09 octobre 2007
The nam prik pao alert, or Pim's recipe
Everything happens, even a false terror alert with positive consequences. For instance the one that took place in Soho, London, last week. It gave a few more people a notion of what nam prik pao is. This gross mistake has caused the average gastronomic culture in the British Isles — and certainly in France, in other European countries and in the USA too — to take a big leap forward. The news, so it seems, went around the world in no time.
Let me recall the facts: on October 3, 2007, in the kitchen of the Thai Cottage restaurant, the chef is preparing a nam prik pao, an operation that involves toasting dried red chillies in a dry wok — a serious toasting since the chillies should exhale some smoke. And indeed the acrid smoke emanating from the wok, spreading around in the neighborhood, leads some to believe there is a chemical attack. Area is evacuated, emergency team runs in, and the search ends up with the discovery of an innocent vessel.
Said the chef, "I can understand why people who weren't Thai would not know what it was, but it doesn't smell like chemicals. I'm a bit confused." So am I. The news spread like a chilli cloud, but it was in the small foodie world that it had the most hilarious effect. Being scared of toasted chilli — how stupid can you get? I got about a dozen e-mails from friends and colleages in that style.
However, if that silly event has a chance to improve the general knowledge of Thai cooking techniques, it's all the better. At least it shed a special light onto the incriminated chilli paste. What is this mysterious recipe that requires hot chillies to be burned, when their natural hotness is already more than most people can take? What is the principle of this Siamese alchemy? Who are you, nam prik pao? For sure, to prove so traumatizing, that must be a hellish, supremely fiery condiment. Or is it? We will see that later.
As for me, I am interested in this phoney terror alert for two main reasons:
1. A Thai restaurant where nam prik pao is made on the premises is an address worth noting, particularly in Europe. Honest versions of the condiment may be bought in jars for a moderate price, all the more a reason to praise the chef for performing such a fastidious preparation in his own kitchen. "Thai Cottage" will be written down in my little notebook in the perspective of my next trip to London.
2. As, naturally, Chez Pim was literally bombed with e-mails and questions, the alert had a miraculous side effect: at last, Pim gave her nam prik pao recipe! A lot of people had been waiting for this, rolling on the floor crying, wishing, dreaming. As she writes, the recipe was no secret but it was tricky proportioning to an average kitchen, since she always made huge quantities of it (the Thai Cottage chef was actually toasting 9 pounds of chillies that day).
So this is how, giving thanks for the antiterror paranoia — for once, the concept of "civilization clash" has some sort of a meaning: Thai chillies meet British nostrils and it goes boom! —, I tried my first nam prik pao recipe the day before yesterday. Carefully reading Pim's recipe, I realize it can be done. Count two, three hours. Fortunately, finding the ingredients will not be an issue, since large Asian supermarkets like Tang Frères have everything necessary, including the prik chi faa hang chillies recommended by Pim.
So what is nam prik pao? It may be described as a chilli jam. It belongs to the large Asian family of oil-based chilli pastes, but it stands apart because of its versatility. Its complex flavor makes it almost universal. It is not so hot as it is claimed to be: taste is its primary quality. It is simultaneously sour, sweet, burnt, garlicky, chocolatey, caramelly, earthy, marine, aromatic, with hot and slightly bitter final notes, and a pleasant funkiness that gives it special depth. You may have encountered it through tom yam gung, a prawn and lemongrass clear soup on which a teaspoonful of nam prik pao is often added before serving. In fact it is so good that you could add it to everything. (Pim has it on toast for breakfast.)
What follows is my version of Pim's recipe. Her instructions are extremely accurate and you may follow them blindly.
Pleast note that the quantities she gives will yield three glassfuls, about 1 pint. Which is perfect for your personal use (nam prik pao keeps almost for ever in a closet), but if you wish to give some around to friends, that is not enough. For a gift-friendly quantity, double the proportions at least.
75 g dried red chillies of the prik chi faa hang variety. Don't panic: I bought mine at Tang Frères in a 100 g Cock Brand plastic bag. Large dark red, smooth-skinned chillies, about 2-3 inches long.
100 g garlic (two large heads, peeled)
150 g shallots (5 medium-sized or 4 large shallots, peeled)
25 cl (1 cup) peanut oil
100 g palm sugar, chopped if of the hard type
2 tbsp Thai shrimp paste
About 1/3 cup tamarind paste
About 3 tbsp fish sauce (I use Tiparos)
1/4 cup water
The first thing you have to do is to toast the chillies in a dry wok, like the chef at Thai Cottage before the cops kicked the door open. I won't describe this process since Pim has done so very well on her blog. Chillies, however, should not be completely burnt but only blackened in patches, and there should be only a little smoke. A little smoke, as you will realize, goes a long way. Its acridity is no joke. While not bad enough to call the cops, it is serious enough to make you (as I did) wrap the lower part of your face in a tightly knotted towel, which makes chilli roasting somewhat akin to robbing banks in the Wild West. Stir continuously with a wooden spatula until the chillies look right (cough cough!). The heat should cause some to bloat like puffer fish. Do not lean over the wok to watch the process. Keep your face and eyes away.
Take the wok off the heat, transfer the contents to a large bowl and let them cool in a corner. Clean the wok.
