximately 10 million liters). But unlike many of the fish sauce brands that are available in the States, Red Boat has only three ingredients: anchovies, sea salt, and water. No MSG, and no added proteins or sugar.

But it’s the taste and the texture that sold me on Red Boat. It has a viscous consistency and an intense, but clean, flavor of salt, umami, and the sea.

Red Boat’s owner, a Vietnamese American immigrant named Cuong Pham, treats the production of fish sauce like some might treat winemaking. He has a small fleet of boats that go out into the Gulf of Thailand and catch black anchovies. His team salts the fish immediately, right on the boat. “The fish start to rot as quickly as two hours after they’re caught, so it’s important that we salt them right away to avoid that,” he says. The salt starts the fermentation process immediately, killing bacteria while promoting the natural enzymes that break down the fish. Many commercial fish sauce producers source their anchovies from third-party fishing companies, salting them only once they return from sea (which can be up to a week after the fish was caught).

Once the Red Boat anchovies have been salted, they’re transferred into wooden barrels and left to naturally ferment for a year. Then Cuong and his team carefully blend the sauce from the barrels to create a balanced final product.

Even though Red Boat is made on the Vietnamese island of Phú Quốc, the brand has a largely American audience and American roots. Cuong’s desire to get into the fish sauce business was born out of homesickness. Living in the United States, he would try to cook some of his favorite dishes from home, but he’d be frustrated that they didn’t come out tasting the same as when his mom made them. He finally realized it was the fish sauce: what was available here was nothing like what he grew up with. That jump-started a journey to make and export a fish sauce of artisan production to the States. When Cuong showed me his process of making fish sauce, it was obvious that he wasn’t cutting corners anywhere. Salting the fish directly on the boat, and using no additives or flavorings. None of this is cheap. I asked him if people on Phú Quốc think he’s crazy because he makes his fish sauce that way. He answered yes immediately. I knew this was a product I’d fall in love with.

You can find Red Boat in specialty markets like Whole Foods or online. It’s usually twice the price of some of the other fish sauces out there, due to the small production and added steps that Cuong uses to achieve this final product, but the flavor it adds is well worth it, in my opinion.

“Authentic” fish sauces

Some fish sauce brands available here are also popular in Southeast Asia. You might call these “authentic” fish sauces, but I’m putting the word authentic in italics because if I’ve learned anything in cooking, and in the process of writing this book, it’s that authenticity is a tricky and usually misplaced concept. But, in the case of fish sauce, it’s a pretty interesting debate.

One of my dear friends, Jacklyn Pham (no relation to Cuong), runs the Vietnamese restaurant Saigon Pagolac, here in Houston, and I think it has some of the best food in the city, if not the country. I asked her recently what kind of fish sauce she uses. “Squid, and sometimes Three Crabs,” she said—the most popular brands on the market. For Jacklyn, Red Boat doesn’t taste like the fish sauce she grew up with. “I don’t want to say it’s Americanized, but…Vietnamese people don’t really use it,” she told me.

Cuong agreed, saying that the largest growing markets for Red Boat are not Asiacentric, but places like Whole Foods. You won’t find Red Boat in Vietnam, and you're not likely to find it in big Asian market chains like H Mart.

So in terms of flavor, there’s definitely an argument to be made for keeping a bottle of Squid around, if you’re seeking to replicate the flavors of your favorite Vietnamese or Thai restaurant here in the States. I find Squid to be saltier, thinner, and less sea-like than Red Boat, but it’s all a matter of preference.

And in the bigger picture, it’s food for thought—which fish sauce is more “authentic”? The one made according to old, artisanal Vietnamese tradition or the ones that are used by the vast majority of Vietnamese cooks in the United States? I’m definitely not going to try to answer that.

STORING AND USING FISH SAUCE

Fish sauce has a very long shelf life, but it can oxidize much like wine, so once the bottle is open, it’s best to keep it in your fridge and to use it within about six months to preserve its full flavor.

There are so many ways to incorporate fish sauce into your cooking. The recipes in this chapter show a few of my favorite ideas for using this super versatile ingredient. But even before we get to the recipes, let’s get to know some of the many forms fish sauce can take.

The most common tableside use of fish sauce is as a condiment known as nước chấm (you can make it yourself, see this page). When mixed with other aromatics, lime or vinegar, and a little sugar, fish sauce transforms into a brilliant liquid flavoring device that can be used to dress a bowl of rice or noodles, or accompany basically any meat that could use a dipping sauce.

From there, you can also whisk nước chấm with an egg yolk and then a thin stream of oil to make a silky-textured and umami-rich salad dressing (this page).

As the base of a marinade, fish sauce lends its saltiness and depth, but the “fish” notes tend to dissolve into the background. The same thing happens when you use it in a stir-fry or braise, giving you a “secret ingredient” effect where the top notes fall away and the punch and umami act as an undercurrent to enhance the other flavors in the dish.

And then you can cook fish sauce with sugar to create a powerful, keeps-ya-coming-back savory caramel.

Fish sauce is one of my favorite ingredients, not just because of what it can do in the kitchen—it makes you look like a rock star without much work—but also because of the conversations it’s started and the food it’s introduced me to. My passion for fish sauce led me into restaurants I might not have otherwise tried, to dishes I might not have otherwise made, and to friendships I might not have otherwise had—people you’ll meet in this book.

Making fish sauce in Phú Quốc (courtesy of Red Boat)

NƯỚC CHẤM

VIETNAMESE DIPPING SAUCE

MAKES 2½ CUPS

Okay, here’s a quick vocab lesson in Vietnamese: There’s fish sauce straight from the bottle, which is called nước chấm. And then there’s the seasoned, prepared sweet-and-sour fish sauce condiment that is sometimes also called nước mắm. My Vietnamese friends have explained to me that, technically, only the stuff straight from the bottle should be called nước mắm; once you doctor it up with sugar, garlic, lime juice, and chile paste, it’s more typically called nước mắm chấm, or nước chấm for short.

