Cooking Without Borders

371 Pages·2011·5.29 MB·English

by  Anita Lo

“In every mouthful of food lie hints of history
—personal and global. This book is a
collection of those stories and recipes. It
provides a window onto world cuisine from a
contemporary American perspective; it’s also a
portrait of my life as a working chef. I have
always been and remain a chef who cooks.
Most nights of the week I can still be found
behind the line at annisa, expediting, cooking,
and plating: It is where I am most at home.”
—ANITA LO, FROM THE INTRODUCTION

To Anita Lo, all cooking is fusion cooking. Whether it’s her
slow-poached salmon, smoked paprika, spaetzle, and savoy
cabbage from annisa, or the smoked chanterelles with sweet-corn
flan that trumped Mario Batali on Iron Chef America, her food
can always be distinguished by its innovative qualities and strong
multicultural influences. Inspired by the flavors and textures she’s
tasted throughout the world, Anita Lo creates food that breaks
down preconceived notions of what American food is and should
be.
In Cooking Without Borders, Lo’s long-awaited first cookbook,
recipes—including Appetizers, Soups, Salads, Mains, and
Desserts—show home cooks everywhere how easy it is to think
globally and prepare innovative, delicious dishes. Presented by
one of the most in-demand chefs of our time, these recipes
celebrate the best flavors and ingredients from around the world.
And at a time when access to international ingredients is greater
than ever before, Cooking Without Borders provides the
opportunity to enjoy these original elements at every meal.

Introduction
CHAPTER ONE:
THE BASICS
Appetizers
CHAPTER TWO:
CANAPÉS
SOUP
RAW
SALAD
HOT
From the Sea
CHAPTER THREE:
SHELLFISH
FISH
Meat
CHAPTER FOUR:
POULTRY
MEAT
Desserts and Drink
CHAPTER FIVE:
DESSERTS
COCKTAILS
Basic Stocks
Resources
Index
Acknowledgments

In every mouthful of food lie hints of history—personal
and global. This book is a collection of those stories
and recipes. It provides a window onto world cuisine
from a contemporary American perspective; it’s also a
portrait of my life as a working chef. I have always
been and remain a chef who cooks. Most nights of the
week I can still be found behind the line at annisa,
expediting, cooking, and plating: It is where I am most
at home
.
I was brought up in the suburbs of Detroit, Michigan, with parents who had
both emigrated from Asia. My father was from Shanghai and walked out of
China at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. My mother was from
Malaysia; her family was part of a large population of people from the Fujian
province who had immigrated to Kuala Lumpur and who, both linguistically
and nationally, continue to define themselves as Chinese. When she arrived in
the United States, her first stop was Tennessee, where she received her
premed degree. My parents met in San Francisco—she was interning at the
same hospital where my father was a doctor. They both worked long hours as
practicing physicians.
Our household was international. My father died when I was three and I
grew up mostly with my stepfather, who came from Denver, Colorado, but
spent much of his life in New England, teaching at both Harvard and the
Rhode Island School of Design. His extended family had emigrated from
Germany, and my siblings and I were raised on German nursery rhymes and
visits to our tanta ancien in the Fatherland. My parents’ long work hours both
afforded and required the presence of a nanny. Over the years, a variety of
women lived in our home, and brought the tastes of their ancestry with them.
The food smells of the American South, Mexico, and Eastern Europe all
broadened my family’s appetites.
A Hungarian Catholic nun, Sister Elizabeth Angel, stayed with us longest
and had the most influence on me emotionally. She also left her mark
culinarily. Growing up, my favorite meal was her chicken paprikash, a rich
culinarily. Growing up, my favorite meal was her chicken paprikash, a rich
stew made with plenty of fragrant sweet paprika and sour cream and served
with her handmade dumplings.
For me, family time together was defined by our moments at the table,
where my parents shared their heritage through the meals they provided. My
mother would work a full twelve-to fourteen-hour day at the hospital, then
come home and often put five or six dishes on the table for us to eat. She was
a great cook who imparted her love of food to all three of her children. And
like my own cuisine, my mother’s cooking came from all over the planet. She
would labor with the same intensity over crisp Southern fried chicken as she
would over a New England lobster dinner or Malaysian laksa—a spicy
coconut broth made with shrimp paste, lemongrass, and ginger, filled with
noodles.
We were also lucky enough to take family vacations back to China, where
the food tasted familiar because we regularly experienced its flavors in
Michigan. My parents loved foreign travel. As a toddler, I journeyed to
Malaysia and Tokyo. At the age of seven, I was pulled out of school—along
with my brother and sister—for a few months of roaming the world.
Everywhere we went, we had to try the local ingredients and explore the scope
of that country’s cuisine. In Iran, I remember drinking mouth-puckering sour
yogurt, so cold it was crunchy with ice particles. In China, which we visited
pre-Nixon (earning FBI files as a result) my uncles and aunts—my father’s
brothers and their wives—treated us to elaborate banquets. In Belgium, my
sister and I snuck off to get cones of frites between meals of mussels and
stewed rabbit. There were dinners of reindeer in Copenhagen, and a boat trip
in Sweden that had us facing daily smorgasbords filled with Scandinavian
delicacies. The fact that all this tasting took place during my formative years
was a vital building block for the success I’ve found as a chef.
My first solo voyage took place when I was sent to high school in Concord,
Massachusetts. Now, boarding-school food is nothing to write home about,
but trips into Boston and visits to the homes of friends who came from far and
wide allowed me to indulge my appetite and curiosity even further. The first
time I had chilled sake was with a classmate from Japan (no, the school didn’t
allow this; we were nowhere near our parents and having a good time). My
first fresh sugar-snap peas were eaten while staying at a classmate’s home on
Long Island. We ate them raw during an afternoon picnic, with cold fried
chicken; they were chilled, crunchy, and sweet, and when we popped them on
our tongues, a little salt would travel up our noses as we caught whiffs of the