7 recipes that use thai basil, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Thai green chicken curry, takes 30 minutes. It is most often cooked with bean sprouts, coriander and fish sauce.
Run out of thai basil? Basil with a few mint leaves.
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A weeknight green curry that tastes like a takeaway. Frying the paste in the thick top layer of coconut milk wakes up the lemongrass and chilli, and a last-minute balance of fish sauce, lime and a little sugar makes it sing.
Pho began in the north, around Hanoi and Nam Định, and is now eaten all over Vietnam, often for breakfast. Phở chay is the Buddhist vegetarian version served in temple kitchens and chay restaurants: the deep, clear broth comes from charred onion and ginger, toasted star anise, cinnamon and cloves, simmered with daikon, carrot, sweetcorn and dried shiitake instead of beef bones. Silky flat rice noodles, golden tofu and mushrooms go in the bowl, and everyone adds their own bean sprouts, Thai basil, lime and chilli at the table. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until properly blackened in patches and toast the spices in a dry pan until they smell like warm Christmas cake; that smoky, perfumed base is what makes the broth taste like pho and not vegetable soup.
Nasi kerabu comes from Kelantan on the north-east coast, and in Kota Bharu it is a breakfast and lunch staple, sold in the morning markets in mounds of startlingly blue rice. The colour comes from butterfly pea flowers. Around the rice sit 'ulam', raw herbs and vegetables sliced as fine as thread: lime leaves, lemongrass, long beans, bean sprouts, cucumber, mint and basil, with nutty toasted coconut on top. Kelantanese stalls dress it with budu, a fermented fish sauce, so this version uses a sharp tamarind, lime and chilli dressing instead. It's light, crunchy and full of perfume. Chef's tip: slice the herbs as thinly as you can with a sharp knife; the finer the shreds, the more they scent every mouthful of rice.
Or lam belongs to Luang Prabang, the old royal town on the Mekong, where it is cooked for long family lunches and served at almost every restaurant that makes local food. It is a thick, rustic stew of aubergine, long beans, mushrooms and greens, thickened with a little sticky rice and flavoured with sakhan, a peppery wood that numbs the lips like Sichuan pepper, plus heaps of dill and lemongrass. The usual dried buffalo skin and meat are swapped for two kinds of mushroom here. Eat it with sticky rice and a jeow. Chef's tip: if you can't find sakhan, a few lightly crushed Sichuan peppercorns give the same tingle; add them early so the tingle spreads through the broth.
Before Hanoi's offices open, pavement pho stalls are already busy, with diners on low plastic stools bent over bowls of rice noodles in a clear, spiced beef broth. The northern style is restrained: brisket and thin slices of raw beef that cook in the bowl, spring onion and a little coriander, with lime and chilli on the side rather than a heap of herbs and sauces. The work is in the broth, simmered slowly from bones with blackened onion and ginger and a small bag of toasted spices. Make it on a weekend; it keeps for three days and the bowls then take ten minutes. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until they are properly black in patches, because that smoky sweetness is what makes the broth taste of pho rather than plain beef stock.
On Ngũ Xã, a little island of streets between Trúc Bạch lake and West Lake in Hanoi, whole rows of restaurants sell nothing but pho in different shapes, and phở cuốn is the one people order by the plateful in the evening. Instead of cutting the fresh rice-noodle sheet into ribbons, the cooks leave it whole and roll it round seared beef, lettuce and herbs. The rolls are soft, cool and slightly chewy, and you dip them in a light, sweet fish sauce with pickled carrot. Look for fresh rice-noodle sheets in the chiller of an Asian supermarket, often sold for Chinese ho fun. Chef's tip: if the sheets are stiff from the fridge, steam or microwave them for 30 seconds under a damp cloth before separating, or they tear.
In Cần Thơ and Sóc Trăng, lẩu mắm is the hotpot friends gather round at weekends, and it is at its best in the flood season, when wild greens, water lily stems and yellow sesbania flowers fill the markets. The broth starts from mắm, fish fermented with salt and roasted rice, which is simmered and strained, then softened with coconut water, lemongrass and a little sugar. Everyone cooks their own slices of pork belly, fish, prawns and squid at the table and eats them with rice noodles and whatever vegetables are piled beside the pot. Buy mắm cá linh or mắm cá sặc in jars from a Vietnamese grocer. Chef's tip: add the strained mắm gradually and taste as you go, because jars vary a lot in saltiness.
