Chopt Travels

  Chopt's salad specialists travel the world in search of faraway flavors, re-imagining the tastes of destinations like Oaxaca, Madrid, and Tokyo as creative salad combinations and small-batch artisanal dressings. The #ChoptTravels blog invites you to come along as we explore the globe's most craveable seasonal ingredients, best local farmer's markets, and most innovative neighborhood specialists. These are the people and places that inspire our chefs to take your lunch to places it has never gone before.   

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A Parmigiano Steam Bath

Location: Castelnovo Sotto, Italy

While count ourselves amongst the world’s most passionate lovers of the salty, crystalline, cheesy wonder that is Parmesan, we must admit, we didn’t really know much about how it was made until we found ourselves in a dairy steam bath just outside of Parma. Stepping inside Latteria La Grande in Castelnovo Sotto was in instantaneous education. Our trusty guide, Anne, would show us how the cheese is made from milk to wheel. 

Latteria La Grande is a coop, where milk from surrounding farms is sent to be made into D.O.P. Parmegiano Regianno. That label is highly protected, and designates that the cheese has come from this very particular area in Northern Italy. We can all conjure the image of the brail-like writing on the rind of a nice hunk of parm, but did you know that was the in effect, the cheese’s birth certificate? It tells those in the know where the milk came from, where the cheese was made, and  what grade it received from the Parmesan experts. 

The factory is dense with steamy fog, billowing off copper cauldrons of fresh, local milk. Cheesemakers whisk and mix the milk, adding whey to cause the milk to curdle. Those curdle are allowed settle on the bottom of the conical copper vats, into a piece of cheesecloth. The solids are lifted up, a task requiring Olympic strength, already in bound together in one solid form. That form is cut in half with an impressive knife, and then the cheese is pressed into spring form molds. At this point, we just have a soft cheese, but after about a month submerged entirely in a bath of salty brine, the moisture is drawn from the wheel, and it is ready for aging. 

Skipping the halls of the Latteria is a pleasure we can only hope you someday come to know for yourself. Rows and rows of delicious cheese from floor to celling, and a scent that actually reminds one more of blue cheese than parmesan. Anne shows us how each wheel is tested after one year of aging, knocking on one with a tiny brass hammer. She listens, perching her ear close to the majestic wheel. She can hear the density of the cheese, how consistent the texture is, and can predict how much time it needs to age. And finally, we have a chance to taste the cheese at its various stages of aging, from one year to three years. We notice the increase in crystals and complexity over time. And of course, we buy a hunk of each one. 

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A Visit To A Four Generation Old Acetaia

Location: Modena, Italy

Leonardi Balsamic Vinegar, founded in 1871, is one of the largest producers making D.O.P. balsamic vinegar in the Emilia Romagna region of Northern Italy. When I arrived, it was early Fall, and the Lambrusco and Trebbiano grapes were long gone from the vines. We felt the changing of the seasons, a crucial aspect of the life of vinegar. In Modena, humid, hot summers, great for fermentation, are followed by cold winters, a time when the vinegar cultures get some much needed dormancy. Vinegar is placed in barrels and stored in the attic, windows open to the elements, welcoming that shock in temperature come winter. 

Leonardi is a closed loop system -- the grapes are grown here, and pressed immediately. Unlike wine, the skins are not used in the making of vinegar, but there are more than enough people in this area willing to take the skins of their hands. The skins are used to make the Italian liquor grappa. Unlike wine, the barrels are never changed out, but passed down to the next generation as a priceless heirloom. The older the barrel the better. As we walk down the dark aisles of mysterious vinegar production, we see labels that reach back to the 17th century. The barrels ooze with sticky black sweetness, arranged in a particular sequence of diminishing size, and varying wood varietals. This set is called a “battery,” and it is definitive of the balsamic process. As the vinegar reduces each year, and is transferred slowly from the largest barrel down to the smallest, to be topped off with fresh grape must from the newest harvest, and bottled at the end of the line. 

The process is one that connects generations. A bottle of vinegar will have been started by grandpa, and bottled by grandchild. This is a four generation old business, a living breathing practice that defines this place, and its people. 

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Jessica Wang’s Underground Pickle Club

Location: Pasadena, CA

Californians love a good pickle. From the Jewish delis on Fairfax to all the hipster bowls, there is rarely a dish that is served without the pop of a little fermentation or a vinegary brine. As we visited every specialty food shop and salad destination in L.A., we realized we were missing a little hands-on instruction in the realm of fermentation.

I met Jessica while she was behind the register at my favorite Highland Park market, Cookbook. Jessica Wang is a grocer by day and an underground fermentation enthusiast by night. She was trained as a pastry chef, working in restaurants and running her own side business selling homemade hand pies filled with delightful things like fresh coconut meat and homemade guava paste. But all those sweets were taking their toll on her health, so she pivoted to focus on the world of living foods, from home-brewed kombucha to kimchi.

