Sourcing Indigenous Spices for Unique Asian Fusions

The first time I felt the tingle of andaliman, I was standing in the mist of North Sumatra, near Lake Toba, clutching a small paper cone that was warming in my hand. The spice seller had just toasted the peppercorn-like berries in a dented pan, the smoke laced with citrus and pine. He pinched a few onto my tongue: a quiver of electric zing, like lime zest wired to a battery, then a cool bloom that climbed the nose and rustled the scalp. A woman beside me laughed softly. Batak food is not shy, she said. It makes you feel alive.

That quiver is where fusion begins for me—not in theoretical menus or clever portmanteau names, but in the specific, indigenous flavors that people have tended for generations. Spices carry stories of forest shade, river fog, barter, rituals, and quiet pride. When you source them with care, you get more than aroma; you inherit a vocabulary of place. And when you fold that vocabulary into Pan-Asian cooking, you can create fusions that hum with respect and originality.

The cartography of heat and aroma

Asia is not a single pantry; it’s a hundred spice ecologies stitched together by trade winds and footpaths. You can trace spice routes on a map, but it’s the microclimates that really shape flavor. Consider a few landmarks that have stamped themselves into both tradition and modern fusion kitchens:

• North Sumatra’s highlands: The Batak people gather andaliman (Zanthoxylum acanthopodium) from shrubs in the forest edges. Unlike Sichuan pepper, it’s greener and more floral, with lemongrass brightness and a clean electric finish.
• Meghalaya’s West Jaintia Hills, India: Lakadong turmeric grows in clay-rich soil under persistent rain and mist. The rhizomes are intensely golden, almost saffron-deep, with warm bitterness and a honeyed, resinous perfume.
• Kampot and Kep, Cambodia: Kampot pepper, protected by a geographic indication, offers a clear, bell-like pepper fragrance; green notes when fresh, then red and black with raisiny, cacao, and eucalyptus dimensions as it dries.
• Sarawak, Malaysian Borneo: Black pepper with bright bite and an undercurrent of camphor; the Sarawak Pepper Board has established stable drying standards that preserve volatile oils beautifully.
• Northern Vietnam’s mountains: Mak khén (Zanthoxylum) grows perfumed and peppery, similar to Sichuan pepper but with a forested, smoky whisper; hạt dổi (from a magnolia-like tree) is roasted and pounded for a deep, savory aroma used by Thai and Tay communities.
• Sichuan, China: Hanyuan’s da hong pao hua jiao is a marquee greenish-red Sichuan pepper with shockingly high aroma—green grapefruit peel, geranium, and ozone.
• Wakayama and Tokushima, Japan: Sansho and its young leaves, kinome, give a peppery citrus electricity and a leafy brightness that works like a bridge between fatty foods and acidity.
• Nepal’s midhills: Timur pepper (Zanthoxylum armatum) leans cool and minty alongside the citrus buzz; sherpas often pack it into chutneys with tomato and cilantro.

This is the cartography you taste, not just read: cool hills breed cool spice tones; warm seas yield heady oils. If fusion has a compass, terroir is its true north.

How to source with respect (and get better flavor)

Sourcing indigenous spices is as much about relationships as it is about the product. Flavor rides on trust: how it’s harvested, how it’s dried, and how it travels to you.

A few practices that have reshaped my pantry and my cooking:

• Trace the origin, not just the species. Ask sellers to name the village, the hill range, or the co-op. A label that reads ‘turmeric, India’ is a shrink-wrapped shrug. ‘Lakadong, West Jaintia Hills’ is a promise.
• Ask about the post-harvest steps. With Zanthoxylum species, the husks are the prize; you want hand-sorted husks with minimal grit and stems. With pepper, ask about drying temperatures; excessive heat flattens aroma.
• Buy whole whenever possible. Grind close to service. Volatile oils are flight risks.
• Pay for seasonality. The first weeks after drying are magical. Plan your menu cycles to align with harvest calendars.
• Vet the ethics. Look for grower co-ops, transparent pay structures, and GI protections. Reach out to associations, like the Kampot Pepper Promotion Association or Sarawak Pepper Board, and ask for recommended distributors.
• Ship smart. For fragile aromatics such as sansho powder or roasted hạt dổi, request moisture barriers and desiccants. Avoid long, hot shipping routes if you can.

