Zester Daily

The hot-sour-salty-sweet flavor combinations that dominate in Bangkok and central Thailand and in the Isaan region bordering Laos in the country’s east, make scant appearance up north. Northern Thai food is instead — in the words of northerners themselves — kem-kon  (concentrated, intense) and rot-jat (strongly flavored). In your face: spicy, salty and sometimes bitter.

Ingredients such as odiferous bplaa raa (literally “rotten fish”), a long-fermented fish condiment that northerners use more often than regular fish sauce, and tua nao, fermented soy beans that are mashed and shaped into disks or small bricks before being dried in the sun, lend the cuisine a jolt of umami and an elusive earthiness. Fresh and dried chilies are ubiquitous. Depth and complexity come from a range of dried spices more often associated with Malay or Indian foods (cloves, cinnamon, coriander seed, nutmeg and cumin); black, white and long peppers; and a regional variety of prickly ash (more commonly known as Sichuan peppercorn). Smokiness comes from the barbecue, ingredients such as green chilies, shallots, tomatoes and garlic are often grilled before they’re added to a dish.

Northerners prefer khao niaow, or sticky rice, over non-glutinous rice. At the table they use one hand to turn knobs of warm rice into small patties by pressing and shaping the grains between their palm and the tips of the fingers. Then they use the rice as Middle Easterners and northern Africans would bread, to carry bits of food and the cooking juices and liquids of stews and soups from plate or bowl to mouth.

Nam priks bask in the hot stuff

The northern Thai cook’s touchstones are dips known as nam prik (“chili water” is the literal translation), small bowls of concentrated flavor that pair beautifully with the fresh herbs (mint, various basils and cilantro among others) and blanched and uncooked vegetables (fresh and leafy greens such as Chinese mustard and various lettuces, and cucumbers, tart cherry tomatoes and winter squash) that are always presented alongside.

These vegetables and dips are usually served as part of a full meal, but in a non-Thai setting they work well as finger foods to go with drinks (and are a relatively virtuous alternative to chips and dips — although pork rinds, a beloved snack in pork-obsessed northern Thailand, often make an appearance). The dips can also be eaten together as a light meal. 

Minced Pork and Tomato Dip (Nam Prik Ong)

This mild nam prik has a flavor and texture reminiscent of Bologna-style ragu. Leftovers are wonderful tossed with wide rice noodles and a handful of scallion greens chopped with Thai basil.

Nam prik ong is usually eaten with pork rinds (rice crackers work well, too) and with blanched, rather than raw, vegetables. Chunks of peeled winter squash (kabocha, butternut, etc.) are a must. Try also wedges of round green cabbage, cauliflower, long beans, carrots and Chinese greens like baby bok choy and gai lan (Chinese broccoli), their leaves squeezed dry.

Ingredients

7 dried red chilies

3 shallots, roughly chopped (about 2 ounces)

2 teaspoons Thai or Malaysian shrimp paste

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

5 plump cloves garlic, finely chopped

4 tablespoons ground pork

2 cups roughly chopped tomatoes

½ cup chicken or pork broth

Fish sauce, to taste

Directions

1. Toast the chilies in a dry skillet over medium heat until darkened but not burned. Allow to cool and place in a mortar or the bowl of a blender.

2. Add the shallots, garlic and shrimp paste to the chilies and pound or blend to a rough paste (if using blender, add up to 1 tablespoon water to aid processing).

3. Heat a small skillet (preferably non-stick) over medium heat and add the oil. Swirl to coat the bottom of the pan. Add the garlic and sauté until it begins to change color. Add the chile-shallot-shrimp paste mixture and cook, stirring, until the raw smell of the shrimp paste dissipates, about 3 minutes.

4. Add the chopped pork and, breaking it up with a fork, cook just until the pink color disappears.

5. Add the tomatoes and cook, stirring, until they begin to break up, about 2 minutes. Add the broth, lower the heat to medium-low, and let the mixture simmer until the broth is nearly evaporated, leaving a paste of medium thickness.

6. Taste and adjust for salt, if necessary, with fish sauce, adding ¼ teaspoon at a time.

7. Transfer the nam prik to a bowl, let cool, and serve at room temperature with a generous platter of vegetables for dipping.

Roasted Eggplant and Green Chili Dip (Dtam makhya)

This dip, though not a nam prik in name, is certainly one in spirit. It’s often eaten with fresh mint and pork rinds. It’s also wonderful shmeared over a warm soft corn tortilla to roll around grilled or roasted pork, mint and cilantro.

Ingredients

2 large long Asian eggplant (about 500 grams)

5-7 long green chilies

2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

2 red shallots, roughly chopped

½ teaspoon Bplaa raa (often available in southeast Asia markets, in jars labeled “pickled mud fish”) or fish sauce

Pinch of sugar

Salt to taste

Fish sauce, to taste

½ teaspoon cooking oil

Directions

1. Grill, broil, roast (at about 350 F) or cook the eggplants and chilies directly over a gas flame until soft and browned all over. Let cool, then peel and chop together, by hand or in a food processor, to a very rough puree. Set aside in a mortar.

2. Add garlic, shallots, bplaa raa, and sugar and briefly pound with a pestle to mix. Taste for salt and add fish sauce, if necessary, ½ teaspoon at a time.

3. Heat the oil in a nonstick pan over medium-high heat, then add the eggplant mixture. Cook, stirring constantly, until its color deepens slightly, about 2-3 minutes. Do not let the eggplant brown.

