THE RECIPE COMMONS

August 2018

Nam Vahn Sali:  As American as Apple Pie

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      Nam Vahn Sali is a sweet and salty, coconut and corn tapioca dessert from Laos.  The direct translation of the dessert is water sweet corn and can just be called Nam Vahn (water sweet) if ingredients other than corn are used.  In the summertime, it’s served chilled with fresh fruit or when produce is scarce, with a mix of different tapioca shapes. In the winter, Nam Vahn transforms into a hot and creamy dessert made with pumpkin.

     

      I was first introduced to Nam Vahn at a Le Mu pop-up dinner run by my friends Sayvepen (who just goes by 'Sav') and his wife, Elise Sengsavang.  Before the couple opened their mobile blue shanty called Le Mu Eats in Bethel, Maine, they hosted dinners twice a month in their quaint, Bryant Pond home that was formerly a schoolhouse in the 1800s.  The January dinner I attended was kept warm by the heat of a pellet stove and the five courses Sav had prepared which incorporated his Laotian heritage, his upbringing in Virginia and his recent move to Maine.  

 

      Almost a year later, that meal is still a satiating, vivid memory.  After feasting on sour, fermented sausages, called Nam, with Chinese fried rice cakes, slurping down a chicken soup made with tapioca noodles called Kap’uk, taking a breather with a beet salad that was actually a play on the traditional Laotian papaya salad, and gluttonously stuffing myself with a beef short rib massaman curry with pistachios, dessert arrived.  It was the winter version of Nam Vahn. But instead of pumpkin, Sav had used Maine-grown buttercup squash and had substituted maple syrup for white sugar.

 

      That finale course had quite the effect on me.  Firstly, it was a combination of ingredients I had never experienced before— coconut milk, pearl tapioca, maple syrup and squash.  But it was also surreally familiar. Each bite took me back to my childhood cream of wheat breakfasts which my mother would purposefully not stir while cooking so that large lumps would form.  She would always top it off with a hefty amount of maple syrup.  I was so far off in nostalgic heaven at the Le Mu dinner that night that I forgot my manners and helped myself to about four servings of Nam Vahn and rudely insisted on taking leftovers home!

 

      When cooking, Sav strives to create this type of nostalgia for his guests.  He knows he’s often using atypical combinations of ingredients, but his goal is to create a feeling of familiarity from something new.  To create this surrealism in his food, Sav often starts with a recipe that is nostalgic to him and develops it from there.

 

      “Every time I approach food, every time that I cook food for Le Mu specifically, I always start off with something from my childhood, something that is from my family or flavors that I grew up with,” said Sav.  “And then, I think how can I modernize this? Or mess with it? Or what else do I love that I can alter a little bit so I can bring two things I love together?”

 

      Nam Vahn has been a recurring jumping off point for Sav’s recipe development because of the memories attached to it.  The corn version of Nam Vahn is a dessert his mother always made for large family gatherings in the summertime. “It’s usually done for parties in the summer because it’s something that makes you feel cool,” Sav explained.  “It’s served cold, in a big bowl and sometimes they put ice cubes in it because they want it really cold and super refreshing.” 

 

      Because of Nam Vahn Sali’s simplicity, its prevalence at gatherings and the nostalgia surrounding the dessert, Sav likens it to the chocolate chip cookie.  And, much like the chocolate chip cookie, it’s a simple recipe, but everyone knows when it’s been done right.  Small deviations from the process can result in a mediocre version of the dessert as Sav explained, “So, the hard thing about this is you want to let this cool because it’s meant to be eaten cold.  But people are really impatient, and they drop ice cubes in it.” 

 

      I asked Sav if his mother was ever guilty of rushing the chill time.  This produced a smirk and an amused response, “Yeah, she did.” Nam Vahn Sali requires at least a four-hour chill time, but ideally overnight.  Adding ice cubes to the dessert immediately before serving is a nice last-minute addition.  But if the chill time is rushed by adding ice then, the result will be a watered-down version of the desired flavor and texture.