Jessica rang me up for an eclectic selection of kimchis and other pickled delights. Within five minutes of chatting, she’d invited me to her Pasadena kitchen, where I later would taste a rainbow of fermented items stacked like Jenga in her fridge. The smell upon opening her front door was like home. Not my home, per se, but like my fantasy version home. There was a pot of Thai oxtail soup on the stove, chili pods and cardamom simmering on the surface. The contents of the galley kitchen spilled forth into the living room, stacked with vintage cookware from Jessica’s now defunct Etsy shop, and The Art of Fermentation lay open next to her bed.

Working at a specialty food shop with A+ produce means Jessica has unfettered access to ingredients like yuzu (a floral Japanese citrus), and local nori. A friend had recently gifted Jessica a few yacon, a Peruvian root vegetable that pretends to be a potato, but actually tastes more like sweet and crunchy Asian pear. Somehow, even after traveling to Peru twice, I had yet to encounter this mysterious vegetable. Jessica tells me it's a relative of the Jerusalem artichoke, with a very similar bite but with added sweetness. It’s an Asian pear masquerading as a tuber.

I watched as she turned this trinity of exotic ingredients into a simple ferment. She walked me step-by-step through a process that took no more than 15 minutes. The recipe is a basic one that relies on a formula of 2.5 percent salt to whatever the weight of the vegetable you are fermenting. So, can't find yacon? No problem! Just grab some Asian pear or jicama, and follow the steps below.

To find out more about Jessica's underground pickle subscription service and hand pies, contact her at @piquenique_la.

Yacon Yuzu Nori Chili Pickle

INGREDIENTS

920 grams (about 2 pounds) yacon (substitute with jicama, Asian pear or sunchokes)

23 grams sea salt, or 2.5 percent of the weight of yacon

1 yuzu

3 grams natural nori seaweed (or other thin variety of seaweed)

2–3 dried whole red chilies

PREPARATION

Have a clean 1½-quart fermenter jar ready.

Clean yacon and yuzu under running water, with a gentle brush if necessary. Dry with a clean towel.

Cut yacon lengthwise into quarters. Slice thinly crosswise, into ¼-inch thick fans. Use a mandolin if you have one! Toss by hand with salt in a large bowl.

Peel strips of yuzu rind with a vegetable peeler.

Break up seaweed into small bits by hand, or cut into thin slivers with scissors. The volume of seaweed you should end up with is about ¼ cup loosely packed.

Add yuzu peel, seaweed and dried chili to yacon and salt mixture and toss gently, then pack into jar. Put a weight directly on top of the vegetables to submerge them in the brine created by the yacon and sea salt. Seal jar and keep in a dark cool place (around 75°) for 6 days. Taste, and if it's tart enough to your liking, transfer the pickles to your refrigerator to slow the fermentation and enjoy the crunchy citrusy briny treat.

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The Classic Salads of Los Angeles

 Location: Los Angeles, CA

Every year, we venture West on the hunt for inspiration and direction for our favorite destination menu—California. We consider California the birthplace of the “salad as a meal”—a bountiful and colorful one characterized by a parade of texture and flavor. As we take a closer look at the legacy of the city’s most enduring salads, it occurs to us, this is a place where exhibitonism and health food collide. Tossing and chopping have always been treated as a tableside spectacle in this part of the country. While we usually adventure to seek out the newest and most cutting edge in salad land, this time, we embark on a roots trip to uncover the history of the California salad. Let’s take one glance back before venturing forth into the fabulous salads of our time.

I turned to Chopt founder and trusted travel buddy Tony Shure to compose our itinerary. Admittedly, I rarely venture west of Los Feliz, so scanning his list of must-see salads was like embarking on a trip to a foreign land. La Scala, the Beverly Hills Hotel, Lawry’s Prime Rib, the Ivy, and Peppone’s—I had heard rumors of these timeless spots but had yet to uncover the secrets to their enduring success.

Lawry’s Prime Rib

As its name suggests, Lawry’s is a carnivore’s heaven, serving up bloody beef since the 1930s. You know Lawry’s seasoned salt as a household name, but did you know it all began with a special occasion restaurant? Housed in a classic dining room with murals, chandeliers and tableside carts manned by chefs in white jackets and towering toques, salad might be the last thing on your mind when you slide into a puffy leather booth. But wait for your server, dressed in camel-colored uniforms with oversize starched collars and whites, bows in the back, and she will undoubtedly offer you the house salad, served tableside of course. The roughly chopped ingredients are already combined in a metal mixing bowl, set inside another bowl filled with ice. With a flick of the wrist, the bowl is set to spin in a centrifugal whirl. The dressing is added with flair, gravy boat raised high up overhead, drizzling into a vortex of greens. It’s good fun, finished with a mandatory sprinkle of seasoned Lawry’s salt and pepper. Feel free to follow our example, and wash that Lawry’s salad down with a salad pizza from Jon & Vinny’s up the road.

