Thais love to snack. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a mid-morning wrapper of deep-fried banana, or an afternoon stick of grilled (broiled) pork, or a hastily grabbed bag of green mango with chilli salt to tide one over until dinner, snacks are available all day and, in the cities at least, all night.
Don’t be put off by the fact that these prawns (shrimp) are served raw. The nam pla, lime and chillies have an almost ceviche-like curing effect upon them, which is utterly delicious. Do make sure you get the freshest prawns you can. Serve with a frosty glass of Thai beer.
Serves 4 (approx. 2 each)
300 g/10½ oz raw king prawns (jumbo shrimp), peeled, de-veined and butterflied with tail on, chilled
6 Thai bird’s eye chillies, finely chopped
5 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
1 coriander (cilantro) root (see here), finely chopped
1 tsp palm sugar
1 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
juice of 1 lime
lettuce leaves or shredded cabbage, to serve
a handful of mint leaves, to serve
First, prepare and chill the prawns, as directed.
In a small bowl, thoroughly mix the chillies, garlic and coriander root together. Add the palm sugar, nam pla and lime juice and mix well until the sugar has dissolved. Taste: you want a nice balance of hot, salty and sour, with the sour a little more pronounced.
Arrange the chilled prawns on top of the lettuce or cabbage. Pour or spoon the dressing over them, top with the mint leaves and serve straight away.
These are, essentially, Thai-style dim sum. I suspect they’re descended from Chinese shao mai dumplings, which themselves originated in Mongolia. It’s hardly surprising that something so delicious should have travelled so far, evolving on the way to produce variations across southeast Asia. They’re also very simple to make, which is a bonus.
Makes 18–24
1 coriander (cilantro) root (see here)
1 tsp white peppercorns
1 garlic clove, peeled
a pinch of salt
5-mm/¼-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
100 g/3½ oz raw prawns (shrimp), finely chopped
3–4 water chestnuts, finely chopped
1 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
a pinch of sugar
18–24 won ton wrappers
for the garlic oil
2 tbsp vegetable oil
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
for the dipping sauce
2 tbsp light soy sauce
2 tbsp dark soy sauce
2 tbsp white vinegar or rice vinegar
1 tbsp sugar
a little chopped fresh coriander (cilantro)
½ large red chilli, deseeded and sliced
In a pestle and mortar, pound together the coriander root, peppercorns, garlic, salt and ginger until you have a paste.
In a large bowl, mix the paste together with the pork, prawns, water chestnuts, nam pla and sugar. Set aside.
To make the garlic oil, heat the oil in a wok and fry the garlic just until golden brown. Remove from the heat, pour the garlic and oil into a bowl and set aside.
To make the dipping sauce, add the light and dark soy sauce, vinegar and sugar to a small bowl and stir until combined and the sugar has dissolved. Stir in the chopped coriander and the red chilli slices. Set aside.
To make the dumplings, touch your thumb and forefinger together to form an ‘O’-shaped hole. Take one won ton wrapper at a time and drape it over the hole. Put a nugget of filling in the middle of the sheet, pushing down slightly and then crimp the edges as you pass the dumpling through the hole. Carry on until you have filled all the sheets or used up all the fillling.
Place the kanoms in a steamer over boiling water, and steam until done – about 10 minutes.
Serve immediately, with the garlic oil drizzled over the top and the dipping sauce on the side.
I have yet to find a better recipe for Thai fish cakes than this version, taught to me by our cook Prayoon when I was 12.
Like she did, I always use a good-quality bought red curry paste for this. Making it fresh just for fishcakes seems like a faff. But if you want to, the recipe is on here.
The secret to a proper Thai fishcake is its texture. It has to be spongy, almost rubbery, far removed from the flaky Western-style things one often finds in pubs.
Makes 16–18, depending on size
250 g/9 oz skinless white fish fillets
2 heaped tbsp red curry paste (store-bought or see here)
1 egg
1 tbsp green beans, sliced
1 tbsp kaffir lime leaves, finely sliced (see tip)
1 tsp sugar
a pinch of salt
1–2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce), to taste
oil, for deep-frying
Put the fish, curry paste and egg into a food processor and blitz into a homogenised paste. Remove to a clean bowl, then stir in the beans and the lime leaves, then add the sugar, a pinch of salt and 1 tbsp of nam pla.