 

      “What happens is when you cool that coconut milk, that fat solidifies a little bit and makes the viscosity a little thicker which gives it a little bit of a thicker texture,” said Sav. When running late, Sav’s mother rushed the process a bit, but for the most part, Sav loves his mother’s Nam Vahn Sali, especially the way she seasons it.  “It’s almost salty, but right before that line.  A lot of desserts in Southeast Asia play with that line intensely, of like, ‘we’re gonna bring it all the way to that salt point, but just hold back a little bit so that your taste buds are surprised by it.’  It’s one of my favorite things.”

 

      Sav’s earliest memories of Nam Vahn Sali go back to a period in his childhood when he considered his home life to be “the most Laotian.”  His family, including extended members, were living in a trailer together in Virginia where they hung blankets in the middle of rooms to create additional bedrooms.  Sav got amped up when describing their living situation, “Ya’know it was like ten people in a three-bedroom trailer!  It was kinda fucking crazy!” 

 

      But for his parents and relatives, it was reminiscent of home— of Laos, as Sav described, “Families live in small areas like that, all together.  And ya’know my grandma is like killing a chicken in the kitchen and draining the blood, and my mom is out on the porch patio with my aunt and they’re like, scraping coconut on a wooden bench with a metal kinda like shank coming off of it.”   ​

 

      The coconuts his mother and aunt were scraping were part of the long, arduous process of making homemade coconut milk— the base of Nam Vahn Sali.  They would boil the scraped coconut, drain it, squeeze the meat to extract the milk, and then repeat this process several more times.  So, a dessert that was initially described to me as a very simple recipe, started to sound very time consuming and labor-intensive. 

 

      Although Laotian recipes appear simple, Sav explained that the preparation of the ingredients is what provides the foundation of flavor in Lao cuisine.  It’s as if the flavor begins even before that first bite. 

 

      “The work is the flavor.  Sitting there with your family and doing that [the work] is the flavor... So that whole idea of the work behind it, the people behind it, that mentality-- it really does structure a lot of things that happen with food and taste in Laotian culture,” said Sav.

 

      Over time, Sav’s mother and aunt stopped making their own coconut milk and switched to using cans.  And the family eventually moved out of the trailer and into their own house which resulted in less hands in the household to contribute to food preparation.  This may have influenced their switch to canned coconut milk, but Sav also thinks that as more time passed for his parents living in the United States, the more they realized that some ingredients would never taste the way they do back in Laos. 

 

      “I think a part of it is convenience, but I think a part of it is, ‘we’re already kind of compromising with this coconut, and compromising doing all of this work so, if the can is close to the same taste as what we’re doing with this coconut then,’ like for them,   ‘Is it worth the work if we have to compromise anyways?’”  

 

      Another compromised ingredient in Nam Vahn Sali when making the dessert in the United States, is the corn.  Laotian corn does not have large, sweet kernels but instead, small, tacky and starchy kernels.  But Sav grew up on Nam Vahn Sali made with sweet corn, unlike his parents, and had never tasted the tacky Laotian corn until he travelled to Laos for the first time when he was 16 years old. 

 

      He was visiting his grandmother in Thakhek— a town that borders the Mekong River in central Laos.  During this trip, Sav's grandmother spoiled him relentlessly by letting him sleep in while she was out early giving alms.  When Sav did wake-up, his favorite breakfast would be waiting for him—fresh baguette straight from the bakery with sweetened condensed milk.  Sav’s grandmother strategically gathered information on everything her grandson loved so she could surprise him, which often meant Sav was fed a lot of his favorite foods.   

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      One night, the whole family went out to a nice restaurant for dinner.  After everyone had finished eating, Sav’s grandmother stealthily ordered something with the waiter.  When the waiter returned, he delivered the special order directly to Sav.  It was Nam Vahn Sali.  Sav doesn’t recall ever telling his grandmother that Nam Vahn Sali was his favorite dessert so he can only assume how she found out.  