4. Transfer to a bowl and servewarm or at room temperature.

Red-Eye Smoked Fish and Chili Dip (Nam prik dta daeng) 

Dta daeng means “red eyes,” which is what you might have after eating this super-spicy dip. Smoked mackerel is a fine substitute for the smoked river fish sold in northern Thai markets; feel free to experiment with hot-smoked salmon or any other smoked fish. Traditionally the smoked fish, shallots and garlic would be grilled, but these days northern Thai cooks are happy to use the microwave. The number of chilies called for results in an authentically fiery dish. Reduce by up to two-thirds for a much milder dip; you could also remove the seeds.

Serve this dip with any combination of fresh Asian long beans (or green beans), sliced cucumber, napa cabbage and Chinese mustard leaves, wing beans, and herbs such as mint, Thai or purple basil, sawtooth herb and Vietnamese mint. Leftovers are great stirred into scrambled eggs. 

Ingredients

4 ounces smoked mackerel, bones removed

5 unpeeled shallots

8 unpeeled garlic cloves

25 whole Thai dried red chilies, stemmed

2 medium tomatoes, diced

1 tablespoon Thai or Malaysian shrimp paste

½ teaspoon cooking oil

½ cup water

Directions

1. Remove any skin from the fish. Cut the fish into chunks and microwave until its moisture is rendered and it has begun to crisp, about 3-5 minutes depending on the size of the chunks and the fattiness of the fish. Set aside to cool.

2. Place garlic cloves on plate, cover with microwave-safe plastic wrap, and microwave till very soft, 2-3 minutes. Repeat with the shallots, which will take 4-5 minutes. Set aside to cool, then peel.

3. Toast the chilies in a skillet over medium heat until they darken, stirring constantly so they don’t burn. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

4. Pound the fish and chilies in a mortar or chop in a food processor to rough puree. Add the shallots and garlic and pound or process to a paste.

5. Place a (preferably nonstick) skillet over medium heat. Add the oil, heat for a few seconds, and then add the tomatoes and the shrimp paste. Cook, stirring, for 3 minutes. Add the water and continue to cook, stirring and mashing the tomatoes with the back of your spatula or spoon, until the moisture has almost evaporated, about 3 more minutes.

6. Add the chile-shallot-garlic-fish paste and cook, stirring, until the ammonia smell of the shrimp paste has dissipated and the combination paste has started to darken and take on an oily sheen, 4-5 minutes. There should be no moisture left in the pan.

7. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool. Serve at room temperature.

Top photo: Nam prik ong, a northern Thai style “dip” made of tomato and ground pork often served with pork rinds (bowl left). Credit: David Hagerman

A little more than 10 years ago, Elisa and Michel Gabrel arrived on Koh Samui from France searching, like most retirement-age foreign arrivals to this island in the Gulf of Thailand, for a piece of paradise. They found it on Koh Samui’s quiet south side, in a wedge of coconut palm-covered property where they built a modest home and settled in to savor island life. But it didn’t take long for the appeal of idleness to fade.

“We’d visited Samui many times, and loved it. But if you live here you have to do something,” says Elisa, a tanned 61-year-old whose large, expressive eyes are capped by carefully penciled brows and framed by a mane of reddish flyaway hair. “Especially during three months of monsoon.  If you only watch TV, believe me — it’s gonna be a hard life.”

Spirited retirees

Some retirees to Samui (most residents drop the “Koh,” which means “island”) fight boredom with frequent travel around Asia, or by taking up a sport or a hobby. Others open a bar or a café. But Elisa and Michel saw their salvation in liquor; they decided to make rhum agricole, or West Indies-style rum, distilled from pure sugarcane juice. (Ninety-nine percent of the world’s rum is rhum industriel, which is made from molasses, a by-product of sugar production.)

The Gabrel’s choice to make rhum agricole wasn’t entirely without foundation. They had enjoyed it in France, says Elisa, adding, “Rum is in my blood.” Her mother was Vietnamese and her father hailed from Martinique, where most of the world’s rhum agricole is made. Elise, who was born in Vietnam, moved to France with her parents when she was 4 years old.

Engaging the fruit of the land

The couple knew that Thailand, the world’s No. 1 exporter of sugarcane, could be counted on for a steady supply of raw material. And Samui, which is known to Thais as “Coconut Island,” provided further inspiration: The Gabrels decided to not only make natural rhum agricole but also flavor the liquor with coconut, the island’s biggest export, as well as other easily available island fruit. They named their venture Magic Alambic, (an alambic, or alembic, is a still) and became the first foreigners to distill liquor in Thailand.

Michel, who was a stonemason in Paris, had become interested in distilling during the years that the couple owned an orchard in Argent, France, where they decamped after a back injury forced him to quit his trade. Every year after harvest, Michel and Elisa would take plum, cherry and apricot juices to the local distiller, who would turn them into spirits. So, for their enterprise on Samui, they imported a still from Armagnac.

It took two months of experimentation to get the rhum process right. “We had the information from the factory, but it wasn’t enough. You have to distill with your heart, your feelings and your brain,” Elise told me one steamy afternoon, in thickly French-accented English, as we sat in Magic Alambic’s “tasting room,” a thatch-roofed open-air sala steps from her house. During those two months “Michel distilled, and I tasted.” Though she doesn’t drink often, she says, “I know rum.”

Michel passed away earlier this year at 70 years old, but not before witnessing the success of the unlikely enterprise he began with his wife. In the nine years since Michel and Elisa achieved their first drinkable batch of  rhum agricole, Magic Alambic has attracted the attention of big names in the spirits world: Jamieson, Johnnie Walker, Pernod-Ricaux and Bacardi. The companies’ distillers come to Samui to taste Magic Alambic’s rhums and talk technique. Elisa’s happy to share. “There’s no secret,” she says. “We have exactly the same process as single malt whiskey.”  