Heat a little oil in a wok, and fry off a piece of the mixture to check the seasoning. Different curry pastes have different balances of flavour. Add more nam pla or sugar if you need to.
Now slap the mixture around the bowl a bit to aerate it – this is how you achieve the puffy, springy texture of a classic Thai fish cake. Wet your hands slightly, and form the fish paste into flattish patties. You choose the size – you can have them as big as a plate or bite-sized. I prefer to use this quantity of the mixture to make 16–18 smaller ones, because I like to serve them with drinks.
Heat the oil in a wok until it’s hot – if you’re using a deep-fryer, set it to 180°C/350°F. Fry the fish cakes in batches until puffy and brown. Transfer them to paper towels as you go, then serve straight away with Ajad (Quick Pickled Cucumber, see here), as pictured, on the side.
~ The best way to slice a lime leaf is to roll it up lengthways, like a tight cigar, and then cut it into thin strips. If you attempt to attack it flat on your chopping board, it will irritate the hell out of you. ~
~ In Hua Hin, one of my favourite Thai seaside towns, the locals make a slightly different version of this recipe. Replace half the fish with dried prawns (shrimp), and add 1–2 tbsp of toasted, grated coconut to the mix. Traditionally this is then moulded on to sticks of sugarcane before grilling (broiling), but you can just fry them off as above. ~
The Karen hill tribes have been migrating into northern Thailand since the seventeenth century, but originally they came from the mountains of south-eastern Myanmar, with which Thailand shares a border. Like many of the northern hill tribes, theirs is not a happy story, and far too complicated and political for a cookery book. Suffice to say that many have fled oppression in Myanmar to live as refugees in Thailand and elsewhere.
Their cooking is distinct from Thai, as exemplified by this dish, which I got from Khun Tavee, the mother of my friend Ae, who works as a tour guide in Chiang Mai.
Like the Akha, another of the northern hill tribes, the Karen do not use fish sauce. And, given their traditional reliance on rotational agriculture, theirs is a very vegetable-heavy cuisine. Which might explain why these fritters just happen to be vegan.
Khun Tavee tells me that you can also make this with the same amount of shredded banana flowers. I have not tried it, primarily because when I find a banana flower of sufficient quality, I tend to make the Yum Hua Plee (Banana Blossom Salad, see here)!
Makes 16–18
4 green Thai bird’s eye chillies, sliced
3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
a good pinch of salt
a good pinch of sugar
300 g/10½ oz grated or shredded pumpkin (about 600 g/1 lb 5 oz unpeeled)
2 tbsp glutinous (sticky) rice flour
6 tbsp rice flour
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
In a pestle and mortar, lightly crush together the chillies, garlic, salt and sugar. Scrape into a bowl with the grated pumpkin and stir gently to combine. Add the glutinous (sticky) rice flour and the rice flour, then stir in enough water to make a soft, dropping consistency.
Heat the oil in a wok until it’s hot – if you’re using a deep-fryer, set it to 180°C/350°F. Form the mixture into loose patties and fry until crisp and golden. Remove to drain on paper towels.
Serve with Ajad (Quick Pickled Cucumber, see here) – noting that, for this dish, it’s made slightly differently, as you will see.
My friend Mee (Somjai Kliangklom) made this when we were going for a picnic on a tiny island off Ranong in southern Thailand. Once there, he opened oysters with a machete, added a dab off his special ‘mignonette’ and topped it with a garnish that included fronds of kratin, or horse tamarind, which he’d just picked moments before.
The kratin blew my mind. It enhances the oyster’s creaminess, which in turn offsets the fire of the chillies, to create a harmony of flavour I had never before experienced. You can find kratin at most good Asian supermarkets – but if you can’t, go without.
