Anything, be it a restaurant, dish, or book, labeled as “Asian” gives me pause. It feels like a reductive, overly simplistic term to encompass a staggering number of cultures. Even with a fair amount of overlap with shared ingredients and techniques, it’s less descriptive than the term “European,” which I daresay no food writer would attempt today.
For all my misgivings, The Vegan Asian Kitchen: 100+ Plant-Based Recipes Inspired by Malaysia, China, Thailand, and Beyond by WoonHeng Chia manages to steer clear of the obvious pitfalls to shine a light on a range of unique, distinctive dishes from the region, proving that a title never tells the full story.
Having grown up in Kuala Lumpur, Ms. Chia’s approach to cooking reflects a lifetime spent navigating the intersections of diverse foodways and traditions. Rather than flattening those influences into a bland, marketable caricature, she embraces their specificity, offering recipes rooted in personal experience while acknowledging the broader tapestry of regional specialties that have shaped her palate.
I began with the Thai Basil Zhua Bing (Flaky Layered Pancakes), page 337, drawn in by the promise of flaky, crisp dough layered with herbs. Being a visual learner, I found the written instructions for shaping the dough difficult to picture at first, and I had to read them more than once before committing to the process. A quick visit to WoonHeng’s blog, however, provided the clarity I needed in the form of step-by-step photographs that made quick work of the procedure. Once pan-seared, the results justified the means entirely. Exteriors blistered into delicate, golden layers that shattered slightly at the edges while remaining tender within, they were fragrant, slightly chewy, and deeply satisfying in a way that needed no accoutrements.
The Sweet and Sour “Fish,” page 117, immediately grabbed my attention, having only ever encountered a version of it at one of my favorite local food trucks, Bodhi Viet Vegan. Here, WoonHeng builds the fish facsimile from a base of blended tofu and oyster mushrooms, wrapped in nori and rice paper, which is then seared, sliced, and seared again before being lacquered in a glossy sweet-and-sour sauce.
Truth be told, I felt like a complete novice as I stumbled through my first attempt. I likely wrapped the rolls too tightly, and during the first sear, the rice paper split in several places. Forget about making clean slices out of that mess. Fortunately, I was able to reshape most of the pieces into reasonably acceptable medallion shapes, which held together better after a light dusting of cornstarch and a final flash in the pan. Finishing the dish with fresh cucumber and tomato added the perfect contrast to the sharp sauce and soft protein. Though not as polished as I’d prefer, I’m still impressed that it’s possible to recreate such a rare delicacy right at home, rather than resorting to a store-bought option.
Loaded with colorful vegetables, chewy glass noodles, and tofu, the Pad Woon Sen (Stir Fried Glass Noodles), page 241, feels instantly familiar, even if you’ve never tried it before. An essential staple on any Thai menu, it’s a case study in balance and simplicity. Savory, salty, spicy, sour, and subtly sweet, I think it would be impossible for even the pickiest of eaters to find fault in the complete package. My only moment of hesitation came when I noticed the recipe called for cubing the tofu while the photo showed short batons, which seemed better suited to intertwining around the glossy, slippery noodles. It’s a tiny detail, though, and one that was quickly forgotten once I took my first bite.
It doesn’t take a trained eye to notice the author’s clear affinity for mushrooms in these pages. Used liberally as everything from a seasoning to meat-replacement, the fittingly named king oyster mushrooms are most commonly tapped for grand centerpieces. I couldn’t resist the idea of dressing up the most humble of fungus, the common white button mushroom, as Kung Pao Button Mushrooms, page 123. Unmistakably bold, sharp with the heat of both acid and spice, each lightly fried little morsel is a whole mouthful. If you’re craving an assertive, umami snack to serve with cold beer, you can’t do much better than this.
Dim sum has always captivated me, especially considering how few restaurants nearby cater to vegan clientele. Lo Bak Gou (Turnip or Radish Cakes), page 163, was one particular small plate I had been circling for quite sometime, always intending to make at home but never quite working up the nerve to try. Cut into neat slabs and crisp edges, gilded with a golden sear, I was certain they were more the work of a professional chef, not a home cook. This recipe proved the opposite. Straightforward, almost disarmingly so, and far more affordable than a comparatively meager order, my fears evaporated along with the steam escaping from the sautéed daikon. I took a small shortcut and crisped the pieces in the air fryer instead of shallow-frying, delivering delicate crusts giving way to creamy interiors, using a fraction of the oil.
Part of what makes The Vegan Asian Kitchen so valuable is its refusal to compromise. Ms. Chia introduces readers to ingredients, techniques, and dishes that remain underrepresented in most English-language vegan cookbooks. By the same token, that commitment can present challenges for those who lack access to well-stocked Asian markets.
The book also contains a wide range of complexity. Many recipes are approachable enough for weeknight cooking, while others demand considerable time, preparation, or technical skill. Rather than viewing this as a flaw, it may be more accurate to see the latter as aspirational, inviting adventurous foodies to expand their repertoires and try something new.
This is definitely a case where you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, unless you’re referring to the mouthwatering photography that hints of more to come. While “Asian” may be an imperfect descriptor, it can still serve as a doorway to stories, techniques, and flavors that deserve a closer look.