Thai Seafood Soup

I never liked Thai food until I went to Thailand. The Thai food I had eaten before my travels was a transgression against the cuisine: insipid oily noodles stirred with ketchup and finished with a dusting of crushed peanuts. Backpacking throughout Asia, however, changed the definition of Thai food for me. During my soujourn, I ate a lot of street food, the ground zero of authentic cuisine in Asia.

I remember my first night in Bangkok in the backpack mecca, Khao San. It’s a small steamy neighbourhood that attracts the budget traveler and the curious. The streets pulse into the night with hypnotic beats of trance music, and burst with locals and weary travellers who descend upon Khao San for a little excitement and if time permits, for a little down time. I was mesmerized by the sights, sounds, and smells of the neighbourhood including the street vendors who serve pad thai fresh from their carts.


Through my travels, I have found that the best authentic foods may be found amongst the locals. Food created on the streets, away from the tourist-friendly restaurants, that cater to local preferences and not adapted or muted for Western palates. Thailand is no exception. Imagine the street chef throwing lashings of oil that sizzle in the hot wok and crescendo into a fragrant smoky cloud. He tosses in a ladleful of wet rice noodles, then add a dash of nam pla (fish sauce), tamarind, and a spoonful each of chilli and sugar for good measure. He tosses it about until the flavours come together in harmony. Then the adept street chef reaches for an egg and with a quick flick of the wrist, the noodles have been pushed aside and the egg sizzles and sputters at the bottom of the wok. Chop, chop and he mixes bits of scrambled egg with the rice noodles. Now the dish is finished with a handful of bean sprouts and cilantro. The vendor scoops out the noodles into a small paper dish with a sprinkle of crushed peanuts and a little nub of lime on the side. That’s pad thai in Thailand. It is neither heavy nor red. Authentic pad thai is light, tangy, crunchy, and chewy.

Several years ago, I had an opportunity to go back to Thailand and this time visiting Chiang Mai was my number one priority. I had read about the abundance of artisans, the beautiful architecture of the inner city and the wide selection of cooking schools. Located in the northern part of the country, it is far from the conjested swollen streets of Bangkok. Chiang Mai is a temperate, lush and friendly city with a robust night market scene. On a nightly basis, families and friends gather in the city’s various markets for a little dinner, a little shopping and a lot of laughter. Most night markets have an area dedicated to food, like an open-air food court. Individually, they don’t have an extensive menu, and you often have to source your meal from several vendors. Some vendors only sell drinks, while others specialize in seafood, and others in dessert. This gives you an opportunity to walk around, see what’s fresh and try something new. With an open mind, eating in Chiang Mai or Thailand for that matter, is a very rewarding experience.



One of my favourite selections from the night market is Tom Yum soup. Just one taste reminds me of those long breezy nights in Chiang Mai. Tom Yum is not shy or delicate. It’s bold and complex: fiery heat from the chilis, tangy sweetness from the tamarind, and a broth that is deeply infused with the exotic fragrances of lime leaves and lemongrass. In my version of this Thai soup, I toned down the heat a smidge and added slippery vermicelli noodles to make this into a belly warming supper that is highly slurpable and suitable for all.


Thai Seafood Soup
Serves 4


To slice the chicken thinly, I use a frozen chicken breast. Let it partially defrost so that it is firm but easy to slice through with a sharp knife

1 l of chicken stock + 2 c of water
1 lemongrass stalk, cut into 3” segments, bruised
2 lime leaves
1 inch slice of ginger, bruised
2 tbsp nam pla (fish sauce)
8 mushrooms (straw mushrooms, white button, shitake, enoki)
handful of cilantro (cut away stems from the leaves, reserve stems)

1 chicken breast, partially frozen
16 large shrimp (peeled, shells reserved)
½ package of rice noodles, softened in warm water

to garnish:
8 cherry tomatoes, quartered
lime slice
fried shallots*

1. To make the soup, simmer chicken broth, water, lemongrass, lime leaves, ginger, fish sauce, shrimp shells, and cilantro stems for approximately 20 minutes. Strain away solids.
2. Bring stock to a boil again.
3. Meanwhile, heat noodles in a separate pot. Heat the noodles until they are soft and slippery.
4. Add chicken pieces. Stir around to ensure it doesn’t stick to the bottom and pieces stay separate. Once the chicken changes from pink to white, add shrimp. Allow it to come up to a simmer again, and the shrimp tails curl. Turn off heat.
5. Strain the noodles and add to a soup bowl.
6. Pour broth, chicken pieces and shrimp over the noodles.
7. Garnish with cherry tomatoes, lime and fried shallots*

*Fried shallots or onions can be found at any Asian grocery store. Absolutely optional but creates an interesting contrast in texture from the soup.

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What To Do With... Fennel aka Anise

Let me introduce you to a good friend of mine, Fennel. Fennel, this is everybody. (I had planned to publish this great photo for our introductions today, but when I saw it on the preview, I knew it wouldn't do. So, unfortunately, we have to go without today...) (Updated November 18th, 2008 - Hungry Gal note: A photo is worth a 100 words...)



Fennel and I only met in my twenties but I feel like we have been friends forever. Fennel sometimes goes by the name Anise and is a hearty but delicate tasting vegetable. It smells lovely and herbaceous and has a mild liquorice flavour that further mellows when cooked. But we almost didn’t become friends. In my younger years, I was too haughty and impetuous, “I am not going to like fennel.., I’ll pass.” But then we met, and I realized I was wrong and now, all is forgiven and we are pals.

