Makes 2 litres/4 pints
1.5 kg/3 lb 5 oz chicken or chicken wings
1 small onion, peeled and halved or 4 spring onions (scallions)
1 garlic bulb, halved
6–8 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), lightly bruised
½ large daikon (mooli), about 300 g/10½ oz, peeled and thickly sliced
1 tsp white peppercorns
Put everything in a stock pot with 3 litres/6 pints/12½ cups water to cover, and bring JUST to the boil. Then turn down the heat, and simmer very gently for about 2–2½ hours. Strain through a muslin- (cheesecloth-) lined sieve (strainer). Leave to cool, and skim any fat from the top before using.
Makes 2 litres/4 pints
1 kg/2 lb 4 oz assorted pork bones or pork ribs
1 onion, peeled and halved or 4 spring onions (scallions)
1 garlic bulb, halved
6–8 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), lightly bruised
½ large daikon (mooli), about 300 g/10½ oz, peeled and thickly sliced
1 tsp white peppercorns
6–8 baby sweetcorn, halved
2–3 celery stalks, with leaves
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled (optional)
Put everything into the stock pot with 3 litres/6 pints/12½ cups water to cover, and then proceed exactly as per the method above.
Makes 2 litres/4 pints
1 onion, peeled and halved or 4 spring onions (scallions)
1 garlic bulb, halved
6–8 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), lightly bruised
½ large daikon (mooli), about 300 g/10½ oz, peeled and thickly sliced
1 tsp white peppercorns
6–8 baby sweetcorn, halved
2–3 celery stalks, with leaves
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled (optional)
Put everything in the stock pot with 2 litres/4 pints/8¼ cups water to cover and proceed as above, but simmering for just 45 minutes.
The main purpose of Thai soups is to restore the palate. Or to kick it up a gear. Gaeng cheud, for example, literally means ‘bland liquid’, which doesn’t sound all that exciting until you put it in context, as a palate cleanser of which you might have a spoon or two to reset yourself. It is supposed to be subtle. It is there to remind you that Thai food is not about HOT HOT HOT, but about balance, with spice, fragrance, neutrality and umami-ness dancing together around the glory of the rice.
But not all soups perform this neutral function: Tom yum, one of Thailand’s most famous dishes, is hot and sour; sometimes very hot. Tom kha is rich with soothing coconut – holding the tension, like a good curry, between that richness and the fire of its chillies.
In choosing a soup to serve, you are not choosing a dish to appear alone before everything else, but a complement to dip into with your spoon as needed, and one that brings balance to the table.
It may come as a surprise, but there is no tradition of vegetarianism, let alone veganism, in Thai cooking. Certainly, plenty of Thais eat meat-free meals, but in most cases, they’re leaving out the meat or fish while still using nam pla (fish sauce) and kapi (shrimp paste) in the usual places. Which, incidentally, is what a lot of restaurants used to do for vegetarian orders, too.
Over the last 30 years or so, however, a new Thai vegetarian cuisine has emerged. Some of the recipes in this book are vegetarian; some are vegan. And I have endeavoured to point them out when they crop up. Others, particularly the stir-fries, can be turned vegetarian by replacing the nam pla (fish sauce) with a light soy sauce. But the definitive book on the topic remains Vatcharin Bhumichitr’s Thai Vegetarian Cooking from 1991. Alas, it is out of print at the time of writing, but it remains, as they say, the bomb…
The word cheud is hard to translate: it sort of means ‘flavourless’, but in this case it means a simple, subtle, soothing backdrop to other spicy or rich dishes – something to balance out the meal.
Generally, this is served in a large pot on the table with some small bowls on the side. Take a spoonful between mouthfuls of fierier fare, or simply spoon it on to your rice.
If you can’t find bitter melons (bitter gourds), you can easily replace them with cucumbers. Just peel the cucumbers, and add the peelings to the broth to add a hint of bitterness – but remember to remove them before serving! Alternatively, you could leave the melon out completely – just form the pork into mini meatballs and poach them in the stock, adding a few soaked mung-bean thread noodles, if you like.
