Steam

Nowhere else in Asia has Chinese bāo been embraced and appropriated to the extent that it has been in the Philippines. An extremely popular snack, Filipino siopao tend to be large, sometimes the size of a soft ball. They are filled with all kinds of things, including slightly sweet meat and gravy mixtures (asado siopao), dense meatloaf-like concoctions (bola-bola siopao), and even balut, the beloved partially incubated duck egg. Quite oft en in Filipino meat-filled buns, there’s a wedge of boiled egg inside, which is why I’ve included it in this chicken rendition for a mother-and-child reunion of sorts. Siopao dough can be made from rice flour, which results in superwhite buns, but I prefer wheat-flour buns because they have a chewier texture and more flavor.

Most American diners are familiar with the Cantonese spring roll skins made with an egg and flour pastalike skin, but there’s another kind from Shanghai that is made without eggs and is cooked before it is stuffed and rolled. The resulting rolls are skinnier and fry up a little crisper than their Cantonese counterparts. Shanghai spring roll skins can also be used, unfried, like a soft flour tortilla for popiah handrolls, a favorite food in Fujian, Chaozhou, Taiwan, Singapore, and Malaysia. In the Thai repertoire, popiah tod refers to fried spring rolls. Asian cooks have also used these skins for Vietnamese cha giò rolls and Burmese samosas. Excellent commercial Shanghai spring roll skins are available at Chinese and Southeast Asian markets, and I didn’t know if making them at home would be worth the trouble. They’re a bit tricky to prepare, but once you understand and get the hang of the unusually sticky, elastic dough, the process becomes addictively fun as you aim for perfect round skins. I rarely achieve it, but the skins fry up beautifully every time. A moderate-gluten flour, such as all-purpose Gold Medal brand, works extremely well. If you are a first-timer, visit Asiandumplingtips.com to watch the video demonstration and to observe the unique cooking process; double the recipe to ensure plenty of extra dough for practice.

These open-faced dumplings are a requisite part of the Cantonese dim sum repertoire. In contrast to their dainty size and frilly edge, shāomai (siu mai in Cantonese) are packed with a pork filling that’s typically punctuated by earthy mushrooms and crunchy water chestnuts. The dumplings here are made from thin wonton skins that have been cut into circles. Don’t confuse them with the Jiangnan version from the area between Shanghai and Nanjing, which is made from hot-water dough wrappers and filled with a sticky rice mixture. Both go by the name shāomai, which literally means “cook and sell,” reflecting their perennial popularity. Feel free to add chopped raw shrimp to the filling (cut back on the vegetables) for variety. Any of the wonton fillings can be used, too; but do remember to double the pork and shrimp filling on page 41 or quadruple the shrimp filling on page 70, adding a beaten egg white in each case to insure a smoother texture. The shape of siu mai enables them to hold a lot more filling than other dumplings of the same size.

Practically the national food of Tibet, these hearty steamed dumplings are full of fragrant ginger, garlic, and Sichuan peppercorn. Momos are festive foods which are often prepared as a group activity for parties and special celebrations, particularly Losar, the Tibetan New Year. To minimize the karmic damage of eating meat, Tibetans favor larger animals for food, since one can feed many people. Naturally juicy and rich-tasting yak meat is typically hand-chopped for sha momo, but ground beef, particularly chuck, works well. Fatty ground pork or lamb, or dark meat chicken are excellent too. If you have time, hand-chop or grind the meat (instructions are on page 158) yourself for a nice toothsome bite. Adding oil and water enriches and hydrates the filling, making it extra succulent.

Nepalese cooking combines Indian and Tibetan cuisines, and these classic dumplings illuminate that wonderful marriage. In this filling, Indian garam masala is combined with Sichuan peppercorn, an important spice in Nepal and Tibet. Nepalese momos often feature water buffalo, but lamb pairs exceptionally well with the aromatics. You can opt to substitute ground beef, pork, or dark-meat chicken or turkey. Regardless of the meat, these dumplings are like their Tibetan brethren (page 57), full of flavor and delectable juices. If there are left overs, panfry or deep-fry them the next day. Note that these dumplings are eaten with fork and spoon. Chopsticks are the standard and prevailing utensils in only four Asian nations—China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam.

