By: Nancy La, News Editor and Sara Wong, Arts & Culture Editor
Bánh Tét
Growing up in Vietnam, there is no Lunar New Year without some bánh tét in my house. My parents usually have them up on the altar as offerings for our ancestors before we consume them. I distinctly remember getting into trouble for being impatient and plucking bánh tét off the offering plate when I was a child. My memories of Vietnam are blurry, but all it takes is one bite of bánh tét to transport me back to my childhood home in Saigon.
Inside these long, grass-coloured cylinders lies what I believe to be the best savoury combination of flavours and textures. Fragrant glutinous rice, dyed green from the wrapping of banana leaves, envelopes a soft layer of mung bean paste. In the centre is a thick cut of pork belly and, occasionally, salted egg yolks. The mung bean paste melts perfectly with the fat from the pork belly, and the glutinous rice ensures the fatty flavours don’t get too overwhelming on the tongue. Thick slices of bánh tét are served with a side of củ cải, crunchy pickled radish.
I would recommend taking it up a notch by pan frying the bánh tét slices so the glutinous rice can crisp up and some of the pork belly fat can render out. — NL
Poon choi
My family comes from an interesting mix of Vietnamese and Cantonese background, and I’m always reminded of my roots whenever we have poon choi on our table during New Year dinner. Poon choi literally translates to “dishes on a platter,” and is supposed to signify wealth and prosperity with its luxurious ingredients. It is served communal style in a wooden platter in Hong Kong and the Canton region, but nowadays metal platters are more commonly seen in Asian diasporas.
Poon choi consists of various elements such as sea cucumber, abalone, taro root, mushrooms, fish maw, and, controversially, fat choy (that’s right, the same fat choy in the greeting “gung hei fat choy” you commonly hear). All of these elements are cooked separately, then arranged on the platter and simmered slowly in a thick broth. Usually, the more expensive meats, such as pork, abalone, and sea cucumbers are placed on top. Vegetables, such as taro root and radish, are placed on the bottom because they are not seen as “expensive.” But because they are at the bottom, they absorb so much flavour from the pork and various meats that they become little umami bombs. My sisters and I usually fight over the stewed taro because it’s so flavourful and creamy; I attribute this to why my chopsticks skills are on another level. — NL
Jian dui
When it comes to Lunar New Year, my grandma goes all out. Even in these past couple years, she’s prepared extravagant feasts (it was the most elaborate takeout scheme I’ve seen in my life). There are definitely some dishes I could do without, but as long as there’s a tray of jian dui at the end of the meal, I’m content.
Jian dui, often referred to as “sesame balls,” are Chinese pastries made with glutinous rice flour. The filling can vary, but my family always uses red bean paste. The sticky dough balls are rolled in white sesame seeds then deep fried to crispy, golden perfection.
In pre-pandemic times, the women on my mom’s side of the family would gather in my grandma’s kitchen and prepare dozens of these treats, so I always had access to straight-out-of-the-wok jian dui. The nutty aroma of sesame, permeating the house as more and more deep-frying occurred, signified how special the occasion was. There’s nothing better than fresh jian dui, with their slightly crunchy exteriors and warm, chewy centres cushioning sweet, gooey globs of red bean. I’ve shamelessly used the biaojie (older cousin) card to get dibs on the first batch.
For the third year in a row, my family will be celebrating Lunar New Year in separate households. While disappointing, I’m comforted by the fact that my grandma’s cooking can bring us together in spirit. — SW
