Jicama

Cha gio, which originated in Saigon are among Vietnam’s national dishes. They are often misleadingly translated as spring rolls, because they seem like a riff on the Chinese spring roll, or as imperial rolls, a translation of pâté imperial, their French moniker. But these rolls are not reserved for royalty, nor are they exclusively eaten during the Spring Festival (Chinese New Year). And their filling, wrapper, and accompaniments are uniquely Vietnamese. Out of culinary pride, I encourage people to call these rolls cha gio, their southern Viet name. The rolls are made in varying sizes. Cooks with great manual dexterity create thumb-sized rolls. Lacking such skill and patience, I make stubby cigar-sized ones and cut them up before serving. Larger ones also involve less labor when frying up enough for a special lunch or dinner. Some Vietnamese American cooks use Filipino lumpia or Chinese spring roll wrappers, which are made of wheat flour and fry up crisp, but an authentic flavor is lost. For the best results, use rice paper made of all rice flour or of rice and tapioca flours.

Loaded with beef, crunchy texture, and heady sweet flavors, this specialty of southern Vietnam echoes Chinese mu shu pork and Malaysian and Singaporean poh piah. But instead of rolling the filling in a wheat flour–based wrapper, rice paper is used. Bò bía are traditionally made by street vendors in a to-go format that recalls a Mexican burrito. When we lived in Saigon, my sister Ha and her best friend, Loan, were addicted to the rolls. On the way home from school, my parents or our driver would take them by one of the hawkers strategically positioned on a street corner, hot wok at the ready. Hand rolls and money were exchanged through the car window, with the girls giggling as they dove into their favorite snack. Because we don’t have those wonderful street vendors here, our family makes bò bía at home as a prelude to a big meal or the focus of a light lunch. We set things up at the table for everyone to assemble his or her own rolls. Th is do-it-yourself approach is ideal because these rolls, unlike salad rolls (page 32), can be messy and should be eaten as soon as they are made.

This salad is as crunchy as it is tangy, which makes it the perfect refreshing complement to any Mexican dish. While the salad is very flavorful, it is not overpowering and can offer freshness and texture to a menu. Feel free to omit the cucumber or substitute radish, carrot, or any other hearty vegetable that won’t wilt after being left to marinate in lime juice.

Snacking is as much a Mexican pastime as it is an American one. These snacks, which are sold by street vendors, go great with beer and cocktails. Served as a trio or on their own, they are incredibly addicting!

Cantonese deep-fried sticky rice dumplings can be filled many ways, but there is usually chopped rehydrated shiitake mushroom and a little chopped dried shrimp for savory oomph. With those two ingredients in this vegetable-laden alternative, you won’t miss the meat.

The Cantonese dim sum repertoire would be incomplete without this wonderful contribution from the Chiu Chow, a seafaring people from a region located on the Taiwan Strait. Robustly flavored by briny dried shrimp, this dumpling also tastes light because it’s packed with vegetables, including jicama and shiitake mushrooms, and peanuts. The varied texture of the filling gets rounded out by a touch of pork, though you can use any meat. Because there is lots of chopping involved with the filling, make it a couple days in advance to minimize last-minute pressures. I first enjoyed these nearly twenty years ago in Hong Kong and they instantaneously became one of my favorites. Good renditions were hard to find in the United States, so I began making them myself. Enjoy them alone or with soy sauce and an Asian chile garlic sauce of your choice. If jicama is not available, substitute canned water chestnuts.

Many Chiu Chow people migrated from mainland China to Southeast Asia, particularly to the Malay Peninsula. That is why you will find Chiu Chow dumplings among the hawker street food offerings in places like Penang. Along with the regular version in the preceding recipe, there is usually a vegetarian option. Chai kuih (literally “vegetable cake”) can be flavored with dried shrimp and oyster sauce, or it can be totally vegetarian. I have presented the latter, though you can certainly add the other seasonings if you wish. The mushroom soaking liquid adds savory depth to this jewel-like filling, so remember to save it after rehydrating the shiitakes.

While the concept of sweet-and-sour dishes is generally appealing, the execution often leaves something to be desired. Sweet-and-sour is like a seesaw; if it tilts too far in either direction, you could be thrown off balance, mangling your taste buds in the process. In this recipe I use a very light hand on both sides; the sour is a delicate brown rice vinegar, the sweet a gentle agave nectar. They dance together nicely on the tongue, more like ballet than Irish clogging. For folks who like a crunchy texture or who want to avoid fat, this one’s a winner.