When I started asking better questions, suppliers began volunteering better answers—and better lots. A seller in Medan once sent me two bags of andaliman with a scribbled note: one gathered after rain, one after a week of dry wind. The dry-wind batch had three times the sparkle on the tongue. He knew I’d taste the difference.

Field notes: markets where memory sticks to your clothes

Markets are not mere supply hubs; they are living glossaries. Here are a few where the air itself seems steeped in history:

• Khari Baoli, Delhi: Asia’s giant of spice trade, a canyon of burlap and saffron threads. In the dim, sun-dusted rooms upstairs, cardamom is cracked with rhythmic taps, and black pepper is scooped like coal. Ask for single-estate pepper from Idukki or Wayanad and you’ll get a raised eyebrow, then a grin.
• Or Tor Kor, Bangkok: Clean, well-curated stalls. The fingerroot (krachai) glows a pale gold, and dried makhwaen (Zanthoxylum) appears in small sachets—the aroma is forest-warm, lemony, unmistakable.
• Pasar Beringharjo, Yogyakarta: A treasure for jamu herbs—kencur, temu kunci, and cloves. The ladies who pound jamu at dawn will give you tips on which kencur root makes the best fragrant sambal.
• Morning Market, Luang Prabang: Watching a vendor slice long, rosy disks of galangal so thin they’re translucent is the kind of care you carry home. If you spot small bags labeled with hand-drawn mountains, ask about upland pepper or mak khaen.
• Ben Thanh, Ho Chi Minh City: Touristy but still full of surprises. Look for hạt dổi sold near the northern spice stalls; they’re glossy black, with a smell like roasted cocoa nibs dipped in pine resin.
• Berastagi Market, North Sumatra: The place to meet andaliman where it lives. The bunches are greenish, sometimes with orange-brown notes when mature. When a vendor rubs it in her palms, you’ll smell lime leaves and rain.

In each of these, I learned more by asking sellers what they used at home than by haggling. The most generous exchanges were usually followed by a small taste pressed into my palm.

Profiles in aroma: indigenous spices and the fusions they invite

Below are spices I reach for when I want Pan-Asian fusions that feel anchored and new at the same time. For each, a few pairing ideas and a dish that won’t leave my menu.

1. Andaliman (North Sumatra)

• Sensory: Crackly citrus, green pine, a soft electric hum. When fresh, it is light and lemon-peel bright; dried well, it vibrates between lime blossom and grapefruit pith.
• Sourcing tip: Favor clusters with intact husks, not many black seeds; the husk holds the magic.
• Fusion idea: Brush chicken tsukune with a glaze of andaliman, kecap manis, and mirin; finish with a dusting of powdered andaliman for a last-second shimmer.
• Dish to steal: Batak-inspired cold somen with torch ginger bud, smoked bonito flakes, and andaliman oil; the noodles are cool, the oil tingles, the smoke lifts it.

2. Lakadong Turmeric (Meghalaya)

• Sensory: Deep gold, bitter in the elegant way of grapefruit pith; notes of warm hay and honeyed wood.
• Sourcing tip: Ask for recent milling and low-temperature drying; excess heat dulls the top notes.
• Fusion idea: Turmeric miso broth for tsukemen; whisk white miso with freshly ground Lakadong, ginger juice, and chicken fat; serve with chilled noodles and blistered shishito.
• Dish to steal: Coconut milk congee with Lakadong ghee, fried shallots, and pickled green mango. Every spoon glows.

3. Kampot Pepper (Cambodia)

• Sensory: Black pepper with crystalline clarity; red Kampot adds berry sweetness.
• Sourcing tip: GI seals and farmer names matter. Buy in small lots.
• Fusion idea: Black pepper caramel for Vietnamese fish sauce lacquered pork belly; caramel is deglazed with fish sauce and palm sugar and finished with crushed pepper.
• Dish to steal: Tofu and mushroom mapo with Kampot pepper replacing Sichuan pepper; it turns the heat into a bell tone—different, not lesser.

4. Mak khén (Northern Vietnam)

• Sensory: Smoky-wooded citrus, a little menthol, a dry forest after rain.
• Sourcing tip: Buy from northern Vietnamese vendors who roast and grind gently; raw mak khén can be harsh.
• Fusion idea: Yakitori tare scented with macerated mak khén; glaze chicken thighs and char until the citrus smoke rises.
• Dish to steal: Grilled broccolini with mak khén-lime leaf crumble and roasted peanuts. It tastes like a mountainside picnic.

