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The view from my desk, a bungalow on the Mekong, Elephant Mountain in hiking distance, monsoon rain sweeping in ...

As the year draws to a close, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have read, shared, or taught
my work. For nearly two decades, I've been earning a living as a writer. It has been a long arduous road, filled with dark abysses, marvelous heights, gut-rotting doubts, exquisite joys, heartbreaks, piercing loneliness, lasting friendships, memorable feasts, and long stretches of hunger. The view ahead seems to promise more of the same. But I have enjoyed the journey immensely. I urge all who soul-yearn the adventure, whatever that might be, to take the leap. There is some truth in the old proverb: The rewarding path is never easy, the easy path never rewarding. This holiday season, I would like to share the recipes for a simple meal I enjoyed seventeen years ago, almost to the day, while cycling solo the length of Vietnam. These dishes never fail to transport me back to that heartfelt evening when a poor old man invited me, a stranger in a strange-familiar land, into his thatch hut for a meal. Uncle Tu was a widower, a handicapped veteran, and a farmer. I hope you will enjoy these recipes and sample the flavors as well as the spirit of Southeast Asia. Please feel free to share this season's greetings card with your family and friends. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Andrew X. Pham Author, Restaurant Critic Guggenheim Fellow, Whiting Writer & Kiriyama Winner www.andrewxpham.com 2

With many warm thanks to my friends, sponsors, and supporters of A Culinary Odyssey: A Southeast Asian Cookbook Diary of Travels, Flavors, and Memories.
The Kickstarter Deadline Countdown has begun with only 7 days left till Dec. 20th and a long way to goal. No matter what happens, I just want to say that it has been a great pleasure and honor to know there are people who value my work. Your effort to raise awareness for my humble little project is much appreciated. If I could ever return the favor, don't hesitate to ask.
(please click on links above or below to visit respective sites)

Jeff Guerrero Ceramics

is the trademark of Jeff Guerrero, a talented and passionate artist. He is also the publisher of the very cool and hip Urban Velo Magazine.

Noeteca Wine Bar & Cafe

is my favorite chill place in San Francisco a warm, beautiful space with espresso, cakes, food, and fine wines of terrific value. Voted BEST WINE BAR by SF Weekly & SF Bay Guardian.

Sea Lavender Farm

is a small venture by two friends, a chef and an artist, focusing on organic, sustainable, and diverse food circles.

The recipes follows the story below excerpted from my travel memoir, CATFISH AND MANDALA. This brief narrative provides the context of the meal and a view of country life, which has not changed much since this episode.

~*~ Winter 1994 A few days before Christmas Cycling solo some distance from Hanoi, heading south to Ho Chi Minh City. ~*~

I push on alone, feeling suddenly very tired and feverish. Just barely oozing down the road. I havent eaten much
all day. Breakfast was a lump of sweet rice and peanut crumbs wrapped in banana leaves. After chipping one of my molars on a pebble, I tossed the rice to the birds. Lunch was a bowl of beef noodle soup I couldnt eat because the meat, carved off a flies encrusted lump, was rancid. I am exhausted. Ive eaten nearly all my emergency rations: three Hershey chocolate bars, a snack size pack of Oreos and six little cheese wedges. The last bar of chocolate in my bag is squishy like toothpaste and my mouth is so cottony I cant bring myself to lick the chocolate from the wrapper. It is blistering hot and the sun is melting into the horizon like a scoop of orange sherbet. I am salivating. Havent had ice cream since I arrived in Vietnam. Didnt dare. If I werent already drier than a shingle of beef jerky, drool would be dripping down my chin. Funny, a scoop of orange sherbet is all I could wrap my mind around. Not even the faintest hankering for double cheese burgers, French fries, chocolate milkshakes, apple pie la mode, anchovy pizzas, Polish sausage and fresh baked croissants. I have no appetite and feel a bit dizzy. The fifteen miles to Ky Anh Village seem like a hundred. Up ahead an ox cartwithout a driverlurches along the side of the road, the ox oblivious to the occasional truck thundering past. Closer, I see the dark lump on top of the load of bricks is the sleeping driver, hat shading his face. He is sleeping at the reins, trusting his bovine to keep the both of them from turning into road kills. I have stumbled on the quintessential portrait of Vietnamese industry. In Saigon, a white American tourist had asked me, Dont take this the wrong way, but why are so many Vietnamese men lounging around all daydont they have to go to work or something? 4