Serves 4–6
4 garlic cloves, peeled
1 tsp white peppercorns
2–3 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here)
2.5-cm/1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped
a pinch of salt
250 g/9 oz minced (ground) pork
1–2 tsp nam pla (fish sauce), plus extra for seasoning
a pinch of caster (superfine) sugar
1 tsp light soy sauce, plus extra for seasoning
½ bitter melon (bitter gourd), cored and cut into 6–8 fat slices
1.5 litres/2½ pints/6¼ cups chicken stock
spring onions (scallions), sliced, to garnish
coriander (cilantro) leaves, sliced, to garnish
Pound the garlic, peppercorns, coriander roots and ginger in a pestle and mortar with a little salt until you get a paste.
In a large bowl, mix the paste together with the pork, nam pla, sugar and soy sauce.
Carefully stuff each fat slice of bitter melon with the pork mixture, and set aside.
In a large saucepan, bring the stock to the boil. Add splash of soy sauce and a splash of nam pla. Gently lower the stuffed melon slices into the soup stock. Cover and gently poach until cooked, about 10–15 minutes. Taste the stock and add more soy or nam pla, if desired.
Remove the stuffed melon slices to a serving bowl. Pour broth over the top and serve topped with spring onions and coriander leaves.
~ To reduce the bitterness of the melon, you can simply blanch it whole in boiling water for about 1 minute. Drain and let cool before slicing and stuffing. ~
This recipe is not a million miles away from its famous cousin Tom Yum (Spicy and Sour Prawn Soup, see here). The main differences are a lack of roasted chilli paste and that it involves more seafood. It combines an intense herby fragrance with a pure, subtle flavour. And it’s incredibly easy to make.
Serves 4
1 litre/1¾ pints/4 cups water or stock
6-cm/2½-inch piece of galangal
2 sticks lemongrass, sliced diagonally
2 Thai shallots or 1 regular shallot, sliced
2 kaffir lime leaves
6–8 Thai bird’s eye chillies, lightly bruised/crushed
100 g/3½ oz firm white fish, cut into pieces
100 g/3½ oz squid, cleaned and sliced into strips
8 large raw prawns (shrimp), peeled and de-veined but with the tails left on
12 mussels (see tip)
2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
1–2 tbsp lime juice, to taste
a handful of Thai holy basil leaves
1–2 Thai bird’s eye chillies, chopped (optional)
In a large heavy-based saucepan, bring the water or stock to the boil. Add the galangal, lemongrass, shallots, kaffir lime leaves and chillies, and bring back to the boil. Add the seafood, bring back to the boil, and simmer for a couple of minutes, until the seafood is cooked through. Don’t stir, or the soup will go cloudy.
Remove the pan from the heat and add the fish sauce and lime juice. Taste and add more fish sauce or lime juice if needed – it should be sour, salty and spicy with a lovely herbal undertone.
Add the holy basil and the chopped bird’s eyes, if using, and serve with Nam Pla Prik (Fish Sauce with Chillies, see here) on the side.
~ Clean the mussels thoroughly under running water, pulling off any beards they may have. If any mussels are open, give them a firm tap with the back of a knife. If they refuse to close, discard them immediately. Any mussels that remain closed after cooking are dead, and should also be discarded. ~
Do I have to introduce this soup? Hot, sour and salty, with fat, sweet prawns – it is world famous, and justly so. It’s also a doddle to make.
Well into retirement, Mum used to serve this soup quite formally as a starter at many a dinner party. That’s not traditionally Thai at all, but it worked wonderfully because the soup is so light and it sharpens the appetite.