I’ll be honest, though. I was a slow convert to nước chấm. In my earliest experiences with Vietnamese food, I’d always choose to dip my rolls in peanut sauce, which was vaguely similar to the peanut butter I’d been eating all my life. The bowl of nước chấm was unfamiliar and pungent and, therefore, went untouched.

But as my palate got more exposure to new flavors, I found myself reaching for the nước chấm every time. It has the perfect balance of sweet, salty, spicy, and sour to make your taste buds go off like fireworks. It’s used as a dipping sauce for spring rolls, lettuce wraps, grilled meats, egg crepes, and more, and it’s also incredibly versatile as a dressing for vegetables, noodle dishes, or rice.

1 cup hot water

½ cup sugar

¼ cup distilled white vinegar

⅓ cup fish sauce

1 tablespoon chopped garlic (about 3 cloves)

2 teaspoons sambal oelek (see this page)

¼ cup fresh lime juice

In a heatproof bowl, combine the hot water, sugar, vinegar, fish sauce, garlic, and sambal. Stir until the sugar dissolves, then mix in the lime juice. Taste for seasoning and adjust as necessary; it should be sweet, salty, funky, and a little spicy. Transfer to a lidded container and store in the refrigerator until ready to serve. (It will keep for 2 weeks.) Serve cold or at room temperature.

OXTAIL BÒ KHO

SERVES 6 TO 8

Maybe you’ve never heard of bò kho, but if you’ve ever had beef bourguignon, then you’ll recognize what’s happening. Given the history of the French colonization of Vietnam, this rich stew is likely related to the French classic, with a few tweaks.

First difference: fish sauce. Honestly, I think fish sauce should be added to just about any braise, from Bolognese to short ribs. Second difference: spices. Warm spices like cinnamon, cloves, and star anise are commonplace in Asian braises, and create depth here.

I like oxtails for this dish because all the bones and cartilage add flavor and naturally thicken the stew. But feel free to substitute short ribs.

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 pounds oxtails, cut into 1-inch-thick pieces and patted dry

1 large yellow onion, sliced

2 teaspoons to 1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 jalapeño, sliced into rings

10 garlic cloves, sliced

2 tablespoons chopped fresh ginger (about a 2-inch piece)

2 cinnamon sticks

4 star anise pods

½ cup sugar

1 quart beef stock

1 cup dry red wine

½ cup fish sauce

1½ cups thinly sliced carrot (about 2 carrots)

Freshly ground black pepper

Steamed rice or noodles, for serving

1. In an 8-quart Dutch oven or stockpot, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat. When it shimmers, add the oxtails in a single layer (you will probably need to work in batches), and brown them on all sides, about 2 minutes per side. Transfer the oxtails to a plate.

2. Reduce the heat to medium-low and add the onion. Add the salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is translucent and just starting to take on a bit of color, 7 to 10 minutes. Add the jalapeño, garlic, ginger, cinnamon, and star anise. Cook for 2 minutes, or until fragrant. Increase the heat to medium, add the sugar, and continue to cook for another 4 minutes, or until the sugar has melted and is beginning to caramelize. Add the beef stock, red wine, fish sauce, and reserved oxtails. (The liquid may not completely submerge the oxtails, and that’s okay.) Stir everything to combine, and bring to a rapid simmer. Reduce the heat to a low simmer, cover, and let cook for 2 hours, stirring every 20 or 30 minutes.

3. Stir in the carrots and let simmer, covered, for 1 more hour, or until the oxtails are very tender. Turn off the heat and let rest for about 20 minutes.

4. With a ladle, skim the fat that has risen to the surface. Taste and adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper. Serve over warm rice or noodles.

BIBB LETTUCE SALAD

WITH GRAPEFRUIT, CARROTS, AND FISH SAUCE VINAIGRETTE

SERVES 4

Nước chấm (or the Thai version, nam pla prik) is sort of the starting line of getting familiar with fish sauce as a condiment. From there, it’s easy to riff and experiment with different ways to create sauces and dressings. This vinaigrette uses fish sauce as the base, with complementary flavors (rice vinegar for acidity and honey for sweetness, to balance it as in a traditional nước chấm), but heads in the direction of a classic creamy dressing by emulsifying it with an egg yolk and mustard. The rich body of the vinaigrette makes it great for denser vegetables, like the carrots here; you can also drizzle it over slices of roasted sweet potato or broccoli or use it as a spread for sandwiches.

The combination of grapefruit and carrot plays off a common Vietnamese salad using pomelos, which are similar to grapefruit in size and flavor. You could dress this up even further with add-ons like avocado slices or grilled or poached shrimp.

FOR THE DRESSING

3 tablespoons rice vinegar

2 tablespoons fish sauce

1 tablespoon honey

1 tablespoon yellow mustard

1 large egg yolk

½ cup vegetable oil

FOR THE SALAD

2 cups sliced carrots (shaved lengthwise on a mandoline)

2 heads Bibb lettuce, cored and leaves separated

2 Ruby Red grapefruit, segmented

¼ cup sliced shallots (shaved on a mandoline)

2 tablespoons fresh mint leaves

2 tablespoons fresh cilantro leaves

1 tablespoon sesame seeds

1. In a blender or food processor, combine the vinegar, fish sauce, honey, mustard, and egg yolk. Blend on low speed or pulse to combine. Increase the speed of the blender to medium or turn the food processor on. Slowly add the oil in a thin stream to form a thick, emulsified dressing.

2. In a metal bowl, toss the carrots and lettuce with ¼ cup of the vinaigrette, or to taste.

3. Divide the vegetables among 4 bowls. Top with the grapefruit segments and shaved shallots and garnish with the herbs and sesame seeds. Serve immediately.

NOTE: The rest of the vinaigrette will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days; use it on sandwiches or to dress other salads.

