There is a wonderful restaurant at the corner of 60th and North Avenue here in Milwaukee. It is called Mekong Cafe. They serve Thai, Laos and Vietnamese food; the lunch buffet is reliably varied and delicious.
One of my favorite things to have there is Tom Kha Gai soup. I’ve searched for a recipe that comes close to the deliciousness that is that soup.
image of Tom Yum Gai by Lorenia via Flickr CC license
This recipe might just be even better than the Mekong version. It actually IS better because when I make it at home I don’t have to drive across town which saves me about stress and expense of about an hour in traffic.
THAI CHICKEN AND COCONUT SOUP (TOM KHA GAI)
makes four generous servings
1 stalk lemongrass (I haven’t been able to find this a my grocery store, so I leave this out.)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium onion, diced small
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon Thai red curry paste (This is the kind I use.)
6 quarter-inch wide slices fresh ginger (or grate an equivalent amount into the broth)
3 kaffir lime leaves (I used grated lime zest from one of the limes)
4 cups chicken stock (homemade is best, or use a box or bouillon)
1/2 pound (or up to a pound) boneless, skinless chicken thighs or breasts, sliced across the grain into 1/8-inch wide strips. You can also use tofu or shrimp.
2 cups shitake mushrooms, stemmed, caps quartered or 1 can 15 oz.straw mushrooms, drained.
1 14-ounce can coconut milk (Don’t use low-fat. Trust me. I tried it.)
Juice of one or two limes (about five tablespoons)
2 tablespoons nam pla (AKA fish sauce, also available in most groceries these days.)
3 green onions, trimmed and sliced into ¼ inch pieces
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
Trim lemongrass, cut into three pieces about four inches long. Whack the pieces with the flat side of your knife blade to crush slightly.
Heat oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat.
Saute onion and garlic for about two minutes.
Add lemongrass, curry paste, ginger discs, and lime leaf (or peel). Cook, stirring, for three minutes.
Add stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes.
Add coconut milk, chopped chicken and quartered mushroom caps (or drained canned straw mushrooms). Cook five minutes, or until chicken is just cooked through.
Add lime juice and nam pla. Taste for balance between nam pla and lime. If one flavor is dominating too much, add a little of the other.
Garnish with green onion and cilantro.
This is the story from the Unfussy Fare website where I found this delicious recipe. I’ll copy it here to save you from clicking through but I’ll also link it to the website for you, too.
This one goes out to everyone who ever brought food when the chips were down. I may have forgotten to write a note, given everything. I’m sure you were busy. It took forethought. You had to find that recipe, get groceries, and cook. Then you had to transport it all, which can be messy. You probably wondered if you’d ever get your Tupperware back. It was good of you.
Years ago, when my mother was dying, people brought food. There were casseroles and brownies, homegrown tomatoes and pots of soup. I was mystified. Did they really think we could eat, at a time like that? Well, yes. They knew we could. Everyone eventually does, inconceivable as it seems. I felt like a traitor, eating while my irrepressible mother was slipping away. But she would’ve rolled her eyes at that sentiment, and reminded me that life is hard enough without my efforts to make it harder.
Years later, my husband and I welcomed a son. Dinner came to our doorstep every night for weeks, courtesy of friends and neighbors. I wept with thankfulness. I wept a lot in those days, but that’s another story. I can still taste those meals, seasoned as they were with naked gratitude. I missed my Mom. I needed help. And help arrived, wrapped in foil and kindness.
Birth and death are demanding. They just swoop right and in and put their feet up, blithely flicking away the orderly unfolding of our days. We are tender and tired as we attend our loved ones at the beginning and the end. We sing and stroke. We wash and feed. The clock ceases to provide useful information. These are the rhythms of lives, not days. In the midst of these marathons of nurture, gifts of food stand in simple relief. Meals arrive like little missives from the world where the clock still applies, like souvenirs of simpler times. It’s hard to remember simpler times when you’re in the thick of life’s seismic upheavals. Food gives strength, and comfort.
A family friend dropped this soup by for me and my stepfather when my mom was sick. We were dazed by the unfolding loss. My memories of that time are foggy, but I recall thinking this soup was the most delicious thing I ever tasted. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to even notice a bowl of soup just then, never mind enjoy it. But I savored every bite. It served to remind me that a world outside of sorrow still existed. Life would be there, with all its flavors and delights, when the time came to gather up the fragments of my broken heart and look forward again.
To this day, the complicated interplay of flavors in Tom Kha Gai puts me in mind of nurture, solace, and motherhood. When I know someone with a new baby, or an illness, or a death in the family, this is the dish I most often bring. I pass it on with thanks, for all the grace and sustenance.
I get a lot of requests for this recipe, which is the true measure of any dish’s popularity, if you ask me. This soup somehow manages to be feisty and harmonious at the same time. It’s interesting enough to impress foodie types, but simple and comforting enough to appeal to less adventurous eaters. (You might need to explain to the aforementioned “less adventurous eaters” that the big stalks of lemongrass and discs of ginger floating around in the soup aren’t meant to be eaten. They’re just adding flavor.) Sometimes I throw in cooked basmati rice at the end. That may be some kind of Thai-food no-no, but I find chicken and rice a soothing combination.
The Tromp Queen COOKS! 