Makes 12
6 Thai shallots, or 3 regular shallots, finely sliced
12 fresh oysters, shucked
oil, for deep-frying
for the ‘mignonette’
6–8 Thai bird’s eye chillies
3 large garlic cloves, peeled
2 tbsp caster (superfine) sugar
juice of 2 limes, plus more to taste
1 tsp nam pla (fish sauce), plus more to taste
for the additional garnishes
a few garlic cloves, finely sliced
2 limes, cut into small segments, with the membrane removed
12 fronds of kratin (horse tamarind) (optional)
2–3 spring onions (scallions), very finely sliced
To make the ‘mignonette’, pound the chillies and the garlic in a pestle and mortar until smooth. Add the sugar and pound again. Add the lime juice and nam pla, and taste, adding more of the lime juice and nam pla if necessary. Set aside.
Heat the oil in a wok or frying pan (skillet) and, when it’s hot, deep-fry the sliced shallots, stirring them all the time, until they are golden and crispy. Remove to drain on paper towels.
Serve the oysters with a drizzle of the ‘mignonette’, garnished with a little bit of everything else.
These are sticky and delicious, and perfect with a cold beer. I’ve based their seasoning on some fried chicken knuckles I once had at the Saxophone Jazz and Blues Pub near the Victory Monument. Serve with either Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce) (see here) or sweet chilli sauce.
Serves 4
800 g/1 lb 12 oz chicken wings, jointed (approx. 10–12)
for the marinade
4 tbsp light soy sauce
2 tbsp sweet soy sauce
1 tbsp oyster sauce
1 tbsp Laarp Kua spice mix (Northern-Style Laarp, see here)
4 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
2 tbsp tamarind paste (purée)
1 tbsp palm sugar
In a large bowl, thoroughly combine all the marinade ingredients. Stir the chicken wings through the marinade, cover and marinate in the fridge for at least 1 hour.
Preheat the grill (broiler) to medium.
Grill (broil) the wings for 15–20 minutes, turning from time to time, and basting with any excess marinade if you like, until cooked through and the juices run clear.
Crispy on the outside, soft and fragrant in the middle, these meatballs are my idea of snack heaven, and a million miles away from soggy vol au vents or cheesy puffs. They were originally designed to use up leftover laarp which, in my experience, never happens. So I came up with this.
Makes approx. 18
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
1 heaped tbsp chopped fresh mint, leaves only
2 tsp toasted rice powder (see tip on see here)
1 tbsp chopped Thai or regular shallots
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
1 tsp roasted chilli powder (available in Asian supermarkets)
1 tbsp rice flour, for lightly coating
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
to serve
lettuce leaves
lime wedges
In a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients, except the flour and oil, with your hands, making sure everything is well incorporated.
Heat a little oil in a small frying pan (skillet) and fry off a small piece of the mixture to taste. It should taste sharp, nutty, spicy and salty. Adjust the seasoning as necessary. Shape the mixture into about 18 evenly sized meatballs, a bit smaller in size than a ping pong ball. Roll the balls in the rice flour, tapping off any excess.
Heat the oil for deep-frying in a small wok until hot, then deep-fry the meatballs in batches until deep golden, crisp and cooked through. Drain on paper towels, then serve with lettuce leaves, lime wedges and Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce, see here) on the side, if you like.
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
1 tbsp Laarp Kua spice mix (Northern-Style Laarp, see here)
2 kaffir lime leaves, finely sliced
1 tbsp chopped fresh mint, leaves only
1 tbsp chopped fresh coriander (cilantro)
1 spring onion (scallion), finely chopped
1 tbsp deep-fried garlic (see here)
1 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
1 tbsp rice flour, for lightly coating
vegetable oil, for frying
to serve
lettuce leaves
lime wedges
In a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients, except the flour and oil, with your hands, making sure everything is well incorporated.
Heat a little oil in a small frying pan (skillet) and fry off a small piece of the mixture to taste. It should taste aromatic, spicy and salty. Adjust the seasoning as necessary.
Shape, cook and serve following the method opposite for Isaan-style Laarp.
