Seafood

One way to imbue canh with flavor is to include lots of vegetables. This recipe, along with Opo Squash Soup (page 60) and Chicken Dumpling and Chrysanthemum Leaf Soup (page 61), amply illustrates this technique. Here, the broth is further enriched with the addition of dried shrimp, which contribute both brininess and color. When I want a more special presentation, I cut the shrimp in half horizontally to yield two symmetrical halves. Once in the hot soup, the halves curl into beautiful spirals. This light soup is a great addition to nearly any Viet meal.

If you have ever been a guest at a Vietnamese eight-course fish feast (a variant of Saigon’s famed seven-course beef dinner), you will have tasted a fish goi made with marinated raw fish, which you scooped up with a shrimp chip or the like. In our family, we have long enjoyed this lightly cooked version, created by my aunt Bac Hang. She makes the salad with the teeny, tiny silverfish (not to be confused with the insect) sold at Chinese and Vietnamese markets. Piled high on a plate, the mound of white fish accented by orange carrot slivers, red onion, and chopped fresh herbs is beautiful. The silverfish are sold thawed in the seafood case, or in bricklike blocks in the frozen section (the latter look like freeze frames of a school of swimming fish). You will pay a little more for thawed silverfish because the excess water—and its weight—has been drained away. I usually buy the frozen package for long-term keeping. Silverfish have little flavor on their own, but they readily absorb the flavors of other ingredients, resulting in a delicious salad.

This heady combination of seafood and tomato comes from the north, where it is traditionally made from small rice-field crabs called cua đong. To extract enough flavor, cooks use many crabs, removing their back shells and pounding their bodies. The crushed crab is combined with water, carefully filtered, and finally mixed with fermented shrimp sauce (mam tom) to create a broth base. When heated, the crab solids rise to the top, forming a rich, seafood-laden floater that is the signature of the soup. Sections of the floater are carefully spooned atop round rice noodles (bun) before the broth is ladled into each bowl. A garnish plate of raw vegetables, limes, and fresh herbs accompanies the soup. When I was a child, our family re-created this soup by using the tiny rock crabs foraged among the rocks at the local harbor. Nowadays, I make this more convenient and equally tasty version. Unlike many Vietnamese Americans (including my mom), I don’t use canned bún riêu cua soup base. Rather, I start with a live Dungeness crab and mix its meat and tomalley with ground shrimp and egg for the floater. Since Dungeness crab season (November through May) doesn’t coincide with tomato season, I use premium canned tomatoes instead of fresh ones. If you are substituting other types of crab, you will need enough to yield 6 ounces of meat.

In the Vietnamese Kitchen, papaya is more than just a sweet fruit. The mild, firm flesh of an unripened green papaya is treated like a vegetable. Green papaya may be pickled, added to soup, or featured in salads like this one. Here, crunchy, light jade papaya shreds are flecked with chopped herbs and bits of shrimp and pork and tossed with a dressing of lime juice, fish sauce, and garlic. Look for green papayas at Vietnamese or Thai markets, Chinese markets with a Southeast Asian clientele, or Latin grocery stores. A bit of yellowing on the skin is fine, but make sure the flesh is neither soft nor mushy. Whole fruits will keep in the refrigerator for about a week.

A hybrid dish (cua means “crab” in Vietnamese, and farci means “stuffed” in French), this deviled crab is enriched by butter and employs fish sauce to amplify the brininess of the crustacean. Many cooks stuff the crab shells with the raw filling and then fry them. Because it is hard to tell when the filling is cooked, I was taught to sauté it first, which also yields a more flavorful result. I also forgo frying and instead bake the filling in ramekins, topping them with bread crumbs for a crispy finish. What makes this deviled crab special is fresh crabmeat and tomalley (liver) and fat, which you can only get if you start with a whole crab. (If you don’t like the tomalley and fat, omit them for a less rich dish.) Find the freshest, feistiest crab you can, even if it is not a Dungeness, my local species. Live crabs are available at Asian and other markets, but already cooked crabs will work, too—as long as you have a trustworthy fishmonger. Ask when the crab was cooked. And if it has an ammonia-like smell, it is over the hill, so pass it up. You will need about 1/2 pound of crabmeat.