So, if you see Fennel at the market, I encourage you to buy a bulb or two and try it. You just might like it.

Fennel is great raw or braised. With a sophisticated yet mild flavour, it’s more versatile than you think. It’s great with rich foods like cream and butter and also pairs beautifully with seafood.

Basic Preparation:
Cut off the fronds and stalks and put aside if you wish, for garnish and stock. Trim the fennel by trimming the bottom of the bulb and cutting the fennel in half. Now that it is in a manageable size, you can dice it, slice it thinly or cut it into large chunks.

Some ideas for Fennel:

Roasted
1. Roast it: Slice thinly and toss with olive oil and herbs. Bake in an oven at 400 degrees until roasted.
2. Roast it with other vegetables: Toss in olive oil and roast with other vegetables such as peppers, onions, and zucchinis. Bake in a 400 degree oven until the vegetable’s edges are crisped while the rest of the vegetable soften.

Au Gratin:
3. Baked it: Slice paper thin and add to a potato gratin with crispy bacon

Raw in a Salad:
4. Throw it in a salad: dice raw fennel and add to your next salad (alongside some juicy tomatoes, and buttery boston lettuce)
5. Shave it: Shave fennel and plate with oranges and blue cheese salad (similar to my raw beet salad)

Braised:
6. Braised it: Cut in large chunks and braise in white wine with leeks or onions
7. Serve it as a main dish: Braise in white wine, with chicken thighs, cannellini beans, tomatoes and onions.

With Seafood:
7. Steam it with mussels: Dice and toss into a moules mariniere (steamed mussels)
9. Saute it: Slice thinly and saute with butter and served with a portion of salmon
10. Throw it in a crab linguine: Dice and cook in a crab linguine pasta dish. Here’s one to try out, add about 1/2c diced fennel when sautéing the garlic and chillies. http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/database/linguinewithcrab_66026.shtml

If there is an ingredient you would like to see for future, drop me a line! Suggestions are always welcome.

Gallic Inspiration: Moules Mariniere

I think if there is one place I could travel to over and over, it's France. There are few places in this world that soothe my culinary soul the way France does. It is quite clear to me as to why this is: It is the marriage of food and travel. Here you can enjoy the world's finest cuisine in celebrated restaurants as well as the little unpretentious gems frequented by the locals and all of this highly accessible thanks to a fantastic and extensive train system and Grade 12 French class.

And of course, my return luggage is a Canadian Customs officer's curiousity. They unzip my luggage only to find a chef's menagerie of sel gris, truffle oil, herbes de provence, wine, dark chocolate, and whatever exotic Gallic delights the country offers me. I have learned overtime, you can't bring back butter, or foie gras laced with black truffles no matter how much you plead. And boy do I try.

During our last visit to France, we took the train to Dieppe in the northern province of Normandy. We had spent the better part of the week exploring the fine cuisine Paris had to offer and now we craved soemthing more rustic and indicative of how people eat everyday.

The town of Dieppe is several hours away from Paris and we enjoyed the slow langourous ride through the French countryside. Rolling pastoral green fields stretch out beyond the horizon, occasionally interupted by small farmhouses frame after frame like pages of National Geographic. It was serene.

When we arrived in Dieppe, there was a distinct smell that city people don't experience often: the sharp metallic smell of the sea. It is a briny and strangely fresh smell that appeals to anyone who loves seafood. It's the smell of that kind of fresh. As we strolled past the many seaside bistros, it became apparently clear what the part of Normandy had to offer us today: Mussels.

Every bistro along the boat quay advertised its the daily special on hinged blackboards out front. It beckoned like a siren to hungry tourists to stop in for a little lunch in the seaside beach town. Moules et frites. Mussels and fries. Who could resist the shiny onyx shells lured open by a fragrant boozy steam to reveal dedicate saffron coloured mollusks in light garlic studded broth and a large bowlful of crisp delicate potato matchsticks and creamy pale mayonaise? So we stopped in and ordered huge bowls of steamy mussels and watched as boats bob up and down and fashionable French tourists wondered if they should stop for a bite. It was ridiculously contagious.

But today, we were at home missing that day. So, we decided when we were at St. Lawrence Market this morning, we would take a peek at the huge tank of PEI mussels at the fishmonger's. If the stars were aligned, we were going to have a delicious lunch that would transport us back to that summer day by the sea in Northern France.


Moules Mariniere
2 pounds of PEI mussels (bearded & cleaned)
1 small onion - diced
1/2 small pepper - diced
2 small carrots - sliced into coins
1 c of halved baby heirloom tomatoes
1/2c of white dry vermouth
3 cloves of crushed garlic (we love garlic)
1 tbsp of butter

In a pot large enough to hold the mussels, melt the butter until it is foamy and hot. Add the onion and garlic and saute until softened. Turn down the heat slightly and add the peppers, and carrots. Cook until the vegetables start to soften. Add the cleaned mussels to the pots and pour the vermouth on top. Cover. After two minutes, add the tomatoes to the pot and cover the pot again. Steam until the mussels open. Pour into a large serving dish and serve with slices of cursty baguette or fries.