GRILLED CHẢ LỤA

WITH GREEN MANGO SALAD, NƯỚC CHẤM, AND PORK FLOSS

SERVES 2 TO 4

Chả lụa, an emulsified pork roll that you slice like deli meat, is the Vietnamese answer to bologna. It’s frequently used as a filling for bánh mì, and I love it for its mild flavor and spongy texture—like a leaner bologna with a hit of white pepper. In Houston, we have a store, Giò Lua Ðức Hương, that specializes in making this unique product. When a fresh batch of chả lụa hits the display case, the place fills up with folks lined up to get a few of the still-warm bundles. The proprietors of the store are protective about the family’s secret recipe, as they should be: It’s the best I’ve ever had.

You can use chả lụa in pretty much the same way you’d use bologna, but my favorite method is to smoke or grill it and pair it with a crunchy salad. The fish sauce here—in the form of sweet-tart nước chấm—serves as a counterpoint to the rich flavor of the meat (fish sauce is a particularly good foil to fatty meats, whether it’s pork shoulder or a ribeye).

This salad brings chả lụa together with a medley of contrasting flavors and textures—sweet-sour green mangos, shredded carrots, rau răm (also known as Vietnamese coriander), and pork floss. Pork floss is a Chinese garnish, commonly used to top congee (rice porridge). It resembles cotton candy and has a pretty similar texture, too: the floss sort of dissolves on your tongue. But the flavor is purely savory thanks to the flavors of cured pork, soy sauce, and often MSG. I love the contrast it creates against the mild, soft chả lụa in this salad. Pork floss, like chả lụa and rau răm, will likely require a trip to your closest Asian market. But it lasts forever, and you should try tossing some with your popcorn for a super umami treat.

6 (½-inch-thick) slices chả lụa, halved

3 green mangos, peeled, pitted, and shredded on a mandoline

1 medium carrot, shredded on a mandoline

1 cup pork floss

½ cup Nước Chấm (this page)

½ cup rau răm or fresh cilantro leaves

½ cup heavily salted crushed peanuts, for garnish

1. Prepare a medium-hot grill. Arrange the chả lụa on the grill and cook, turning occasionally, until nice sear marks form and the meat is heated through, about 3 minutes. Alternatively, you can cook the chả lụa on a grill pan or hot skillet over medium-high heat for about 2 minutes.
2. In a large bowl, toss the mangos, carrot, and pork floss with the nước chấm and divide among plates. Top each serving with the rau răm leaves and then the chả lụa slices. Garnish with the peanuts and serve immediately.

FRIED EGG BÁNH MÌ

SERVES 4

While I was visiting Vietnam, this was my daily breakfast, and I’ve since been obsessed with it. I love the simplicity of it. So much flavor emerges from a very modest list of ingredients—eggs, vegetables, herbs, hot sauce, mayonnaise, and fish sauce.

You should get really excited about fish sauce and mayonnaise; mixed together, the fish sauce lightly seasons the mayonnaise with an ideal amount of salt and depth. Fish sauce mayonnaise is a condiment that I could use in endless applications. For starters, it makes the best BLT you’ve ever had (fish sauce loves fatty pork) and adds a whole new dimension to tuna salad.

½ cup mayonnaise

2 tablespoons fish sauce

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

8 large eggs

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Four 6-inch baguettes, halved lengthwise

½ English cucumber, seeded and thinly sliced lengthwise into strips

2 jalapeños, seeded and cut into rings

2 medium carrots, shredded

12 cilantro sprigs

Sriracha, for serving (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise and fish sauce.

2. Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter in a nonstick skillet over medium heat until the foam subsides. Break 2 eggs into the pan. Season them with salt and pepper and reduce the heat to low.

3. Cook the eggs slowly until the whites are set but the yolks are still runny. Transfer to a plate and keep warm. Repeat the process with 3 more tablespoons of butter and the remaining 6 eggs.

4. Spread the remaining 2 tablespoons butter on the baguettes. Place the baguettes on a baking sheet and toast in the oven for 10 minutes. Season the cucumber, jalapeños, and carrots with salt and pepper to taste.

5. To build the bánh mì, spread each baguette half with the fish sauce mayonnaise, then top with 2 eggs, some of the vegetables, a few cilantro sprigs, and Sriracha, if desired. Serve immediately.

A Pagoda Overlooking the Lake

Houston was an official resettlement site after the fall of Saigon in 1975, and an influx of refugees looking to escape persecution arrived in the mid and late 1970s. From that beginning, the community has grown as people sponsored friends and family members, and attracted people from other Vietnamese communities across the nation. In 2000, our Vietnamese population numbered 60,000; now the number in the greater Houston area is more than 110,000, the third largest in the country.

And with that size of community, you can find hyper-specialized restaurants focusing on very specific regional cuisines of Vietnam, or stores that sell just one thing, like Giò Lua Ðú´c Hu´o´ng, which just makes different flavors of the Vietnamese pork roll known as chả lụa (see this page).

Saigon Pagolac is one of many Vietnamese restaurants in Houston that go beyond the most well-known dishes. In ten years of eating there, I still find items on their menu seen nowhere else I can think of. Jacklyn Pham is one of the owners. She runs the business along with her father, Long Pham, who opened the restaurant in 1989. At the time, it was one of the only Vietnamese restaurants in the neighborhood of Bellaire; now there are dozens.

Jacklyn’s parents came to the United States right before the fall of Saigon in 1975. A connection through Long’s brother landed him a job at a Chinese restaurant in D.C., and he slowly worked his way up through every position, from waiting tables to bartending to cooking. Five years later, with baby Jacklyn in tow, the Phams moved to Houston to be closer to some of their extended family.

Long Pham dreamed of a restaurant of his own, and was inspired by a place back in Saigon that he loved. Called Pagolac, it was operated by a Vietnamese woman and her French husband, and the specialty of the house was a tasting menu called Seven Courses of Beef. “My dad went there all the time. Pagolac comes from the words pagoda and du lac in French, so it means ‘pagoda overlooking the lake,’” Jacklyn told me.