This dish is a DIY delight – tasty morsels, served separately for you to wrap up on a leaf, dress with the sauce and devour. Often you’ll find its component parts sold in small packages from street vendors, ready to assemble. Each one offers a rainbow of flavour.
The dish’s roots lie in the north. The star ingredient is the leaves: bai chaploo, or wild pepper leaves, which can be found in good Asian supermarkets. Not to be confused with betel leaves, though they look similar; betel has a more pronounced and tongue-numbing flavour. These guys are lightly peppery and more subtle, and are so associated with this dish that some people call them simply bai miang. If you can’t find them, make do with spinach leaves.
As for the fillings, you can replace the dried shrimp with some flaked, hot-smoked mackerel, or serve both, and you can add a few small segments of pomelo or grapefruit to the mix too.
Serves 6–8
32 wild pepper leaves (bai chaploo), or spinach leaves
for the sauce
2 tsp kapi (shrimp paste)
1 banana leaf (optional)
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of galangal, peeled and finely chopped
1 stick lemongrass, finely chopped
2 Thai shallots or 1 regular shallot, peeled and finely chopped
100–125 ml/3½–4 fl oz/⅓–½ cup nam pla (fish sauce)
1–2 tsp tamarind paste (purée)
125 g/4½ oz palm sugar
1 tbsp peanuts, toasted, lightly crushed
1 tbsp shredded, unsweetened coconut, toasted until brown
for the fillings
4 tbsp dried prawns (shrimp), fried
4 Thai shallots or 2 regular shallots, peeled and finely chopped
4 tbsp shredded, unsweetened coconut, toasted until golden
4 tbsp sliced Thai bird’s eye chillies
4 tbsp unsalted peanuts, toasted
2 limes, sliced, chopped into segments
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped
To make the sauce, wrap the kapi in the banana leaf or aluminium foil. Toast in a dry frying pan (skillet) until fragrant – the banana leaf will char. Set aside.
Toast the ginger, galangal, lemongrass and shallots in the same dry pan until they’re just turning colour. Transfer to a pestle and mortar and pound into a fine paste.
Heat a saucepan over a gentle heat and add the kapi, ginger paste, nam pla, tamarind paste and palm sugar. Stir until you have a sticky sauce. If it seems thick, add a dash of water – you want it to be like runny honey. Stir in the peanuts and the coconut. Transfer to a bowl and cool.
To serve, place the leaves on a platter with the filling ingredients and divide the sauce among a few small bowls. Take a leaf and add a selection of the filling ingredients. Dress with the sauce, wrap the leaf around its contents and eat in one bite.
This dish was a staple of many a Plunkett cocktail party when I was small – the most delicious morsels of sweet, salty, almost candied pork on sharp wedges of pineapple and orange.
The name translates literally as ‘galloping horses’. Our cook Prayoon used to say that it was because of the recipe’s Chinese influence, and that the Chinese traders who brought their horse caravans down through northern Thailand were known as ‘Jeen Hor’, or ‘the Galloping Chinese’. Another friend said it was because the pork was riding the fruit and the dish was quick to make. I rather like both stories. You choose.
If they’re in season, try to use blood oranges for this. They taste delicious and look like jewels.
Makes about 36
3 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, peeled
1 tsp white peppercorns
2 tbsp vegetable oil
3 Thai shallots or 1 regular shallot, peeled and finely sliced (optional)
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork, or mixture of minced (ground) pork and minced (ground) prawns
2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
4 tbsp palm sugar
1 tbsp roasted peanuts, smashed
to serve
1 pineapple, trimmed, cored, sliced and cut into bite-sized pieces
2–4 oranges, peeled and sliced fairly thickly
1 long red chilli, deseeded and finely sliced
a handful of fresh coriander (cilantro) leaves
Using a pestle and mortar, pound the coriander root, garlic and peppercorns together to form a paste.