5. Hạt dổi (Northwest Vietnam)

• Sensory: Roasted cacao meets pine resin and toasted sesame; heady, dignified.
• Sourcing tip: Always roast briefly before grinding to unlock aroma and reduce bitterness.
• Fusion idea: Hạt dổi and sesame salt sprinkled on sticky rice mochi, served with charred scallion oil.
• Dish to steal: Charcoal-roasted duck with hạt dổi honey glaze and pickled green papaya, served bun-cha style over herbs.

6. Sansho (Japan)

• Sensory: Citron-lime electricity, leafy brightness, quick numbing.
• Sourcing tip: Powder loses aroma quickly. Buy whole berries and grind; for kinome, use in season.
• Fusion idea: Sansho oil drizzled over Hainanese-style chicken; the grassiness cuts the poached fat with grace.
• Dish to steal: Cold chrysanthemum greens and tofu salad with sansho vinaigrette and soy-pickled mushrooms; like lightning on wet leaves.

7. Timur Pepper (Nepal)

• Sensory: Cooler than Sichuan pepper; think lime peel, wild mint, and green cardamom whispers.
• Sourcing tip: Whole dried berries that look slightly shriveled; avoid dusty, faded stock.
• Fusion idea: Timur-laced chili crisp with ghee and toasted buckwheat groats; spooned over khao soi to give the coconut richness a minty lift.
• Dish to steal: Steamed momo stuffed with shiitake and napa cabbage, dipped in a timur-tomato chutney, chased with hot barley tea.

8. Long Pepper (Indonesia, India)

• Sensory: Warm chocolate, allspice, and pepper heat that creeps and blooms.
• Sourcing tip: Look for intact catkins; they crush into fragments that perfume better than pre-ground.
• Fusion idea: Long pepper and cocoa nib rub for grilled tuna collar with a drizzle of tamarind-ginger glaze.
• Dish to steal: Coconut milk panna cotta with long pepper jaggery syrup and toasted rice crackle.

9. Ceylon Cinnamon (Sri Lanka)

• Sensory: Delicate, citrusy, floral; nothing like the brute strength of cassia.
• Sourcing tip: Quills should be tightly rolled, papery, pale; sniff for citrus.
• Fusion idea: Cinnamon tempers a Vietnamese coffee sabayon; the bitterness of robusta snaps to attention.
• Dish to steal: Lump crab stir-fried with white pepper, Ceylon cinnamon, fish sauce, and scallions; the cinnamon is a halo, not a hammer.

10. Perilla Seed (Korea)

• Sensory: Nutty, herbal, with a soft, plush texture when ground.
• Sourcing tip: Buy vacuum-sealed whole seed; grind as needed for soups and sauces.
• Fusion idea: Perilla seed tahini stirred into Burmese-style mohinga; the result is smoky-silky.
• Dish to steal: Grilled eggplant with perilla seed miso and toasted rye crumbs; the perfume lingers like a memory you almost remember.

11. Radhuni (Bengal)

• Sensory: Celery seed’s assertive cousin; green and resinous, with a crunchy pop when tempered in oil.
• Sourcing tip: Keep in airtight jars; it blooms fast in hot fat, so add at the last moment in tempering.
• Fusion idea: Radhuni-tempered dashi for a soba soup; the perfume is a surprising, elegant bridge.
• Dish to steal: Crispy rice cakes with radhuni and mustard oil, topped with charred mackerel and cucumber.

12. Torch Ginger Flower (Southeast Asia)

• Sensory: Rosy, citrus-floral, zesty like pink peppercorns met a hibiscus.
• Sourcing tip: Use fresh if possible; freeze petals; dried can be steeped like tea for sauces.
• Fusion idea: Torch ginger chimichurri for grilled prawns; add makrut lime zest and roasted chili.
• Dish to steal: Udon in a light broth perfumed with torch ginger and lemongrass, finished with andaliman oil and grilled squid.

Pepper families, side by side: comparison, technique, timing

There is a joy in tasting the family resemblances among Zanthoxylum cousins and their pepper neighbors. Some guidance for the pan and the palate:

• Andaliman vs. Sichuan vs. Sansho vs. Timur vs. Mak khén:

  • Numbing sensation: Sansho and andaliman are spritely; Sichuan is stronger, oilier; timur hums cool; mak khén pulls smoky-citrus.
  • Aroma: Sansho skews citrus-leaf; andaliman is lime blossom and pine; Sichuan is grapefruit and geranium; timur leans mint-lime; mak khén is more wood smoke and lemon.
  • Technique: Dry-toast lightly, never until browned. Grind in a suribachi or a stone mortar; sift out gritty bits. Add late to the dish to preserve high notes.