Simple hands-on operation for Thai rum

The Magic Alambic facility consists of little more than a cane presser, the single French still, and a small aging room. From January through June Elisa distills twice a day, starting at 4 a.m. She goes through 10 tons of sugarcane in a single season, capturing just 25 to 28 liters of rum from every 300 liters of cane juice. The juice is distilled after fermentation, and at this stage Magic Alambic’s flavored rums — coconut, orange, pineapple and lime — are infused with fruit. “Only fruit,” Elisa says. “No essence!” This ensures a natural taste.

The liquor is then aged in stainless steel (the company cannot obtain a license from Thailand to age liquor in wood) for at least one year at which point most of it is diluted to 40 proof to conform to Thai regulations. But some rhum is held back for further aging of up to six years. In the end, Magic Alambic produces less than 10,000 bottles annually, and it is sold by mail order or at the Samui facility.

Demand would support increased production, but “we don’t want to work more,” says Elisa, who relies on a team of four for help. “And when you distill, if you think about money first you won’t get the good quality.”   

In the tasting room she opens bottle after bottle and waves each under the noses of visitors. The rhum smells exactly like its ingredients, the natural sweetness of sugar cane, the voluptuous milkiness of coconut, orange like the juice you’d drink for breakfast, and an oily essence of lime reminiscent of the scent that lingers in the air after a peel is twisted. (Elisa had already sold out of pineapple rhum when I visited). Swirling her rhum agricole in a glass, she shows its long legs and plump tears, similar to those of a fine wine. Then she pours shots. The liquor is slightly sweet and smooth, and goes down without a trace of burn. Elisa attributes its fine flavor to the cane. “We can take credit for the quality of the rum, but not for the taste,” she says. “That’s from the Thai soil.”

The rhums are especially delicious, and dangerously easy-drinking, mixed with Elisa’s homemade take on T’i punch sirop, which swaps brown cane sugar for the usual white and adds cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla and lime juice.  I ask for a recipe.

“No,” says Elise. “I don’t keep the rhum process a secret. The T’i punch, I do.”

Photo: T’i punch made with Magic Alambic rhum. Credit: David Hagerman

We all know what a beautiful food photograph looks like. Unfortunately, our cameras are clueless. Here are tips for making the most of your equipment to capture the best images of  food and the people who grow, produce and prepare it.

Natural light is your friend

It’s free and, in most cases, natural light is the best light for photographing food. When I’m photographing a dish, I start by looking for a source of soft indirect light. (Look at the shadows falling around your subject. If they’re short, the light is indirect.)

Next, determine the direction of the light and make the most of it to create desirable effects. Position the dish at a right angle to the light and you get lots of appetite-rousing texture — the next best thing to attaching a scratch and sniff panel to your photograph. Try positioning a white napkin, a piece of white paper or even the lid of a pan on the side of the dish that’s in shadow and using it to bounce light back toward its source; this will “open up” shadows, or lighten up dark spaces, and create a more even exposure. If you’re photographing a hot dish, position it in front of the light source to highlight rising steam.

Set the stage

Props help tell a story but too many objects in a scene distract the viewer from the main attraction. Remove anything whose color clashes unattractively with the hues of the dish you’re photographing and any object that’s jarringly small or large in relation to the dish.

Imagine choosing a tie or a scarf to complement an outfit and take the same approach with your subject. Look for background colors that complement or bring out key elements in a dish like reds/oranges to highlight chilies and greens to make fresh herbs pop.

Try recruiting someone to hold the dish you want to photograph; colorful aprons and shirts make effortless, interesting backdrops and clue the viewer in to where the dish comes from. Don’t be afraid to include a cook’s (or gardener’s or farmer’s) hands; they help tell a compelling food story.

Find the face

Like people, dishes have a “face” — an angle from which they look best to the camera. Work at a low angle and before you start shooting turn the plate or bowl slowly, watching for perspectives that naturally pull your eye through the dish: a crevice between meat and potatoes for instance, or a “river” of flowing spaghetti.

Play with your food: saw into a thick cut of meat, tear a piece of bread in half or twirl noodles around a fork to create the flow you want.

If nothing works for you, dig in. Sometimes my subject’s best face emerges after I’ve eaten a few bites. At this point I put down my knife and fork (or chopsticks) and grab my camera.

Go beyond food porn

For me the people who grow, produce and cook the food I photograph, and the places in which they work, are as important and as interesting as the food itself. And it’s these types of photographs that usually most interest my viewers.

But photographing cooks in action creates its own set of problems. Most important, before you photograph any person be sure you have their permission. If you’re in a setting in which language is a barrier, permission can be asked with eye contact, a finger pointed at your camera and a nod of the head. In some situations you may need to establish a more formal relationship.

Second, stay out of your subject’s way. He or she has a job to do; yours is to be a fly on the wall. Make sure that you respect personal space and work around your subject; nothing does more to spoil a photo than a chef turning to you with a scowl just as you press the shutter. This may require squeezing yourself into a corner, leaning precariously over a prep table or standing on a chair positioned well out of the way.

Third, watch your background. And before you begin working the shutter do a “hand check”: form right angles with your thumbs and forefingers and position them to create a frame around the scene you want to photograph. Are objects in the background “protruding” from a head or a chest? If your subject is holding a pan or a plate, is one of his or her hands lost in space? If so, adjust your perspective. And if you’re shooting a person full height the general rule of thumb is to either cut them off at the waist or show  their entire body, feet included.

