Faux Pho Fantastic

Any Londoner who's wandered downtrodden, bleary-eyed, and laden with shopping bags away from the 'Oxford Street Tide' up Great Titchfield Street knows that Pho is not far away. That deliciously sloppy, utterly comforting, hot, spicy, fragrant Vietnamese noodle dish is a warm salve from the inside out after a weary afternoon of damage in Selfridges.

The enormous steaming bowls are accompanied by heaps of crunchy bean sprouts, Thai/holy basil, mint, lime, bird's eye chilis, and variety of sauces ranging from sweet to hot-sweet to bitter-hot. And there's always extra fish sauce on hand.

Pho--pronunced 'fuh'--very likely comes from the French word 'feu', as an appropriation of the French dish pot-au-feu. Pho bac, or pho from northern Vietnam, is more straightforward in its flavours and reflects the origins of the dish, which are thought to be near Hanoi. When French colonists began slaughtering cows for meat, pot-au-feu, the beef, and the word stuck. Pho bac broth is clear and clean, less layered than its tarted up bedfellow of the South--pho nam--and many purists consider it to be the true pho.

Being the wanton glutton that I am, I tend to steer towards the pho nam for its deep, rich broth. While reading up a bit on pho, I was struck by the extent to which the dish represents so completely the history of Vietnam--from its colonial past to the eating habits and histories of North and South. It's no surprise that it's considered somewhat of a national dish. Historically, the South has been spared the food shortages suffered in the North, and the sheer amount of fresh condiments served with pho nam attests to this fact. The growing number of pho restaurants in the US (particularly on the coasts) and Canada (especially around Vancouver) naturally reflects the influx of Vietnamese refugees to these regions some forty years ago. Pho in London is one of the first places I've encountered in the UK to get pho, and I've no doubt that its popularity will only grow. When is someone going to come out with the iPho application for the UK?

Last Tuesday I was desperate for a quick soup, and as Pho was so far far away, I decided to try my hand at a faux feu. Before dashing out the door to a pilates class, I set beef broth on a low simmer and threw in smashed garlic cloves, an inch-long cube of ginger, some lemongrass (beaten and cut into chunks), a red birdseye chili, roughly chopped, and a glug of soy and a glug of fish sauce and let it go for an hour or so. I left the lid ajar, and when I came back the broth had reduced slightly, the house smelled wonderful, and all that was left to do was throw in some thinly sliced red peppers, some pork and shrimp wontons, some rice noodles, one more fresh chili for a good kick, and top with green onions and coriander. I like mine on the hot side, so I added some sambal oelek, along with more nam pla (fish sauce).

Bliss.

The wontons were decidedly unconventional, but they were also so comforting and rich, having cooked through in the broth. After dumping in whatever you wish to add, it's best to let the whole lot simmer for a minute or two, until the vegetables are just slightly softened and the broth has absorbed into or cooked the protein. Tofu would be wonderful here, too...along with the kitchen sink.

So, not exactly pho bac, nor pho nam. It was absolutely faux pho, but for a weeknight meal that is warming from the gut, it hit the spot.

And the leftover ingredients made for excellent peanut noodles!

Inaugurating the Mortar and Pestle

May the gods of flat letting be praised: I have a place to live. With the end of my cushy student housing contract looming, these past days have been rather hair-raising.

The exciting thing is that the new pad is not far from one of Oxford's Asian markets, and there, tucked away in a dusty corner of racks of plastic wash bins, woks, and wire baskets it called to me:

a Thai granite mortar and pestle, not unlike this one.

Try to imagine, as hard as it may be, life without a food processor. Difficult, I know. Yet now, dear reader, you realise how joyous a day it was when my hand mixer came into my life. And now, to add to the pantheon of gadgets, a mortar and pestle!

This new acquisition and subsequent christening meant one thing: curry.

I trotted over to the market and picked up lemongrass, baby Thai aubergines (if you haven't tried these yet, do!), shallots, chilis, nam pla (fish sauce), sambal oelec (chili paste), fresh turmeric (you'll never go back to powdered), galangal, and peanuts.

I had diligently watched Rick Stein travel his way through Asia on his 'Rick Stein's Far Eastern Odyssey', and I was hungry. The pastes used as the bases for the dishes explored and explained in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia, Bali, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka had such striking colours, interesting textures, and left me yearning for the mingling aromas of lemongrass, fresh turmeric, and chilis.

