My Cambodia

Introduction

Mom, when you eat this, what do you remember?
Did you learn how to make it from Grandma?
What was Cambodia like back then?
What did you do? Before the war.
And, Mom.
Do things become easier after you have faced death many times?

Phnom Penh, 2012. I’m at a stall, chopsticks and soup spoon in hand, at complete peace, devouring a bowl of kuy teav. This is my third trip to Cambodia, and I’m home. I love the morning mist, the dusty pathway behind the wat that leads to an amazing view of the sunrise, the hues of oranges and purples. I love seeing my relatives, most of whom I met for the first time just a few years ago. It feels like the answers I want in life are waiting for me to stumble upon them: who my parents were before the war, who they became, who I am . . .

And, of course, the food: bright and fresh, herbaceous and light, full of color and textural contrasts, balanced among sweet, tart, and umami. There are two main stars of Khmer cooking that show up everywhere: prahok, the fermented fish paste that gives so many dishes a savory depth of flavor, and kroeung, a paste that can take a few different forms but often includes lemongrass, turmeric, galangal, makrut limes, garlic, and shallots as its base.

Every time I eat anything here, I think, This is just so good, so f***ing good. The prahok ktiss I had the other day—a platter of raw vegetables served with a savory dip of fermented fish paste and pork—so good. This kuy teav, rice noodles dropped into a clear pork broth topped with herbs and a few solid squeezes of lime: so good.

I’m about halfway through the bowl, mid-slurp, when it hits me. This is it. This is it.

I am going to learn how to cook this food.

I need to learn how to cook this food.

My parents miraculously survived the charom created by the Khmer Rouge when the party seized power in Cambodia in 1975, and only then by escaping to a refugee camp in Thailand. That refugee camp was where I was born. We immigrated to the United States in 1984; I was just two years old. And as far back as I can remember, my parents never got along. Their fights carried the weight of a burden I couldn’t put my finger on. At night, they had hushed conversations and sharp arguments. During the day, a mysterious aura enveloped their very beings. I knew they were hiding something. Maybe to protect me and my brothers. Maybe because it was the only way they could move on.

But maybe if I talked to them about our food, maybe they’d open up, even a little bit, about their life before. Maybe through food, we could connect, and I could learn about them and myself—and maybe even help us heal.

And as much as my decision to learn how to cook Khmer dishes was driven by my own personal journey, I knew it wasn’t just going to be about me. With dominant narratives about Cambodia still focused on the war or on the genocide, being able to share my cooking would be an opportunity to help widen that lens and reshape conversations about Cambodia’s past, present, and future. Through food, I could help bring visibility to the Khmer people and shine a light on other aspects of Khmer history and culture, so whether someone was Khmer or not, they could taste and feel and see and hear how lively and beautiful and bright Khmer culture is.

When I set out to learn how to cook Khmer food, I called my mom a lot, asking her how she made her kuy teav, what she put in her somlaw machoo kroeung, and how she cooked other dishes I craved but couldn’t find anywhere. I drove two hours from the Bay Area, where I lived, down to Stockton, where I grew up, to cook with her. I traveled to Cambodia, too, to cook with relatives there. Between that, my own taste memories, and any other source I could find, I slowly taught myself how to make the dishes I grew up with and ones I tasted in Cambodia.

Since then, I’ve been so fortunate to be able to share my cooking with so many people through my pop-ups and my restaurants, Nyum Bai, which closed in 2022, and Lunette Cambodia, in San Francisco—and now, this book. This book in particular is special to me: As I’ve learned and cooked more and more, I’ve come to feel a real urgency to preserve these recipes, as I know them, on paper. Like many cuisines, Khmer recipes and culinary techniques are traditionally passed down orally, from generation to generation. That’s how my mother learned how to cook, and that’s how I learned, too. But not everyone has that opportunity to learn this way, and that’s especially true as history has violently disrupted that tradition. So much simply vanished after the wars, and the more time passes, the more memories fade. It doesn’t help that this cuisine is extremely underrated and way too often overshadowed by, or entirely confused with, the food of its neighbors, including Vietnam and Thailand, even though many Khmer dishes predate the existence of those countries.

And so, this book is a Khmer American celebration of the food I grew up with and the dishes I fell in love with over the years, including kuy teav Phnom Penh and prahok ktiss, of course, plus other fun dishes like green mango salads and stir-fried noodles. In cooking these recipes, I hope you will fall in love with Khmer food and culture, too! I hope it also will be a way for Khmer culture to be remembered and documented, and that in turn will inspire new, joyful creations. And if you want to connect with your parents, grandparents, friends—anyone, really—I hope this book will help you create the space for conversations both loving and difficult.