Take it over the top

Top shots or overheads are a great way to highlight shapes and forms. The curve of a plate or bowl contrasted with angular utensils draws attention to a dish and makes for an interesting photograph.

It also gives you the option to show an entire place setting or multiple dishes. Throw in a diner’s elbow or forearm clad in an eye-catching fabric and you’ll pull the viewer right to the table.

Equipment tips

1. Most point-and-shoot cameras are equipped with a macro function. If you have an SLR but do not have a macro lens try using a close-up filter to help you get closer to your subject. If you’re using a zoom lens on either a point-and-shoot or an SLR keep your focal length greater than 50mm (or equivalent).

2. Don’t use a wide angle lens. It distorts your subject. Plates and pans will be oval, objects will seem farther away than they are. If you’re using a zoom lens, work counter-intuitively: zoom in but step back from the plate.

Conclusion

Photography is about personal style, what draws you to a subject and how to capture that subject is unique to you. The key is to find the best way to focus the viewer’s attention to where you want it by removing distractions from the frame.

Photo credits: David Hagerman

It’s that time of year when many of us vow to improve the way we eat. In this quest, “Ancient Grains for Modern Meals” and “Tender” are ideal companions. But make no mistake — these aren’t “diet” books. Neither Maria Speck (“Ancient Grains”) nor Nigel Slater (“Tender”) focus on the health aspects of a diet rich in whole grains and vegetables. These authors are all about cooking and eating delicious, even sumptuous food. Consider that both books offer a path to good-for-you eating a bonus.

“Health is the last thing on my mind when I eat,” Speck tells us in her introduction. She goes on to prove this in a paean to what has long been a maligned foodstuff. For Speck, whole grains are “sensual” and “glamorous”; corn is “uplifting”; farro, “ambrosial.” Suspicions of hyberbole are banished by her recipes.

Wheat berries, quinoa and purple rice

Speck’s mother is Greek, her father German, and she has grazed around the Mediterranean. These influences come through in a wonderfully wide-ranging yet coherent collection of dishes, like sweet-savory Lamb Stew with Wheat Berries in Red Wine Sauce, Cumin-Scented Quinoa with Red Beets, and Fettucine with Salmon, Tomatoes and Golden Raisins. She gives neither breads nor sweets short shrift, including two versions of Muesli (Dark Chocolate With Hazelnuts; and Warm With Figs, Pistachio and Anise), an irresistible Olive Bread With Bacon and Thyme, and desserts ranging from Purple Rice Pudding with Rose Water Dates, and Amaranth Walnut Cookies with Brandy.

Speck’s former life as a tech journalist shows itself in clear, precisely written recipes that — based on a test drive of the lamb dish — turn up delicious results.

Sidebars (“The Joy of Pith”) and essays (“Rye: Tangy and Surprisingly Sweet”) written in Speck’s easygoing, friendly prose drew me right in, but whole grain newbies, and even those who think they know all there is to know on the subject, will want to give some time to the introduction. There, Speck explicates the various grains called for in her recipes. She tells how to buy, store and prepare them, and advises on baking with whole grain flours. Wheat berries have become a regular on my own table since I learned from Speck that I could cook a whole batch and freeze small amounts for use later.

Tips on vegetable cooking and gardening

In “Tender,” Slater offers delicious preparations for nearly 40 vegetables (asparagus to zucchini), each of which gets its own chapter, along with “a few other good things” like fennel and radishes. But this is more than a cookbook; Slater is a passionate keeper of a smallish urban plot. “I plant seeds because I get a buzz from watching green shoots poke through the soil,” he tells us. His recipes are preceded by an ode to the vegetable in question, including information about varieties, how to keep it healthy in the garden and work with it in the kitchen.

Gardeners will get the most out of this thick, heavy volume, but that’s not to say that those of us without a piece of dirt to tend can’t derive pleasure from Slater’s endearing intimate writing on topics like the fava bean’s “kinship with ham in all its forms,” and the versatility of the mashed potato cake. His recipes, which range in complexity from dead simple (Beans in the Steamer) to slightly-more-time-consuming (Pumpkin Pangratto with Rosemary and Orange), veer toward Mediterranean (a soup-stew of beans with cavolo nero) with a healthy dose of Asian (a hot stew with tomatoes and cilantro) and Middle Eastern (grilled lamb with eggplants and za’atar) influence. In each, the vegetable shines through, deliciously.

Cooks looking for exactitude may find themselves frustrated by Slater’s sometimes blithe approach to measurements; “a little,” “a few” and “a small handful” make appearances nearly as frequent as “a tablespoon.” Soldier on. The extremely moist chocolate-beet cake with crème fraiche and poppy seeds alone justifies the effort.

Buy Nigel Slater’s “Tender” Now!

Buy Maria Speck’s “Ancient Grains” Now!

Zester Daily contributor  David Hagerman shoots for the New York Times, Travel+Leisure and Saveur, among other publications. To view more of his slide shows, go to davidhagerman.photoshelter.com. Robyn Eckhardt is a food and travel journalist based in Penang, Malaysia. She also is a contributor to Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia and has been published in Saveur, the New York Times and Wall Street Journal Asia. Her last article for Zester was a double book review, Veggies and Grains Deluxe.

Filipino Catholics celebrate the world’s longest Christmas, beginning on Dec. 16 (the date of the first of nine consecutive missas de gallo, or dawn Masses) and ending the first Sunday in January with the Feast of the Three Kings. It’s a time of church, prayers and family but also, as I learned when my husband and I spent Christmas in a rural Philippine town a few years ago, an excuse for Filipinos to indulge their joyously insatiable appetites.

