Starter

I had been making meatless potato croquettes for years when I found that my favorite condiment (for these and many other fried foods) was soy sauce mixed with lemon—so imagine my self-satisfaction when I was served these at a Tokyo lunch counter with exactly that dipping sauce. I like to add curry powder, for both flavor and color, but it’s not essential. Substitute canned salmon or tuna for the meat if you like, but don’t cook it; simply toss it with the onion and seasonings after cooking the onion. The Japanese bread crumbs called panko are available at Japanese markets and many supermarkets. In Japan, these are almost always deep-fried; I find panfrying suffices, though of course you can deep-fry if you prefer. They’re usually served on a bed of plain shredded cabbage, sometimes as an appetizer, sometimes as a main course. You can make both mashed potatoes and the meat mixture in advance; you can also make the patties in advance and cover and refrigerate them for up to a day before cooking.

Labor intensive but highly rewarding. Perhaps not on the first try, but by your second or third, you will be making the best gnocchi you have ever eaten. (On the first try, you should probably use too much flour to make them a little firmer, but as you get used to the odd dough you will eventually make them lighter.) These make a great first course or side dish, served with Fast, Fresh Tomato Sauce (page 606) or simply melted butter and freshly grated Parmesan. And be sure to take a look at Potato Dumplings (recipe follows).

This should be hot, garlicky, and spicy, a dish you want to serve over rice or with crusty bread; once the shrimp juices have mingled with it, the sauce is irresistible. Although it’s a perfect weeknight dish, this also makes a great appetizer at a dinner party.

I ate this by the Gulf of Mexico, in a place with pink and avocado-green walls, a mariachi, and an outside shower. It tasted just as good last winter in Connecticut. Serve this, if you like, with Cebollas Curtidas (page 615) or any other relish or salad. Rice is also good, as are French fries.

Just because I identify a dish with a country doesn’t mean it’s made exclusively there, and chile-fried shrimp is practically universal. So calling this a Mexican dish is a little like calling grilled steak an American dish. But I like to make this with the relatively mild chiles used in Mexico, and I like to serve it with rice and beans, so there it is. This is best made with homemade Chili Powder (page 609), but if you prefer, use a chile powder dominated by ancho or New Mexican chiles, which have warmth but not high levels of heat. Arroz a la Mexicana (page 517) is a great side dish for this, along with a green salad.

I have been making this dish for more than thirty years—it’s one of the first South Asian recipes I learned—and I’ve never stopped loving it. After having a similar preparation in Delhi, I loved it even more. Basically, you coat shrimp with a spicy mix, then with a simple batter. Originally it was deep-fried, but shallow-frying, which uses less oil and makes less of a mess, works just as well. Don’t limit yourself to shrimp here; any seafood— scallops, oysters, clams, or fish fillet—will work wonderfully. Cooking time will remain about the same in almost every case.

Lemongrass stalks are used as skewers throughout Southeast Asia, where lemongrass grows like . . . well, grass. (It will grow that way for you, too, if you stick a couple of stalks in the ground, especially if you live in a warm climate and keep it well watered.) Simply trim the stalks, skewer the shrimp on them, and grill; you can gnaw on the stalks when you’ve finished the shrimp. Serve these with Nam Prik (page 586) or Soy Dipping Sauce (page 583). For information on Thai fish sauce (nam pla), see page 500.

Tamarind is a large seed pod grown and used in the cuisine of almost every equatorial country. Its pulp is processed into a dark brown paste, which is used as you might tomato paste, concentrated stock, or, for that matter, ketchup—as a simple flavor enhancer that completely changes the nature of the sauce into which it is stirred. You can make your own paste (page 585) or buy the paste now sold in bottles at many Asian stores. (There is also a kind of instant tamarind powder, which is not very good.) The bottled paste is concentrated to increase its strength, so if you use homemade tamarind paste, double the quantity (or add to taste). As for this recipe, you can use the same process to make almost anything in a tamarind sauce, but shrimp, because it requires minimal cooking time, is by far the easiest. I like to brown the shrimp first for a little more flavor, but you could actually start this recipe with the second step and add the shrimp after the onion. The dish is best when quite sour and not—as happens at too many restaurants—a sticky combination of sweet and sour.

This wrapped dish, best assembled at the table, is great fun, either as a starter or as part of your main meal, and as fitting for a weeknight as tacos. It has a wonderful combination of contrasting flavors and textures: the spicy filling is offset by the sweetness of hoisin sauce and the cool crunch of lettuce.

Because this dish has only two ingredients, finding the best shrimp is of utmost importance. In Hong Kong, where only live fish is considered fresh, live shrimp are common. Here you may find them at some fishmongers (especially in Chinese neighborhoods) and even in some Western supermarkets. The wine traditionally used for this dish in the south of China is Mei Kuei Lu Chiew and is quite strong and a little sweet; you can find it at many Chinese markets. Shopping hassles aside, this dish is worth trying. Serve it with an assortment of other Chinese dishes or as a starter.

You can make this with sea scallops or true bay scallops (which are rare and quite expensive); don’t bother to try it with the tiny calicos, which are guaranteed to overcook and become rubbery. If you look at a sea scallop, you’ll see a little stark-white hinge on one side; remove that if you have the time; it’s much chewier than the rest of the meat. And if you’re lucky enough to find scallops with their roe (it’s red or beige; you’ll know it when you see it), by all means use them here.