When Long opened Saigon Pagolac, he made sure to put his own spin on the Seven Courses of Beef, and this unusual offering built a steady clientele. Courses include beef “fondue,” in which raw beef is dipped in vinegar broth; beef meatloaf; and my favorite, beef wrapped in peppery, bitter betel leaf.

I first came to Saigon Pagolac with my best friend, Randy Evans, who worked with me at Brennan’s. He had a friend, a line cook of Vietnamese descent, who offered to take him to his favorite restaurant in the city, and I tagged along. On that first night at Saigon Pagolac, I remember looking at the menu and understanding immediately that there was something special about it, something intentional and careful. Even the few things I did recognize, like bò nướng vĩ (which I’d already experienced under the moniker “Vietnamese fajitas” at a late-night industry hangout called Mai’s), were different. Usually, you’ll get a little bit of lettuce, some basil, cilantro, and a small dish of nước chấm. But at Pagolac, a giant platter arrived at the table that could have been its own salad buffet—bouquets of shiso, rau răm, rice patty flowers, and multiple kinds of basil, in addition to the requisite lettuce and cilantro. Alongside the nước chấm came a dish of fermented anchovy pineapple sauce.

Since that first visit, I’ve returned to Saigon Pagolac often. Jacklyn, whom I met on my second visit, has become a good friend. We’ve hosted events together and special dinners at my restaurant, Underbelly, showcasing her recipes, and she’s hosted tour groups I’ve taken to Saigon Pagolac, teaching them how to properly use rice paper to make summer rolls.

Jacklyn and I have a pretty open dialogue about things: the Houston food scene, the food media, ingredients and purveyors. Business stuff. But it wasn’t until we were eating lunch together during the process of writing this book that we talked about her opinion of my food.

I asked her, “As someone who is part of this culture, how does it make you feel to see us do our take on Vietnamese food? Do you feel like Hey, this is just some white dude rippin’ us off?”

“No. Not at all,” she replied. “I think you’re opening the palate to people who don’t understand Asian food, or they think only of the super Americanized forms of it…like Chinese is lo mein and chop suey. Indian is just curry. And honestly, I don’t think anyone here knew about Korean food until you started talking about the tteokbokki. So yeah, I really think you open a lot of eyes in Houston.”

Now, I’m not telling you this for validation. In truth, I was just relieved by her response. But now that I’d had the clarity and confidence to open this line of questioning, I wanted to know something else: Had her business changed at all since we started working together?

“We have people come specifically because they heard about us from you,” she said. “Or from an article where you mentioned us. And the people who come because of you, they’re excited. They’re excited to try out our food.”

I realized, as she said it, that this got to the heart of a really important facet about my approach to cooking—and storytelling. I love to learn and to help other people learn about the amazing food that is in our city and our world, and I feel I do that best by representing the culinary influences in my cooking. But just as important, I want to be able to pay respect to the people who are teaching me—by sharing their stories, but also by making sure that I’m using my platform, whatever attention I get as a chef, to direct others toward them in a way that will hopefully impact their bottom line.

It’s a fine line, though. I’d never be so presumptuous to think that Jacklyn and her dad need my help—they’ve been in the restaurant business longer than I have! But I do hope the effects of their generosity come back to them. For me, there’s no joy in putting something on my menu without sharing the story behind it, and giving the people who inspired me a bigger platform in the process.

CHÁO TÔM

SUGARCANE SHRIMP SKEWERS

SERVES 6

I first tried this dish at the Vietnamese restaurant Saigon Pagolac (see this page), one of my very favorite places in Houston. Jacklyn Pham and her father, Long, are especially well known for serving bo 7 mon, or “seven courses of beef.” But I can’t leave without ordering the cháo tôm. These skewers taste like a deliciously seasoned shrimp dumpling, but with a light-as-air texture thanks to the addition of whipped egg whites.

If you can’t find fresh sugarcane, you can use canned sugarcane, which most Asian markets carry. You could even create skewers out of lemongrass stalks if you like.

2 pounds shrimp, peeled and deveined

4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped

1 shallot, roughly chopped

1 tablespoon fish sauce

1½ teaspoons sugar

Kosher salt and ground white pepper

2 tablespoons rendered pork fat

1 tablespoon potato starch or cornstarch

2 large egg whites

12 (3-inch-long) sugarcane sticks

2 cups vegetable oil, for deep-frying

1. Combine the shrimp, garlic, and shallot in a food processor and buzz until it becomes a smooth paste, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the fish sauce, sugar, 1 to 1½ teaspoons salt, and ½ teaspoon white pepper and pulse to combine. Then add the pork fat and potato starch and pulse until well incorporated.

2. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. Fold the beaten egg whites into the shrimp mixture, then let rest for 10 to 15 minutes.

3. Divide the shrimp paste into 12 equal portions. Wrap each portion around a sugarcane stick, leaving a little bit of the stick on the bottom bare (it will act as a handle)—you’re pretty much making something that looks like shrimp Popsicles.

4. Set up a steamer and steam the shrimp for 6 to 8 minutes, or until just cooked. They should be firm and bouncy. Once all the shrimp are steamed, pat them dry and set them aside.

5. Heat the oil in a large, deep frying pan over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F on a deep-fry thermometer. Working in batches so as not to crowd the pan, add the shrimp skewers to the pan and fry them, turning them occasionally, until they turn a nice golden brown on all sides, about 3 minutes total, then transfer to a paper towel–lined platter. Serve immediately.

GRILLED HERB-MARINATED CHICKEN

SERVES 4

There’s nothing new about marinating chicken with herbs and citrus, but the addition of fish sauce takes this tried-and-true technique to something seriously next level. The fish sauce works its way deep into the chicken to impart its funky, salty flavor all the way through. This recipe also shows off the special relationship between fish sauce and sugar (in this case, honey) and how they work together to create caramelization without tipping the scales of flavor into something too sweet.

If you’d rather not mess with a whole chicken, feel free to swap in chicken thighs or breasts. Serve this with Papaya Salad (this page).

