Lao food is booming in the Twin Cities

This recent rise of Lao food is part of a longer journey of Asian cuisine in the North Star State. The first Asian restaurant, opened by the Woo brothers in 1883, brought Chinese food to Minnesota’s snowy terrain. Later, the state welcomed Japanese cuisine with the opening of Fuji Ya in 1959, and by the early 1970s, Minnesotans began developing a taste for Southeast Asian flavors, sparked in part by a teacher from Thailand who launched an egg roll stand at the annual state fair, the Great Minnesota Get-Together. As waves of Southeast Asian immigrants arrived in the late 1970s and 1980s, the culinary identity of the Twin Cities shifted again. Alongside Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Hmong communities, the Lao population began to lay down roots, bringing their unique food traditions with them.

Non-Hmong Laotians make up only about 0.28 percent, or 16,000 of the state’s residents, according to Minnesota Compass—compared to the ethnic Hmong population of nearly 38,000 who also emigrated from Laos—and 5.2 percent of the state's total Asian population of about 360,000 residents. Despite these small numbers, Laotians have held fast to our culinary heritage as it slowly gains mainstream recognition. Historically, Lao cuisine has faced challenges in gaining wider recognition. Tia recalls feeling embarrassed when her non-Laotian friends encountered unfamiliar Lao dishes. “There’s always been a concern that Lao food would be too unfamiliar or risky for American diners,” she admits. However, social media has shifted perceptions, encouraging curiosity and adventurous eating. Tia adds, “Now, there’s a wider audience, and people are more curious…I’m excited to see more Lao creators spotlight Lao cuisine.”

Staples and signatures: Sticky, stinky, spicy

Studies suggest that we begin developing food preferences even before birth, as flavors from our mothers' diets transfer to us through amniotic fluid and later via breast milk. In Laos, this early exposure includes the core flavors of sticky rice, padaek (a thick, pungent fermented fish sauce), fresh herbs, and fiery chilies, all of which shape the Lao palate from the start.

Lao dishes often incorporate fresh herbs and fiery chilies, with sticky rice and fish sauce on the side.

Courtesy of Christina Tia

Lao cuisine's signature dishes aren’t reserved for special occasions—they’re the everyday foods that fill family tables. "When I ask for a dish ‘Lao style,’ what that means is: make it homestyle. So make it the way mom or aunt would,” Tia explains. Lao meals are often served family style, accompanied by sticky rice in bamboo containers and an olfactory swatch of fresh herbs on a large serving platter. This communal approach embodies the significance of shared meals and togetherness in Lao culture and is reflected in the way we greet guests, “Have you eaten yet?”

Staples like larb, a minced meat salad often made with pork, beef, or chicken, mixed with herbs, chilies, and lime juice, are national treasures. Traditionally served raw and cured in citrus, modern larb is usually cooked for safety. Tam mak hoong (green papaya salad), with its spicy, tangy crunch, is a staple that shares similarities with Thai som tam, but Lao padaek sets it apart—the thick and pungent fish sauce, created through a long fermentation process, giving it a cave-aged cheese funkiness like you’d get from a good Roquefort. Dishes like mok pa, steamed fish in banana leaves, or or lam, a hearty stew seasoned with wild herbs such as sa khan (spicy wood), capture Laos's connection to the land. Khao poon, a rice noodle soup rich in flavors, is often enjoyed with shreds of chicken meat and chili oil topped with chopped cilantro and sliced green onions. Think congee meets Western-style chicken soup. Indeed, the plain rice version is the go-to meal (breakfast, lunch, and dinner) for those under the weather. And there’s sai oua, a Lao sausage made from seasoned ground pork with lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and chilies. Grilled or fried, it offers a spicy, tangy flavor and is often served with sticky rice and herbs. But be forewarned: It’s dangerously tasty in its umami-and-spice fattiness, and like Lay’s potato chips, once you try it, I betcha can’t eat just one.

Unique characteristics of Lao food

Growing up Laotian in the United States during the 1980s and 1990s, you quickly learn your lunch stands out. Sticky rice, often mistaken for sushi rice that’s “escaped” its seaweed wrapping, draws curious glances. But nothing quite compares to the unapologetic funk of padaek. Minnesota’s Scandinavian population have long forgotten their own fermented herring (surströmming), but for Laotians, fermented fish remains essential. This funk, alongside the fiery heat of chilies, defines Lao cuisine—and no culture should be asked to give up these bold flavors to fit in.