Eggplant with garlic sauce is one of my favorite dishes at Chinese restaurants. This version tastes slightly different because it is not wok-fried; it is much less oily than the traditional version but has a similar sweet/spicy/salty sauce. I like to use sushi rice in this recipe, but any kind of white rice or even parboiled precooked brown rice will work. Use this recipe to make almost anything with garlic sauce—broccoli, tofu, chicken, or whatever you like. Edamame are soybeans. The Japanese traditionally like to munch on these, boiled and salted, as a healthy source of protein. If you aren’t familiar with jicama, try it—it is a light, crunchy, slightly starchy root vegetable. It peels easily with a vegetable peeler and is wonderful raw in salads or as a crudité. If not using jicama, substitute carrots or celery in thin strips or a four-ounce can of sliced bamboo shoots, drained.

Here’s a new twist on chicken salad. Serve this one with baked tortilla chips on lettuce-lined plates, garnished with jalapeño rings.

This streamlined version of a favorite Malaysian street food noodle dish, char kway teow, substitutes Spanish chorizo for the Chinese sausage sometimes used. The smoked paprika that flavors the chorizo may be far from traditional, but it adds another layer of depth to this seductive stir-fry of rice noodles with shrimp, egg, and jicama. There's just enough chile paste for a mild buzz of heat, but not so much that your mouth is on fire. If the jicama seems like a weird Mexican-Malaysian fusion idea, then you probably don't know that jicama is used in Asia, where it's known as Chinese turnip or potato. Its sweet crunch is reminiscent of fresh water chestnuts. Don't expect a supersaucy dish, but rest assured there's enough sauce to coat everything.

Summer at the beach is unthinkable without coleslaw, but sometimes I hanker for something a bit out of the ordinary. I combined napa cabbage, a more delicate cousin to regular cabbage, with crunchy jicama, dressed it with white balsamic vinegar and mayo, and sprinkled on fennel seed to create what has become my new summer fave. This sturdy salad travels with ease, whether you're taking it to the beach or to a summer party with friends. Another plus: you can make it up to 24 hours in advance.

A rich meal calls for a crisp salad, in shades of green and white, to cleanse your palate. Radish sprouts add a peppery bite to the crunchy jicama and flat leaves of parsley and celery.

Fiber-rich jicama is crunchy and refreshing; its texture is similar to an apple's. Sub chef Shaw's salad for classic Waldorf at your next picnic. No mayo means less fat, while chile powder and cheese add major flavor.

Searing the tuna well on the outside but leaving it rare on the inside gives you a lovely contrast between the two textures. That said, if you like your tuna cooked through, the salad will still be delicious.

Juicy pineapple meets creamy avocado, crisp jicama, and red onion in a refreshing salad that goes especially well with the cilantro-chipotle tilapia .

Opposites attract in this colorful alternative to green salad. Ingredients with two completely different textures—juicy clementines and crunchy jicama—marry in a garlicky vinaigrette. With red onion, cilantro, and fresh cheese, each bite is a burst of cool.

For a pretty garnish, sprinkle this light and refreshing salad with hulled, toasted pumpkin seeds.

Ensalada de jícama con melón Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Fonda San Miguel: Thirty Years of Food and Art, by Tom Gilliland, Miguel Ravago, and Virginia B. Wood. For more on Cinco de Mayo, click here. Chef Miguel Ravago also shared some helpful tips exclusively with Epicurious, which we've added at the bottom of the page. Although many fresh condiments in Mexican cuisine are called pico de gallo ("rooster's beak"), this refreshing salad from the Mexican state of Jalisco is known as Pico de Gallo. Depending on the seasonal availability of fresh fruit, Miguel has found that the salad is equally good made with Rio Star grapefruit, pineapple, blood oranges, cantaloupe, watermelon, and honeydew melon. The contrast of sweet fruit, crunchy jícama, tangy lime juice, and a little dash of chili powder makes for a delightful palate cleanser.

Editor's note: The recipe below is part of a healthy and delicious spa menu developed exclusively for Epicurious by Chef Jesús González of La Cocina Que Canta Culinary Center at Rancho La Puerta Fitness Resort and Spa. Jicama is a large root vegetable with light brown skin and a white interior. Also called Mexican potato and yambean root, jicama is native to Mexico and South America and is available in Latin markets and most supermarkets in North America.

Editor's note: The recipe below is excerpted from Cal-a-Vie Living: Gourmet Spa Cuisine and is part of a healthy and delicious spa menu developed exclusively for Epicurious by Cal-a-Vie. This salad was inspired by Chef Dave Armour in 1989 and can be prepared with any lettuce. We like to add hoisin-crusted shrimp to this, just warm enough to wilt the spinach, and, of course, some homemade bread hot out of the oven.