Top 20 Vietnamese Recipes: Pho, Banh Mi, Bowls and Grilled Mains

The broth is everything in pho and its cousins, and clarity is the goal. Start by parboiling the bones for a few minutes, then dumping that first scummy water and rinsing the bones clean — this single step is what separates a clear, golden broth from a cloudy, muddy one. Refill with fresh cold water and simmer, never boil hard, skimming the foam and fat that rise to the top for the first half hour. A rolling boil emulsifies the fat back into the liquid and turns it grey.

Aromatics are charred, not raw. Hold a halved onion and a knob of ginger directly over a flame (or under a broiler) until the cut faces blacken, then rinse off the ash and drop them in — that smoky char is the backbone of pho aroma. Toast the whole spices too: star anise, cinnamon, clove, coriander and fennel, warmed in a dry pan until fragrant, then tied in a cloth or cage so they perfume the pot without scattering. Add them partway through so they do not turn bitter over hours of simmering.

Season the broth last and taste as you go. Fish sauce is the salt; a chunk of rock sugar or a pinch of regular sugar rounds the edges; salt fine-tunes. The broth should taste deeply savory and faintly sweet, clean rather than greasy. Strain it through a fine sieve before serving. Beef pho wants six hours or more for real depth; chicken pho is lighter and quicker, an hour or two — but the moves are the same: parboil, char, simmer gently, skim, and season at the end.

If you learn one thing here, make it nuoc cham — the sweet-sour-salty-hot dipping sauce that dresses bowls, accompanies rolls and seasons grilled meat. The classic ratio is a starting point, not a rule: roughly one part fish sauce, one part lime juice or rice vinegar, one part sugar and three to four parts water, then garlic and chilli to taste. Dissolve the sugar fully — in a little warm water if needed — before the fish sauce and acid go in, or it stays gritty.

Balance by tasting, because limes and fish sauces vary. It should hit your tongue bright and tangy first, then salty, then a gentle sweetness, with the water stretching it into something you can spoon generously rather than a sharp concentrate. Too salty, add water and a squeeze more lime; too sour, a pinch more sugar; flat, more fish sauce. Mince the garlic and chilli fine so they float and cling rather than sinking to the bottom of the bowl.

Adjust the dilution to the job. For a dipping sauce alongside fresh or fried rolls, keep it lighter and looser so it coats without overpowering. For dressing a vermicelli bowl, make it a touch stronger and add shredded pickled carrot and daikon for crunch and tang. The same base, tuned up or down, seasons half the dishes on this page — which is why a good cook keeps the ratio in their head and the bottle of fish sauce within reach.

Rice noodles want gentle handling. The flat banh pho noodles for soup are best soaked in warm water until pliable, then dunked in boiling water for just seconds before they go into the bowl — overcooked, they bloat and turn pasty. For vermicelli (bun), boil briefly, then rinse under cold water and drain well so the strands stay separate and springy rather than clumping into a sticky mass. Cook them just before serving; they firm up and stick as they sit.

Rice paper (banh trang) is the wrapper for fresh summer rolls and, fried, for crispy ones. Dip one sheet at a time in warm water for just a couple of seconds — it should still feel slightly stiff when it comes out, because it keeps softening on the board as you fill it. Soak it limp and it tears and glues to itself. Lay your filling a third of the way up, fold the sides in, tuck and roll tight like a burrito, keeping a lettuce leaf or noodle nest against the paper so sharp herbs do not pierce it.

Herbs are an ingredient, not a garnish. Vietnamese cooking leans on a big, varied pile — mint, cilantro, Thai basil, perilla (tia to), saw-leaf, plus bean sprouts and lime — served raw alongside so each diner builds their own balance. Wash and dry them well, keep them crisp and cold, and add them at the last moment: into the hot soup at the table so they wilt just slightly, or rolled fresh into the cool rolls. The contrast of hot broth or grilled meat against cool, raw herb is the whole point.

Lemongrass is the signature aromatic of the Vietnamese grill. Use only the tender pale lower third of the stalk, bruise it to release the oils, then mince it very fine or blitz it to a paste so it clings to the meat rather than ending up as woody splinters. Combine it with garlic, shallot, fish sauce, a little sugar and oil, and let pork, chicken or beef marinate for at least an hour — overnight is better — so the flavor goes deep and the sugar primes the surface to caramelize.

That sugar is also why technique matters at the grill. Vietnamese marinades are deliberately a little sweet, which gives the gorgeous caramelized char of bun cha or grilled lemongrass pork — but it also burns fast. Grill hot and fast over real heat, in a single uncrowded layer, and watch closely; you want blackened, lacquered edges, not ash. Thin slices and small pieces cook in minutes and take char best. A grill pan or broiler works when an outdoor grill is not an option.

Caramel cooking (kho) is the other defining technique — the savory-sweet braise behind thit kho and claypot dishes. Melt sugar in a little oil or water until it turns a deep amber (just short of burnt, which turns bitter), then carefully add fish sauce and the protein and braise low until tender and glossy with a salty-sweet glaze. Whether grilled or braised, finish Vietnamese mains the same way: a scatter of fresh herbs, a squeeze of lime, sliced chilli, and nuoc cham on the side.