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      “I think it came about with my parents and my grandmother talking.  And this big thing in Lao culture and especially Lao parents with kids in America, is they like to brag about their kids and what they eat.”​  I had to ask Sav to expand on this point.  I’m used to the obnoxious, ‘my child is an honor roll student’ bumper stickers, but this was a new territory of parental bragging for me.  

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      “Yeah, they brag about how they eat because there’s this big thing about,  ‘ya’know they [our kids] were born in America, but we did this amazing job of raising them, so they eat Laotian food.  They love papaya salad, they love Laap, they love Nam Vahn Sali, they love all that kind of stuff,’” Sav explained.  “They’re kinda bragging a little bit and so, I am assuming that is how it came up.”​

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      When I asked Sav how his favorite dessert tasted in the place it originated from, he expressed shock and a split feeling of recognition and experiencing something new.  “It comes to the table and it has this tacky corn in it and I was like, ‘this is different.’  It was the first time I had it there [Laos] and it was really cool...it was really cool to be there with my family and try something different like that, but it’s familiar…but different.” 

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      While Sav admitted his preference for the sweet corn varieties grown in the States over the starchy, Laotian corn,  I couldn’t help but notice a container of corn kernels covered in some kind of sticky syrup on his counter.  Sav smiled guiltily as he explained his latest experiment to lightly candy corn kernels to mimic that tacky texture he encountered in Laos fifteen years ago. 

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      Memories surrounding Sav’s Laotian upbringing greatly influence the way Sav approaches food, but so does American culture.  While Sav was growing up, he was communicating with his parents in Laotian, eating Laap (Laos’ national dish of marinated meat and sticky rice) for dinner, chasing girls at Korean Baptist churches, drinking sweet tea, racing sports cars and listening to Boyz II Men.  Yup, that’s right, Boyz II Men.

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      After high school, Sav enrolled in a French focused culinary school where he was more than ever, confronted with his own identity as a chef.  Sauces had to be strained to perfection, seasoning levels were always balanced— never borderline salty, sweet or spicy. And there was a lot of white going on—no bright oranges and pinks from tropical fruits, or hot reds from chilis.  The refinement of ingredients and techniques he learned was shocking in comparison to the food he grew up on— Southern food and Laotian food. 

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      When Sav started developing his own recipes, he struggled to define what he was actually cooking because of all the different cultures that shape him. “I always had a hard time doing straight Thai or Laotian food because it never felt right for me to do that type of food,” said Sav.  “I always felt like that was the food I grew up on, that’s the food my family eats, but that doesn’t exactly represent the food I love because I don’t just love Laotian food, I love other food as well.”

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      Sav mentioned Thai as part of his identity not just because it’s the bordering country to Laos and the two cuisines influence each other immensely. But also, because many Laotians that open restaurants in the United States call their establishments Thai restaurants.  Sav attributed this to American culture’s obsession with Thai food and for its lack of awareness to Laos as a country with its own cuisine.  Even Sav’s parents called the restaurant they opened, Thai.

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      Although Sav doesn’t want to do “straight Laotian food” he still goes back to those traditional dishes for inspiration and often what he comes up with is a creative way to teach people about the country his family is from.  But Sav also incorporates ingredients and techniques he’s adopted from growing up in the South, going to culinary school, and now, living in his wife’s home state of Maine.

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      So, when Sav makes Nam Vahn Sali, he now chars sweet corn to add some smokiness and steeps the cobs in the coconut milk as if it were a stock, to intensify the corn flavor. 

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      When I asked Sav if his mother had tried his version of Nam Vahn Sali he said with a sigh, “Yeah, she has.  The thing that every Laotian parent says when they try their kid’s food, ‘Ohh, it’s okay.  It’s good.’”  According to Sav, Laotian kids strive for approval from their parents and prefer to hear, 'I'm proud of you' over, 'I love you.'