1 (3-pound) chicken or 3 pounds bone-in, skin-on chicken parts

1 cup fish sauce

¼ cup honey

Juice of 4 limes, plus 2 limes cut into wedges, for garnish

10 garlic cloves

2 bunches scallions (about 12), trimmed

1 bunch cilantro, plus more, chopped, for garnish

2 jalapeños

¼ cup vegetable oil

1. Set the chicken breast-side down on a cutting board. Using kitchen shears or a cleaver, go up from the cavity of the chicken toward the neck, cutting on either side of the backbone to separate it from the ribs (save the backbone for your next batch of chicken stock). Turn the chicken over, place both your hands in the center of the breast plate, and press down hard until you hear the breastbone snap; the chicken should be flattened at this point.

2. Combine the fish sauce, honey, lime juice, garlic, scallions, cilantro, jalapeños, and oil in a blender. Puree to a smooth consistency. Put the chicken in a large resealable plastic bag and pour in the sauce. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight.

3. Prepare a medium-hot grill with a medium-low zone. If using coals, build the fire off to one side of the grill, giving you direct and indirect heat. Remove the chicken from the marinade, letting any excess drip away. Place the chicken, skin-side down, on the hotter side of the grill and cook for 5 minutes, being careful not to let it burn as the sugars from the honey start to caramelize. Using tongs, flip the chicken and move it to the cooler side; continue to cook until it reaches an internal temperature of 165°F, 35 to 40 minutes (flip it again about halfway through for even cooking). Transfer the chicken to a cutting board and let it rest for 10 minutes.

4. To carve the chicken, cut the wing portions from the breasts, cut the breasts into two pieces each, and separate the drumsticks and thighs. Top with cilantro and serve immediately with lime wedges.

PORK RIBLETS IN FISH SAUCE CARAMEL

SERVES 4

I’m a fan of eating at food courts in grocery stores. Whether its Korean fried chicken at H Mart, a bowl of soup at 99 Ranch, or char siu pork at Hong Kong Market, some of the best and most exciting food experiences I’ve ever had have come out of grocery store food courts. This dish, called thịt kho in Vietnamese, is a quintessential grocery store dish, seen frequently on the steam tables around Houston. It features pork riblets, the small pieces of rib that remain after trimming spare ribs, coated in a sticky-sweet sauce not totally unlike tomato-based barbecue sauces. I got the tip to add coconut soda to this recipe from a distributor who delivers to our restaurant—the combination of sugar and citric acid in the soda helps balance out the sauce.

This would be a great party dish—just keep it in a slow cooker or over low heat on the stovetop as part of a buffet-style menu (hey, it works for the grocery stores!).

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 pounds pork riblets, cut into 1-inch pieces

1 cup sugar

½ cup fish sauce (preferably Red Boat)

1 yellow onion, sliced

4 garlic cloves, minced

4 Thai chiles (or to taste), minced

¾ cup coconut soda, such as Coco Rico

4 hard-boiled large eggs, peeled

3 scallions, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Steamed rice, for serving

1. In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Pat the riblets dry with paper towels. Working in batches so as not to crowd the pan, add the pork riblets in an even layer and sear on all sides until golden brown, about 8 minutes. Transfer the riblets to a plate and set aside.

2. Add the sugar and let it cook without stirring for a few minutes. When it starts to melt, start stirring occasionally, and continue cooking until all the sugar has dissolved and the caramel is a rich amber color, 4 to 5 minutes. Carefully and quickly stir in the fish sauce. The sugar may seize and clump when you add the fish sauce—just keep stirring until it melts back into a smooth sauce. (A few small hardened sugar clumps are fine; they will melt as you cook the sauce.)

3. Return the pork riblets to the saucepan and stir to glaze them in the sauce. Let the riblets stew in the sauce for about 10 minutes. Add the onion, garlic, and Thai chiles and cook for another 5 minutes.

4. Add the coconut soda and bring the pot to a gentle simmer, then turn down the heat to maintain the simmer. Let the liquid reduce by almost half, about 30 minutes. Stir in the whole hard-boiled eggs and scallions. Season with a little salt (if necessary) and a generous amount of black pepper, and serve with rice.

VIETNAMESE STEAK AND EGGS

SERVES 4

Flag this recipe for those mornings that demand a rich, savory breakfast to get yourself right. This dish, called bò né in Vietnamese, is a classic morning meal, almost like a breakfast fajita platter: thin slices of sizzling steak with onions and fried eggs on a cast-iron plate, served with a hunk of baguette, pâté, and butter.

It’s sort of a build-your-own bánh mì experience. The marinade here is intensely savory thanks to the presence of both fish sauce and soy-based oyster sauce. I prefer to slice the steak thin—it cooks more quickly, with more surface area for the sauce to cling to, and is ideal for layering into a baguette.

2 tablespoons fish sauce

1 tablespoon thinly sliced garlic (about 3 cloves)

1 tablespoon oyster sauce

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon toasted sesame oil

½ teaspoon sugar

1 (12-ounce) sirloin steak, cut across the grain into ⅛-inch-thick slices

6 tablespoons vegetable oil

½ medium yellow onion, sliced

8 large eggs

Baguettes, for serving

Pâté and butter, for spreading (optional)

1. In a resealable plastic bag, combine the fish sauce, garlic, oyster sauce, black pepper, sesame oil, and sugar. Add the sliced beef and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight.

2. Remove the beef from the bag, letting the excess marinade drip back into the bag; reserve the marinade.

3. In a sauté pan with high sides, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil over medium-high heat until it begins to shimmer. Working in batches to avoid crowding, add the beef slices and sear them for about 1 minute on each side just to cook it through. Transfer to a plate. Add the onion to the pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent and beginning to get color in spots, 7 to 10 minutes.

4. Add the reserved marinade to deglaze the pan. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to stir everything and scrape any bits stuck to the pan. Return the beef to the pan, stir to combine and coat everything in the sauce, and keep warm.

5. In a large nonstick skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the remaining oil over medium heat. Carefully crack 4 of the eggs into the pan and cook to the desired doneness. Repeat with the remaining 2 tablespoons oil and 4 eggs.

