How to make kho — the ultimate Vietnamese comfort food

With summer days long gone and a distinct chill in the air, I dream of a bowl of warm rice, doused in the homey Vietnamese dish kho's sweet, salty and sticky sauce, with steamed cabbage on the side. That simple pleasure helped me survive my first winter in Toronto, last year. (To be fair, it was a mild one, barring a few times when I almost face-planted on the pavement.) Armed with that residual confidence of making it through, and with the embrace of a mahogany kho bubbling on the stove, I'm ready for my second winter.

Kim Vo, chef and owner of North Saigon, a Toronto-based catering company offering traditional Vietnamese menus, calls kho farmer's food. "When my parents were still farmers in Vietnam, they didn't have a lot to eat," she said. "If they were to cook a pot of kho, it could last them a whole week."

For the uninitiated, kho is a Vietnamese cooking technique and category of dishes in which a main ingredient is simmered in a caramel sauce, seasoned with fish sauce or soy sauce and aromatics such as pepper, garlic, shallots and ginger. The most popular versions include pork or fish, but it's also common to see chicken, tofu and mushrooms used. It's a hearty dish with an assertive flavour; whenever kho is cooking, the heady smell of spices fills your kitchen.

When Vo's family arrived in Canada at the end of the Vietnam War, kho continued to play an important part in her childhood. It was what her parents could make with the limited number of Asian markets in Manitoba. "Kho was something that required very few ingredients to create a flavour from back home," Vo says. "It was the one thing that really connected them to their roots."

Like Vo, I grew up eating kho. My mom made sure it would always be on the table, in addition to soup and a vegetable stir-fry — a trio often found in a typical Vietnamese meal. And for our celebration of Lunar New Year, Tet, a large pot of thit kho trung (pork and eggs in coconut water) is served, a symbol of reunion and prosperity. I now make pork loin kho in my Toronto home, with a copious amount of pepper, which gives my body much-needed heat when it's –20 C outside.

The caramel sauce sets kho apart from Western braises and stews. Made from sugar and water, this is not your regular sundae topping, but a viscous reddish-brown liquid with a bittersweet note that is fundamental to the taste and colour of the dish. 

There are many variations of kho and as many ways to make them. Some cooks keep a jar of caramel sauce on hand and add a spoonful to their marinade, while others prefer to make the condiment just before they start the dish. Traditionalists use earthenware pots for their rustic feel, but stainless steel works too. 

Follow my steps for a basic kho, and you can make this part of your winter menu.

Start with the main ingredients. Marinate one pound of meat or seafood cut into roughly one-inch pieces, with one tablespoon of sugar, three tablespoons of fish sauce and a blend of aromatics — I use shallots and garlic for meat, and ginger and scallion for fish. You can reduce the amount of fish sauce if you find it too intense. Vo's secret ingredient is rice wine vinegar — she uses the acidity to balance the sweetness and saltiness of the dish. For a vegetarian kho, use tofu and mushrooms to replace the meat or seafood, and Vo suggests replacing the fish sauce with a combination of soy sauce and sweet soy sauce. Let the marinated mixture rest for at least 15 minutes.

Make the caramel sauce. In a medium saucepan, dissolve one tablespoon of sugar in one teaspoon of water over medium heat. You'll see the colour deepen in about five minutes and small bubbles start to form around the edge and continue to expand toward the centre. Swirl the pan carefully a few times, and keep an eye on the sauce. After 10 to 15 minutes, you should feel a bit of heat and see very light smoke coming off the pan, while the caramelized sugar begins to smell more pronounced. 

When the caramel reaches a dark brown hue, add the rest of the ingredients. The sizzle as the meat hits the hot caramel will be music to your ears, and what's better is the sweet, but pungent, aroma wafting toward your nose before permeating your kitchen. Add ground pepper and a few chopped bird's eye chilies (with seeds, if you like it spicy) for extra heat. Add water or coconut water (not coconut milk) just enough to cover the ingredients so they won't dry out while cooking, and bring to a simmer. You'll want a thicker kho for rice and a thinner variation to go with noodles and steamed vegetables.

Cover the pan with a lid, and simmer over medium-low heat until the ingredients are cooked and tender; pork belly needs around one hour, whereas seafood, chicken and tofu should take less time. 

Kho's flavour deepens the next day, like other braises and stews. Whenever you don't feel like braving the wind for a grocery trip, make a big batch of this and serve it in different ways: with rice or other grains, noodles or vegetables. Thin it out with a splash of water if needed. When all you have left is the sauce, use it to poach an egg — try it, and thank me later! 

For Vietnamese farmers working under the scorching sun, kho offers nourishment and energy. For Vo and others in the diaspora, it's not only a source of sustenance, but also a connection to their distant home. Vo likes her rice with a thick pork belly kho. "Just that and some vegetables. It's so simple but so satisfying," she said. "It's a level of comfort that you cannot explain." And I agree.

Giao Chau is a writer based in Toronto. You can find her work at www.giao-chau.com. She also journals her home-cooking experience at www.myjoyouslab.com.