I could see tour buses passing this cart all day and foreign tourists shaking their heads at this evidence of Vietnamese work ethics. I burst out laughing, waking the napping driver. His startled face melts into delight when he sees I am a cyclist. Aa-LO! Ow arr you? Wherre you prrom? he shouts, pushing his army pith helmet back on his head. Viet-kieu, Brother, I reply. He looks a little crestfallen. I grab onto the cart, giving the poor beast my extra weight. Brother, where are you going? Home. Where did you bike from? I ask him about his load of bricks. Couldnt sell them, he says. His family made bricks by hand. This is a poor batch the builders rejected so he is taking them back home. Maybe farmers will buy them at a discount. A cyclist drew up along us. I see his silver hair and bow in greeting, then looking down, I nearly fall out of my seat. He has only one leg. His right leg ends above the knee, the dark nub sticks out of his shorts like a big salami. A crutch hangs on the bike frame. His left leg churns the crank in a jerking rhythm, hard on the down-stroke, gliding with the momentum on the up-stroke, a two-piston engine running marvelously on one. Uncle, thats amazing! I blubber, Ive never seen a one-legged man ride a bike before. He slows down and latches up to the cart next to me. Oy! he exclaims, very pleased for some reason. You speak Viet! Yes, Uncle. Im a Viet-kieu, I confess and brace for his face to fall, but it doesnt. How far can you go on a bike? Once I biked all the way to Ky Anh and back, twenty kilometers each way. But usually I only ride to the market, thats twelve kilometers round trip. His handlebar basket sags with packets of instant ramen, a bottle of what looks to be kerosene or rice wine, a can of condensed milk and a tin of tea. This Viet-kieu is going to Ky Anh, the ox driver tells the old man. Ky Anh? repeats the old man in a tone I dont find encouraging. Theres nothing out there except a government run motel. Its actually a barrack but theyll overcharge you ten times for a bed. Im overcharged all the time, I point out nonchalantly. How far is it? An hour and a half. Itll be dark soon, the old man says, gauging the sky. He looks me over, apparently having come to a decision. Come with me, nephew. Ill put you up for the night. I live by myself. Theres plenty of room and youre

welcome to hang your hammock for the night. Over two months in Vietnam, it's the first time someone invites me home without his hands out. I accept the old man's generosity, bowing deeply. It is nothing. He waves off my thanks. Good, good. Youll like my beautiful villa. Uncle Tus home is a hut. In the burlap-textured dusk, it rises above the rambling vegetable garden like a big bale of hay. It sits near a lake, fifteen minutes from the road. He leads me into his plot of heaven, going down well-tended rows of vegetables, poking at this and that the way people open windows and turn on lights. He palms the tomatoes ripening on the vines, prods the earth with his crutch, clicks his tongue, squashes a snail, and fingers the fat string beans dripping off the vines. In the provinces, both hut and garden are required to make a home. Land is too precious to feed weeds. The huts thatched walls and roof are supported by four stout corner posts. The twelve by twelve feet of packed dirt floor is swept so clean it resembles hardened clay. The old man sits me down on a crude wooden stool and fusses with a coal stove to brew the traditional welcoming-tea. First, he produces some twigs and wood shavings and arranges them carefully in the stove which is essentially an eight-inch clay planting pot. He lights the starter pile with one match and places a block of coal, the shape of a chocolate cake, into the stove. We have our tea in no time. He hops over to the pantry cabinet, an end table with long legs, its foot set in bowls of water to keep the ants off. He takes out a claypot and hold it up tenderly like a bottle of wine. Claypot catfish, you like it? Of course. He glows with pleasure. It is impossible to travel Vietnam without encountering claypot catfish. If Vietnam ever got around to declaring a national fish, the catfish would be it. Vietnams rivers and lakes teem with this hardy creature. Peasants raise catfish in family ponds as they raise chicken in their yards. Three days old, very, very tasty, he croons, smacking his lips as he sets it on the stove. He adds a bit of water and a dash of fishsauce. The both of us settle down to watch it come to a boil. My mouth waters in anticipation. That is the most wonderful thing about claypot catfish. It keeps well for weeks without refrigeration. The older the dish, the deeper the flavors, the more evenly the fish fat blends with the sauce of caramelized sugar, cracked pepper, and chili.

