What’s Cooking: Gang Om

I like to say that Isan food is the Platonic ideal when it comes to cooking: big flavors coaxed out by fairly minimal effort. Well, I’m now here to tell you that this is all bullshit. When you are on the banks of the Mekong River and hauling your own water in buckets — not to mention all of the produce, chicken and fish that you’ve impulsively bought at the nearest market — you are exerting plenty of effort. There is a charcoal brazier to set up. There are plates to somehow rustle up out of thin air. There is sticky rice to steam. And of course, there are all those veggies to wash.

As for the plates, no worries: Chin of Chili Paste Tour has kindly purchased a stack of bai goong for us to eat on, anchored by great handfuls of sticky rice as Buddha intended.

We even have another “main” dish planned, as our friends from the riverside village of Woen Boek (roughly, “full of fish”) brought bagfuls of Mekong River fish of all persuasions, including tiny silver fish meant to be steamed inside of a bamboo container over an open flame with a chili paste and more herbs.

And, of course we have dessert covered, in the form of orange mangosteen-like fruits that Chin purchased at the spur of the moment on the side of the road. Have we ever tasted them before? Hell no! But we did learn that they were called bakyang.

Little did I know, there is a reason why gang om — the super-herbal soup made with pork or beef or chicken or, really, anything you can find — is a celebratory dish, served alongside larb (spicy minced meat salad) for village parties. It’s not that it’s particularly complicated, but it does require care and maybe even a little verve. There’s a chili paste to pound, herbs to layer, and protein to cook on the bone to ensure it doesn’t dry out. There’s slaving over a hot, steaming vat of goodness to make sure the flavors are all right, even after the Mekong River breezes dry up under the midday sun. There are curious cows to shoo away and rocks to pick out of your Birkenstocks. This is back-breaking work.

First, there’s the chili paste to pound. In this part of town, exactly where the Mekong River and Mun River meet, and where the two colors (the Mekong’s brown and the Mun’s dark blue) used to meet but not mix before a huge Chinese dam turned the Mekong the same shade of blue, bird’s eye chilies are not enough. Here, we use kalieng (Karen) chilies, bumpier and fatter than the bird’s eye, but also twice as hot. A handful of those go into a clay mortar along with a pinch of salt, and I am given a wooden, som tum-style pestle that is not really suited to pounding chili pastes, but here we are by the river and beggars can’t be choosers.

Here’s my one and only useful Thai food tip: when you are making chili paste and you need to really make it into a paste, pound it ingredient by ingredient. Make sure it’s a paste before you move on to the next ingredient. That way, you can ensure that everything is pulverized equally.

This is not the way the chili paste ingredients are presented to me. Everything — shallots, lemongrass, galangal, chilies and salt — has already been placed in the mortar, and lightly bruised as if we are at a spa and the ingredients are getting a foot massage. It’s up to me to mash everything, and so I set to it with serious intent. In fact, I am so serious about it that I break the mortar; only the bottom of the mortar, thank goodness, so that there’s a small hole at the bottom and only a little bit of the paste is lost.

This paste is meant to go into a pot of water, into which we also add the chicken, some cubed pumpkin, quartered Thai eggplants, chopped green onions, and halved bottle gourds (and their flowers). That will be set to stew along with the aromatics: dill, makrut lime leaves, pla rah (fermented fish sauce) and, mistakenly, some soy sauce. We leave this pot along for a little while. But my work isn’t done.

Breaking the mortar has convinced everyone that I am meant to be pounding chili pastes, for the rest of all eternity. Somehow, another clay mortar is produced, but sadly not a different pestle. I am given the same ingredients to pound (my way this time) for the fish in the bamboo container, and then a nam prik ki gaa (crow’s poo chili dip) to pound, this one with, of course, Karen chilies. We start with chilies and a little salt, add some shallots, some pla rah, a couple of dashes of fish sauce, and (gasp!) some brown sugar to fight the heat. I manage to keep the second mortar intact.

After about half an hour, the chicken is surely cooked through and the veggies are soft. We taste for seasoning and agree that it tastes great, even though I mistakenly added soy sauce. I am then asked to add more water as the level is too low, but not to adjust the seasoning (pro tip: adjust the seasoning). While we are doing this, our villager friends are grilling more river fish.

Finally, it is time for lunch, once the gang is deemed completely finished. We decant our stew into a another bamboo container, with the water at the perfect level for gathering up the goodness with a ball of sticky rice and a thumb. It’s herbal and fresh and (if we say so ourselves after cooking al fresco for a few hours), utterly satisfying.

We spend the rest of the day as we’re supposed to: on woven mats, dining on fish with stew and plenty of fresh greens and sticky rice. We don’t even turn (too much) of a stink eye on the bakyang, which do not taste like mangosteens, but like water olives that are very, very sour. It is a good, if somewhat tiring day. When we finally make it back to our hotel, having rebuffed attempts to lure us to a 2-hour hike, Lauren and I agree: this recipe is definitely going into the book.

Gang Om

• 4 chicken thighs/legs, cut into 2 pieces each to make 8 pieces
• 5-10 chilies
• 2 shallots, peeled and chopped
• 2 lemongrass bulbs, bruised
• 2 inches galangal, peeled and cubed
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 3-4 green onions, chopped
• 2 small bottle gourds or 1 zucchini, chopped
• 3 Thai eggplants, quartered, or 2 handfuls of regular eggplant, chopped
• 2 cups of pumpkin or squash, peeled and cubed
• 1 handful of dill, stemmed
• 4-6 makrut lime leaves, central stems removed and torn
• 2 Tablespoons pla rah (fermented fish sauce) or regular fish sauce
• 2 teaspoons soy sauce
• Water or chicken broth to cover ingredients (about 3-4 cups)
• 3 lemongrass bulbs, chopped
• 2-3 Tablespoons of khao kua (toasted rice kernels, powdered) (optional)

First, make your paste. Pound chilies in a mortar and pestle with 1 tsp salt. When chilies are well mashed, add shallots, then continue with the process on through to lemongrass and galangal. Make sure everything is well pounded before adding the next paste ingredient. Stop after galangal and set aside.

In a stockpot with a lid over medium-low heat, add chicken, green onion, gourds (or zucchini), eggplant, and pumpkin. Add water or stock to cover, then add paste. Add your aromatics and seasonings next: dill, makrut leaves, pla rah (or fish sauce), and soy sauce. Taste for seasoning and adjust if necessary. If water levels have gotten too low, add more water but remember to readjust seasoning.

Allow to boil until everything is cooked through (about 30-40 minutes depending on your source of heat). Taste for seasoning again. Once you’re ready to serve, scatter chopped lemongrass and rice kernels on top for added aroma and stir into the soup.

Serve with sticky rice as part of a great Isan meal.