Aha, I found one more little leftover Gourmet piece that never ran. Here you go.

My friend Abra Bennett lives in Uzès, France, in the Languedoc, and keeps me jealous with frequent online updates about her mouthwatering meals–often the heartiest of French classics like cassoulet, veal ragout, insane runny cheeses. But she managed to surprise me recently when she wrote, “Made petits farcis, little Provençal pork-stuffed vegetables, for dinner and ate them with…*nam prik pow.* I can’t help myself, I’d eat nam prik pow with anything some days.”

“Nam prik pow” is not an Occitan phrase. It’s Thai. It means “roasted chile paste,” and it’s one of those intense seasonings that can do it all: it has the earthy, slightly bitter flavor of dried chiles and the salty umami undertone of shrimp paste. It’s related to but a member of the family of Thai dipping pastes call *nam prik.* For nam prik pow, the chiles are fried in oil, which really brings them to life, and then ground into a thick, oily mixture which in turn, as Bennett says, brings almost anything to life.

You can make nam prik pow yourself, but the commercial variety is really quite good. The most popular brand is Pantainorasingh, but you don’t have to kneel down and squint to find this name in tiny print among the dozens of jarred Asian seasonings. Just look for the bright yellow cap with the word “Pantai” in red script. The label will say “chilli paste with soya bean oil.” (Pantai makes a ton of other products, but if you end up with a different one by mistake, hey, it’ll probably be good too.)

For lunch this week, I stir-fried a bunch of baby bok choy from my CSA box and added nam prik pow thinned with a little fish sauce. Because I believe in gilding the lily (or in this case, the brassica), I threw in some Nueske’s bacon.

I ate this over rice, and it deserved my highest praise: *it would have been just as good without the bacon.* The bok choy stalks added a welcome succulent dimension to the chile paste. Yep, I’d eat nam prik pow with anything some days.