“For Filipinos, Christmas is about two things: Mass and eating,” a denizen of Arayat, in Pampanga province, explained to me on my first evening in town.

An ongoing feast

That Christmas it seemed that for nine days my husband and our friend Marc, whose father’s family had a century-old Arayat home that became ours for the holiday, did little else but eat or anticipate eating. Before meals, after meals and in-between meals we sat at the weathered wooden table in the nipa thatch-roofed kitchen watching Lucia, the family’s beloved septuagenarian cook, move nimbly over a wood-fired stove, conjuring feasts from humble local ingredients.

Only hours after rib-sticking breakfasts of campurado, delicious rice porridge flavored with Filipino cacao, and coffee with butterfat-rich buffalo milk, there were multi-course lunches of dishes such as pork and chicken adobo; pinakbet (an umami-rich vegetable stew flavored with bagoong, Filipino shrimp paste); estofado, a Spanish-influenced stew; and huge freshwater prawns stewed in coconut. Dinners described by Marc as “light” before we arrived were nothing of the sort; though they were often composed of leftovers and perhaps some sinigang, the Philippines’ beloved sour soup. We were never left hungry.

If, during the day, we left our roosts at the kitchen table (I was in Arayat to write an article on Lucia’s culinary prowess, so it was only natural to stick close), it was for outings to the homes of bakers and to pastry shops elsewhere in Pampanga, a province renowned for its sweets. We always returned with souvenirs.

A treasure with only four ingredients

One morning, midway between breakfast and lunch, Lucia’s school friend, Damiana, a spry silver-haired woman wearing a shy grin and a turquoise flowered housecoat, stepped through the kitchen door carrying a bowl of strangely soft-shelled fresh eggs and three dalayap (a local lime similar to key limes). It was time to make yemas, candy-coated milk balls scented with lime. Prepared with just four ingredients — including sweetened condensed milk, which was probably introduced to the Philippines during the post-World War II occupation years – yemas are a favorite Filipino holiday treat.

As Lucia carried cans of the milk to the table, Damiana smiled and beckoned me to join her. Stuffed after a few days in Arayat, I was certain that I couldn’t bear to look at another sweet. But journalistic duty compelled me. I’m glad it did. In the intervening years, Damiana’s yemas have made more than a few holiday appearances in my own home.

Lime-Scented Candy-Coated Milk Balls (Yemas)

Filipinos make yemas any old time, but especially around local fiestas and holidays like Easter and Christmas. They require few ingredients and no special skills, but a bit of time. Wrapped with cellophane in colors of the season, they make a festive addition to the holiday table. Use key limes if you can get them, but regular limes will do.

Ingredients

Directions

1. In a medium saucepan place the lime zest, eggs and sweetened condensed milk. Stir until the ingredients are just combined.
2. Place the pan on the stove and turn the heat to medium. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to stir the mixture continuously, scraping it away from the bottom and sides of the pan. Curds may form – don’t worry, just keep stirring. The mixture will gradually thicken and become paste-like. After 12 to 15 minutes, when a piece of the mixture holds to the spatula when it’s turned on it’s side, remove the pan from the heat and turn the mixture onto a lightly oiled plate. Use the spatula to spread it out into a thin layer. Set aside.
3. Lightly oil a cookie sheet. When the yemas paste is still warm but just cool enough to handle, rub your hands lightly with oil and roll pinches of the paste between your palms into smooth balls approximately ¾ inches in diameter. Place them on a lightly oiled tray or cookie sheet. Depending on the size of the yemas you will have about 90 to 100 pieces.
4. In a small saucepan, melt the sugar, stirring over medium heat, then turn the heat off. Working quickly, drop a yema into the sugar syrup, give it a quick turn with a fork to coat, remove it and place back on the oiled cookie sheet. If the sugar begins to thicken return it to the heat until it thins. Repeat as necessary until all the yemas are coated. Set aside to cool completely.
5. While the yemas are cooling, cut parchment paper into 2-by-2½-inch rectangles. Cut the cellophane into 4-inch squares, then cut each square in half on a diagonal. Each square will give you two triangles whose longest edge is 6 inches. There should be 1 piece of parchment and 1 piece of cellophane for each candy.
6. To wrap the candies, hold a cellophane triangle in your palm, the longest edge parallel to your wrist, the point facing your body. (See slide show.) Place a piece of parchment paper on top of the cellophane, one of its short edges flush with the cellophane point. Place a yema low on the parchment and roll both the parchment and cellophane up and over the candy (the yemas should be enclosed in parchment). Twist the ends of the cellophane to seal.
7. The yemas will keep at room temperature for about a week. If you live in an especially humid climate you will want to store the candies in an absolutely air-tight container, or in the refrigerator.

Zester Daily contributor  David Hagerman shoots for the New York Times, Travel+Leisure and Saveur, among other publications. To view more of his slide shows, go to davidhagerman.photoshelter.com. Robyn Eckhardt is a food and travel journalist based in Penang, Malaysia. She also is a contributor to Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia and has been published in Saveur, the New York Times and Wall Street Journal Asia. Her last article for Zester was a double book review, Veggies and Grains Deluxe.

Top photo: Festively wrapped yemas.

Photo and slide show credits: David Hagerman

Mention Turkey and the dishes most likely to come to mind are meaty kebabs, olive oil-stewed vegetables and Ottoman-influenced restaurant standards such as imam bayildi, meat-stuffed eggplant with tomato sauce, and hunkar begendi, chunks of lamb nestled in bechamel-enriched eggplant puree.