The McCarthy Salad at the Polo Lounge

Of all the Los Angeles tourist destinations, the Beverly Hills Hotel lives up to the hype. The iconic palm frond wallpaper, the pink and white striped awnings, the Teslas and Bentleys parked out front, it’s everything you want it to be and more. Whether or not you choose to foot the hefty price tag for accomodations, the Beverly Hills Hotel Polo Lounge is open to the public. But don’t come looking for a hot deal here, either—their famous McCarthy salad has a $40 price tag!

The salad first appeared on the menu in the 1940s as a tribute to a regular customer, an entertainment lawyer and polo player named Neil McCarthy. By today’s standards, the ingredients seem basic: Beet, egg, bacon, romaine, chicken, tomato, cheddar cheese and avocado. But, it was the groundbreaking presentation that made history. Remember, in Hollywood, presentation is everything. The ingredients are minced into remarkably uniform bits, presented in neat piles in an extra-deep bowl, leaving extra space to dress and toss your salad to your liking in a thick balsamic vinegar, always served on the side.

La Scala

When it comes to beloved chopped salads, all roads lead to the salad at Beverly Hills’s La Scala restaurant. This is a place to see and be seen, and has been since it was first opened by Jean Leon in 1956. The menu at a place like La Scala doesn’t change, that would defeat the point. Devotees count on their ability to order the very same thing over and over again: The Leon chopped salad with tuna, or just the classic mix of lettuce, salami, mozzarella cheese and marinated garbanzo beans. That’s all fine and delicious, but it’s the Leon dressing, always served on the side, that makes this throwback salad surprisingly cravable. The reason why this dish was originally minced to the point of being spoonable? Leon claims to have been doing his well-dressed Hollywood clientele a service, alleviating their stress around eating unruly greens and splattering their fancy clothes. La Scala still serves about 400 chopped salads a day, although the tuxedos and ball gowns are few and far between.

Peppone’s

Los Angeles loves a red sauce joint. Red leather upholstery, stained glass lamps, heavy wooden bars and servers with old-world charm. Putting out feelers for just the right dimly lit booth for dinner, we were tipped off to a place called Peppone’s in Brentwood. This is the kind of place where the waiters have been working there for longer than I have been alive. Peppone’s has stayed true to the tableside presentation of salads past, but unlike Lawry’s, this continues to serve as a real neighborhood joint, not a once in a lifetime salad experience. Peppone’s attracts and keeps its regulars, people looking for comfort food, cozy seating and a bartender who knows their name.

The menu is full of chopped salads, but all of them seem to shuffle the same core ingredients in a slight variation. Once again, we were greeted with a cart full of greenery and dressings, the ingredients tossed with flair. We were sad to learn that the tableside Caesar dressing came premade, but apparently, health codes had made it impossible for them to legally handle raw egg in the restaurant dining room. Sad as that was, a big martini and a hefty plate of salad did not disappoint.

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The Secrets Gardens of Los Angeles’ Chinatown Location: Los Angeles

Los Angeles’s Chinatown is a sleepy pocket of walkable streets nestled in the shadows of the ever-evolving downtown L.A. There is a mix of old and new, art galleries share walls with Chinese trinket shops, and family portrait studios using trompe l'oeil backdrops are neighbors to minimalist design agencies. On the secluded walk-street called Chung King Road, there sits a slender, gray-haired lady who keeps a strict 9-to-5 schedule, stationed at a low red plastic stool in the center of the road underneath the floating paper lanterns. She silently monitors the minimal traffic flow as artsy types visit galleries and stark cafés and the older Chinese residents take smoke breaks in the restaurant alleys.

One arrives here via the Hill Street exit off the 110 freeway, where an incongruous patch of vibrant greenery runs along the chain-link fence. This is a plot of forgotten land, a pedestrian moment in an otherwise vehicle-bound city. I noticed this secret wild stretch years ago, when I stumbled upon a couple of older Chinese women with straw hats and gloves tending to a guerilla garden. With 5-gallon soy sauce containers as water buckets, the ladies were mounding earth around their greens and propping up their spiky leeks. They were growing vibrant rainbow chard, and training sweet peas to climb the only barrier between the sidewalk and the highway itself. Yes, one could raise concerns about the health of the soil in this particular spot, but their ingenuity and resourcefulness stole my heart. And suddenly, a walk around this urban neighborhood became an edible plant tour, with parking lots raising mustard greens in cinder blocks, and apartment building lawns giving way to rogue salad.

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The Secret to Mister Jiu’s Char Siu BBQ Pork

Location: San Francisco

Mr. Jiu’s is not your typical Chinese restaurant. Walking down the streets of San Francisco’s Chinatown, you can’t pass by the giant picture window with a view of the buzzing pastry kitchen without poking your head (and nose) inside. As I roll up, the sight of black squid ink dumplings being pinched and the restaurant’s famous char siu pork buns getting filled with bright-red seasoned pork belly beckon me in. Inside, pastry chef Melissa Chou is reimagining the very image of what a Chinese pastry can be. She tells me, “I constantly google ‘Chinese desserts,’ in the hopes that I will find something new, but there really isn’t much. That gives me a lot of freedom.” This place would be nothing without precisely that freedom, an experimental ethos that drives both Melissa and executive chef Brandon Jew (aka Mr. Jiu).