As you fry these stuffed squid, the fragrant aromas that rise from the pan will have you dreaming of enjoying them along with a cold beer. Many Vietnamese cooks add minced garlic to the stuffing, but our family prefers ginger, a nod to ginger-centric northern Vietnam. The tart, spicy, salty dipping sauce heightens the flavors in the stuffing. Select young, fresh squid with bodies about five inches long, not including the tentacles. For the best flavor, clean the squid yourself, rather than buying them already cleaned. Because both squid sizes and a cook’s stuffing technique can vary, this recipe makes more stuffing than you will need. If only a little is left over, discard it. If there is a fair amount, mix in an egg or two and fry up into an omelet (see Pork and Mushroom Omelet, page 97, for cooking instructions).

When I was a child, my mom often kept me busy making wontons, putting three or four packages of the skins and a big bowl of pork-and-shrimp filling in front of me. (That’s 150 to 200 wontons!) She served the fried wontons to family and guests alike, who delighted in dipping the crispy morsels into our homemade sweet-and-sour sauce, a lighter version of the Chinese classic flavored with fish sauce instead of soy sauce.

Sometimes listed on restaurant menus as fresh spring rolls or summer rolls, salad rolls, along with pho, have come to embody Vietnamese food to many non-Vietnamese. They typically combine the elements of a classic Vietnamese goi (salad) but wrapped in rice paper. Southern Vietnamese cooks usually slip a few aromatic Chinese chives into the mix. The chives, dark green, flat blades with a mild garlic flavor, are sold in Asian markets and are also easily grown from seeds. If they are unavailable, omit them and the rolls will still be tasty. Part of the genius of Vietnamese cooking is in how simple ingredients can be crafted into something that is both flavorful and attractive. These rolls reflect that talent.

Traditionally deep-fried, shrimp toasts can be greasy affairs. During frying, the toasts soak up lots of oil and the shrimp topping often slides off the bread. A few years ago, chef Susana Foo, in her eponymous cookbook, offered an excellent solution for making this popular Chinese snack: baking the toasts. Her idea caught my eye, and I was fast to adapt the method for a Vietnamese version. The end product is a crispy, pinkish orange hors d’oeuvre that is delightfully grease free.

Making homemade lobster stock is relatively easy. If you don’t steam a lot of lobsters at home or have access to lobster shells in your area—or making seafood or fish stocks simply isn’t your thing—you can buy good-quality prepared fish/seafood stocks from your local fishmonger or online (see Sources).

Everyone loves shrimp, so the next time you make a batch of Gulf Shrimp and Grits (page 80) or Shrimp-Tomatillo Cocktail (page 75), save the shells and freeze them until you have enough for stock. However, you can also purchase prepared shrimp stock from your fishmonger or online (see Sources).

At first glance this appears to be a steak tartare presented just as you would find it in any French bistro. Small mounds of finely chopped egg whites, their creamy yellow yolks, sharp red onion, and salty capers surround a carefully shaped ring of chopped red meat, all ready to be mixed and scooped up with crisp rounds of toast. But instead of minced steak, the star of this tartare is fresh tuna. Smoky chipotle puree and pungent Dijon mustard are blended with smooth olive oil so that they can coat each dice of tuna with flavor. Fresh green onions and delicate shallots contribute a soft onion flavor to the tartare, while the briny capers and fresh parsley add brightness. Delicious as is, the deceptive garnishes are what make this a playful American dish.

