Asian Cucumber Salad

Restaurant second anniversary week. The staff-and-family celebration Thursday went well. Sixty people. Mai presided. Tyler drove in for it without the kids (Jessica stayed home with the three of them and Beth's help). Emma came with Daniel and Ava and Ruby. Lily and James worked the event. Vy and Emiko had arrived Tuesday and were taking photographs throughout. The dining room was full. The brisket was sliced. The toasts were short.

The cookbook preview event Saturday was the bigger thing. Fifty people — food writers, chef colleagues, James's mother Grace from Chicago, key supporters. Vy spoke. James spoke. Lily spoke. I gave my three-sentence toast: "Thank you for coming. Read the book. Eat the food." The room laughed. They had been told my toast tradition by Vy. Vy had warned them. The brevity was anticipated and appreciated.

The advance copies were on display at the bar — twenty hardcover books stacked on a wood plinth. The food writers picked them up and flipped through them. One of them, a woman from a national food magazine, said to me, "Mr. Tran, your headnote on the pho is one of the best I've ever read." I said, "It's my mother's pho." She said, "Yes, but you wrote about it." I said, "Yes. After eleven drafts." She laughed. The drafts are the work. The work is invisible until the book is out. Then the work is the only visible thing.

The small Houston-summer-heat-and-humidity is the small weather-reality. The small grill outdoors at five-AM-on-the-weekend trick is the small same trick the small Phoenix-firefighter Marcus uses but for different climate-reasons. The small Texas-Gulf-coast humidity is the small constant. The small Vietnamese-summer-cooking traditions are the small adaptation.

The three kids are now adults. Tyler is the small oldest, Emma is the small middle, Lily is the small youngest. The small divorce in 2015 (after Bobby’s affair) had been the small marriage-end. The small kids have been the small slow-rebuild of the small father-trust. The small Linh (Bobby’s older-sister, the small pediatrician in Houston) has been the small adult-presence the small kids look to.

The small backyard grill is the small Houston-cooking-engine. The small Vietnamese-grilled-pork (thit nuong), the small grilled-shrimp (the small irony of the small ex-shrimper still grilling shrimp), the small bo nuong (grilled-beef), the small ga nuong (grilled-chicken). The small charcoal-grill in the small backyard of the small Bellaire-bungalow runs almost every weekend.

The small Houston Restaurant Supply sales-job continues to be the small post-shrimp-boat career. The small fifteen-years-on-the-Galveston-Bay shrimp-boat had ended in 2018 when the small back went out and the small bending-and-hauling work became the small impossibility. The small restaurant-supply role is the small forty-hour-week-with-benefits the small post-shrimping life rests on.

The small Vietnamese-American community in Houston is the small social-spine. The small Bellaire-area is the small Little Saigon district. The small Hong Kong City Mall is the small Saturday-grocery-trip destination. The small Vietnamese church (Our Lady of Lavang) is the small Sunday-worship. The small community is the small refugee-and-immigrant-descended network that has been Bobby’s small lifelong-place.

Bobby’s parents came over from Vietnam in 1981 as the small boat-people-refugees. The small mother (Bich) lives in the small adjacent neighborhood. The small father (Hung) passed in 2020 from COVID. The small mother-visits are the small Sunday-afternoon-rhythm. The small pho-and-com-and-banh-mi heritage continues through the small mother-cooking-with-Bobby Sunday afternoons.

When Vy and the team were planning the Saturday spread, I told them the food on the tables had to work quietly — nothing that demanded attention while the books were being handled, nothing that competed with the conversation. This cucumber salad was on the bar table the whole night, and I watched people reach for it absently mid-sentence, the way you reach for something that just belongs there. After eleven drafts of a headnote about my mother’s pho, it felt right to put something next to those books that my mother would also recognize: cold, clean, a little sour, a little sesame-sweet — the taste of a Houston summer handled correctly.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 45 min (includes 30 min marinating) | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 large English cucumbers (or 4–5 Persian cucumbers), thinly sliced into rounds
1 tsp kosher salt
2 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tbsp low-sodium soy sauce
1 tbsp sesame oil
1 tsp granulated sugar
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 tsp fresh ginger, grated
1/2 tsp chili flakes (or 1 tsp sambal oelek), optional
3 green onions, thinly sliced
1 tbsp toasted sesame seeds
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves, roughly torn

Instructions

Salt and drain the cucumbers. Place sliced cucumbers in a colander set over a bowl. Toss with the kosher salt and let sit for 10 minutes. Pat dry thoroughly with paper towels — removing moisture keeps the dressing from going watery.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk together the rice vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar, garlic, and ginger until the sugar is fully dissolved. Stir in chili flakes if using.
Combine and marinate. Transfer dried cucumbers to a large mixing bowl. Pour dressing over and toss well to coat. Add the green onions and toss again. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to let the flavors develop.
Finish and serve. Just before serving, taste and adjust seasoning — a few more drops of rice vinegar if it needs brightness, a pinch of sugar if it needs balance. Transfer to a serving dish and top with sesame seeds and fresh cilantro.

Nutrition (per serving)

Asian Cucumber Salad — The Dish That Earned Its Place on the Cookbook Table