The only disappointment I feel obliged to express here is a certain Eurocentrism that coloured his commentary. Perhaps Oxford's post-colonial contingent of the English Faculty was as small then as it is now, but I really did expect a more enlightened, less complacent tone from the OBE. Whether the writer(s) was Stein himself or a group of BBC producers, either way, Stein's reluctance to walk along a Phuket beach because--he states more than once--it would be too cliche does not jive with observations of rural Bangladesh like, 'It looked to me like scenes from ancient Egypt along the flood planes along the Nile', and 'thanks to a massive population, everything is done by hand'.

Somehow, I have to believe that the back-breaking labour of brick makers and rice paddy workers has far less to do with mere population numbers and much more to do with global trade and the exploitation of a product and a people (particularly the rural populations) by Western consumers who aren't willing to pay the true price of their imported goods.

Another line pulled me up short: 'I feel slightly proud of being British because we introduced tea to Assam. And here it is, it came from China in the first place'. This sense of (misplaced?) pride and awe is a constant throughout the series, with Stein focusing far less on the realities currently facing the people of these countries than on romantic asides that smack of nostalgia for the days of Conrad. While it certainly must have been exciting times in Assam in 1838 when that first dispatch of 160 Kg of tea was sent to be sold at London's India House, not one word was mentioned of the tea crisis in India of the past decade. The British did not 'introduce tea to Assam', but certain multinational corporations who shall remain nameless have succeeded in fostering a growing preference for soft drinks, which, along with the global financial crisis, continues to threaten the tea industry in India, Kenya, and Sri Lanka.

I truly do enjoy listening to Stein talk about food. It's clear that his awe and affinity for Asia comes from a place of respect and good intentions; I just wish the travelogue commentary could have stuck to food, or, better yet, acknowledged the hardships faced by those in the food production industry of these countries.

OK, now that that is off my chest, back to this recipe. I freely admit that this concoction is in no way an 'authentic' version of any one national dish. It is, rather, what I found to be a combination of flavours that are largely Thai, but one that certainly does not strictly adhere to what a Thai curry should entail.

Annie's 'Thai' Curry:
(yields approximately 4 portions)

4 garlic cloves
7 shallots (substitution: 2 small red onions)
2 1-cm cubes fresh turmeric
1 stalk lemongrass
1 1-cm cube galangal
2 handfuls of plain (not roasted) peanuts
3 red Thai chilis (bird's eye), 3 green Thai chilis (to taste)
4-5 Tbs. sambal oelek (to taste)
1 tsp. lime zest
Juice of 2-3 limes (to taste--I like lots of chili and lots of lime)
4 Tbs. nam pla
1 Tbs. ground corriander
1 Tbs. ground cumin
1 Tbs. garam masala
Fresh corriander
Salt

4 chicken breasts
4 baby Thai aubergines
4 tomatoes (with or without skin)
2 Tbs. palm sugar
1 can coconut milk

Jasmine rice

1. Toast the peanuts in a skillet, and get to chopping!

2. Chop as finely as possible and add to the mortar: shallots, garlic (use a garlic press), lime zest, tumeric, galangal, and chilis.

3. Cut the root tip off of the lemongrass and pummel the length of the shoot with a rolling pin to soften the inner flesh and chop finely. Add to the mortar and, using the pestle, work into a paste. One small handful at a time, add the toasted peanuts, alternating with lime juice, and sambal oelec. Then add the dry spices to taste.

4. Cut the rinsed aubergines with tops removed into quarters, lightly salt, and sauté in a deep pan until just brown in a few tablespoons of oil. Remove and set aside.

5. Cut the chicken breasts into small, bite-sized pieces, salt and pepper, and brown in the same pan, adding a small amount of oil, as needed. While the chicken browns, add about 10 shakes of nam pla. Remove browned chicken and set aside.

6. Add enough oil to barely cover the bottom of the pan, bring to medium-high heat, and add the paste from the mortar. Stir-fry the paste for about two minutes, then add the chicken, aubergines, tomatoes, and a few shakes more of nam pla. Let cook, stirring often for about 4 minutes. Then, add a palmful of palm sugar and as much coconut milk as you'd like (I used about 3/4 can to make a lot of creamy sauce). Lower the heat to medium-low and let the curry simmer for at least 20 minutes. For a rich curry, add the entire can of coconut milk and let the curry reduce further.

Serve with jasmine rice, fresh coriander, and chopped peanuts.