• Black pepper families: Tellicherry vs. Kampot vs. Sarawak

  • Heat: Tellicherry is big-bodied and fruity; Kampot is crystalline and aromatic; Sarawak is bright and camphorous.
  • Pairings: Use Kampot in delicate preparations like raw fish, butter sauces, and fruit; Tellicherry in braises; Sarawak in stir-fries for snap.
  • Technique: Crush coarsely for finishing; fine grind only for quick-cooked sauces to avoid stale bitterness.

Timing matters more than you think. If you put andaliman in early with oil, you risk scrubbing its perfume; add it near the finish, or bloom briefly in a spoon of warm fat off the heat. With long pepper, crack it and steep in warm cream for desserts—a 10-minute bath pulls the cocoa-like warmth without the grit.

How-to: building relationships with growers and co-ops

If you’re serious about the integrity of your fusion pantry, set aside time to know the people behind the jars.

Step-by-step approach:

1. Identify regions of interest and peak harvesting windows. For example, andaliman is typically harvested in the drier months around Lake Toba; Lakadong turmeric digs begin post-monsoon.
2. Contact regional associations. Ask for introductions to smallholder co-ops. Explain your needs: small lots, whole spices, shipping preferences, frequency.
3. Request small sensory samples. Offer to pay for samples and shipping; ask for the harvest date and drying method.
4. Give feedback, fast. Send tasting notes. Describe what you loved or missed; ask for a different lot if needed.
5. Commit to a buying pattern. Even modest recurring orders help smallholders plan. Share your seasonal menu to coordinate shipments.
6. Visit when you can, and don’t show up empty-handed. Bring your blends to taste together. There’s no better calibration than a farmer tasting their spice in your sauce.

When I visited a turmeric collective in Meghalaya, the growers laughed at my first pour of turmeric oil. Too hot, one auntie said, pinching my ear. The next day she showed me a gentler method: warm mustard oil, not smoking, remove from heat, stir in fresh-ground Lakadong, then wait. The perfume rose like low thunder. That technique became the backbone of a turmeric-butter dressing I now use for grilled corn in summer.

Ferments, fats, and fire: technique mash-ups that honor spice

Indigenous spices often perform best when paired with old-school techniques. A few to borrow across borders:

• Tempering meets infusion: Temper radhuni and mustard seed in hot ghee, then whisk in a miso slurry for a dressing that clings to charred cabbage. The seeds pop, the miso slicks, the cabbage smolders.
• Chili crisp with timur: Sizzle shallots, garlic, and ginger; pour over a blend of toasted sesame, timur, and a pinch of dried mak khén. The timur glow outlasts the chili heat.
• Sansho oil at low temp: Warm neutral oil to 55–60°C, blitz with sansho berries, hold for 30 minutes, strain. Drizzle over cold seafood or grilled tofu. The oil hums without the bitterness of high-heat frying.
• Long pepper in brown butter: Brown butter until hazelnutty, stir in crushed long pepper and a thread of palm sugar, then toss with roasted kabocha and roasted peanuts.
• Hạt dổi char: Briefly char hạt dổi over a flame, then pound; fold into a glaze with honey and rice vinegar for pork ribs. The aroma is cathedral-deep, smoky but clean.

These techniques let the spice lead the story while the fat and heat turn the pages.

Storage, grinding, and the choreography of aroma

How you store and grind determines the viability of your ideas in service. A few rules I’ve learned the hard way:

• Keep whole whenever you can. Grind within hours of service for top-note spices like sansho, andaliman, mak khén, and Timur.
• Use a suribachi or stone mortar first, then a fine-mesh sieve to remove stems and gritty bits. For Zanthoxylum husks, this step transforms prickle into poetry.
• Label jars with harvest date, not just purchase date. Rotate aggressively. If you wouldn’t serve wilted herbs, you shouldn’t serve tired spice.
• Protect from light and heat. Clear jars look pretty; they also invite decay. Brown glass or opaque containers are your quiet friends.
• Test in fat and water. Infuse a pinch into warm oil and into hot water separately—if the aroma pops in one but not the other, build your dish accordingly.