The usefulness of miso is nearly unlimited, and it can convert the simplest of ingredients into an exotic dish, a secret of much of Japanese cooking. Here the fermented soybean paste is combined with scallops and a little seasoning, then allowed to sit for a while before being grilled or broiled. It’s a traditional dish, in some parts of Japan the home-cooking equivalent of slathering something with barbecue sauce before cooking. For ease of use and strict authenticity, the miso should be thinned—it’s too thick to use straight—with mirin, the sweet, golden-colored wine made from rice (and Japan’s most important sweetener before the introduction of white sugar). Mirin, too, comes in a naturally brewed form called hon-mirin; it’s preferable to aji-mirin, which may be boosted with corn syrup; check the label. But the amount of mirin is so small, and its flavor in this dish so subtle, that you can use a fruity, sweet white wine in its place or even honey. If you can, try this with Asparagus Salad with Soy-Mustard Dressing (page 190) or a plain salad. And a bit of short-grain rice, of course.

More than anywhere else, cooks in Portugal combine seafood and meat with abandon, and it usually works. This dish cries out for crusty bread. If you want a milder garlic flavor, add it along with the tomatoes so it cooks a little longer.

I’d had mussels in New York, even as a child, but never did they look so appealing as they did my first night in Rome, laced with onion, garlic, tomato, parsley, and lemon. Since then I’ve learned to love and prepare mussels in a variety of ways, but I always come back to these. Serve with lots of bread for sopping up the broth.

Every winemaking culture in the world cooks with its local product, but only Spain has sherry. And while sherry is not quite all-purpose, as simple white wine is, it is manifestly more powerful and incomparably more complex; in fact it rivals stock in the character it adds to many dishes. (When Spanish food comes with a good-tasting but anonymous “brown sauce,” you can bet it contains a hefty dose of sherry.) Sherry combined with seafood, olive oil, and garlic, as in this recipe, produces a magically Spanish dish, one that is not only classic but awesome and one you can consider a template for many others. You can spend a fortune on sherry, but since each bottle is the product of several different vintages it is consistent from year to year, and the fact that it is stabilized by alcohol enhances its shelf life (refrigerated, an opened bottle retains flavor good enough to drink for several days, and sometimes even longer if used for cooking). In short, all real sherry is good, and bottles costing ten bucks are more than acceptable. Fino is probably best for drinking, but the slightly sweeter, nuttier Amontillado and Oloroso are perhaps a little better for cooking. As is almost always the case in cooking, the clams you use here should be as small as you can find. Tiny ones the size of a quarter are fun, but the slightly larger cockles or West Coast “butter” clams are equally tender and easier to eat. Mahogany clams or good littlenecks are also fine; do not use “steamers,” whose sand will spoil the dish. In any case, buy only live clams; their shells should be undamaged and nearly impossible to pry open. Rinse them, scrubbing their shells if necessary, to rid them of all sand. Those that do not open during the cooking are fine; just pry them open at the table with a dull knife. Serve this as an appetizer or a main course, with good bread for sopping up the sauce.

In Lyon, fat remains king, which makes it a pleasure to eat there—assuming you can put your guilt aside. This salad is best made with a mixture of greens, some of which should be bitter, like dandelion. The poached egg (which ideally will be hot) softens everything, the bacon provides salt, crunch, and fat, the vinegar spices it all up—the combination is really a treat. One of my favorite lunches and a knockout first course, which should be followed by something light.

You could call this chicken salad Thai-style, but whatever you call it—you’ll see larb, larp, laarb, and other variations on menus—this is a quick, delicious, appetite-rousing starter. Teaming it with any of the more substantial Thai dishes in this book and some rice makes for an impressive meal. (If you need information on nam pla, see page 500.) Most laarb served in this country is made from chicken, and certainly that’s good and easy. But laarb is even more delicious made with pork shoulder or beef tenderloin. In any case, this is one place where you should mince the meat together with the garlic by hand; food-processed meat is just a little too mushy here. The process shouldn’t take more than five minutes, though, so don’t be put off.

A splendid seaweed-based dish that can be made completely from the pantry (to be sure, a well-stocked pantry, and one that will require a little forethought). Hijiki is the seaweed of choice, a common curly black variety that looks as beautiful as black pasta once it’s been soaked; you can buy it at any health food store or, of course, a Japanese market. (Buy some mirin, the sweet Japanese cooking wine, while you’re there; it keeps forever and adds a distinctive flavor to many Japanese dishes.)

The ingredients are similar to those of Spinach Gratin (page 489), but these are faster and crunchier, lightly thickened spinach patties that are cooked until crisp. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: none will be as quick as spinach, but you can make these with other greens—chard is especially good, but also kale and collards and even arugula and watercress.

Spanakopita is among the best-known Greek dishes in the States, though the leaden, soggy versions you often encounter here are wildly different from the cheese and spinach pies served in Greece. The key to making a light spanakopita is to use a relatively small amount of strongly flavored fillings, butter every layer of phyllo—which helps the pastry stay flaky, light, and crisp—and start with good feta. As always, when working with phyllo dough (page 629), make sure you keep the pieces that you are not working with covered with a damp towel; see Baklava (page 628) for more details.