These delicate dumplings bursting with flavor were invented in the late 1800s in Nanxiang village outside Shanghai. Despite their name, they are not served floating in soup. The soup is contained within the thin, chewy-soft wrapper, along with a rich pork mixture. A delectable culinary trick, these “little bamboo steamer buns” (the literal translation of the Chinese name) are the quintessential Shanghai snack served at dumpling restaurants as well as small food joints. To get the soup into the dumplings, broth is gelled, chopped, and then mixed with the meat to produce a firm filling that can be stuffed efficiently into the wrapper. Under steam heat, the broth melts back into soup. Gelatinous pork skin is traditionally simmered for the broth, but many modern cooks employ agar-agar (see Note) or unflavored gelatin to insure proper gelling. For a robust soup, I infuse homemade chicken stock with smoky American country ham, which is often sold in slices at Chinese markets as “Virginia” or “Smithfield” ham; scrape and discard the black pepper coating, if present. Combining bread flour (Gold Medal brand, which has 12 percent protein, is what I use) with all-purpose flour for hot-water dough produces thin and elastic wrappers that don’t break during cooking or when picked up by chopsticks at the table. Fatty ground pork, the less expensive option at a Chinese market, or ground pork belly (cut it up into 1/2-inch cubes before processing), makes the most succulent filling. Prepare and gel the soup the day before to lessen your workload.

Whereas boiled dumplings have crinkly skins that are tender from having been immersed in hot water, and panfried dumplings have skins that are a combination of crisp bottom and chewy top, steamed dumplings are texturally in between—the skins are slightly chewy and soft. Gentle steam heat also protects the filling flavor and you taste it more, a bonus for delicate combination such as this one. Unlike many other Chinese dumpling fillings, this vegetarian filling is cooked first to allow the cornstarch to work its cohesive magic, binding the vegetables and pressed tofu together so that they are easier to control when you are assembling the dumplings. I like to use some of the liquid from soaking the mushrooms to season the filling with an earthy savor; if you do too, remember to strain the heady liquid through cheesecloth or paper towel to remove any bits of grit. For details on brown, meatlike pressed tofu, see page 17.

Sabayon is the French version of Italian zabaglione, an airy egg-and-wine custard. It requires a certain amount of energy—and strength—to whip up a batch. If you’ve ever heard a frenzy of whisking coming from the kitchen at an Italian restaurant, you’ve heard why many Italian cooks (especially the sturdy grandmas) have such well-developed arms. But one lick of the boozy, frothy dessert is enough to make you forget those few furious minutes of whipping. If you don’t think you’re up to the task, you can use an electric handheld mixer. But I always feel that if I’ve worked hard to make something, I’ve earned the right to eat it. You can serve the sabayon hot from the stove, although here, it is cooled and whipped cream is added so it can be held before serving.

Sabayon is the French term for zabaglione, the frothy Italian dessert made of egg yolks and wine. It was a great day when I discovered that it could be frozen and scooped like ice cream without being churned in an ice cream maker. Because of the less-than-shy wine flavor, it holds its place in a bowl of fruit soup, especially one made with intensely flavored blood oranges.

Even before the recent coffee-caramel craze, I was proudly baking up these custards because they bring together two of my favourite flavors. Although I’d love to take responsibility for starting the trend, the only thing I can say with certainty is that I’m unabashedly crazy for the combination. For best results, use very strong espresso because you want to make sure that the coffee flavor is bold enough to stand up to the deep, dark caramel. I think the custards are best served chilled, like some of those barista drinks.

