Pad Thai

Pad thai is younger than it tastes. It was shaped in the mid-twentieth century, when Thailand set out to define a dish that could belong to everyone — and a humble plate of wok-fried rice noodles became the answer. Within a generation it was the taste of the whole country.

In the kitchen

Everything rides on two things: the sauce and the wok. Our sauce is tamarind for sour, palm sugar for sweet and fish sauce for salt, cooked down until it clings to the noodles. The noodles are soaked, never boiled, then dropped into a screaming-hot wok with prawns, egg and tofu and tossed fast and hard. That fierce flame is where wok hei comes from — the faint smoky breath that separates a great plate from a flat one. Bean sprouts and garlic chives go in at the very end so they stay crisp.

At the table

It arrives glossy and tangled, scattered with peanuts and a wedge of lime, the prawns curled on top. We send it out a touch under-seasoned on purpose — because in Thailand the last act of cooking belongs to the person eating. Squeeze the lime, scatter the chilli, taste, adjust.

Make it yours. That final seasoning is half the joy of the dish.