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      Perhaps his mother's hesitation to approve of his Nam Vahn Sali has to do with Sav changing the traditional process.  His parents will compromise the preparation of ingredients by buying canned coconut milk, but they will not change the process of a recipe or incorporate new ingredients.

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      “Food is really important to our culture, just like it is to any immigrant culture in the United States and for them, flavor wise or dish wise, they’re really intense about being traditional,” said Sav.  “So, if you introduce something new to it then, they kinda keep their distance from it.  They’re not really sure about it.  It won’t ever live up to their expectation of what that dish is traditionally.” 

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      For Sav’s parents who immigrated to New York when they were teenagers, resisting change is their way of remaining connected to their homeland.  But Sav’s homeland will always be split between the United States and Laos, and for him, the best way to honor both places is to bring them together in food.  With this mentality, Sav created a new dish inspired by Nam Vahn Sali and his favorite Southern dessert— Coconut Cream Pie.  The result is a Charred Corn Coconut Cream Pie.

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      “I will kill a coconut cream pie with charred corn in it!  It reminds me of my childhood, but it also reminds me of coconut cream pie which is something I really fell in love with in American culture, ya’know?”  Sav said with so much excitement that he was a little out of breath. 

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      While the Nam Vahn Sali that Sav showed me how to make chilled in the fridge, he cut some leftover slices from a charred corn, coconut cream pie he had made for a Le Mu dinner.  Before serving, he sprayed a hefty amount of whipped cream on top of the corn custard, sprinkled black sesame seeds

and kernels of that tacky, candied corn over the slices.  The custard

was creamy, the corn kernels had a nice bite and the sesame seeds

added a savory element to it.  It wasn’t too sweet, it was a little salty,

but just to that line of pleasant surprise.

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      The word fusion might come to mind— that overused, band-aid

word to categorize food that doesn’t fit neatly into any category.  In the

past, Sav has described his own food as Southeast Asian fusion, but

lately that word pricks him like a needle, and the more I eat and talk

with Sav, the more I start to cringe at that word as well.  Maybe it’s

everything else that’s associated with the word ‘fusion’ like the

proliferation of wasabi mayo, sriracha everything and bubble tea. 

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      And I will be the first to admit— I love all of those things, but for a

chef like Sav who develops his food with so much awareness to his

roots and influences, I think he deserves to be described a bit more

patriotically.  And not in a creepy, closed-borders, nationalistic kind of

way.  But in a way that accurately describes both our country’s cuisine and its people.  We are and will always be, a country of immigrants and their children.  Maybe it’s about time the saying went, ‘As American as Charred Corn Coconut Cream Pie.’  Maybe it’s about time we called the food Sav cooks, American.    

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Nam Vahn Sali

Water * Sweet * Corn

Makes 2 Pints or eight ½ cup portions

 

*Requires one day, or at least 4-5 hours of chill time

 

Ingredients

2 Ears of Corn, husked and charred on the grill

1 C Pearl Tapioca

6 C Coconut Milk

1 C Sugar

2 t Salt

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Boil the tapioca in enough salted water to cover for about fifteen minutes, or until al dente.  Stir occasionally to prevent the pearls from sticking together.  The pearls are done when they develop a clear outside layer and contain a white center. 

 

Meanwhile, shave the charred corn off the cob and reserve both the kernels and the cobs.  Add the cobs, salt, and sugar to the coconut milk in a pot.  Bring the coconut milk to a light simmer and steep the cobs while the tapioca is cooking. 

 

Drain the tapioca in a colander and run cold water over the tapioca pearls to cool and prevent them from sticking together.  Add the drained pearls and corn kernels to the coconut milk.  Bring the coconut milk to a boil for five minutes.  Then, remove from heat and cover to infuse the corn flavor into the tapioca pearls. 

 

Steep for half an hour covered and then, uncover and cool to room temperature.  Remove the cobs, cover and put in the fridge to chill for 4-5 hours or overnight. 

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