One Monday morning, I ruined a whole batch of andaliman oil by letting it hit a sizzle. I salvaged it by whisking the cooled oil into an aioli and using it as a finishing dollop instead. The lesson stuck: heat is both friend and thief.

Ethical sourcing: more than a label, a relationship

Buying indigenous spices is an opportunity to invest in the communities that keep culinary traditions alive. A few guideposts:

• Seek geographic indications (GI) where they exist—not just for prestige, but for supply chain transparency and quality standards. Kampot pepper is a model.
• Look for co-ops and smallholder networks. Ask about their pricing structures and what percentage goes back to growers.
• Pay fairly and up front for small lots. If you can, pre-purchase a harvest to underwrite the risk for farmers.
• Credit the source on your menu. Write ‘Lakadong turmeric’ or ‘Mak khén from Lai Châu’ and mean it. Guests notice, and growers matter.
• Be culturally curious, not extractive. Ask about how the spice is used locally. If you riff on a traditional dish, tell guests where the bones of the recipe come from.

On a rain-creased afternoon in Chiang Mai, an elder told me why she saves the first sprigs of makhwaen for the temple kitchen. The offering isn’t about quantity, she said, but about giving the brightest light from the pantry. That story changed how I plate and how I pay.

Menu case study: a six-course tasting that moves through terroirs

I built this menu around the arc of brightness to warmth, electricity to ember. The dishes travel, but the compass points back to the growers.

1. First bite: Cold somen with torch ginger and andaliman oil

• A handful of somen swished in cold water until glassy. Tossed with shaved torch ginger, cucumber, and a splash of lime. Finished with andaliman oil and a sprinkle of toasted rice powder. It crunches, it chills, it tingles.

2. Broth: Turmeric miso tsukemen

• Broth of white miso, Lakadong turmeric, chicken fat skimmed from poach, and a whisper of sansho. Served with chilled noodles and blistered shishito skewers. Dip, slurp, reset.

3. Char: Mak khén yakitori with leeks

• Chicken thighs marinated in soy, sake, grated ginger, and crushed mak khén. Glazed with a reduced tare scented in the last minute with more mak khén. Scattered with kinome leaves when in season.

4. Fish: Kampot pepper caramel mackerel

• Fillets brushed with a dark caramel deglazed with fish sauce and palm sugar, smudged with red Kampot pepper, and finished with a brunoise of green mango. Heat sings, sweetness anchors, pepper rings.

5. Land: Long pepper lamb and perilla seed gravy

• Lamb shoulder roasted low and slow, basted in long pepper brown butter. Served with a perilla seed sauce, creamy and nutty, and a side of charred little gem dressed in radhuni-tempered yogurt.

6. Sweet: Coconut panna cotta, cinnamon and timur

• Coconut cream gently bloomed with Ceylon cinnamon, poured over jackfruit confit. A timur-peppered jaggery syrup poured tableside. The last taste floats between cool mint and warm wood.

Each course is a handshake across borders, each spice allowed to speak in its dialect.

Costs, margins, and the value of brightness

Indigenous spices, responsibly sourced, often cost more than commodity cousins. But their aromatic concentration and the clarity they bring mean you can use less for stronger effect. Consider the economics of polish:

• A 100-gram bag of high-grade andaliman might cost double a generic Sichuan pepper, but a 1-gram dusting can transform ten plates.
• Kampot pepper’s GI premium buys you consistency, which reduces waste. When the pepper performs predictably, you spend less time adjusting seasoning.
• Lakadong turmeric paints at lower concentrations, which keeps the dish light and reduces bitterness management.

If a dish pivots on a spice, budget for it the way you would for a great fish or a well-hung steak. Guests can taste the difference and will pay for beauty that lingers.

Tips and tricks: quick, specific, usable

• For numbing peppers, grind with a pinch of sugar to stabilize aroma and catch bitter edges.
• Bloom andaliman off heat in a warm fat; then fold into aioli, dressings, or final glazes.
• With hạt dổi, never skip the brief roast. Thirty seconds over a flame is the difference between flat and symphonic.
• For a pantry infusion, mix equal parts crushed long pepper and cocoa nibs; steep in cream overnight for desserts.
• Build a pepper flight for the line: Tellicherry, Kampot, Sarawak side by side. Taste with tomato water to learn the nuances.
• Label with terroir and producer names; staff who can tell the story will season better.

