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Viet cooks prepare this chao in several ways, and I prefer the easy northern approach of sauteing seasoned chicken and adding it to the hot soup. Traditionally, a chicken would be boned, its carcass cooked with the rice to make the soup, and the boneless meat sauteed and added later on. This old-fashioned approach saves fuel costs and time, but the residue from the bones ends up suspended in the soup. I prefer to use stock, either homemade or a blend of purchased broth and water. The final sprinkle of chopped Vietnamese coriander (rau ram) and sliced scallion adds contrasting color and flavor.

This rice soup is the closing dish for the popular Vietnamese seven-course beef feast, where its primary role is to settle the stomach after six indulgent courses. At that point, I find it hard to enjoy the soup because I’m usually stuffed. But I regularly make this soup for lunch. It is a good way to get sustenance without feeling weighed down.

Warm, creamy, and comforting, chao is a staple of the Viet diet. It is eaten at all times of day, and is the magical antidote for whatever ails you—a stomachache, a cold, a hangover. With less than a cup of rice, you can create a pot of soup that will feed people in biblical proportions because it keeps thickening as it cooks and sits, requiring ever more liquid to thin it down. At its most basic, chao is rice simmered in liquid—water, homemade stock, or canned broth (the latter two are best)—until all its starch has been released. The thick finished soup is a versatile canvas. For a flavorful savory addition, eat it with Salted Preserved Eggs (page 101) or a sprinkle of Cotton Pork shreds (page 134). For richness, put a raw egg into the bowl before ladling in the hot soup. For a simple seafood soup, drop in raw peeled shrimp just before serving. Or, make one of the four chao recipes that follow.

To put a tasty canh on the table nightly requires that you make the most of staple ingredients like gio, a raw meat paste used extensively in the Viet kitchen. In fact, I freeze small amounts of this meat paste for whipping up classics like this fragrant soup laden with dumplings made from it. As the dumplings poach, they flavor the broth. Edible chrysanthemum leaves (cai cuc) add their deep green color and musty floral perfume. Called tong ho in Cantonese and shungiku in Japanese, the greens are sold at Asian markets and are easy to grow, too. Watercress may be substituted.

Opo squash, a popular light green–skinned Asian gourd, shows off its delicate sweetness in this quick soup, which blends the opo with chicken or pork to yield a rich flavor that tastes like the broth simmered for hours. Look for opo squash at Asian or farmers’ markets, selecting specimens that are blemish free and feel heavy for their size. When you gently squeeze the squash, it shouldn’t yield to its spongy core, a sign of overmaturity. If an opo squash is unavailable, zucchini may be substituted. The flavor will be milder but still tasty.

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 Southern Vietnamese specialty is technically a pickle because the vegetables steep in brine, but it is eaten in large amounts, more like a salad, with intensely flavored pork and fish kho (dishes simmered in caramel sauce). The texture and flavors of the vegetables provide the perfect bright contrast to the inky, deep flavors of kho. Flat, delicately flavored Chinese chives are traditionally combined with the bean sprouts and carrot. Because these chives can be hard to find, I often substitute leafy green scallion tops. Select small scallions the width of a chopstick or medium scallions. Larger ones can be too harsh. If you can find Chinese chives, substitute a nickel-sized bunch for the scallions.

A northern specialty, this dish traditionally features oc buou (apple snail), a freshwater mollusk with a shell that resembles the escargot shells sold in plastic tubes at gourmet markets. The chewy mollusk meat is made into a stuffing with mushroom and scallion and then steamed in the original shells with strips of ginger or lemongrass leaves. To eat the snails, you pull up the leaves, which lifts out the stuffing, and then you dip the stuffing into a ginger-lime sauce. Finally, you pour the aromatic cooking juice left over in the shell into a spoon and sip it like a fine consommé. Because fresh Vietnamese snails aren’t available in the States, I replicate this delicious dish with frozen apple snail or periwinkle meat. The yellowish chunks are sold in one-pound packages at Chinese and Vietnamese markets; sometimes periwinkle is available thawed and packed in Styrofoam trays. (Or, substitute conch or other sea snails normally used for chowder.) Without shells to stuff, I use ceramic egg cups or tall sake cups. The presentation isn’t as provocative, but it is still lovely. Ribbons cut from lemongrass stalks, more aromatic and more readily available than ginger leaves, harness the stuffing in the cups and give the cooking juices a heady citrus flavor.

