In Search of the Perfect Laab in Laos

November 25, 2011

Dear Friends,

Laab (also written ‘larb’) is a dish originating in Laos that has become a staple of menus across Thailand.  Its name means “luck” and this dish is a frequent star at the table during festivals and special occasions. It also makes the perfect gift for guests, conveying your good wishes along with some fresh sustenance all on one plate.

Some Laab Ingredients: Mint, cilantro, shallots

To me and my family, laab is a perennial favorite. Loving simple, speedy Southeast Asian cuisine, I became enamored of Thai dishes long ago.  My children, at very young ages, when asked their favorite foods, would cite “pizza, peanut butter and laab,” raising quizzical eyebrows on inquiring adults.  To this day, turning to the laab page in my Thai recipe book, the tell-tale scribbles of my two-year-old daughter (who is now 14) attest to this dish’s place in my family history.

So finding myself in Laos recently in the company of my colleague, Chris Roper, who shares my culinary interests, we decided to go on a pilgrimage to find the best laab. In Luang Prabang, we settled into the lovely Bamboo Garden restaurant, by the fountain, and ordered Laab Gai, the chicken version.  It arrived with a garnish of cucumber and cabbage, and young, delicate sprigs of cilantro and mint. The usual seasonings of fish sauce (usually squid) and lime juice were subtle, with scallions and cilantro dominating, textured by the barely perceptible crunch of roasted rice powder.  The spice was very tame, and Chris and I felt a little disappointed.  Very good, but this laab had not reached full potential.

A monk in Luang Prabang prepares a spicy green papaya salad

We moved on to a place recommended to us by our Lao guide, Mr. Kamh. He claimed it was the best laab in town.  Skeptically, we claimed a two-top at “Pizza Luang Prabang.”  A two-tiered terrace of exterior tables camouflaged an unattractive interior, where plastic-covered tables, a linoleum floor and kitschy decorations made me question our choice.  Two Italian men chattered away next to us, enjoying a smoke after their LP Pizza.  We ordered our laab—beef this time–and some Lao coffee.

When the waiter placed the dish on the table, we leaned in to inspect it.  Interesting: this time we saw unexpected ingredients.  Baby bean sprouts and thinly sliced lemon grass added texture and citrus to the overall freshness of this lucky Lao salad.  The rice powder was also more prevalent, adding a nutty undertone that was very pleasing. Again the lime and fish sauce were subtle, almost after-thoughts.   And there was another ingredient that was hard to identify, a barely discernible vegetable.  Again the spice level was low, and for us, spice addicts, a bit disappointing. Nonetheless, we agreed this laab won over the Bamboo Garden’s.

Our third laab tasting was compliments of Mr. Tie (pronounced “tee”), our chef on the Mekong Sun, a lovely little ship that travels from Luang Prabang to the Golden Triangle. Mr. Tie is a baby-faced 26-year-old who has been cooking since he was a teen.  He clearly loves his craft and puts his heart into every dish. He provided a full cooking demonstration for all the passengers, revealing a few aspects of preparation that were new to me.  For example, he added fish sauce as seasoning to the chicken before cooking it in the pan.  He not only added fried shallots but also fresh ones. He taught us how to roast our own rice: with lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves—in a dry pan.  Then the browned rice is transferred to a mortar and pounded into a powder (I buy small packets of rice powder at home, saving at least 30 minutes!). Then he revealed the secret ingredient I could not identify in Luang Prabang: raw yard-long beans, sliced into tiny rounds.  This addition adds a whole new, greener dimension to laab.

Mr. Tie's ingredients are laid out for laab gai preparation

Mr. Tie’s laab was very similar to Luang Prabang Pizza’s—excellent in its freshness and crunch.  Again, I would add more lime juice and chili powder, but this is a personal preference.

My time is Laos is a gift I am not soon to forget, and laab is one lucky way I can continue to keep a little piece of Laos in my life and in my heart.  For all those who dream of going to Laos, I present you with a recipe that I hope will bring you the good fortune of one day seeing this magnificent country.

Larb Nua (Beef Larb)

1 lb beef, minced or ground

2 cloves of garlic, chopped

1-3 red chili(s), chopped (spice level according to taste, of course)

1 tbsp chopped shallots

2 tbsp Thai basil, chopped (can replace with coriander, if you prefer)

2 tbsp mint, chopped

1 tbsp roasted rice powder

1 tbsp spring onion, chopped

1-2 tbsp of Nuoc Mam or fish sauce, to taste

Juice of 2-3 limes (taste and see if you like it with more citrus!)