Move east of Istanbul, away from the country’s well-traveled Aegean and Mediterranean coasts, and a more complex picture emerges. Turkey, a country of regional tastes and fiercely local cooks, is still markedly tied to the land. Nearly one-third of the population was employed in agriculture in 2009. Outside of the country’s western urban centers, meals remain tightly tethered to place and season.

Locavorism is a traditional way of life

Turkish locavorism is most evident at the once- and twice-weekly markets held in towns and cities throughout the country where entire sections are given over to koy urunleri, or village products. Primarily female vendors sell foods they’ve grown, foraged and made by hand: fresh fruits and vegetables from family farms and kitchen gardens, breads baked in backyard wood-fired ovens, sun-dried fruit leather and tomato and pepper pastes, yogurt, cheese, milk and butter made from sheep, goats and cows grazed in open pasture.

Display signage informs buyers of prices and provenance — with the names of villages or simply the word yerli, “local” — but never “artisan” or “seasonal,” simply because everything is.

In October, the koy sections of markets in the fishing towns of Inebolu and Sinop and in Erfelik, an overgrown village set in a bucolic river-shot valley 30 kilometers (18 miles) from the coast, showcased the eastern Black Sea’s autumn bounty. There were deep russet apples, black and green figs, Bartlett-like pears, black grapes, tiny red sweet-sour fruit called kizilcik and last-gasp mulberries, plus tubs of syrupy pekmez, a fruit molasses, and spreadable recer made from the same fruits.

What from a distance appeared to be chunky beaded necklaces turned out to be strings of alic, crab apple-like fruits eaten so ripe and mushy they’re almost applesauce. Vendors used handsaws to quarter big dusty olive pumpkins, revealing nasturtium-orange flesh. “Tursuluk” (“for pickling”), advised hand-lettered cardboard notices balanced atop mounds of long slender yellow-green chilies with curled tips, knobby finger-length cucumbers, green tomatoes and fleshy broad beans. Sacks held coffee-brown bulgur and wheat berries from the previous month’s harvest, a rainbow of dried beans, dried corn for soup and pilav and corn flour — plain and wood oven-toasted — to turn into bread and coat the region’s beloved anchovies before frying.

At least a quarter of each market’s koy section was given over to the area’s biggest autumn vegetable harvest after wheat and corn: nuts. Chestnuts are graded according to size; one vendor displayed nine grades, from kuzu kestane (small “lamb” chestnuts, surprisingly sweet and reminiscent of fresh coconut) to kebablik kestane (chestnuts to be boiled or roasted). There were baskets of hazelnuts, shelled specimens dear at about $24 per kilo (about 2 pounds), and ceviz or walnuts, brown and black, raw and roasted, shell on and off. Perhaps the region’s most beloved nuts, ceviz are baked into breads and added to pilav. This early in the season, freshly harvested and so oily they verge on juicy, Kara Denizli (Black Sea-ites) love to eat them out of hand or lightly crushed and sprinkled atop autumnal desserts such as candied pumpkin. They also add them to savory foods like the wickedly delicious dish islama, whose recipe is below.

Islama (Broth-Soaked Yufka or Lavash) With Shredded Chicken or Turkey and Walnuts)

Serves 8

In this dish from Sinop province sheets of day-old yufka (thin sheets of unleavened bread similar to lavash, which you can use as a substitute) are rolled, sliced and moistened with hot broth. The pastry/bread becomes tender and fluffy, a perfect bed for buttery caramelized onions, shredded chicken and crushed walnuts. Turkey can stand in for chicken, making islama a great post-Thanksgiving dish.

Use the freshest walnuts you can find and homemade, or homemade-quality store-bought broth. A salad is the only accompaniment this rich dish needs.

Ingredients

Directions

1. Working with two or three sheets of yufka or lavash at a time, stack and roll them into a reasonably tight cigar and cut into 1-inch pieces. As you finish cutting each roll, arrange the pieces side by side (cut side up) in a large (13-by-9-by-2-inch, for example) baking or serving dish. Arrange the pastry or bread pieces close enough to each other that they don’t unroll, but not so tightly that they don’t have room to expand as they absorb the broth. Set aside.
2. Heat the oil and butter in a large skillet over medium heat. When the foam subsides add the onions and sprinkle them with salt. Cook the onions over medium-low heat, stirring often, until they go from golden to tinged with brown (do not let them burn!) then remove them from the heat, cover to keep warm, and set aside.
3. While you’re cooking the onions bring the broth to a gentle simmer.
4. Pour or ladle the hot broth over the yufka or lavash until the pieces are three-quarters submerged. Transfer the rest of the broth to a small pitcher for the table. Spoon over the onions and drizzle over any remaining butter-oil. Arrange the chicken on top of the onions, and sprinkle walnuts on top.
5. Serve immediately in shallow bowls. Let diners add additional hot broth to taste at the table.

Variation: Banduma or bandirma, a preparation from neighboring Kastamonu province, omits the onions. The  yufka sheets are dipped into hot broth, torn into strips, and layered with melted butter, sliced turkey or chicken and crushed walnuts.

Zester Daily contributor  David Hagerman shoots for the New York Times, Travel+Leisure and Saveur, among other publications. To view more of his slide shows, go to davidhagerman.photoshelter.com. Robyn Eckhardt is a food and travel journalist based in Penang, Malaysia. She also is a contributor to Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia and has been published in Saveur, the New York Times and Wall Street Journal Asia. Her last article for Zester was a double book review, Veggies and Grains Deluxe.

Photo: Islama

Photo and slide show credits: David Hagerman

To most foreigners, Malaysian food is something of an enigma. Occupying Southeast Asia’s southern tip, with Thailand to the north and Singapore to the south, Malaysia is divided into peninsular West and island East, home to multiple ethnicities and at least a dozen regional cuisines. In comparison to Thailand, Vietnam and Singapore, Malaysia flies under the radar as a foodie destination.

