Five evenings,
so far.
Each dinner takes its name and shape from a place. The menu changes; the table doesn't.
Cao Lầu
A dinner shaped by the central coast. Noodles made with ash water from a single well, char siu pork, herbs from the morning market — translated, gently, to a kitchen ten thousand miles away.
- Bánh xèo lá cẩm
- Gỏi cuốn, peanut, perilla
- Cao lầu — pork, crispy noodle, mountain herbs
- Chè bắp — sweet corn pudding, coconut cream
- Sông Hương spritz
- Cà phê sữa đá nightcap
Daun Pisang
Banana leaf as table, plate, and provocation. A meal built around nasi lemak, slow-cooked rendang, and the long quiet pleasure of curry laksa.
I Still Call It Burma
My mother's table, on a Saturday. Mohinga at the door, a tea-leaf salad tossed by hand, and the kind of curry that asks you to slow down and stay a while.
Two Capitals
Hanoi and Bangkok in conversation. A dinner that started as a debate about pho and ended somewhere quieter, with green papaya and a small glass of rice wine.
First Light
The first dinner. Six people, one folding table, and a menu I'd been writing in my head for years. The lights stayed on until almost two.