2 hothouse cucumbers, sliced lengthwise and seeded, cut into 6 inch “boats” OR iceberg lettuce leaves

Hot peppers dry in a village along the Upper Mekong

Variations Seen in Laos:

-         Add fresh bean sprouts

-         Add chopped yard-long green beans

-         Add chopped lemon grass

Fry the beef in a wok or large frying pan, without oil, until browned and cooked through. Leave to cool.

Lightly brown the garlic, chili and shallot in a pan over medium heat, again without oil. Pound them together then mix this paste with the meat.  Stir in the fish sauce, lime juice, rice powder. Toss in the Thai basil, mint and scallions and stir. Serve at room temperature.

Prepare the cucumber “boats” and/or separate the iceberg lettuce leaves and place in dish for serving.  Laab is then spooned into the cucumber boats (my children’s favorite!) or wrapped in the lettuce leaves.

Sóen Sâep!

Wishing you Luck and Happiness with a fresh plate of laab gai!


A Lao Village Along the Mekong

November 4, 2011

Boy plays and swims around boat docked on Mekong beach

The splashing of water lures me out to my stern balcony. They must be diving under the ship to fix the faulty propeller, I think. As I lean over the edge of the railing, I discover I am wrong: four Lao children are swimming gleefully around the boat on a competitive circuit, the weakest swimmer ending up dangerously swept downriver by the strong Mekong current before grasping the stern of a longtail boat docked nearby.  He struggles hard to keep up and eventually disappears with the others upstream again.

The Mekong Sun, our ship

The clean, sandy beach where we have docked for repairs presents cameos of life along this mighty Indochinese river.  A woman in a straw hat busily plants her vegetable seedlings, while keeping an eye on her nearby toddler, who happily digs her own holes.  Another woman waters her sandy field, and scolds children who come too near as they practice their somersaults, cartwheels and handstands. Three children emerge from the water and run to join the gymnastic group, one of the littlest pausing to remove her chafing, sandy underwear and continue on unimpeded.

From the beach, one of the crew beckons me to join them. He and a group of passengers seem to be heading inland. Clearly, the
repairs are going to take a while.  Within minutes, I emerge on the wide, sandy expanse, impressed by how the muddy Mekong, during the drier season, can sport beaches to compete with the seaside resorts of the world. Our small group climbs the dunes into the jungle to discover wooden pens containing healthy piglets, sows and ducks.  A few more steps upward, and the stilted
thatched traditional Lao homes emerge, neatly arranged along a main artery parallel to the Mekong.  Hearing giggles
behind me, I turn just in time to see two naked boys of seven or eight years rushing past, wet clothes in hand.  They grin at me unabashed, then stop at a clothesline up ahead and neatly lay out their shorts and shirts to dry, disappearing into their home.

Children in Khokphu Village, Laos

Every adult and child we encounter smiles broadly and the traditional greeting echoes throughout the village “Sabaidee!”  Hens and chicks scuttle under a home, two pot-bellied pigs squeal their way under a fence and trot past us, ducks of all kinds paddle around a small central pond, and random dogs and kittens sun themselves on ledges and in doorways.  Mothers wearing the intricately woven sarong skirts lean in doorways with babies on their hips, and occasionally call out to older children, perhaps admonishing them to behave. Giddy children follow our progress, as we tour their empty new school (it’s Friday afternoon), complete with five classrooms, desks and blackboards.  The villagers saved for years to buy the construction materials to build this school, and now they are able to educate not only their little ones but also several other nearby villages’. Neatly piled bricks, wood, and bags of cement under eaves suggest that another construction project may be under way soon.

Heading to the top of the village, at the highest point, we come upon a temple, home to a handful of monks.  A boy of eight or so in a saffron robe is busy sweeping the large fallen teak leaves and debris from around the temple grounds.  An old monk
and his young apprentices sit idly under a thatched pavilion, talking and relaxing.  Saffron robes catch the saturated rays of sun on a clothesline behind the temple. Marigolds, Helliconia, and Crown of Thorn flowers abound, adding even more color and a sense of paradise to this elevated, peaceful scene above the Mekong.

A young monk tends to the grounds of his temple, Khokphu village, Laos

As we come back down through the village on our way back to our boat, an old woman with high cheek bones and twinkling eyes strolls past elegantly, clothed in a woven Lao skirt and simple shirt, with a towel regally wrapped around her head.  “Sabaidee!” she repeats again and again, smiling at each of us toothlessly.  Something about her makes me wonder if she dressed up just for us.