Serves 4–6
1 litre/1¾ pints/4 cups Thai Chicken Stock (see here) or a stock made from the prawn heads and shells or water
6 thin slices of galangal
2 sticks lemongrass, bashed and sliced into 3–4 pieces
4 kaffir lime leaves, torn
4–6 Thai bird’s eye chillies, lightly bruised
6 straw or oyster mushrooms, trimmed and halved
8–12 large prawns (shrimp) (about 400 g/14 oz), peeled and de-veined but with the tails left on (keep the heads and shells for stock, if wished)
3 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce), or to taste
1 tsp caster (superfine) sugar, or to taste
1½ tsp nam prik pao (roasted chilli paste, see here), or to taste
2 tbsp lime juice, or to taste
coriander (cilantro) leaves, to garnish
In a heavy-based saucepan, bring the stock or water to a boil over a medium heat. Add the sliced galangal, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves and the chillies. Add the mushrooms and the prawns, then season with the fish sauce, sugar and nam prik pao to taste. Keep simmering until the prawns have turned a lovely coral colour and are cooked.
Remove from the heat and season with lime juice. Taste: you want it hot, sour, salty and spicy. Adjust to balance the four flavours. Serve in a large soup bowl garnished with the coriander leaves.
You can also make this soup with chicken (as photographed). Follow the recipe above to the point where you would add the mushrooms and the prawns, then add 350 g/12 oz sliced chicken breast and allow the broth to return to the boil. Add the nam pla, the nam prik pao and the sugar. Cook for 2–3 minutes, until the chicken is nearly done. Add the mushrooms, cook for another 2 minutes or so, so they retain some texture, then continue as above.
Hailing from the coastal Chonburi region (home to the now notorious Pattaya Strip), this soup is simplicity itself. If you find yourself in the area, head to Na Klua market. It has hardly changed a dot since I was just a slip of a thing. Grab a beer, take a seat by the sea and order this soup from Platong Restaurant.
Serves 4–6
2 garlic cloves
4 green Thai bird’s eye chillies
4 Thai shallots or 2 regular shallots, peeled and finely sliced
1 small green mango, cut into chunks
500 g/1 lb 2 oz firm white fish, cut into pieces
1–2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
3–4 spring onions (scallions), trimmed and halved
a good pinch of salt
juice of 1 lime
a handful of Chinese celery leaves
In a large heavy-based saucepan, bring 1 litre/13/4 pints/4 cups of water to the boil.
Meanwhile, roughly crush the garlic and chillies in a mortar and pestle
When the water is boiling, add the crushed garlic and chilies and the shallots, and allow to simmer for a couple of minutes. Add the mango and simmer for a minute or so, then add the fish. Do not stir. Simmer for a few minutes and, when the fish is just cooked, add the nam pla, spring onions and salt. Remove from the heat and add the lime juice. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Add the Chinese celery and serve immediately.
If rice is the backbone of Thai food, then the rivers are its lifeblood. This is something reflected in the word for river itself – mae nam, literally ‘mother water’. Without the river’s waters, there can be no rice; thus, the river is the mother of it all.
The rains come and fill the paddies, which – in addition to the rice – give forth fish, crabs, snails and frogs. Free food. And the rains make the rivers run with life.
Recently, I visited the ancient capital of Sukhothai in what was still supposed to be the hot season. But the monsoon came early and hard, so hard that the River Yom had burst its banks. No one had seen it run like this in 20 years, but everyone was ready to take advantage of it. Wherever the water had dammed up against a road bridge or poured into the paddy fields, local men and women fished with giant nets strung on long bamboo poles. I have never seen so many fish caught at once, and every type you can imagine. I bought two big-head carp from them and persuaded the chef at our next stop to cook them for our dinner.
The Yom flows into the River Ping, which in turn joins the mighty Chao Praya, to create a spine of water that runs almost the length of the country to Bangkok; one that, in the evening light, looks like a vast dragon of beaten copper, slithering its way through the City of Angels to spew its fire into the sea.