6. Divide the beef between 4 bowls, spooning some of the onion and sauce over the top. Top with 2 fried eggs each. Serve with warm baguettes, spread with butter and pâté (if using).

MEAT “CHIPS”

GRILLED SHORT RIB LETTUCE WRAPS

SERVES 8 TO 10

This recipe is inspired by a fantastic restaurant in Houston called Huỳnh, which played a special role in my development as an eater and as a cook. By the time I started going to eat there, I’d already converted from being the guy who always asks for the peanut sauce at Vietnamese restaurants to asking for nước chấm. The next step in my journey was at Hu`ynh, where I finally realized that the previously unidentifiable flavor that made their char-grilled short ribs so damn delicious was the same ingredient I’d started to warm up to as a dipping sauce: fish sauce.

It was a pretty big moment for me as a cook. It was the first time that the possibilities of fish sauce—as an ingredient that you cook with, rather than just a condiment—opened up to me. Suddenly, I was tasting fish sauce in everything: in soups and stews, in marinades, and on sandwiches. It dawned on me that Houston food tastes like fish sauce.

Here, fish sauce shows up in two places: in the marinade for the grilled short ribs and in the form of nước chấm, for dipping. As a marinade, fish sauce imparts a salty layer of seasoning as well as depth of flavor. I happen to believe that fish sauce goes with any protein, from fish to meat, so don’t be shy about how you use it.

These short ribs make a great interactive dish; pull it out for your next dinner with friends. They might be timid at first when you ask them to build their own lettuce wraps, but they’ll get over it pretty quickly when they realize how fun and delicious the whole process is. I call the ribs meat “chips” because they form these snackable bite-size pieces of meat that I can devour as though they were chips.

Oh, and I should say one more thing: this recipe isn’t exactly the Hu`ynh version. When I asked Cindy Dang, the owner, for the recipe, she said, “Only if you marry my sister.”

FOR THE MEAT “CHIPS”

2 bunches cilantro

2 bunches scallions (about 12), trimmed

3 shallots

8 garlic cloves

2 jalapeños

1 lemongrass stalk, pale core only (see Note, this page)

1 cup fish sauce

1 cup honey

5 pounds (⅜-inch-thick) crosscut beef short ribs (aka LA cut, kalbi, flanken, or taqueria cut)

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE LETTUCE WRAPS

1 bunch red leaf lettuce, divided into leaves

12 ounces rice noodles, cooked according to the package directions, rinsed, and cooled

2 cups quick-pickled bean sprouts (see this page)

1 cup julienned carrot and daikon

1 cup sliced scallions

Fresh mint leaves

Cilantro sprigs

1 cup Nước Chấm (this page), for dipping

1. Prepare the meat “chips”: Combine the cilantro, scallions, shallots, garlic, jalapeños, lemongrass, fish sauce, and honey in a blender and blend to a smooth puree.

2. Divide the short ribs between two large resealable plastic bags and pour half of the marinade into each bag. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or, ideally, overnight.

3. Prepare a medium-hot grill. Remove the short ribs from the marinade, letting most of the excess drip off. Season the short ribs lightly with salt (they already have a good level of seasoning thanks to the fish sauce bath) and pepper and grill for 3 to 5 minutes, until a nice sear has formed on the bottom. Flip the short ribs and continue grilling for 3 to 5 minutes more, until a nice sear has formed on the other side.

4. Transfer the short ribs to a cutting board and cut out the rib bones. Then cut the meat into 1-inch pieces.

5. Serve the meat on a platter alongside bowls of the lettuce wrap ingredients and encourage your guests to build individual meat “chip” lettuce wraps. Dunk the wraps generously in nước chấm and enjoy.

CRISPY BRUSSELS SPROUTS

WITH CARAMELIZED FISH SAUCE

SERVES 4

One of the most common appetizers that you see on the menus at Vietnamese restaurants in Houston is chicken wings with caramelized fish sauce. These sweet-salty, crispy wings were one of the first dishes that got me loving the flavors of Vietnamese cooking. As I became more experienced cooking with fish sauce, I took the idea of caramelized fish sauce chicken wings and applied it to the abundance of seasonal vegetables that we’re constantly getting from our local farmers. I’ll always have a soft spot for those wings, but I think I might love this recipe even more. And it speaks to the flexibility of fish sauce as an ingredient that it works as well with certain vegetables as it does with meat.

This is a recipe that you can (and should) experiment with—the only “rule” is to use a dense vegetable cut into bite-size pieces. I make versions with broccoli, cauliflower, green beans, okra, Brussels sprouts, and even shishito peppers.

This recipe calls for deep-frying the vegetables, and I recommend you do it that way at least once. Deep-frying gets the vegetables to a level of crispness that allows the fish sauce caramel to cling to the exterior without making it soggy. But I get that not every night is a “set up the deep fryer” night. So on those nights, roast the vegetables, well oiled, in one layer in a really hot oven until they show some nice browning for a similar, though not quite as texturally amazing, effect.

FOR THE SAUCE

½ cup fish sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

1½ tablespoons dark brown sugar

1 garlic clove

10 cilantro sprigs

FOR THE VEGETABLES

Vegetable oil, for frying

2 pounds Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved (or other dense vegetables cut in bite-size pieces)

½ lime

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, plus 10 whole leaves for garnish

1. Make the sauce: In a medium saucepan, combine the fish sauce, vinegar, brown sugar, garlic, cilantro, and 2 tablespoons water and bring to a light simmer over medium heat. Cook for 3 minutes, then strain through a fine-mesh sieve. Discard the solids. Measure ¼ cup of the sauce to use in this recipe; if there is any left, it can be stored in the fridge for up to 2 weeks.