Storytelling through spice: kitchen moments that changed my cooking

In a rented room near Ubud, I watched a grandmother rub candlenut between her palms until the oil woke, then fold in crushed kencur to make a paste for lawar. She let me taste it before the salt. The paste alone had its own roundness, its own hum. That taught me to season for fat first, salt later.

In a modest shop in Hanyuan, a man with a careful mustache showed me a jar of da hong pao pepper he’d kept sealed for only one week. Smell now, he said, then again in a month. When I returned, the pore-opening grapefruit shock had settled into something deeper and more floral. Spices breathe even when jarred, he told me. Build your dishes for their first breath and their second.

A farmer in Meghalaya served me turmeric tea on a foggy morning, whisked with honey and black pepper. We spoke about monsoon timing and rhizome size, and she said the older rhizomes taste like old rivers. That older-rhizome bitterness, she suggested, is perfect for butter sauces if you use lemon to pull it forward instead of fighting it. Butter, lemon, old river, turmeric—I wrote it down and built a sauce for steamed grouper. It was whisper-light and sun-bright at the same time.

Pantry blueprint: a sourcing decision tree

A practical way to organize your sourcing without losing the romance:

• Identify the role: Is the spice a lead voice (andaliman glaze) or a harmony line (long pepper in brown butter)? Lead voices deserve single-origin and freshest stock.
• Map to terroir: Choose the region that gives the character you want—crisp clarity (Kampot) or fruity warmth (Tellicherry)?
• Choose the format: Whole vs. freshly ground. When you must buy ground (like sansho powder in a pinch), buy in very small amounts and replenish frequently.
• Vet the chain: GI, co-op, or named producer? If none, ask for photos of harvest and drying, and for a harvest date.
• Plan the heat path: Decide how the spice will meet heat—tempered, infused, or finished. That choice determines the grind size and amount.
• Train service: Teach the exact moment of finish. Write it into the dish note. Protect the volatility.

Building fusions that feel inevitable, not gimmicky

Spice-led fusion should read like destiny: two ingredients meeting and recognizing each other across a river.

• Use spices to reveal, not disguise. Lakadong turmeric reveals the sweetness of coconut. Sansho reveals the creaminess of poached chicken. Let these relationships lead the dish.
• Keep the number of spices per dish low. Two, maybe three, in clear roles. Too many voices turn to crowd noise.
• Borrow technique across borders more than you borrow identity. A Bengali tempering can kiss a Japanese broth without the dish pretending to be either.
• Credit the culture of the spice, even as you move it. If you serve andaliman in a cold noodle dish, nod to Batak cooking somewhere else on the menu.

When the pairing is right, the dish feels inevitable. The flavor reads as inevitable. The story reads as inevitable.

A few suppliers and associations to start your trail

• Kampot Pepper Promotion Association (KPPA): Guides to member farms and certified distributors.
• Sarawak Pepper Board: Information on grades, post-harvest standards, and recommended exporters.
• Regional agricultural departments and smallholder co-ops in Meghalaya for Lakadong turmeric: reach out to community collectives for harvest calendars and lot samples.
• Local markets and growers in Sumatra around Lake Toba for andaliman: small shipments via trusted mediators can be arranged; ask restaurateurs in Medan for introductions.
• Specialty importers who share lot numbers, harvest dates, and drying specs. Transparency is a seasoning.

I hesitate to list many names because small producers change season to season, but whenever a seller can tell you the weather story of the harvest, you’re in the right conversation.

Final tasting: the point of all this

I carry a few spice memories like charms. The pepper-warm dusk of Kampot as vines swayed in a salt-tinged breeze. The sharp, clean morning in Wakayama when a sansho leaf crushed between my fingers smelled like a lime tree dreaming in spring. The night our line cook toasted hạt dổi too far and turned a glaze bitter, and we remade it while a table waited—and the second version landed better than the first because we were awake to the spice instead of using it.

Sourcing indigenous spices for Pan-Asian fusion is not a shopping list, but a listening practice. You’re listening to forests and fields, to small kitchens and temple pots, to the way a pepper chills your lip before it warms your chest. You’re listening to the growers who tell you the difference between harvest after rain and harvest after wind. And then you’re cooking with that listening.

When you do, the dishes sing. The room hums. And somewhere, a farmer recognizes their own mountain in the way your broth rises from the bowl.