In a wok or a frying pan (skillet), heat the oil and cook the paste for a couple of minutes until fragrant. Add the shallots, if using, and stir them into the paste for 30 seconds or so to combine. Add the pork, or pork and prawns, and stir it into the paste until well incorporated. Add the nam pla and palm sugar, stirring and frying until the meat is cooked. You’re looking to achieve a texture akin to a pork jam. If you think it needs more palm sugar, add it; more nam pla, the same. You want a salty, sweet, sticky mass.
Add the peanuts, and continue to cook until it becomes quite thick, like fudge. Remove from the heat, and let the mixture cool completely. You can do all this well ahead of time, even the day before you want to serve it, just keep it refrigerated once cooled. You can also keep the fruit slices refrigerated for ease.
Just before serving, complete the dish. Roll the pork mixture into balls of appropriate size to fit on the pineapple and orange pieces. Then garnish with a sliver of chilli and a coriander leaf. Serve at once.
There are few things that please my guests more than a large, warm coil of Sai Oua sausage on a plate on the living room table, a sharp knife lying next to it, ready for everyone to slice into and demolish while they sip on a cold Tom Collins. Or a Martini.
If you can’t or don’t want to make the actual sausage, feel free to divide the pork mixture into patties and cook like little burgers. If you do, your butcher will be able to sell you the sausage casings.
Makes 1 large coiled sausage, or 2 regular ones
4 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), chopped
4 Thai shallots or 2 regular shallots, peeled and chopped
4-cm/1½-inch piece of galangal, peeled and finely chopped
2 sticks lemongrass, bashed and chopped
2 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
2-cm/¾-inch piece of fresh turmeric, chopped
1 large red chilli, deseeded and chopped
2 tbsp good-quality red curry paste
4 tbsp cooked rice
1½ tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
500 g/1 lb 2 oz minced (ground) pork, with a good bit of fat in it
a big pinch of salt
8–12 kaffir lime leaves, very finely sliced
natural sausage casings
vegetable oil, for deep-frying (optional)
to serve
chopped lettuces
chopped cabbage
mint leaves
fresh coriander (cilantro) leaves
Using a pestle and mortar, pound the coriander roots, shallots, galangal, lemongrass, garlic, turmeric and fresh chilli to a rough paste. Stir through the red curry paste, cooked rice and nam pla.
In a large bowl, combine the pork with the spice paste and the salt, and mix thoroughly. Add the sliced lime leaves and stir through.
At this point, I suggest frying off a small piece of the mixture so you can taste it and adjust the seasoning, if necessary. You want it fragrant, herbal, and a little spicy.
Now, using a sausage machine or a funnel, put the sausagemeat into the casings, making sure you smooth out any air bubbles. Twist the sausage at the halfway point if you want two sausages, or form it into a larger coil like a Cumberland sausage. Tie the skin at the end into a knot.
When you’re ready to cook, poke a few holes in the sausage with a bamboo stick, and then either grill over a charcoal fire – medium coals – for about 25–30 minutes until done (this is my preferred method, as it imparts a smoky flavour) or deep-fry in a wok with vegetable oil heated to about 160°C/320°F (a medium heat… if you go too hot, the sausage will burst).
Serve with a selection of chopped lettuces, cabbage, mint and coriander (cilantro).
~ If your sausage does burst, don’t fret, just style it out. It will still taste delicious. ~
Naem, or jin som, is a sausage from northern and northeastern Thailand, which is cured or fermented with rice over the course of several days. It has a gloriously funky, sour taste, and I can’t get enough of it. However, fermenting meat carries certain risks that I have never been entirely comfortable with when I’m cooking at home. And the ones available commercially here in the UK are not the best I’ve ever had (see tip below). So I was thrilled to find this recipe for a cheat’s version, in revered teacher Srisamorn Kongpun’s book Bite-Sized Thai Food, which I have adapted. Here, you cook the pork and mix in the traditional condiments. It tastes almost exactly like the real thing. So, when the craving hits, it can be dealt with lickety-split.