The two met in the kitchen at nearby Quince, where the chef often teased Brandon by saying he would one day open a “Chitalian” restaurant. Drawing from his Chinese heritage and experience cooking in Bolognese kitchens, he pretty much went ahead and did just that—and it really, really works. But neither Brandon nor Melissa grew up cooking their ancestral cuisine. Brandon tells me, “When you immerse yourself into a cuisine, you’re learning cultural traditions, why people have paired certain ingredients together for as long as they have. At some point, I just wanted to know those same things in my own culture. That curiosity propelled me to go to Shanghai.” Mr. Jiu’s is the result of a respect and fascination for traditional Chinese food but with a healthy distance. This relationship extends beyond the plate and into the dining room decor: The sleek, modern design interior is punctuated by the original lotus flower chandeliers that adorned the former Chinese banquet hall, rehabilitated and brought back to life. It’s a touch that seems to say it all.

Back in the kitchen, we are here to learn how the famous Mr. Jiu’s char siu is made. There is no denying that this is the best version of the dish in town, it’s their top seller, “since forever,” says pastry sous-chef Kelly Teramoto. Char siu is a traditional Cantonese dish of red glazed barbecued pork, most commonly served in pork buns or with egg noodles. But why is it red? And how do they achieve that addictive flavor? Brandon sets a jar of his secret sauce on the counter, giving it all away in an instant: Red rice inoculated with koji and fermented tofu. It’s a product he picked up in Taiwan, but one he hopes to start to make in-house. This is where the sweet and salty flavor comes from, and most of the color, too, though sadly, the average char siu is augmented with red food dye. Not here though—Brandon adds beet to the mix, for a natural magenta hue.

With the char siu filling holding down the traditional end of the spectrum, Melissa would add a signature twist. She recalls a very special pork bun she ate in Hong Kong, one with a mysterious crunchy topping. It reminds her of the classic San Francisco “Dutch crunch,” a sweet crispy layer found on the city’s most coveted sandwich breads. A salad eater more than a sandwich eater, I had never heard of this technique for adding a layer of sweet and texture to crust, but a quick scan of the Internet reveals the reverence that this city has for this technique.

I watch as Melissa rolls rice flour paste wafer thin. She tucks some savory pork floss right into the Dutch crunch, adding flavor and additional color to the mix. She pops it in the freezer to set, slices it into squares, anointing the little buns with one square each.

In the heat of the oven, the topping melts and crystallizes. We slice one open, steam spills out of the doughy interior cavity, where that char siu is cooked to perfection.

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The Zuni Cafe Caesar Salad

Location: San Francisco, CA

Take it from the experts: not all Caesars are created equal. We take a particular pleasure in finding the very best when it comes to inspiration. While our Spicy Sonoma Caesar is an innovation on what is arguably the world’s favorite salad, we wanted to revisit the platonic ideal of what is for us, a sacred dish -- the Caesar at San Francisco’s Zuni Cafe. The culinary world has considered this the very best example of a Caesar since the early ‘80s. It was one of three items on the menu when they opened in 1979, and it continues to be a best-seller.

Snooping in Zuni’s open, sunny kitchen, we got an inside look at the flicks of the wrist and the pinch-of-this-and-dash-of-that that make this salad an all-star. The set up is the best part. Metal mixing bowls hang from the ceiling at arm’s length. The saladière mixes a rich, anchovy based dressing in a stainless steel mixing bowl, frothing it up with a whisk. Crunchy, perfectly shaped romaine spears are added and tossed with a delicate hand until they glisten. A handful of evenly browned and uniform croutons are added to a smaller metal bowl, bathed in their own scoop of the same dressing, and left to sit for as long as it takes to plate the romaine, which happens to be the exact right amount of time for the crumb to soften and the flavor to permeate, without a hint of mushiness. The Lettuce is seasoned with fresh black pepper and kosher salt, and slid over onto the plate. The croutons are added, and fresh parmesan grated delicately on top. Keep your eye on the kitchen, and you’ll notice, the salad station never stops. One after another, they keep coming all day and all night, forevermore.

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Tra Que Organic Farm 

Location: Hoi An, Vietnam

By Chopt Creative Director Julia Sherman

I like to describe my own gardening style as rogue, improvised, carefree. Historically, I have taken great pride in that loosey-goosey approach, that was before I visited the Tra Que organic farms outside of Hoi An.

Tra Que is a small farming community village 3km north of Hoi An’s Old Town. The village cultivates over 20 different varieties of herbs alone including basil, knotweed, Vietnamese mint, coriander, perilla, rau ram and more. Those piles of fresh herbs that are served with every meal have to come from somewhere! The scientifically placed rows of chives, herbs and mystery salad greens are so meticulously arranged, it’s hard to imagine they were put there by human hands, using organic farming techniques, no less. 