Potatoes get a bad rap as being one big carbo load with little or no nutrition. That’s a shame, because it’s not true of all varieties, especially not purple Peruvian potatoes. Smashing, as the name suggests, uses muscle to get what you need, instead of lots of butter and milk like typical mashed potatoes. A hand mixer will do, but I prefer my mom’s old potato masher from 1953. As you pulverize all of those inner starches, you’ll produce a fluffy texture, a lot of flavor, and, with these potatoes, a gorgeous and unusual color.

Folks love this recipe, whether or not they’re broccoli fans. It’s dressed like a salad, with a nice little tang from the vinegar. It adds something green and healthy to meaty mains like this one, and we also love it with Mama’s Hamburger “Hobo Sacks” (page 7) and Smothered Pork Chops and Rice Bake (page 22).

I decided to make lobster the last recipe in this book so I could give myself the gift of a lobster dinner to celebrate. My father’s family in Montpelier, Vermont, were all passionate lobster-lovers. Being in an inland state, cut off from the sea, only made them more avid for a good lobster dinner, and they frequented The Lobster Pot on Main Street for every kind of celebration. My aunt Marian, after she became a widow, would often stroll down to The Lobster Pot to have dinner by herself, and it was there that she taught me the ritual of eating a lobster—sucking the juices and little morsels of flesh from each leg, and always saving the big claws for the last, because to her they contained the most delicious meat. So, for my treat, I stopped at Citarella’s in Manhattan and asked for a 1 1/4-pounder. The fishmonger held one up to demonstrate for me how lively the little lobster was as it wriggled and pawed the air with its tentacles. I was even asked whether I wanted a male or a female, and of course I said female, so I could enjoy the roe. But when I got it home, there was only the tomalley—the green-gray loose substance that is the liver; there was no roe. I looked in Julia Child’s The Way to Cook and realized that I should have checked first for the little swimmerets under the tail: the male’s are “clean and pointed,” whereas the female’s are “fringed with hair”—a test that is not easy to execute when the creature is wriggling desperately. I have always preferred steaming to boiling, because that way the lobster doesn’t get too immersed in water, and the small amount of steaming water becomes more intense. So I hauled down my largest pot, and arranged a collapsible steamer inside it.

There is something pleasantly sensual and mindful about eating an artichoke all alone, dunking each leaf in a tart, buttery sauce and scraping off that little bit of flesh, then getting to the bottom and carefully removing the prickly thistles to the heart. I remember loving this as an adolescent and always asking for an artichoke when I knew I would be home alone and could relish each bite. If you’re feeling in a cooking mood, make yourself a little hollandaise sauce (page 110) to go with this treat.

What could be simpler than tossing tender greens into a wok and nestling an egg or two on top so they steam together? And it looks so ravishing on the plate.

Steamed mussels make a lovely dish to eat alone slowly, plucking the plump flesh from the shells as messily as you like and sopping up the heavenly liquor with chunks of French bread.

Fish in paper is a classic preparation that will totally make you feel like a rock star in the kitchen. It’s super-easy and it’s all about the presentation. All you have to do is toss some veggies and white fish in a parchment package along with some wine, and let them steam themselves. When your guests open their packages, they get a big burst of aromatic vapor and a lovely piece of gently cooked fish on perfectly cooked veggies. Just remember that because you seal the packages, you only get one shot to season everything—if you miss your opportunity then this will taste like a diet dish. You have to season well BEFORE you seal the deal.

Mussels are the unsung heroes of the shellfish world; they’re cheap, fast, and satisfying. (I wish more things in life were like this!) My favorite part of making a big pot of mussels is dipping a hunk of crusty bread in the broth. That’s why I add this lovely aïoli to the mix right before serving. This sexy sauce drips down into the mussel juice, giving it a spectacular flavor and the illusion that it’s a cream sauce. It’s super-dunkable!

These are not your typical mussels served in run-of-the-mill white wine broth. The tomato harissa broth is an addictive elixir. Even though the mussels are served with rice, you will want to have plenty of crusty bread on hand to sop up the flavorful goodness.