In Uncle Tus pot, I see he has splurged and added diced pork fat, whole red chili, and scallions. The best thing about this dish is that even when all the fish is gone, the dredging is rich enough, especially if the fish head is saved, to be stewed again and poured over rice to make a poor-mans mealsomething I have done many times when I was a boy. Uncle, where is your family? I rarely see old folks living by themselves. All gone, Nephew. Lost them in the War, wife and son. Do you have relatives nearby? No. I have my relative-neighbors. Thats plenty. They are good people. Im a lucky man. Where are they? He hobbles to the door and bellows: Sonny! Sonny! Sonny! A small boy materializes at the door. He sees me, glances at Uncle Tu, then, remembering his manners, he bows to us both. Uncle Tu tousles the boys hair and gave him two packets of instant noodles. Take this home to your mom, Sonny. The boy bows and runs home. Uncle Tu smiles after him. See, he says to me, I have family, my relatives-neighbors. Not so lonely. He spreads the food on an end table, scoops out the rice into bowls for both of us. Nephew, please eat, he says, formally starting the meal. Thank you, Uncle Tu. Please eat, I reply in kind. We wolf down our plebeian meal of catfish, rice, pickled firecracker eggplant with shrimp paste, and steamed string beans from his garden, polishing off every morsel. It is without a doubt one of the best meals Ive had in Vietnam. For dessert, we drink more tea and nibble on my gooey Hershey bar. He strings up an extra hammock for me. Our fabric beds now crisscross the hut, making diagonals, mine above his on account that I am more limber. He blows out the oil lamp and we go to bed. Uncle Tu doesnt stop talking. He has an insatiable appetite for the details about rest of the world. How do they live? What Americans do every day? Is driving a car scary? How do cellular phones work? ~*~ And days later before I left his home, Uncle Tu talked about the War and asked me to be the bearer of his message ...

~*~ No, I do not hate the American soldiers. Who are they? They were boys, as I was. They were themselves, but also part of a greater creaturethe government. As was I. I can no more blame them than a fish I eat can be blamed for what I do. You see, their pond is America. Here, in these hills, in this jungle, they are food. Me, I am in my land. I am in my water. These hills where Ive killed Vietnamese and Americans. I see these hills every day. I can make my peace with them. For Americans, it was an alien place then as it is an alien place to them now. These hills were the land of their nightmares then as they are now. The land took their spirit. I eat what grows out of this land and someday I will return all that I have taken from it. Here is my home, my birthplace, and my grave. Tell your friend Tyle. There is nothing to forgive. There is no hate in this land. No hate in my heart. I am a poor man, my home is a hut with a dirt floor, but he is welcome here. Come and I shall drink tea with him, welcome him like a brother. Uncle Tu, Christmas Eve 1994

The Meal as Served by Uncle Tu Claypot Fish

Both Uncle Tu and my family prefer old claypot fishwhich basically means we like to eat the fish days after we cooked it. Unfortunately, I don't have the patience to wait two or three days so I substitute with what I coined two fires. That is, I cook and reduce the sauce to just the dredging and allow the pot to cool to room temperaturefirst fire. I then add some water, enough to cover the fish, simmer it until the fluid is reduced to just the dredging againsecond fire. The second cooking fully melds the flavors, infusing them deep into the meat. If time is a major constraint, it is certainly acceptable to cook it just once, which is the standard practice in Vietnamese restaurants.

Ingredients
1 lb. fish (use whole fish cut into 1" thick sections) 3 oz. pork belly (or fatty pork), thinly sliced 3 tablespoon brown sugar (or white) 3 tablespoon fishsauce 1.5 cup of pure coconut water, unsweetened* 1/4 cup of water 1-4 Thai chili (depending on preference) 2 cloves of garlic, crushed and diced 1 scallion (spring onion, optional for garnish), chopped a pinch of black pepper

Notes:
1. Recommended fish are baramundi (also known as Asian seabass, seaperch, pla krapong), tilapia, trout, and catfish. Generally, white flesh fish with good fat content. Descaled and cut into sections. 2. Use a pot large enough to snugly fit all the fish pieces on the bottom in a single layer. 3. Water is an acceptable substitute for coconut water. Most restaurants use water.