Two recently released cookbooks might change that. Food scientist, culinary instructor and recipe developer Susheela Raghavan‘s “Flavors of Malaysia,” a slick and hefty hardback, is a near comprehensive overview of Malaysian cuisine. “Penang Heritage Food,” by retired professor of electrical engineering Jin Teong Ong, offers an idiosyncratic snapshot of the food of a single Malaysian state. The authors’ approaches couldn’t be more different, and their works couldn’t be more complementary.

Raghavan’s volume is, unusual for cookbooks in recent years, text-heavy, although small black-and-white photos of family and friends, markets and ingredients, notable places and landmarks are interspersed throughout, and 16 pages of color photos make up the midsection. Raghavan is clearly more intent on imparting information than entertaining with visuals. Impart she does, beginning with a 50-plus page introduction to the history and foods of Malaysia’s many ethnicities, its regional cuisines and its food culture. She follows with more than 150 easy-to-follow recipes divided among 12 chapters based on ingredients (poultry and eggs, meats) and dish categories (soups and stews, snacks and appetizers), and an excellent ingredients appendix with mini-recipes for “basics” like fried shallots and ikan bilis (tiny dried anchovies which, deep-fried, garnish or are incorporated into many Malaysian dishes).

Beloved, lesser-known recipes

The tone of “Flavors of Malaysia” seesaws between instructive and sisterly. “Tumising is a technique of stir-frying,” Raghavan explains in the recipe for Sambal Tumis Belacan, a sweet-spicy chili sauce that incorporates Malaysian shrimp paste (belacan). It’s a pleasure to find recipes that are beloved on Malaysian soil yet receive scant attention abroad, such as mee rebus (noodles in a sweet potato-based gravy), bak kut teh (a comforting pork stew flavored with Chinese medicinal herbs) and the addictive rolled coconut milk crepes called kueh dadar. Recipe names are given in English and local languages, and Malaysia-bound travelers will want to leaf through this book to compile a list of “must-eat dishes.”

Readers who collect cookbooks for more than their recipes will want to spend some quality time with this one, soaking up Raghavan’s information about the origin and health properties of barley, the role of kueh (Malaysian sweets) in religious ceremonies, and her reminiscences of a Malaysian childhood.

What’s missing is a more comprehensive list of brick-and-mortar sources for Malaysian ingredients such as gula Melaka (coconut palm sugar) and hae ko, a sweet black shrimp paste. Other quibbles: Measurements for spices usually sold in seed form, such as fennel, are given in powder. And the prominent pitch in the introduction for the author’s branded packaged spice blends feels out of place in a recipe book that doesn’t otherwise espouse shortcuts.

Zeroing In on Penang

The only pitch retired professor Ong makes in his “Penang Heritage Food” is for the cuisine of a state that many Malaysians consider to be home to the best food in the country. Ong grew up on the island of Penang, which lies just off the coast of Penang state in northwestern peninsular Malaysia. Founded by the British in the late 1700s, and for centuries a key port on the Southeast Asian trade route, the island’s capital city George Town (now a UNESCO World Heritage site) drew waves of immigrants from China, India and Thailand as well as Europe and the Middle East, all of whom contributed to a fascinating melting pot cuisine.

In just under 200 pages, Ong, who now lives in Singapore, immerses us in the sights, smells, tastes and foods of his home state. We learn the back stories of specialties such as Hokkien mee, noodles in a prawn and pork broth spiked with ground chilies, and satay babi (pork satay), a variation on Malay (and halal) satay invented by immigrants from the southern Chinese island of Hainan. Ong explains the many uses of bamboo and coconut palm — culinary and otherwise — and how nutmeg, the outer flesh of which Penang cooks make into pickles and squeeze for juice, found its way to the island. Especially wonderful are the many vintage black-and-white photographs — cooks (including Ong’s mother and aunt) in action, Penang-ites enjoying picnics on the beach and meals out at restaurants, wedding banquets, artisan food makers, street food vendors.

Some 75 recipes are divided into six chapters: one devoted to Penang specialties and the remaining five to dishes showing the influences of longtime resident immigrant communities (Indian, Thai, etc.). Ong takes pains to explain technique, and his encouraging tone should embolden the Malaysian cooking newbie. But readers will be frustrated by ingredients not listed in the order in which they are used and Americans must be prepared to convert metric measurements (the book was published in Singapore). The ingredients section at the front of the book needs beefing up and the absence of an index is an omission that should be addressed in the next edition. Also useful would be the addition of a short section devoted to sample menus for those who might wonder what to serve with lor bak and heh chnee.

But all in all, “Penang Heritage Food” is a big-hearted labor of love by a non-food writer driven simply by his desire to preserve the culinary traditions of his home state — Ong’s effort was inspired by his London-resident daughter’s telephone call requesting a recipe. If it is at times frustrating to cook from, the book is a joy to read. Likely to inspire longings to visit this culinary jewel of an island, it is as deserving of a place on the nightstand as it is on a shelf in the kitchen.

Buy Susheela Raghavan’s “Flavors of Malaysia” Now!

Zester Daily contributor  David Hagerman shoots for the New York Times, Travel+Leisure and Saveur, among other publications. To view more of his slide shows, go to davidhagerman.photoshelter.com. Robyn Eckhardt is a food and travel journalist based in Penang, Malaysia. She also is a contributor to Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia and has been published in Saveur, the New York Times and Wall Street Journal Asia. Her last article for Zester was a double book review, Veggies and Grains Deluxe.

