Nguyẽ̂n family. - Secrets of the Red Lantern: stories and Vietnamese recipes from the heart

My brother Lewis (age 2) and me (age 3), Saigon, October 1976.

My maternal grandparents, Lam Sanh Ha and Thi Nguyen Tran, Saigon, 1950.

Clockwise from top left: My mother, Cuc Phuong Nguyen, and father, Lap Nguyen, in 1972; my mothers family she is standing tall in the centre, and my grandparents are behind her to the right, first day of spring, 1968.

In my family, food is our language. Food enables us to communicate the things we find so hard to say.

We escaped Vietnam not long after the fruitless war and spent a difficult year in a Thai refugee camp before arriving in Australia in the late seventies. My brothers and I grew up in Cabramatta during the bleakest of times. Ruled over by our strict, food-obsessed parents, we ran a busy Vietnamese restaurant on the main street called Pho Cay Du this is where a significant part of our lives unfolded. Both formally trained chefs, my parents were never relaxed about showing tenderness and understanding with us as children. Whether it was out of disinterest or necessity, they were workaholics who instead poured their knowledge and affection into the food they cooked to feed their children. A strange way to show parental love, but I have grown to accept that this was perhaps the only way they knew.

A dish of bitter melon soup is a dish of reconciliation. When we quarrel, we cannot speak the words I am sorry we give this bittersweet soup instead. In another instance, the sharing of a particular meal can offer the sentiment we each crave to hear: Its good to see you again Ive missed you. On rare occasions, too few to forget, I have understood the longed-for words, Please forgive me.

I should have known that I was always meant to work with food. After some lacklustre years chasing distant success within a career in film production, I found myself returning to the restaurant life the life I grew up with, the life I know so well. Along with my brother Luke and my partner Mark, the father of my child, we run Red Lantern, a busy Vietnamese restaurant on the main food strip of Surry Hills, in Sydney.

Many have asked, What is Vietnamese food? How is it different from other cuisines? The first thing I always say is that Vietnamese food is easy there is no mystery to it. It is simple to prepare; the execution is mostly quick; and the cooking methods are straightforward. Another distinction is that ovens dont exist in Vietnam: we prefer to watch our food being cooked deep fried, steamed, slow braised, chargrilled, barbecued or tossed in a flaming wok. The only oven my family ever utilized was a miniature rotating Tiffany complete with glass-casing, bought second-hand at the local St Vincent de Pauls in Bonnyrigg. We often placed it in the centre of the dinner table so that while eating we could watch the meat brown, the skin crackle and the juices drip. On many occasions, it also served as a distraction to prevent the possibility of any serious conversation arising at dinner.

What most distinguishes Vietnamese food, however, is its emphasis on freshness. We do not use fresh herbs sparingly to flavour or garnish a dish instead, they play a major role in the food. The herb selection varies according to the meal and there are as many as a dozen commonly used varieties. Wrapping savoury dishes at the table in lettuce or rice paper with an abundance of the freshest uncooked herbs is very much the signature of Vietnamese cuisine. Several bunches can be consumed during the course of the meal. This combines the raw with the cooked, the cold with the hot and the soft with the crisp. The Vietnamese have a distinct preoccupation with crunch and contrast. Flavours and textures are juxtaposed for dramatic effect. In Vietnamese cuisine, balance is always at play.

There are a handful of ingredients that are typically Vietnamese. The must-haves include spring onion (scallion) oil, crisp-fried onion and garlic, roasted rice powder, crushed peanuts and pickled vegetables. Exciting things can happen with the simplest produce. But, of course, you cant cook Vietnamese cuisine without understanding the significance of nuoc mam cham. It is our condiment of choice. Nuoc mam means fish sauce, while cham means to dip. In its purest form nuoc mam is the liquid extraction of fermented anchovies and salt. Like fine wine, the most robust flavour and aroma are in the first pressing later bottled as the most expensive type. Like fine olive oil, nuoc mam can be used in various grades to marinate, season or dress. When used correctly, its sophistication lies in the ability to enhance natural flavours rather than overwhelm. Nuoc mam cham is a vital ingredient in salads, wraps, soups and stir-fries it is the heart of Vietnamese cooking.