Preparation:
1 Make caramel by putting sugar into pot with 1/4 cup of water. Heat on low while stirring solution and keeping it a roiling simmer. Once the syrup begins to bubble, swirl it around the bottom of the pot to keep from burning. The syrup will turn yellow and proceed to change towards brown. The aroma of caramel will be very strong as the syrup thickens. When it bubbles furiously and acquires the intense, dark color of molasses, take off heat immediately. If the caramel becomes burnt, discard and start over. Add pork, chili, garlic, black pepper, fish pieces, fishsauce, and coconut water just until it covers the fish. If there are extra coconut water, keep it in reserve. On medium heat, bring to a gentle boil for 3 minutes. Then lower heat to a simmer and allow to evaporate. Reduce until roughly 1/4 cup of sauce remains in the pot. Taste the sauce and adjust flavor by adding more fishsauce or sugar in small amounts**. Take off heat, garnish with chopped scallion, and serve, or try for the two fires approach described above. A good optional accompaniment is sour green mango, peeled and shredded. * At Southeast Asian fresh markets, there are generally two types of coconuts, cooking and drinking. The former is more readily available and has a bland taste, with almost no discernible sweetness. The latter is distinctly sweet and delicious. For this dish, use the cooking coconut. It is possible, in a pinch, to substitute plain water for coconut water. However, to bring out the full flavor profile of a claypot dish, I use my own special homemade coconut caramel, a heirloom recipe from my grandmother as described in my cookbook A Culinary Odyssey. ** In adjusting the saltiness/sweetness of the sauce to your taste, keep in mind how much rice you usually eat with the food. Traditionally, in Southeast Asian cooking, the level of saltiness in a person's food is directly related to his wealth. Historically, the poor consumed very little meat. Their dishes were aggressively seasoned with spices and salt to compensate for the copious amount of steamed rice in their diet. When I was a child, I lived with a poor farming family in Rach Gia where everyone ate three mouthfuls of rice for every morsel of meat or vegetable. In Saigon, middle class people like my relatives normally took one or two mouthfuls of rice for every bite of meat. Everywhere, the wealthy usually ate two or three bites of meat for every chopsticks-pinch of rice. Consequently, people did and to some degree still do discern the social-economic status of others by observing how they eat and the saltiness of their food.

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Stir-Fried Cabbage with Eggs

Although Uncle Tu did not serve this dish that night, we had it the following evening. My mother made this common dish for our family ever since I was a childa quick vegetable-protein meal that takes 15 minutes to prepare.

Ingredients
1/3 head

Notes:
Use a large frying pan. The mound of cabbage will reduce in volume as it cooks.

of cabbage, medium size, sliced into thin shreds 1 cup of carrots, cut or shred to toothpick size 2 tablespoons cooking oil 2 large eggs 2 tablespoons of fishsauce

Preparation:
1 2 3 4 Beat eggs with fishsauce and set aside. Heat pan with oil until hot, coating entire surface. Add cabbage and carrot. Stir-fry on medium heat for 5-7 minutes, turning the cabbage to cook evenly. Cabbage will shrink to a third of its original volume. Add beaten eggs and continue stir-fry until cooked. Taste a shred of cabbage to verify that it's cooked to preference. Add fishsauce if needed. Serve, no garnish or sauce necessary. During my student days, this was my reliable budget meal eaten with steamed rice and raw chili peppers. It remains a favorite for simplicity, nutrition, and taste.

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Pickled Eggplant with Shrimp Paste Sauce

These are commonly call Thai eggplants, indigenous to Southeast Asia and available year round. In Vietnam, they're called ca phao, or firecracker eggplant, for the crunchy-popping sounds they make when bitten. Asian groceries carry a smaller, whitish variety of pickled ca phao in 16-24 oz jars. People often eat them as a side dish with a sauce made from fermented shrimp paste, a gooey purple-grayish compound. Beware, these items are an acquired taste. The highly pungent odor could have the uninitiated fleeing the room. 1 teaspoon shrimp paste 1 1/2 teaspoon lime juice 3 teaspoon water 2 teaspoon sugar 1 teaspoon fishsauce 1-2 chili diced

Preparation:
Mix sugar with water. Add shrimp paste, lime juice, and chili, stirring until smooth. Serve as a dipping sauce for eggplants.

Uncle Tu Rice-Steamed String Beans

1/2

lb. string beans, cut into 3" lengths Cook rice on stove or in electric rice cooker. When the rice has absorbed most of the water, add string beans to the pot simply by layering them right on top of the rice. Close the lid and let steam until rice is cooked. Scoop out and serve separately. Uncle Tu like most people in the countryside often conserve fuel by steaming vegetables along with rice. I often do this when cooking for one or two, just to save the trouble of washing another pot. ~*~ For more travel essays, food stories, and my 40 favorite recipesthe best of the best of Southeast Asiafrom Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia, please pre-order A Culinary Odyssey: A Southeast Asian Cookbook Diary of Travel, Flavors, and Memories no later than Dec 20, 2012. After this date, please visit andrewxpham.com or Amazon. 12