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.

Tender, flavorful, and lightly crispy, these fritters release a heady coconut fragrance as they fry and are complemented by a spicy-sweet dipping sauce at the table. Traditionally, the corn was crushed in a mortar, but an electric mini-chopper or a food processor eases the workload with a fine result. For coconut cream with the best texture and flavor, make your own or use the thick, creamy plug that rises to the top of a can of Mae Ploy brand coconut milk.

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.

Years ago, I tasted these grilled beef skewers at a restaurant in Orange County’s Little Saigon, where they were served with a hoisin-based peanut sauce. When I got home, I researched the recipe in cookbooks published in Vietnam decades ago and developed this recipe, which includes shrimp sauce (mam tôm) to give the beef a distinctive savory depth. Typical of food from Vietnam’s central region, these skewers are rich and a bit salty. Dipped in the earthy sauce, they are addictively good—the perfect match for a cold beer, margarita, or gimlet. Tri-tip steak (from the bottom loin), a flavorful cut that California cooks like to grill, is ideal for these skewers. A thick piece of flap steak (from the short loin), which is oft en used for carne asada, also works well. For the true flavors of the Southeast Asian table, grill the beef over charcoal or a gas grill. In the absence of a grill, use the broiler.

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.

Those of you who love steak tartare—and there seems to be very little middle ground between those who do and those who don’t—will be positively enamored of this dish. This is a time when the quality of your ingredients is paramount—purchase the filet from a butcher whom you trust to give you the best selection as opposed to something prewrapped in the market. The egg for the mustard sauce must also be as fresh as possible as it is used raw. Savory anchovies add an extra layer of flavor to the creamy sauce, which pops with whole grain mustard. Crunchy, acidic cornichons, fresh jalapeño—an American touch—and shallots inject the lush tartare with flavor and texture.

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.

Squash blossoms are a spring delicacy. Coated in rice batter and panfried, they become light, crisp envelopes for a savory mixture of tender shreds of pork braised in barbecue sauce and creamy ricotta cheese. The sharp bite of black pepper is mellowed with honey in a vinaigrette that brightens each sumptuous bite.

This devilishly good appetizer is an American translation of the Alsatian tarte flambée. The pizza’s thin crust is topped with an unbeatable combination of nutty Gruyère, smoky bits of thick bacon, sweet caramelized onions, toasted slices of garlic, and tangy crème fraîche.

This classic French bistro dish is a delicious way to start a meal. Just as good at room temperature as it is hot, it’s a versatile appetizer that can be made ahead of time and even served as cocktail party fare. Thin rings of onion, caramelized until sweet and golden brown, are covered with a rich and eggy custard, topped with tangy crumbles of fresh goat cheese, and baked in a delicate crust much like a quiche. (In fact, this would also do very well at brunch!) Home-grown ingredients like local onions and a good American goat cheese, such as one from Coach Farm or California’s Laura Chenel, steer this tart from purely French to positively American. A cool salad of tender mesclun greens, lemony parsley, delicate chervil, and tarragon is tossed in a bright vinaigrette made with a reduction of fruity Pinot Noir. Plate the salad directly atop the tart so that each bite contains a bit of buttery crust, savory filling, and fresh herbs.

Tangy goat cheese and sweet beets are a famously good pairing; it is with good reason that so many French brasseries and bistros have a salad featuring the two on their menus. Lentils are another ingredient favored in France, and the combination of the three makes for one very satisfying salad. (Crispy bits of smoky bacon don’t hurt either.) I don’t recommend cheating with canned lentils. The texture and flavor of dried lentils cooked in a well-seasoned stock is far superior, and they cook up in no time.