813 recipes. Page 16 of 34
Curry, stir-fry noodles, and Asian recipes
This naan rises on yogurt, baking powder and baking soda, so there is no yeast and no proving time before it goes in the pan. You do not need an oven: a heavy skillet, properly hot, still blisters the top and leaves brown spots underneath.
Regular khao man gai tops the rice with poached chicken; this version swaps in chicken thighs seasoned with soy and fish sauce, dredged lightly in flour, and fried skin side first to a deep gold. The rice cooks with garlic and ginger, giving it more aroma than plain steamed rice to stand up to the fried chicken. Excess flour is shaken off before frying, since a heavy coat tends to slip away in the oil. Sliced chicken goes over the rice with a sauce on the side.
Leopard plant stalks only become something you can stir-fry after the outer skin is pulled off in long strips, the pieces soak in cold water for 20 to 30 minutes to lose their astringency, and then they are boiled. The frying is short by comparison, finished sweet and salty with fried tofu, soy sauce and sugar.
Steamed in sake-cup molds, each clear, chilled shell shows a round of red bean paste inside. The sweet comes from Ogaki in Gifu, a city so rich in groundwater that vegetables and fruit were kept cold in it, and it is said to date from the Meiji era. Kuzu starch alone dissolves easily in water and firms up when chilled, and adding warabi starch gives a chewier wrapper that holds up in water. Wells once did the chilling; at home, ice water made from drinking water does the job, with the molds only half submerged.
In Aizu this soup was served to guests, and at weddings it was one dish people could go back to for more as often as they liked. The broth combines bonito dashi with the soaking water from dried scallops, and since the scallops and mushrooms need eight hours in the fridge, the work starts the day before.
Two noodles share the wok in this Singapore dish: springy yellow wheat noodles and softer rice noodles. A splash of prawn stock goes in near the end and is cooked down until the noodles have drunk most of it, so the seafood flavor ends up inside the strands rather than in a pool on the plate. Squid and shrimp are seared briefly and set aside first so they do not overcook while the noodles finish.
Parsley makes up most of the bowl, with grains of bulgur scattered through the chopped green rather than the other way round. Mint and lemon juice bring a cool, sour lift, and thinly sliced green onion adds a sharp edge. The herbs are chopped with a sharp, upright knife so the leaves are cut, not crushed, and keep their aroma. Mushy bulgur blurs into the herbs, and the soak stops while the grains are tender with a little chew left. Water from any of three places, the soaked bulgur, the washed herbs, or the tomato's seedy center, ends up as thin dressing pooled in the bowl. The cooled bulgur takes the dressing first and is seasoned on its own before the vegetables join it.
Unlike Korean fish braises, this southern Vietnamese home dish has no chili at all; caramel and black pepper carry the flavor. Sugar is cooked to a dark caramel first, and catfish or another white fish then braises in it with fish sauce and coconut water. Once the sugar passes deep amber and starts to blacken it turns bitter, and the shallots and garlic go into the pot just before that point. Sweet and salty up front, it ends with the bite of pepper.
A whole piece of chicken thigh, rubbed with turmeric and cumin, comes on top of rice cooked in coconut milk. The spice and coconut reach right into the rice, and a spicy dipping sauce on the side sharpens the whole plate.
Despite the name, this soboro has no minced meat: pork belly, fried fish cake, konnyaku and carrot are all cut into sturdy 5 cm strips. The burdock is shaved thin and the bean sprouts go in last for just 90 seconds, giving each ingredient a different bite. Light soy sauce, sugar and sake with filtered shiitake soaking liquid make a short simmer, and the dish is served while a little liquid is still in the pan.
The sweet rice dough cooks in the microwave in a few short rounds instead of a steamer, and once it turns glossy and stretches long, it gets wrapped around balls of red bean paste. Shaping happens on a generous bed of starch, which keeps the tacky dough from clinging to your hands and leaves the finished daifuku dry to the touch. Dough straight from the microwave tears easily, so it cools just until it can be handled.