The river – water – links everything together. To this day it provides vital transport links for both people and goods. The khlongs (canals) are not what they were when I was a girl – when Bangkok was still known as the Venice of the East. Most have been filled in. But back then, canals ran everywhere. I’d get in terrible trouble when I got caught wading or playing in the one on our street with my friends – because, you know, snakes. But you can still form a sense of what it was like if you take a longtail through the larger khlongs. Life comes right down to the water’s edge. Kids play in it, people trade on it, and feed catfish outside waterside temples to make merit. (You may even see a snake or a monitor lizard on the banks, waiting for prey.)
And, of course, without the fish there can be no fish sauce – nam pla, literally ‘fish water’, which is as integral to Thai food as rice itself. Indeed, just as many Thais across the country continue to grow their own rice, so too do a very few ferment their own fish sauce at home in the traditional way.
As it says upon what must be one of the earliest Thai inscriptions, which dates from the late thirteenth century: Nai nam mee pla, nai nah me kao – ‘In the time of King Ramkhamhaeng the Great, this land of Sukhothai is thriving. There is fish in the water and rice in the fields.’
Both are signs of plenty.
This is a very different style of Thai dish – a real Bangkok street favourite: sweet, salty, and somehow soothing with the scent of warm, fragrant, almost Middle-Eastern spices. It’s a recipe that would have probably come into Thailand with Chinese immigrants in the early nineteenth century.
Traditionally, it would be made with a pork hock, but this version is easier for the home cook. I adapted it from a recipe given to me by Khun Tee, a steward I met on Thai Airways several years ago who, in turn, had got it from his grandmother. In food writing, I quickly learned, it always pays to carry pen and paper!
Serves 6
20 white peppercorns
3 coriander (cilantro) roots, coarsely chopped (see here)
4 small or 2 large garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
2 tbsp vegetable oil
500 g/1 lb 2 oz pork belly, cut into large pieces, or a combination of pork belly and pork ribs
1 tbsp five spice powder
4 tbsp sweet dark soy sauce
4 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
3 tbsp palm sugar
6–8 pieces of fried tofu (see tip), each about 4 cm/1½ inch square
12 hard-boiled quail’s eggs (or 6 hen’s eggs), peeled
a pinch of salt
a bunch of greens – chard, kale, pak choi (bok choy)
Pound the peppercorns, coriander roots and garlic together in a pestle and mortar to make a paste.
Pour 1.5 litres/3 pints/6¼ cups of water into a large stock pot and bring to the boil.
Meanwhile, heat the oil in a wok until hot, and stir-fry the paste. Add the pork and the five spice powder and continue to stir-fry until the meat has lost its pinkness, about 5–8 minutes.
Remove the pork from the oil and put it into the boiling water. Season with the soy sauce, nam pla and palm sugar, stir well, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add the tofu and simmer for 30 minutes, then add the eggs and simmer for another 15 minutes.
Taste. It should be sweet and salty, so adjust the seasoning at this point to suit your palate. Throw in the greens and let them wilt.
Serve with jasmine rice as a one-dish meal.
~ You can easily buy fried tofu in most Asian food stores. ~
This soup, along with Tom Yum (see here), is almost ubiquitous, and rightly so. Both are delicious, and, when well made, enter the top ten in the Thai food charts. The coconut milk softens some of the chilli’s fire here, but it still packs a punch.
Serves 4–6 as part of a larger meal
250 ml/9 fl oz/generous 1 cup chicken stock
6-cm/2¼-inch piece of galangal, sliced into 4 or 5 pieces
2 sticks lemongrass, bashed, trimmed and roughly chopped
4 lime leaves, torn
400 g/14 oz skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1–2-cm/½–1-inch pieces
100 g/3½ oz oyster mushrooms
3–4 tbsp lime juice, to taste
3–4 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce), to taste
800 ml/1⅓ pints/3⅓ cups coconut milk
6 red Thai bird’s eye chillies, lightly crushed
coriander (cilantro) leaves, to garnish
In a large heavy-based saucepan bring the stock, galangal, lemongrass and lime leaves to the boil. Add the chicken, mushrooms, 3 tbsp lime juice and 3 tbsp nam pla. Bring back to the boil until the chicken is cooked, just a couple of minutes. Add the coconut milk, stir it in well and bring back to the boil, then add the chillies. Taste for seasoning – you want it sour, creamy, salty and hot. Add more lime juice and nam pla, if you like.