Touring by bike, we cruised through the succession of thriving plots, strategically built between the De Vong River and the Tra Que alga pond. This specific location creates especially rich soil and great access to water. The farmers don’t use chemical or fertilizers, instead they source algae from the lagoon, taking great pride in their completely organic and safe farming techniques. Tourists can sign up for organized tours of the farm, and even take cooking classes at the nearby Watermill restaurant, or, just rent a bike and cruise on through. 

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Rose: Dumplings: The Street Food Of Your Dreams 

Location: Hoi An, Vietnam

We did it. We found the perfect street food. 

There is a dumpling that far surpasses all the rest. It is chewy, and light, fragrant and bit-sized. It is the Vietnamese rose dumpling, made with chewy tapioca and rice noodle skin, filled with shrimp or fresh bean paste. They are topped with toasted crispy garlic and served with a dipping sauce made from flavorful shrimp broth, hot chilies, lemon, and sugar. They are so elegant, it’s hard to imagine they are being served on the street corner fora dollar a serving. 

In the open air markets of central Vietnam, dense clusters of women squat on low stools, singularly focused on the tiny bowls cradled in their palms. Look for a large metal pot in the center of these parties, that’s always a good sign. And try them all, each vendor we patronized had their twist, their own variation on the filling, the chile sauce, even the shape of the dumplings themselves. It’s a wonderful world out there, start eating! 

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Cooking Like A Local in Central Vietnam

Location: Hoi An, Vietnam

by Chopt Creative Director, Julia Sherman

The trip I took to Vietnam this last year was not my first to that country. I already knew that the beauty of this place lies not in its colonial pockets, or fancy hotels. To the contrary, Vietnam is in it’s most raw and unfinished state, when the buildings are constructed from cinder block and cheap tile, when serving ware is plastic and lighting fluorescent. Despite my first-hand experience, I allowed myself to be swayed by the romantic leanings of fellow travelers, convinced that I could not visit twice without seeing Hoi An, a postcolonial riverside town, packed to the brim with tourists, notable for its pastel, ornate architecture, lantern-lit cobblestone streets, and riverside views.

I reserved a tiny guest house outside of town, wary of the congested tourist center. One morning spent in the old part of town, surrounded by nervous travelers and tailoring shops, and we were forever grateful for our sanctuary beyond the fray. We were greeted at the end of an impossibly narrow dirt road by Min, a slender young woman in skinny jeans with a beaming smile. She was genuinely excited to see us (she was avidly practicing her English and eager to converse). We were her only guests, so when we mentioned our focus on food, she was all ideas. Sure, there is the central Hoi An market, but what about the tiny locals-only market on this side of town? That one was surely not in the guidebooks. I pressed my luck and asked if maybe we could shop together and cook lunch with Min and her friends at the simple, open air guest house. At first she laughed at the idea, but when we insisted that we would in fact prefer this to the English menus in town, she conceded happily. As soon as we could drop our bags, we were en route to the market.

Vietnamese markets are densely packed, with action simmering at the street level, bubbling up all the way to the rafters of their vinyl sided structures. Min shuttled us through, describing the taste of this bushy green vegetable, unlabeled bottles of colorful homemade soymilk and mysterious cakes of green jelly. We bought shrimp, beef, long, slender green onions, and a mélange of fresh herbs. Back at the ranch, the simple kitchen had already started to buzz. Min and her two friends pan fried the shrimp and sent us outside to roll individual shrimp bites – each of them bundled with herbs, bound together with one long green onion tied in a bow. These would be served with some chile sauce, so simple, and so good.

Next, ground spiced beef is rolled into slender, cigar-shaped flutes, using a dry, paper-thin, wonton wrappers. Tight little packages were pan-fried until golden brown and crispy. They mountain of morning glory greens dumped into a hot pan with sizzling oil, and cooked just until they turn glossy and emerald green. We eat the meal sitting on the floor on the outdoor patio, Min and her friends laughing at how excited we are by this simple meal.  

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Paradise at the Southern Tip of Vietnam

Location: Phu Quoc, Vietnam

It’s no secret, we travel to eat. But sometimes, we also take advantage of incredible beaches and the heavenly climate too. We began our trip to Vietnam in the congested and chaotic city of Saigon, but we soon diverted to the southern most tip of the country, to a magical island called Phu Quoc. Here, the palm trees curve off the white sand beaches towards the turquoise water. The roofs are thatched, the fruit and vegetables exotic, and the vibe is laid back. 

 The coast of the island is a destination for resort life, but in the interior of the island, there is an incredible concentration of bustling produce and fish markets. The inner and outer rings of this tiny island could not be held in greater contrast. So when we tired of sunsets and sipping coconuts, we ventured into the open air market, which was anything but tranquil. 

We grapevined through the scooters and dense corners of women wearing mismatched, psychedelically printed pajamas, squatting on neon plastic stools. Some were selling shimmering fresh fish, others peeling mystery vegetables into impossibly thin ribbons, using only the most crude kitchen tools to great effect. We purchased raw anchovies, filleted and laid flat (a local delicacy), and clustered vines of fresh green peppercorns, another specialty from this island. They were floral, intense and the kind of thing you just want to add to every and any dish, forevermore. We shopped till we dropped, and brought our bounty back to the kitchen to make fresh coconut rice cakes, herb chicken salad, and topped those fresh anchovy fillets with tons of herbs, dried coconut and toasty peanuts. 