2. Prepare the vegetables: Pour 3 inches of oil into a large pot or Dutch oven that will still give you a couple inches of clearance. Heat over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F on a deep-fry thermometer. While the oil is coming to temperature, heat a large skillet over high heat until it is very hot. When you’re almost ready to fry the Brussels sprouts, pour the reserved ¼ cup fish sauce mixture into the skillet. It should sizzle and come to an almost instant boil. Cook until the sauce reduces to a glaze, which will happen very quickly, less than 1 minute. Take it off the heat but keep warm.

3. Meanwhile, working in batches, carefully add the sprouts to the oil and fry until nicely crispy, 30 seconds to a minute. Remove and drain the sprouts briefly on a paper towel–lined plate, then quickly add them to the skillet with the sauce. When all the sprouts have been fried and added to the sauce, squeeze in the juice from the lime half and add the chopped cilantro. Toss to coat the sprouts in the sauce. Garnish with the cilantro leaves and serve immediately.

WHOLE FISH

WITH NƯỚC CHẤM AND PEANUT PESTO

SERVES 2 TO 4

No disrespect to the fish, but the pesto is the star of this show. This recipe builds off the green marinade we use on the Grilled Herb-Marinated Chicken (this page). But with the addition of peanuts, it becomes a fully formed sauce—similar to an Italian pesto (also a puree of herbs and nuts), but with a markedly different flavor.

There’s not much that this pesto wouldn’t improve. Use it to top any meat or seafood you can think of, or try it as the sauce for a bowl of zucchini or rice noodles.

3 garlic cloves

1½ bunches cilantro, plus a few leaves for garnish

½ bunch mint, stems discarded

1 bunch scallions (6 to 8), trimmed and cut in half, plus slices for garnish

½ cup fish sauce

½ cup packed dark brown sugar

Juice of 1½ limes

1 cup roasted peanuts

1 (2-pound) whole fish (such as snapper), cleaned and scaled

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ cup Nước Chấm (this page)

1. Preheat the oven to 425°F.

2. In a blender or food processor, combine the garlic, cilantro, mint, scallions, fish sauce, brown sugar, and lime juice. Puree until smooth. Add the peanuts and pulse until the peanuts are chopped but still chunky.

3. Pat the fish dry and season inside and outside with salt and pepper. Place on a rimmed baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes, until almost cooked through.

4. Remove the baking sheet from the oven and smear the peanut pesto generously all over the top of the fish. Be careful because the fish will be hot. Return to the oven and continue to roast the fish for another 4 to 6 minutes, until the flesh flakes easily and the pesto is warm throughout and starting to look a little caked on.

5. Transfer the fish to a platter and pour the nước chấm right over it. Serve immediately, garnished with cilantro leaves and sliced scallions.

CHẢ CÁ–STYLE SNAPPER

SERVES 4

Once someone described a classic Vietnamese dish of turmeric fish with dill to me, I tried to research it online and began to conjure an idea in my head of how I thought it would look and taste.

When I was lucky enough to travel to Vietnam, I especially wanted to check out Chả Cá Lã Vọng—finally I would get the chance to eat chả cá, this dish I had formed an obsession over.

When it arrived, I couldn’t help but feel…well, disappointed. Pieces of fried fish, still sizzling in a pan with oil, were seasoned with the faintest hint of turmeric and dill. I didn’t get any of the punches of herbs and spices that I had been imagining in my mind for so long. I didn’t get the delicate freshness of the fish itself.

I’ll admit I was upset. It was not delicious to me, and we were seated in a snoozy upstairs dining room away from the bustle of the restaurant, so it wasn’t a lot of fun, either.

But that quiet room also gave me time to think. And I realized that the letdown was something that I had created for myself. All that buildup and assumption-making on my part. The fact is that the chả cá could have been spot-on perfect, but it just didn’t line up with what I had been hoping for. Who am I to say what this dish, created in a culture I don’t really know, is supposed to be like?

Having that experience of trying the real thing gave me the context and the understanding to work on a recipe inspired by chả cá—one that was entirely my own, while still using the framework of the classic dish.

After lots of tinkering, this is the recipe I landed on, one that does feature the flavors I wanted. I borrowed the technique of using yogurt in the marinade, which helps amplify the turmeric and dill, from an Indian recipe that I love (see the Masala Chicken Wings on this page). And we roast the fish instead of frying it, to let these delicate flavors really shine through.

FOR THE MARINADE

1 cup yogurt

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon

1 shallot, roughly chopped

1 garlic clove, minced

1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger

1 jalapeño, stemmed, seeded, and diced

¼ cup roughly chopped fresh dill

2 tablespoons ground turmeric

2 teaspoons fish sauce

½ teaspoon sugar

4 (6-ounce) snapper fillets

FOR THE GINGER NƯỚC CHẤM (SEE NOTE)

2 cups sugar

1 cup fish sauce

¾ cup rice vinegar

2 tablespoons sambal oelek

2 tablespoons minced garlic (about 6 cloves)

1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger

FOR THE NOODLE BOWLS

12 ounces rice noodles

6 ounces cabbage, shredded

1 head Bibb lettuce, leaves torn

¼ cup quick-pickled red onions (see this page)

¼ cup crushed roasted peanuts

2 tablespoons torn fresh dill

2 scallions, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces

1. Make the marinade: In a medium bowl, whisk together the yogurt, oil, lemon zest and juice, shallot, garlic, ginger, jalapeño, dill, turmeric, fish sauce, and sugar. Add the fish fillets to the bowl and submerge completely in the marinade. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

2. Make the nước chấm: In a medium bowl, combine the sugar, fish sauce, vinegar, sambal, garlic, ginger, and 1½ cups water. The nước chấm will keep in the refrigerator for 2 weeks.
3. When you’re ready to prepare the dish, preheat the oven to 400°F. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the rice noodles and cook according to the package instructions. Drain well and transfer to a large bowl. Toss with ¾ cup of the nước chấm and let cool to room temperature.

4. Remove the fish fillets from the marinade, letting any excess drip away, and place the fillets on a rimmed baking sheet. Roast for 14 to 18 minutes, until cooked through.