Serve garnished with coriander leaves, with some Nam Pla Prik (Fish Sauce with Chillies, see here) on the side.
My friend Mali Tiaree makes a version of this recipe with pork at the Puong Thong restaurant in Chiang Mai (for more on which, see here), which features in her daughter’s excellent cookbook, La Cuisine De Ma Mère. People come from miles to eat it.
I like to make it with ox cheeks, which become meltingly tender when cooked so slowly. The resulting dish tastes surprisingly rich and complex, so much so, that it baffled Heston Blumenthal when I made it for him. (He was convinced that I’d used a sous vide. Not a chance!) It juxtaposes salt with sweet, and provides gentle hints of pepper, garlic and coriander at the end.
I like to serve a sharp vinegar sauce on the side to balance the sticky sweetness.
Serves 4–6
500 g/1 lb 2 oz ox cheeks, cut on the angle into 1–2-cm/½–1-inch slices
500 ml/17 fl oz/generous 2 cups stock or water
4 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
4 coriander (cilantro) roots (see here), chopped
1 tbsp black peppercorns
2 tbsp palm sugar
6 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
2 tbsp dark soy sauce
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp vegetable oil
for the vinegar sauce (optional)
75 ml/2½ fl oz/⅓ cup white vinegar
1 tbsp caster (superfine) sugar
1 tbsp chopped large mild red chilli, deseeded
to garnish
1 large mild red chilli, finely sliced
a few sprigs of coriander (cilantro)
Put the ox cheek slices into a large saucepan or casserole with the stock or water, bring to the boil and simmer for about 15 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the beef sit in its bath for as long as it takes for the next steps.
In a pestle and mortar (or a blender) pound (or blend) the garlic, coriander roots and peppercorns into a paste – as smooth as you can. Set aside.
Mix the sugar, nam pla, soy sauce and salt together in a bowl.
Heat the oil in a wok or frying pan (skillet), add the garlic paste and sauté gently for 30 seconds, or until it’s really fragrant. Be careful not to let the garlic burn. Add the paste into the bowl with the nam pla mixture and mix well.
Stir this mixture into the pan or casserole with the stock and beef, mixing well. Cover with a lid and simmer very gently over the lowest heat for 3 hours, until meltingly tender.
To make the vinegar sauce, combine the vinegar and sugar in a small saucepan and warm through until the sugar has dissolved. Cool and add the chopped red chilli.
Serve garnished with the finely sliced chilli and some sprigs of coriander.
I knew I had to get a recipe from David Thompson. Lord knows, his big, pink book Thai Food – which most of us consider definitive – sits ragged and abused on my shelf, falling apart from use. It’s a seminal tome.
David is also one of my Thai Food Heroes. More than anyone else, farang or Thai, he has researched, preserved, collated and revived many classic Thai recipes that might otherwise have been forgotten. Many of these he found in nang sueh ngam sop, memorial or funeral books, given out to mourners to commemorate the dead, and in this case often dating from the late nineteenth century. No one had ever thought to do it before, and it led to the Thai Government asking him to research the history of Thai cuisine.
The results of this research and his cooking are astounding. Some claim his Australian restaurant, Darley Street Thai, almost single-handedly launched a country-wide craze for Asian food. And his kitchens have spawned an army of brilliant chefs.
But what to ask for? It had to be something with ingredients that were easy to find… David suggested this soup. It’s such a simple thing, but with simplicity comes a purity of flavour and a dash of technique. And this is one of my absolute favourite things. It is a little time consuming – just the beginning bit – but the reward is a sharp, slightly hot, spicy, herbal tangle of broth and tender meat.