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Spear Fishing off the Coast of Vietnam

Location: Phu Quoc, Vietnam

There are a few activities in this world that I really feel I was born to do, but uni spear-fishing is one of them. On my recent trip to the Vietnamese island of Phu Quoc with Chopt’s Executive Chef Aneesha Hargrave, we had the chance to realize our full potential in the hunter-gatherer realm. Using nothing more than a long wooden stick with a crude metal spike fastened to its tip, we set out to fill our dingy with as many spiny crustaceans as it would hold.

Compared to traditional line fishing, uni hunting is a breeze; if you can swim, glory in the the open water is yours for the taking. Cuong Pham, the owner of Red Boat Fish Sauce, served as our trusty captain, along with a couple of his childhood buddies who came along for the ride. These guys were no strangers to this kind of lo-fi, high-reward adventure. We zipped out into the bay, whose depths were surprisingly shallow and crystal clear -- perfect for the task at hand. Following their lead, I suctioned my goggles to my face, stuffed my feet into a set of rubber flippers, and descended into the perfectly temperate waters. These lazy living pincushions move very, very slowly along the ocean floor, so if you spot one lurking in the shadows of  a coral formation, it’s yours. Wielding a spear that is less Poseidon more enormous fish fork, we bobbed above our prey, plunging metal prongs into the center of each shell. I must have caught 30 of them myself.

As the sun began to set, we returned to shore to prepare and enjoy our catch. With thick rubber gloves as armor, we watched as our hosts trimmed the spines with rugged shears, cracking the shells to reveal delicate little orange gonads. Yes, the coveted, orange uni flesh is nothing more than the animal’s reproductive system, but I suppose it’s best not to dwell on that. They popped open the shells and laid them open-faced onto a smoldering charcoal grill. Once cooked, we drizzled a bit of fish sauce inside, and administered a healthy garnish of crushed peanuts, fish sauce and freshly sliced green onion to each one. Catch it yourself, and it just tastes better. We’re not afraid to adventure for our food, and work for it either.

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Love for the Single Dish Restaurant: Focus, Efficiency, and Insanely Delicious Food 

Location: Danang, Vietnam

While exploring the central coast of Vietnam, we ate our way through the small town of Danang and its surrounding area. This region of Vietnam is packed with our very favorite type of restaurant: the kind that only serves one dish. There’s focus here, whether it’s at a food cart selling bánh mì or a restaurant serving up bowl after bowl of pho, when a restaurant only offers one dish, they tend to do it right. We lingered at the cart that just shredded, chopped and served coconut meat, and encamped with the lady selling delicate “rose” dumplings from a mobile steamer. But our absolute favorites were spots for Hainan chicken and rice, a typical lunch, and a back-alley dining hall serving crispy banh xeo, made on what can only be described as a ring of fire.

The restaurants in Hoi An are jewel-box-sized and often painted in vibrant colors, amplified by the light from bare fluorescent bulbs. We are on a mission to lunch like locals, trying to move through the tourist crowd in this riverside town. We see a Vietnamese groom and his red satin bedecked bride duck into a turquoise room advertising “Cao Lau,” or “Hainan Chicken and Rice,” the dish we are after. Naturally, we follow suit. The place was simply called Cao Lau PHÚC, and the kitchen is indistinguishable from the dining room, which seems to flow into a bedroom just barely hidden from view. Sitting amid the large plastic bowls of the mise en place, the chef could hardly pick herbs fast enough to meet the demand—always a good sign.

This dish originally hails from the Hainan islands off the coast of China, brought to Singapore and Vietnam by immigrants. The recipes and variations multiplied with the diaspora, but the defining feature of Hainan chicken and rice remains the same: The chicken is poached, and its broth and rendered fat are used to cook the rice. Sometimes, the leftover stock from one batch is used to poach the next chicken, concentrating the flavor over and over again. The broth is served on the side, with a few aromatics tossed in. The chicken is cut-up, skin and all, tossed with sliced white onion and herbs, and served beside that flavorful rice. With a little pile of shredded green papaya on the side and a side of chile sauce, you’ve got a meal worthy of your wedding day.

From Hoi An we head to Danang to find the crispy rice crepe of a lifetime. The drive begins with charm and cobblestone streets, but soon the setting morphs into flashy casinos and nightclubs that seem as though they sprang from the ground overnight. Deeper into the heart of Danang, smaller, squirrely streets house some of the best food in the country. Tonight’s reward lies at the end of an alley crammed with stalls selling packaged beef and pork jerky shredded, flossed and in flat sheets—some sweet, some salty, some covered in a thick layer of chile, some made for snacking and others for adding to soups and salads. We stumble upon a sign that reads “Bánh Xèo Bà Dưỡng,” filled with families and tables of young people drinking beer, all eating the very same thing: banh xeo, a rice flour crepe, filled with seafood and bean sprouts.