Kuuri means ice and jishi means meat, but the ice here has nothing to do with temperature: it is the egg that spreads across the clear broth in soft white drifts, like snow. Before the war, when eggs were scarce in Okinawa, families made it at Obon to welcome the spirits of their ancestors.
Shrimp shells fried with garlic until red and fragrant set how far this broth can go. Pork stock is added and simmered with them, then strained into a soup that looks almost clear but tastes concentrated. The peeled shrimp go in only at the end, with the egg noodles, and come out as soon as they turn opaque. A spoonful of sambal on top slowly melts into the hot broth, and the heat builds as you eat. It is a mainstay of Singapore's hawker centers.
Peanut butter whisked with soy sauce, lime juice, and chili sauce gives the same rich, nutty profile as the peanut sauce served with satay skewers. That sauce goes over thick pieces of seared tofu with lettuce, carrot, and cucumber, turning a salad into a full meal. Water clinging to the vegetables thins the dressing and dulls it, so shake them dry before assembling.
When the white fish comes out of the steamer, a heap of shredded scallion and ginger goes on top and oil heated until it shimmers is poured over it so the aromatics sizzle. In Cantonese cooking the fish is usually steamed whole; this version uses a fillet, which is easier to handle at home.
Fish sauce and oyster sauce do all the seasoning, which gives the rice a briny savoriness quite unlike a soy-based fried rice. Shrimp, egg, and onion are about all that goes in, and in Thailand the shrimp is often swapped for chicken or crab, or dropped so the egg carries the dish alone.
Blanched daikon greens are chopped fine and coated in miso and ground sesame, making a loose, crumbly side you spoon over rice. Chopped this small, even the tough stems go down easily, and a little sugar and mirin turn the miso sweet rather than sharply salty.
In Nagasaki this milkshake gets eaten with a spoon, far thicker than anything you would drink through a straw. It is said to have started between the late Taisho and early Showa periods at Tsuruchan, regarded as Kyushu's first tearoom, as relief from the city's summer heat. Once sold only in the warm months, it is now a year-round local specialty. Condensed milk and egg yolk give it a soft custard flavor, with fine shards of ice still crunching through it. Stopping the blender while some ice remains keeps it from turning watery, and a canned cherry goes on top.
In Akita this soup belongs to Little New Year, and with daikon, potato, mountain yam, wild greens, tofu and candied chestnuts in it, it is made in one big pot. Near the end, yaki-zunda, small cakes of green soybean flour and glutinous rice flour browned in a pan, go in for a final five-minute simmer.
Wide flour noodles from Yamanashi simmer straight in miso broth with kabocha, potato, daikon, and napa cabbage, leaving the soup thick and slow to cool. In mountain areas poorly suited to rice, houtou long served as a staple, and its lasting warmth means it is eaten most often in winter. Unlike udon, the dough has no salt and the floured strips are never boiled on their own, which leaves their starch to thicken the pot.
Tofu is dry-fried with no oil until the water cooks off and it breaks into fluffy crumbs, then scattered through shiitake, carrot, burdock and konjac simmered in dashi, and everything is dressed with rice vinegar. The tofu does not coat the vegetables; it stays in little grains tucked between them.
Turmeric-yellow white fish meets a big handful of dill and scallions, and the dill gives off a strong, anise-like smell the moment it hits the hot pan. This Hanoi dish is named after the La Vong restaurant, which has sold nothing else since the late nineteenth century, and a street in the Old Quarter carries its name too. Cod is the fish here, with rice noodles, roasted peanuts and fresh herbs alongside.
Sold from morning to night at Thai street stalls and restaurants, this chicken fried rice keeps its seasoning short: fish sauce, oyster sauce, and a little sugar. The diced chicken thigh goes into a very hot wok first, spread in a single layer to brown. At the table, fish sauce, dried chili flakes, sugar, and vinegar are always within reach, and each diner reseasons their own plate.
Shrimp, squid, bamboo shoots, shiitake and bok choy are bound in a clear, glossy sauce made with chicken stock, oyster sauce and starch. The seafood's first sear stops as soon as the surface turns opaque, because it keeps cooking once the stock is poured in.