View from Mekong Sun deck

Returning to the Mekong Sun, our floating home, I return to the orchid-ringed sun deck and take in the soft light of the waning sun on the river.  The breeze is fresh and I marvel at how this major waterway and South East Asian lifeline can be so clean and smell so sweet in the Pacific Century.  It can’t last for long, I fear.  The Chinese and Thai have many dams planned in the next decade, and the industry that is so absent now will arrive, no doubt marring the beauty of this land and spoiling the purity of these waters. I only hope that the happiness and serenity of Khokphu village and many others along the river’s edge will survive the inevitable development ahead.

The Mekong at Dawn


Cuba: Survival with Passion

June 6, 2011

Dear Friends,

I confess, I love the stories behind a revolution. They are exciting, bold, romantic, epic. They also entail struggle, pain, blood and death.  Unlike wars between nations, revolutions attempt to throw out an old system and replace it with something fresh, more just, more virtuous. Idealism runs rampant until reality sets in and human nature, with all its foibles, takes over and finds itself once again with a system that is flawed, and often as unjust and cruel as the previous one.  Yet through this process, a national fiber is stretched, yanked, distorted, and pounded, until the country re-emerges into a new dawn, and rediscovers who it has been all along.

Dawn over Havana

There is something very distinctive about visiting a country that has lived through a revolution, and even more so when the citizens still remember the event firsthand.  The experience of strife and distress tests the human mettle, and makes those who survive stronger and more keenly focused on life’s priorities and their fundamental cultural values. The end result is a distillation of culture that conveys the soul of the place with more potency–a full embrace of authentic cultural identity.

I found this to be true in Cuba, from which I returned a few days ago.   The island nation exudes a warmth and passion that have clearly been a part of the national fiber since the beginning, but perhaps have become much more powerful over years of hardship.  Here is a people who speak of love freely, who call each other (whether lover, friend or colleague) ‘mi amor,’ who begin to move their bodies the minute they detect a musical beat, and who kiss you on your second encounter.  Feelings are not beneath the surface as they are in many cultures.

In Cuba, expressing emotion is the only way to be, to exist, even when conducting business. They pour their heart into all they do and say. There is a sincerity of purpose and pride that struck me as refreshingly pure. Whether it was the sociologist in charge of the Clinic for the Prevention of HIV/AIDS or Papa Tin who founded the Colmenita project to help children with disabilities become happy, well-adjusted teens, I marveled at the amount of heart every Cuban I met put into to their work.

Children sing and dance at the Colmenita Project

Suffering is no stranger to Cuba–traumatizing events, from the Revolution in 1959 to the Soviet Union’s pull out in 1990, have put this island nation through hell.  Yet that national fiber appears stronger than ever and an indomitable spirit endures—one that loves, dances and sings with renewed gusto.


Authenticity in Travel

May 5, 2009

Dear Friends,

St.-Cirq-Lapopie: The Ideal or Authentic French Village?

St.-Cirq-Lapopie: The Ideal or Authentic French Village?

On a recent trip to the southwest of France exploring the culinary delights of foie gras, truffles, duck and walnuts, a question kept occurring to me: what can be described as “authentic”?  Is a truffle farm authentic because its owners hunt for its precious fungi in a traditional way passed on for generations and does it lose that authenticity if science and technology allow a more efficient cultivation for commercial ends?  Is a walnut oil mill’s authenticity in question if the owners establish a restaurant to accommodate visitors curious about the mill’s production process and anxious to sample some dishes the walnut flavors so delicately?

In Merrion Webster’s, the definition of authentic is genuine, bona fide. In other words, what is described as authentic is actually and exactly what it claims to be. The designation of “authentic” implies the subject is fully trustworthy and presents itself truthfully.  Authenticity means the actual character of something is not counterfeited, imitated, or adulterated in any way.

So when one imagines an authentic farm, is one that belongs to the 21st century with all its technological advantages less authentic than one that has lingered in the 20th century?  Both are representing themselves truthfully, and are not counterfeits of the farm concept. With a successful restaurant added to its services, has our romantic image of a walnut oil mill been tainted, leaving us doubting its authenticity?  By definition, only if the farm or mill pretend to be something they are not do they lack authenticity.

I believe that, as we travel, we yearn for the nostalgia of yesteryear and the romance of simpler times.  When we encounter a magical place that meets these romantic expectations, we are thrilled and feel we have come in contact with authentic culture.  And sometimes we have. Yet, it is when the image in our mind’s eye is challenged by modern reality that we truly learn about the world, about its diversity of culture, about what the future may hold. 

 I welcome a dialogue on this subject, as ATA’s commitment to cultural, educational travel is tied to our ability to seek out and explore authentic experiences—whether they conform to travelers’ established preconceptions or not.  We want to share the world as it is, not as we expect it or imagine it to be.

 Kate Simpson


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