At Bánh Xèo Bà Dưỡng, there is no menu. Claim a plastic stool at one of the stainless steel work tables throughout the stark bright space and food comes shuttling toward you, piled high on trays. First, a plate with some kind of beef and pork kabob, a mountain of herbs, shredded papaya salad. Dry, almost plasticy rice paper wrappers and a bowl of water follow suite. We take a queue from our neighbors and re-hydrate them one at a time to make our own delicate fresh rolls. The banh xeo comes next, crispy on the edges, yellow from just a dash of turmeric. It’s piping hot.

The open kitchen is in a tizzy, with slicing, dicing, plating and drama. A horseshoe-shaped stovetop encircles a crew of women, heads wrapped in bandanas, pouring batter into molded cast-iron banh xeo pans. Flames flare up every time they approach with a ladle full of rice batter speckled with seafood. It’s sensational and theatrical, and it’s hard to imagine the stamina required to do this all night long. The meal, paired with ice cold Vietnamese beer, is a generous balance of herbs and fresh veggies, charred meat and those decadent crepes. The kitchen hums in the background, and customers beam as they get exactly what they came for, making a communal activity out of crafting the perfect bite, over and over again. Sitting at industrial tables, there is an unspoken sense of camaraderie in knowing that everyone around you is eating the same exact meal. This is a restaurateurs dream, an operation that promises to deliver the very best version of their namesake dish, day after day, to a constant flow of happy, well fed customers (myself included).

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Fish Sauce: The Heart of Vietnamese Cuisine

Location: Phu Quoc, Vietnam

If you love Southeast Asian food, you most likely know the wonders of fish sauce. It’s the umami-packed, savory heart of most dressings and sauces in that part of the world. Whether it is immediately detectable to the consumer or not, it’s the secret ingredient that defines the best Vietnamese dishes. When we found out that the location where most fish sauce is made is a tropical island with stunning beaches and bountiful open-air markets, it suddenly became critical that we go to the source. In preparation for a round of Vietnamese destination specials, Chopt’s chef Aneesha Hargrave, illustrator extraordinaire Joana Avillez and I flew 20-plus hours to the island of Phu Quoc to visit our friends at Red Boat fish sauce and get a handle on their stinky, delicious production.

Google the island of Phu Quoc and the image results define your notion of paradise: white sand, bright blue water, palm trees—the whole kit and kaboodle. The island is so far south and remote, the tourist industry is only just beginning to burgeon, with resorts dotted along the coastline, some with beach shacks, and others taking design inspiration from Disneyland. Fishing has always been the leading industry here, specifically black anchovies used to make fish sauce and it’s Chopt’s source for fish sauce in all our restaurants. Turquoise and red wooden boats sail four hours out into the sea by moonlight, finally anchoring in the wee hours of the morning. They release a net into the water and haul tons (literally) of anchovies onto the deck of the boat. Chef Aneesha went along for the grueling, all-night adventure, without so much as a place to rest or sit on board. She captured swarms of metallic, glimmering fish dramatically lit by floodlights in the pitch black night and experienced the rush to toss them with sea salt and preserve their peak freshness on the long trip back to shore.

Once at the factory, we got the play-by-play from Red Boat’s founder, Cuong Pham. The process is reassuringly straightforward: 14 tons of the heavily salted fish are transferred to traditional wooden barrels, which are 10 feet tall and outfitted with a spout at the bottom. Each one produces 3,000 litres of fish sauce. They are simply left to ferment for a year, ultimately turning to liquid. The heavy salting encourages the process of lactic acid fermentation, and results in a light brown, tasty liquid that is clean and clear, the color of an amber brewed tea. It’s as simple as that, no preservatives or additives necessary, the same recipe for centuries past, and—hopefully—generations to come.

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El Guero: Chocolate Clams and a Flat Bed Full of Hot Sauce

Location: Ensenada, Mexico

Just down the street from La Guerrerense, is another fresh seafood cart that specializes in fresh ceviche and raw shellfish called El Guero. With fewer bells and whistles, and an emphasis on simple, straight forward seafood, you won’t find a bevy of homemade sauces here. Instead, there’s a pick up truck parked in front of the stand with a flatbed that doubles as a hot sauce trolley (I know, why didn’t we think of that?). 

You might be wondering whether or not it is wise to eat raw seafood from a street cart, and your hesitation is just. But, this is an exception. Just steps away from the All Saints Bay, the shellfish could not be any fresher. Look closely, and you’ll notice that pile of clams is squirming and very much alive. The little red feet of the chocolate clams peak out of their shells. These are served with nothing more than a generous dose of fresh lime juice. Feeling adventurous? Order a couple of blood clams. They are less briny than a littleneck clam, super rich and incredible to behold. 

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Say It Three Times Real Fast, and Lick Your Lips: La Guerrerense

Location: Ensenada, Mexico

In our opinion, making delicious food is as simple as finding the right combination of fresh ingredients to pair with tasty, spicy, innovative sauces. La Guerrerense tostada stand in the heart of Ensenada gets that equation right every time. We should know, we only ate there five times in three days. 