5. Divide the noodles among 4 bowls. Top each with some shredded cabbage and lettuce. Place one fish fillet in each bowl, and top each with 1 tablespoon pickled red onions. Divide the peanuts, torn dill, and scallions among the bowls and serve.

NOTE: This nước chấm is sweeter than the basic recipe on this page and includes ginger, which I think plays off the flavors here nicely. Nước chấm is a template more than a strict recipe and can be adjusted to fit whatever you’re pairing it with.

VIETNAMESE BRAISED TURKEY NECKS

SERVES 4 TO 6

At my first job as a chef, one of my sous chefs, Antoine Ware, would always ask for the duck or chicken necks left over from butchering whole birds for the menu. He would then braise the necks into a brilliant stew with brown roux and Worcestershire sauce, and serve it over rice for staff meal. It was distinctly Creole in flavor, and he told me it was something that his mother, from Louisiana, used to make.

I hadn’t thought about the dish in a while. Then one day, when visiting my favorite Vietnamese crawfish spot in Houston, Crawfish & Noodles, I saw braised turkey necks on the menu. I ordered it and couldn’t believe how similar it was to Antoine’s version. It was basically the same thing, plus fish sauce. The synergy of it was amazing; here I was sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant, eating boiled crawfish next to phở, next to turkey neck that reminded me of a Creole friend. It’s one of those memories I draw on whenever I think of how far people and flavors can travel, and how lucky we are to live in a world where they can come together on the same table.

2 to 2½ pounds whole turkey necks (thawed, if frozen; see Note)

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 yellow onion, sliced

5 garlic cloves, sliced

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

1 to 3 teaspoons cayenne pepper

½ cup fish sauce

⅓ cup packed dark brown sugar

4 quarts reduced-sodium chicken stock

½ cup Worcestershire sauce

2 tablespoons Crystal hot sauce (optional)

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

½ cup all-purpose flour

1 small red onion, shaved, for garnish

1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish

1 lime, quartered, for garnish

Toasted baguette slices or steamed rice, for serving

1. Rinse the turkey necks under cold water and pat very dry with paper towels. Season lightly with salt and pepper. In a large stockpot or Dutch oven, heat the oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Working in batches if necessary to prevent crowding, add the turkey necks in one layer and sear on all sides until nicely browned, about 8 minutes. Transfer the necks to a plate.

2. Add the onion and garlic to the pot and cook, stirring to pick up the browned turkey bits, until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the thyme, paprika, and cayenne to taste and cook for 1 minute. Add the fish sauce and brown sugar and cook for another 5 minutes. Add the chicken stock and bring to a boil over high heat. Return the turkey necks to the pot and reduce the heat to a moderate simmer. Cook, uncovered, until the turkey necks are tender, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Stir in the Worcestershire and hot sauce (if using), and keep warm.

3. In a medium skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. When it’s gently bubbling, sprinkle the flour over the surface of the butter and whisk well. Continue to cook, whisking constantly to remove any lumps, until the mixture begins to turn golden brown in color and smells nutty, about 8 minutes. Add the roux to the stockpot and whisk well to incorporate it (if it’s easier to remove the turkey necks from the pot before you do this, go for it). Season with salt and pepper to taste, return the turkey necks to the pot if you’ve removed them, and let simmer for a few minutes so that the flour in the roux is cooked through and the sauce has thickened.

4. To serve, ladle into bowls and garnish with red onion, cilantro, and a squeeze of lime. Serve with toasted baguette slices or rice.

NOTE: I can usually find frozen turkey necks in Latin grocery stores. But there’s one time of year that you can get them fresh: Thanksgiving. Around November, start asking the folks working the meat counter at your grocery store if they have any turkey necks hanging around. This dish is also great with chicken wings and thighs, if turkey necks aren’t available.

VIETNAMESE STEAK AU POIVRE

SERVES 4

A few years back, I had the great fortune of visiting the island of Phú Quốc in Vietnam, famous for its fish sauce production. The island’s other famous export, I learned, is green peppercorns. Immediately I thought of steak au poivre as the perfect dish to showcase these two special ingredients together. Sadly, fresh green peppercorns are hard to find in the States, but this dish is still delicious with black peppercorns. If possible, toast whole peppercorns in a dry skillet and grind them for this dish. It may seem like an unnecessary step, but the pepper is one of the anchor ingredients here, and it will be so much more fragrant and flavorful if you take the time to do it this way.

FOR THE SAUCE

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 medium yellow onion, sliced

6 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

1 cinnamon stick

2 star anise pods

½ cup fish sauce (ideally Red Boat for the Phú Quốc experience)

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

2 quarts beef stock

2 cups heavy cream

1 tablespoon crushed black pepper

FOR THE STEAK

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 (6-ounce) beef tenderloin fillets or your favorite steak

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Make the sauce: In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium heat until it shimmers. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the cinnamon and star anise and stir until fragrant. Add the fish sauce and brown sugar and whisk to combine. Bring to a simmer—the mixture will resemble caramel—and let cook for about 2 minutes to reduce slightly. Add the beef stock and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low and let simmer until the liquid has reduced to one-quarter of the volume, 45 minutes to 1 hour. Add the heavy cream and let reduce by half, 10 to 15 minutes. Stir in the crushed black pepper. (You’ll have more sauce than you need for the steaks; use the leftovers as you would gravy. It’ll be delicious over any cut of meat or poured over sautéed mushrooms.)

2. Prepare the steaks: Preheat the oven to 400°F. Place a heavy-bottomed, ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat and add the oil. Season each steak generously with salt and pepper. When the oil begins to smoke, add the steaks to the pan in an even layer and sear until browned on the bottom. (Do this in batches if necessary to prevent crowding.) Turn the steaks over and transfer the pan to the oven. Cook until the steaks reach your desired temperature (8 to 10 minutes for medium-rare).

3. Remove the steaks from the pan and let rest on a plate for 5 to 10 minutes (10 is better, but impatience is real in my house). Serve the steaks with a ladle of the sauce over the top.