Makes 12–15
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
juice of 4 limes
1 tsp salt
100 g/3½ oz boiled pork skin, finely sliced (optional)
3 garlic cloves, chopped
3 Thai shallots or 1 regular shallot, finely sliced
3 fresh Thai bird’s eye chillies, finely sliced
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, slivered
to serve
baby gem lettuce leaves
2 tbsp roasted unsalted peanuts
10 dried bird’s eye (bird) chillies, deep-fried (optional)
fresh Thai bird’s eye chillies
In a large bowl, thoroughly mix together the pork, lime juice and salt. Leave for 3–4 minutes, then squeeze out the resulting juice with your hands into a frying pan (skillet). Place it over a low heat, add the pork and gently cook, breaking the mince apart until it’s done. Transfer to another large bowl and set aside to cool.
When the pork is cool enough to handle, add the pork skin, if using, followed by the garlic, two-thirds of the shallots, the fresh chilli and the ginger. Toss the mixture lightly together. Taste and adjust the seasoning – you want a top note of sour, then salt, and then the aromatics.
Serve it spooned into baby gem lettuce leaves and top with the peanuts, the remaining shallots, and the deep-fried chillies, if wished. Dot with fresh chillies, if you’re feeling feisty, or serve them on the side for those that want them.
~ If you DO happen to buy some store-bought naem, try slicing it, wrapping the slices in streaky bacon and deep-frying them. Holy fermented pigs! It is so darn tasty. I picked this tip up from the award-winning chef at the Siri Sathorn, a serviced apartment block where I frequently stay in Bangkok. ~
The ancient Thai capital of Sukhothai is truly spectacular. Its thirteenth-century ruins are a UNESCO site visited by millions of tourists every year. So, I’ve always found it surprising that, these days, I can no longer find a decent restaurant there. That said, Pee Noi, the now-retired cook at the Tharaburi Resort, just outside the Historical Park, has in the past shown me proper regional Sukhothai food when the hotel has not been too busy.
This delicious meatball recipe is based on one of hers, and is best served with Sriracha sauce and an ice-cold beer.
Makes 18–24
1 tsp white peppercorns
2 garlic cloves, peeled
2 coriander (cilantro) roots (see page)
a pinch of salt
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
1 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
a couple of dashes of light soy sauce
a good pinch of sugar
1 tbsp rice flour
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
In a pestle and mortar, pound together the peppercorns, coriander roots, garlic and salt until you have a paste.
In a large bowl, mix the paste into the pork with your hands – really squish it about to get it evenly distributed. Add the nam pla, soy and sugar and mix it in well. Form the pork into 2-cm/¾-inch balls, and roll them in the rice flour.
Heat the oil in a wok over a medium heat. When it is hot enough, fry the pork balls in small batches for about 1½–2 minutes each, or until deep brown on the outside and cooked through within. Transfer them to drain on paper towels as you go.
Serve hot with Sriracha sauce.
Unless you live somewhere around the 15th Parallel, this is rather difficult to make at home because, done properly, you need to dry your beef in the sun. Even in sunny Los Angeles (34°N), I haven’t made it work. But neua or moo dat deow is so delicious, we need to find a work-around, and this is it.
Serves 2–4
3 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
1 tbsp Mekong or Sangsom whisky (optional)
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp palm sugar
½ tsp white peppercorns, lightly crushed
350 g/12 oz steak, sliced into long strips, 1–2cm/½–¾ inch wide
vegetable oil, for deep-frying
In a large bowl, mix the nam pla, whisky (if using), soy and sugar, and stir through the crushed pepper. Marinate the steak strips in the mixture for at least 1 hour, preferably overnight, in the refrigerator.
At this point, you can dry the beef on a rack in a very low oven – we’re talking 50°C/125°F – for 1 hour, turning halfway through. Or, if you’re impatient like me, you can skip ahead to the frying.
Heat the oil in a wok over a medium-high heat. Fry the beef strips in batches until crisp and mahogany, setting them aside to drain on paper towels as you go.
Serve with Sriracha sauce or either Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce, see here) on the side.