Top photo: Malaysian food sign. Credit: David Hagerman

As the most recognized Vietnamese dish outside of Vietnam, pho — a northern specialty composed of rice noodles, meat and broth — has assumed iconic status. No wonder, then, that for the Hanoi-bound epicure, it’s something akin to the Holy Grail.

At its best, pho is indeed deserving of praise: Humble ingredients made majestic, a succinct expression of the simple elegance of the cuisine of this crescent-shaped Southeast Asian country.

Yet a fetishistic focus on pho holds peril for the visitor to Vietnam, for even in the capital of Hanoi, finding a memorable version can be a challenge. The foundation of pho is its broth. When made with top-notch components and cooked by skilled hands over a period of hours, it’s a heavenly, multilayered marriage of protein (beef usually, but also chicken), dried herbs such as star anise and cassia bark, and fresh scallions and ginger. These days however, inflation-driven price hikes challenge the resolve of even the most diligent pho makers, and monosodium glutamate (MSG) provides a tempting shortcut to vendors who lack the time and patience to coax greatness from their ingredients.

The same cannot be said for a host of other equally divine northern Vietnamese noodle specialties, most of which suffer near anonymity thanks to the foreign food world’s pho obsession. Which prompts a question: If you’re traveling to Hanoi, why hang the culinary success of your trip on the increasingly unlikely possibility of stumbling across a stupendous pho?

This food writer recently passed eight days in Hanoi without sitting down to a single bowl. And, thanks to the following four dishes, I left with no regrets.

Banh da

Wide, flat caramel-colored banh da are rice noodles made with green tea, which lends a subtle dusky and almost wheaty flavor and a pleasant elasticity. Sold dried at Hanoi markets, they’re heartier than bun (rice vermicelli) or pho. On Hanoi streets, banh da are usually served one of two ways: as banh da ca (“ca” means “fish”) and banh da cua (“cua” for crab). The first dish features chunks of deep-fried white fish or discs of chewy deep-fried fish paste in a slightly sour tomato and pork broth. Noodles and soup are garnished with chopped green onion, cilantro leaves and wisps of fragrant fresh dill. In banh da cua, the noodles are floated in a weak crab-based broth, sometimes with slivers of beef and always with stems of blanched morning glory (water spinach). This banh da is especially tasty eaten cho or dry: a brothless tangle of greens and noodles sprinkled with crushed roasted peanuts and caramelized shallots, to season at the table with chili-spiced white vinegar, soy sauce and roasted dried chili flakes in oil.

Bun dau

Bean curd skeptics are likely to be converted in Hanoi, where rectangles of firm tofu are fried till tanned and crispy-crackly outside but still custard-like within. Served on a tray alongside slices of rice vermicelli (bun) that’s been pressed into a loose cake, a mound of pretty perilla(shiso) leaves and sliced cucumber, it’s a mostly cool, lively combination of textures tailor-made for Hanoi’s hot and soggy summer. Bean curd, noodle and vegetables are eaten one at a time or together, usually accompanied by mam tom, an odiferous purple shrimp paste that even some Vietnamese find challenging; bun dau sellers offer nuoc mam (fish sauce) as an alternative. Diners add chopped garlic and/or chilies to their piscene condiment of choice and sour it with a squeeze of kalamansi (green-skinned, orange-fleshed marbles that are a cross between lime and mandarin oranges) or white vinegar.

Bun rieu cua

When northern Vietnam’s lush rice paddies are flooded, they’re the source of gray-shelled crabs roughly the size of a silver dollar. At Hanoi wet markets, vendors pry off the crustacean’s top shell, scoop out its fat and pound the rest of the body to bits in large mortars or electric grinders. When boiled with water and strained, the resulting slurry becomes a flavorful base for bun rieu cua, a dish of rice vermicelli in a persimmon-hued, lightly spicy crab and tomato soup with floating squares of deep-fried tofu and lacy puffs of crab fat. Bun rieu cua is often served alongside Chinese-style deep-fried crullers — for dunking or slicing directly into the soup. Like most Vietnamese noodle soups, it’s also accompanied by a basket of greens and herbs — leaf lettuce, perilla leaves, cilantro and shredded morning glory stem — to soften in the hot broth. A variation worth keeping an eye out for is bun rieu oc, which features the same crab-based broth but includes the chopped meat of snails the size of golf balls, also harvested from waterlogged rice paddies.

Bun cha

Come late morning into lunch hour the scent of grilled pork on the streets of Hanoi signals the preparation of bun cha: cool rice vermicelli with fish sauce-seasoned pork belly and coin purse-sized pork meat patties. For bun cha, noodles are piled on a plate while patties and belly — the latter cut with scissors into bite-sized pieces — are served in a rice bowl filled with lightly sweetened diluted nuoc mam and thin slices of vinegar-pickled green papaya. A perilla-heavy mixture of fresh lettuces and herbs is served alongside. Bun cha consumption is a highly personalized affair. Some diners add noodles to nuoc mam and alternate with bites of pork and greens, others chopstick up all three and dip simultaneously.

Zester Daily contributor  David Hagerman shoots for the New York Times, Travel+Leisure and Saveur, among other publications. To view more of his slide shows, go to davidhagerman.photoshelter.com. Robyn Eckhardt is a food and travel journalist based in Penang, Malaysia. She also is a contributor to Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia and has been published in Saveur, the New York Times and Wall Street Journal Asia. Her last article for Zester was a double book review, Veggies and Grains Deluxe.

Top photo: Vietnamese bun dau. Credit: David Hagerman

Slideshow credit: David Hagerman