While the chillies are cooling, finely slice your garlic and shallots separately. I use a mandolin (watch your fingertips!), slicing the remaining stubs with a knife. You may also use a knife for this entire stage. Do not mix the garlic and shallots. Heat the oil in the wok and fry the sliced garlic in it, stirring from time to time, until lightly golden. Do not let the garlic brown, which gives it a bitter taste. Be careful, this happens in no time. Remove the garlic with a slotted spoon and set aside on absorbent paper.
Repeat the same process with the shallots, and then again do not let them brown. They should have a nice golden color. Set them aside on absorbent paper also, leaving as much oil in the wok as possible.
It is now time to take care of the cooled chillies. Slit them lengthwise with a sharp knife and remove seeds and placenta. Put the chillies in a food processor and blend to a powder. Keep this powder in a small bowl.
Process the shallots and the garlic, blending them to a powder, or rather to a thick, oily and — mmmmmmm — fragrant paste.
Shape the shrimp paste into a flat ball and fry it in the oil until slightly browned and fragrant. Crush it with your spatula, adding the powdered chilli (I used all of it, plus a little Korean powdered chilli pepper which I thought had a similar smell), and mix well, crushing the shrimp paste and mixing it with the chilli. Keep the heat low, you have done enough chilli burning as it is.
Add the tamarind, the garlic and shallot paste, the palm sugar and the fish sauce. Mix briskly to get a smooth paste. The sugar palm helps that by melting, and so does the small quantity of water that you add at that point. When the paste is smooth and bubbling gently, taste it; as in many Thai dishes, the taste balance has to be corrected at that near-final point. You should experience a harmony of sweet, salty, sour, funky (sorry I can't find a better term), then the smoky, hot and chocolatey tastes as final notes. If the paste needs salt, add fish sauce. If it needs sourness, add more tamarind. Boil on low heat until jammy but not too thick, as it thickens when cold.
See the result above: a dark, gooey jam with brownish red hues, covered with a thick layer of bright red oil. The smell is bewitching, appetizing, it seems to encompass everything that is nice in cooking. Not you are ready for glorious breakfast toast (Pim-style), tom yam kung, soups, rice and noodle dishes, wok stir-fries, and some pretty incandescent fried eggs — etc.
Spoon into jars, close, wipe clean, store: you're rich.
15 avril 2007
Warning: durian inside!
They're as cute as can be, round, golden, endearing and apparently trustworthy. Well, handle them with care — they're loaded. These innocent-looking little cakes are potential bombs. They are filled, yes sir, with DURIAN! The little scales on the surface are supposed to make them look like a durian; like the sea-urchin's needles, like the rose's thorns, they are a natural code which means WATCH OUT, IT HURTS. Indeed, either you like durian, and in that case you like it a lot, or you don't like it, and that means you loathe it. So it's better to approach these sweet little things fully informed. You've been warned.
I found the recipe in a small book about Malay and Indonesian
pastries that I bought at Hong Kong airport. It looked challenging, so
I tried. Result: very good, a bit filling, with a soft crumbly buttery
pastry. Serve with lots of tea. Now I can say the recipe is really easy
as long as you don't make the durian paste at home. You have to use
sweet durian paste, which doesn't quite have the offensive flavor of
fresh durian, but retains much of its unmistakable, shall I say,
stench. Once a durian, always a durian.
Want to try?
Start by getting a tube of Thai durian paste
at any well-stocked Asian food market. A 200-gram tube will yield 18 to
20 small cakes. Open the tube and roll teaspoonfuls of the paste
between your palms in order to get about 20 small balls. Put them on a
plate, within hand's reach.
You will also need:
- To preheat your oven to 350 °F,
- To cover a cookie sheet with parchment paper,
- To put 100 g of softened butter and 2 tablespoons of icing sugar in a bowl. Beat them, using hand beater, until light and fluffy.
- Add the yolk of 1 large egg and keep beating like mad until you get a mayonnaise-like substance. Turn off beater.
- Using a spatula, add 150 g flour. When you have a smooth, yellow dough, you may refrigerate it for 15 minutes but I don't think that's really necessary.
Now you're ready to shape your cookies.
Take
a tablespoonful of cookie dough in your hand, roll it between your
palms into a round ball, then flatten it on your palm into a 6-7 cm
disk. Place a durian ball in the middle, then gather the edges of the
dough over the durian paste, covering it completely. Make a ball, roll
it between your palms and give it a slightly oval shape. Place it on
cookie sheet. Repeat the process with remaining ingredients.
Now
comes the fun part, the trickiest too: using the tip of fine scissors,
make little snips on the surface of cookies, making sure you don't
pierce the dough. The idea is to get small scale-like slits that will
make your cookies look like baby durians
and cute enough to make you feel like slapping them in the face or
covering them with big smooches, depending on your mood. But please
don't do that, they're fragile. Rather, brush them with beaten egg yolk
(with a few drops of cold water added) and bake them for 16 minutes
(that's my oven. In yours, it may be 15, or 17 minutes. You know those
tricks ovens like to play.) Cookies should be golden on top.
Let them sit outside of the oven for 5 minutes, then cool on racks.