The cart is the brainchild of Sabina Bandera, a petite woman with close cropped grey hair and a smile from ear to ear. She reigns over her empire of street food and packaged salsas, maintaining military order so that raw shellfish can be shucked à la minute, tostadas drizzled with oil-based cacoa nib salsa, and cocteles of pismo clams doled out to devoted fans. If you’re not into raw seafood like sliced scallops and sea snails, you’re crazy, but, there are cooked options as well. We fell for the smoked fish paté tostada, with a flavor profile that was completely different from what you expect in Mexico - meaty smoked fish is stewed in a tomato base with green olives, onions, marjoram and oregano, to make a deep, complex spread. After all, we are just south of California, so olive trees grow here, and olive oil is the staple cooking oil. 

The seafood selection changes daily, but you can always count on those thrilling salsas. Our favorite was a bright orange pineapple sauce, and an oil-based salsa macha, made with whole peanuts and crushed dried chiles. This is not your mother’s salsa, but instead, a whole new texture and eating experience. We were so inspired, we created a Mexican Chile Oil. Lucky for you, it’s available now on our Destination Salad menu. 

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Making Mole in Oaxaca Is About More Than the Sauce Itself

Location: Oaxaca City, Mexico

At Chopt, we tend to prize maniacal focus over any other quality in a chef. To understand the endurance and commitment it takes to prepare a dish as complex as molé, you have to make it yourself. It has many variations, from coloradito with a plantain base, to the more common negro, with the distinctive bitterness of cacao. But you can’t just show up in Oaxaca and make molé. You have to learn from a maestro, and we found one in Soledad Martinez. Martinez doesn’t have a recipe to share, or a cookbook to refer you to. To unlock the magic of her molé, you have to chase her through the open air market, collect the ingredients one by one, build a fire on her stone patio, char fresh peppers and tomatoes, and toast and grind the spices. There is even a soup to prepare and eat in anticipation of the molé itself. A pre-game ritual to quell impatient travelers in face of the task ahead. Molé is in itself, an act of cultural immersion that ends in a meal.

For Martinez, cooking is survival. She was raised by her mother, who made her living selling homemade tortillas in a small village called Ejutla. She didn’t just sell tortillas but woke at 4 a.m. to nixtamlize and grind the corn, to form them by hand, and travel by foot to sell them door to door. No matter how excellent the tortillas, they alone were not enough to support the family. When Martinez was just 6 years old, she went to live and work as a housekeeper in a wealthy home. There, she gravitated toward the kitchen, and before long, she was shadowing the cook and learning hands-on how to make traditional Mexican food from scratch.

By the time she was 18, Martinez had a lifetime of experience with Mexican home cooking and was able to open her own restaurant. This was a huge accomplishment in and of itself, but she never could have imagined what came next. The director of the Oaxacan Institute of Culture approached her and asked her to teach cooking classes to chefs visiting from abroad. She had never attended school herself, but she was called upon to share her life’s work with 14 international chefs a day, hosting them in the intimacy of her own home.

Like so many students before me, I met Martinez at the central market in Oaxaca City. She is no more than five feet tall, with short cropped hair and eyes that are always smiling. We were there to collect the laundry list of essential ingredients for molé poblano and the fortifying soup we would eat before we even started cooking our main dish. The soup was called sopa de guias. It’s an ode to the cute-as-a-button round squash, calabacitas, made with everything from its gnarly vine to its bright yellow blossoms. It’s simply simmered in water with garlic, onion, fresh corn and finished with chepil, a green herb that tastes faintly of green beans. We formed masa dumplings in the crooks of our palms, pressing a thumb into their centers to form a dimple, and setting them to poach in the clean, clear broth. It was meant to tide us over for the long haul ahead.

Martinez’s mole is built on a foundation of red ancho chiles, the less common called chircosle chile (it’s worth stocking up on these if you can find them, but the more readily available guajillo are a close substitute). Toasting the chiles in a dry skillet awakens their aroma and depth. Once they are toasty but not burnt, Martinez splits them open lengthwise to remove the seeds. She’s after the flavor of the chile, not the heat.

Fresh tomatoes, onions and garlic are roasted over hot coals until their skins are black, dusty with ash and easily slipped away. We blend them with toasted sesame seeds, cinnamon stick, oregano, thyme, cloves and almonds. Martinez throws minced fresh ginger and garlic in a pan with some lard, sautéeing them quickly, and adds that to the mix. Then the most surprising part: We toast black raisins and some bread, which are added to mole to sweeten and thicken. We watch as all these ingredients combine and deepen, forming a fragrant stew.

Finally, chicken is set to bathe in the rusty red sauce, while we flatten balls of masa in the hand-press and set our homemade tortillas on the comal to cook. It’s been eight hours (and a few mezcals) since we first convened. Maybe that’s a long time to make a single dish, but it’s never really about the food, is it?