Serves 6–8
½ tsp salt
1 tbsp white vinegar
1 kg/2 lb 4 oz oxtail, cut into 2–3-cm/¾–1¼-inch pieces and washed
for the stock
2 litres/3½ pints/generous 8 cups chicken stock
a pinch of salt
1 onion, peeled and sliced
6 coriander (cilantro) stalks
for the soup
2 onions, peeled and sliced
2 garlic cloves, peeled and pounded
1–2 cleaned Chinese celery roots (optional)
1 tomato, cut into wedges
1 toasted Thai cardamom pod, or 2 regular pods
2 Thai bay leaves, toasted, or 1 regular bay leaf
3-cm/1¼-inch piece of cassia bark, toasted
1 tsp black peppercorns, toasted and coarsely ground
2-cm/¾-inch piece of unpeeled galangal
2-cm/¾-inch piece of unpeeled ginger
3-cm/1¼-inch piece of dried orange peel
a pinch of salt
a pinch of sugar (optional)
nam pla (fish sauce), to taste
2–4 cayenne chillies, bruised
to serve
a handful of Vietnamese mint leaves, or regular mint
a handful of Thai (sawtooth) coriander (pointed cilantro), torn
4 small dried chillies, toasted
2 stems Chinese celery, chopped into 3-cm/1¼-inch pieces
a good pinch of deep-fried shallots (see here)
juice of 1 lime
Fill a large saucepan with cold water and add the salt and the vinegar. Add the oxtail and bring the water up to the boil over a medium heat. As soon as it boils, remove from the heat and drain the oxtail. Refresh in some cold water and rinse. This helps to make your stock less cloudy.
Put the oxtail into a clean saucepan and cover with the chicken stock. Add the salt, onion and coriander stalks and bring to the boil. Turn down the heat and simmer, partially covered, until cooked. This will take 2–3 hours – you want the meat to be nicely tender. Skim any scum off the top as required, but keep the fat.
When cooked, remove the oxtail with a slotted spoon and set aside until cool enough to handle. Then, strip the meat from the bones (discarding the bones). Pass the stock through a fine sieve (strainer) and return to a clean saucepan. Return the meat to the stock and allow to cool completely before placing in the refrigerator for a few hours until the fat has risen to the surface and solidified.
Carefully lift off the layer of fat and set this aside before re-heating the stock over a medium heat.
For the soup, heat the solidified fat in a frying pan (skillet) or wok over a medium heat and fry the sliced onions. Add the garlic and celery roots and fry until they are beginning to colour. Pour into the simmering soup along with the fat. Add the tomato.
In a dry frying pan, toast the dry spices, along with the galangal, ginger and orange peel, then add to the soup. Season the soup with a little salt, sugar and nam pla, to taste. Add the bruised chillies. Skim as needed – remember to remove the scum but not the fat.
Just before serving, add the mint, coriander, dried chillies, Chinese celery and the deep-fried shallots. Squeeze in the lime juice and serve.
Delicious, sticky, sweet, and topped with crispy shallots, this is an utter delight. Traditionally, this would be made with pork belly and soy sauce, but this is how I’ve always made it, thanks to Prayoon. It was one of Little Kay’s absolute favourites.
Serve alongside fried rice, Som Tum Thai (Green Papaya Salad, see here) or Yum Mamuang (Green Mango Salad, see here), or just eat with freshly cooked rice and weep for joy.
Serves 4
300 g/10½ oz pork loin chops, trimmed and thinly sliced
80 g/2¾ oz palm sugar
4 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
4 Thai shallots or 2 regular shallots, peeled and sliced
2 tbsp deep-fried shallots (see here), to garnish
Put the pork, sugar, nam pla, sliced shallots and 175 ml/6 fl oz/¾ cup water into a large saucepan, then bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and simmer at a good pace for about 30 minutes, until the sauce has reduced by more than half, and become nice and sticky.
Turn out into a bowl and serve sprinkled with the crispy shallots.