~ If you like, you can slice 3–4 kaffir lime leaves into slivers and deep-fry them before you cook the beef. This slightly flavours the oil, and they make a tasty counterpoint to the neua dat deow. ~
~ If you add a teaspoon of coriander seed when you crush the peppercorns, the dish becomes neua sawan, or ‘heavenly’ beef. ~
~ You can substitute the beef for pork to make moo dat deow. ~
There seems to be an urban myth that the best type of Thai food is street food. It is not. It’s just one type of Thai food. It is cheap, quick and often relies on the skill of someone who has been cooking the same one dish for 40 years.
Cooking street food is a discipline apart from cheffing or home cooking, so please – don’t expect to be able to replicate it in your kitchen at home. For one thing, regular gas hobs/stove tops cannot achieve that fierce, live fire heat of the vendor who has been up since the crack of dawn tending his coals.
You can’t…
So don’t try to.
Instead, make the most honest and delicious dish you can. Sit down at your table, or on a blanket in the garden, and enjoy it with a cold refreshment. And plan a street-food-eating tour next time you’re in Thailand.
This is simply rare grilled steak with a very fiery dip. So, why is it called ‘crying tiger’? Well… (as my Irish grandmother might say) once upon a time, some villagers were preparing a feast. Among the many dishes, they planned to serve this. However, as the steak rested in the cool shade beside its sauce, it was smelled by a passing tiger. Much like the tiger who came to tea, this tiger was very, very hungry. It snuck into the village right up to the steak and devoured it, sauce and all. But the sauce was very, very hot. So hot, it burned the tiger’s mouth. It shrieked in pain. What a commotion! And the villagers came running just in time to see the poor tiger running away, crying.
The dipping sauce, the Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce, see here), isn’t actually that hot – just enough to get the juices flowing.
Serves 2–4
400 g/14 oz sirloin or rib-eye steak
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp vegetable oil
Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce, see here), to serve
Marinate the steak in the soy sauce and vegetable oil for 15 minutes or so.
Heat a grill (broiler) pan, or a barbecue (outdoor grill) until it’s properly hot.
Slap on the steak and grill (broil) it to your liking – about 5–6 minutes for rare, no more than 8 minutes all-in for medium. Set it aside to rest for another 5–10 minutes.
Meanwhile, make up the Nam Jim Jaew. (You may want to double the quantity.)
Slice the steak thinly and serve on a plate alongside the dipping sauce.
The Stick Man on Soi Saladaeng sells one of my favourite street-food snacks in the world – grilled pork, chicken and chicken livers… on sticks. I call him Stick Man because his stall is always so busy, I’ve never had time to ask his name, let alone have a bit of a chat. But that’s hardly surprising because his sticks are so damned good, and the perfect thing to have with a drink, or with Som Tum Thai (Green Papaya Salad, see here) and sticky rice for a quick lunch. The marinade here isn’t his – the lack of time to chat has seen to that – but it’s as close as I’ve been able to get.
Makes approx. 12 sticks
400 g/14 oz pork shoulder (butt), or boneless chicken thigh, or chicken livers
Nam Jim Jaew (Roasted Chilli Dipping Sauce, see here), to serve
for the marinade
2 coriander (cilantro) roots (see see here)
1 garlic clove
½ tsp white peppercorns (optional)
2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
1 tbsp palm sugar
2 tbsp oyster sauce
you will also need
wooden satay sticks or skewers, soaked in cold water
First, prepare the pork or chicken meat by trimming away any excess fat and cutting it into 2.5-cm/1-inch cubes. Prepare the chicken livers by separating the lobes and trimming away the nasty bits.
To make the marinade, pound together the coriander root and garlic, with the peppercorns (if using), in a pestle and mortar until you have a paste. Then, stir in the remaining ingredients until well combined. If you are planning to make all three kinds of sticks at once, you will need to make three separate batches of it.
Marinate the meat for at least 1 hour in the refrigerator.
Heat a charcoal grill to medium.
When you’re ready to cook, thread the meat on to the sticks – no more than 4–6 pieces per stick. Grill the sticks over the coals for about 10 minutes until cooked through.
Alternatively, heat a griddle (grill) pan on your stove top, again to medium, and cook on all sides until cooked through.
Serve with the Nam Jim Jaew on the side.