I don’t know why people seem surprised by this one; it makes perfect sense to me! Lobster and potatoes have each been the starring ingredient in their own salads for ages—in this recipe, they share double billing, resulting in a dish that is infinitely better than either of the individual salads that inspired it. Besides the lobster, thin-skinned and buttery fingerling potatoes give the potato salad a major upgrade. The mayonnaise-based dressing features a blend of pungent horseradish, Dijon mustard, and bright lemon juice. I love anise-flavored tarragon with lobster; its delicate leaves are folded in along with lemony parsley right before serving.

This dish is Louisiana all the way. Crawfish are eaten in other states, to be sure, but no one is as passionate about these crustaceans as are Louisianans. And rightfully so; the state is responsible for producing more than 80 percent of the world’s crawfish! Crawfish look like tiny, clawless lobsters, and though they are not directly related, their taste is similar. The lobster stock in the rich, creamy sauce enhances that similarity. Sweet trout fillets get an old-fashioned cornmeal crust and are panfried to a light golden brown before being set down on a pool of the pink sauce.

Montauk is a town at the easternmost tip of New York’s Long Island, and its waters are a veritable playground for both commercial and weekend fishermen. Wild striped bass practically jump into their boats, and from there it’s a short journey to the plates of appreciative diners. This dish is my salute to those responsible for the freshest fish around. Along with briny clams and succulent lobster from its waters, Montauk is home to some spectacular roadside stands and farmers’ markets, where in summer you’ll find sweet corn and juicy tomatoes.

Butterfish is so named on account of its rich—yes, buttery—flavor. Also known as Pacific pompano, its texture is tender, so long as you don’t overcook the fish. (There is an Atlantic pompano as well, but it is much smaller and is not a suitable substitute.) The sour orange glaze is influenced by Cuban cuisine and can be made with either sour oranges or a mixture of sweet orange and lime juices. It’s a highly flavorful sauce and a perfect match for the rich fish. I find that the majority of seafood dishes are best suited to the warm weather months and don’t fit well into the heartier menus of fall and winter. This assertively flavored dish is an exception to that rule and pairs well with the ingredients and sides of the cool seasons, such as the tender Roasted Brussels Sprouts, Pomegranate, Hazelnuts (page 177) I serve with it at the restaurant.

Skate, for those of you who are unfamiliar with it, is delicately textured and tastes very much like scallops. In France there are endless wonderful brasseries, and nearly all of them serve skate with a brown butter sauce. Smoky chipotle puree instantly Americanizes the butter sauce with its fiery taste of the Southwest. The finishing touches for the skate—salty capers, tart lemon juice, and my favorite herb for seafood, tarragon—are all simple but come together in a dynamic way. The tomato salad is optional, but it brings a lovely touch of bright color and freshness to the plate.

One of the most popular seafood dishes in France must be steamed mussels with fries. You will find moules frites in every kind of restaurant, from beachside cafés to, yes, Parisian brasseries. The seasonings do of course vary, but the most traditional preparation (moules marinière) steams the mussels in a broth of white wine, herbs, and some form of onions and/or garlic. The same ingredients serve as the jumping-off point for the fragrant green chile broth in this dish. Mild in terms of heat but heady with peppery flavor, a puree of roasted poblano chiles bestows the flavorful broth with a south-of-the-border twist that’s further enhanced and enriched by creamy coconut milk. Serving these mussels with good crusty bread—as well as the fries—is a must. Once you’ve finished the succulent mussels and crisp, salty fries, you’ll want that bread to sop up every last delicious drop of mouthwatering broth from your bowl.

Florida, and in particular the city of Miami, has been home to the vibrant culture of Cuban immigrants for generations. Their cuisine has put its stamp on the state and on this dish, where black beans, flavored with chipotle, are pureed into an earthy, slightly chunky sauce that makes the bed for red snapper fillets encrusted in a crisp shell of green plantains. Cool and spicy jalapeño crema and a relish of sweet mango and creamy avocado garnish the fish with tropical continuity.