636 recipes. Page 23 of 27
Everyday Korean side dish recipes
Whole stalks of green onion ferment into this kimchi, and time turns their sharp, raw bite mellow while the white stems go supple. A shallow slit down the thick white part lets salt and paste reach inside rather than sitting on the surface.
Grated cheddar with red pimento showing through, bound with mayonnaise into a cold spread; the cheese is never melted. Pimentos are sweet, mild jarred red peppers, and the same amount of chili flakes or fresh bell pepper does not stand in for them. Cheddar grated from a block keeps its shreds instead of mashing into paste.
Sour, long-aged kimchi and canned tuna are stir-fried together and spooned over hot rice. The tuna goes in last and is turned over just a few times in big folds, so it stays in chunks that take on the kimchi seasoning rather than breaking into flakes. Very sour kimchi can take about half a teaspoon more sugar, and canned mackerel works in place of tuna.
Doenjang and ground perilla seeds turn dried radish greens into a soft, nutty side dish with just enough broth left to spoon up. Peeling off the stringy outer skin of the stems matters more than cooking time; left on, it stays tough however long the pot simmers.
Mustard greens keep their sharp, nose-tingling heat even after a vinegar brine, and lemon juice added off the heat lays a fresh citrus note over it. The pickle is ready to eat after 12 hours in the fridge, but thick stems need about a day before the brine reaches their center. Next to fatty grilled meat, the spicy sourness clears the palate.
Shiitake cut into thick slices soak up a soy and syrup glaze until the outside turns glossy brown and the inside stays chewy. The braise stops before the pan goes dry, while the sauce still coats a spoon lightly; reduced all the way, it starts to scorch. Sesame oil goes in after the heat is off, and a few minutes of cooling lets the glaze soak in further.
Mild, pan-browned tofu breaks up the sharp sourness of aged kimchi in every bite. The finishing oil is perilla rather than sesame, drizzled once the heat is off so its nutty aroma survives and smooths out the kimchi's fermented intensity.
Seasoned radish greens (siraegi) go into hot perilla oil before any liquid, which toasts the doenjang and carries its savory smell into the plain water added afterward. Soup soy sauce (guk-ganjang, a lighter, saltier Korean soy) backs up the seasoning. Splitting the thick stems lengthwise lets them soften at the same pace as the leafy parts, and the slow, low simmer turns tough stems pliable. It finishes with just a shallow pool of liquid in the pot, good for mixing into rice.
Red and yellow bell peppers layered with cucumber make a bright jar, and their thick flesh soaks up the soy brine slowly without losing its crunch. Natural sweetness from the peppers balances the salty soy and the vinegar, while whole peppercorns leave a slight spice at the finish. It can be eaten the next day, but two to three days lets the brine reach the center. A jar of peppers alone, without the water-releasing cucumber, keeps two weeks or more chilled. Leftover brine works as a salad dressing.
Fresh parsley, chives and dill give this ranch its green flecks and most of its flavor, carried in mayonnaise, sour cream and buttermilk. Raw garlic is mashed with salt into a paste so no single bite hits hard.
King oyster mushrooms are firm and meaty while oyster mushrooms pull apart into soft strands, so cooking both together keeps the texture from being one note. Broccoli and carrot brighten it up, and soy and oyster sauce do the seasoning.
Because the eye of round is boiled first and its strained stock becomes the braising base, the soy glaze carries a meaty depth rather than just salt and sugar. Quail eggs simmer in the same liquid and turn brown from the outside in, then keep absorbing seasoning as everything cools. Once fully cold, the braising liquid firms up into a thin coating around the beef and eggs, and a night in the fridge drives the seasoning deeper. If it tastes too salty, 2-3 tablespoons of water and a brief return to the boil bring it back in line. The beef is torn into long shreds along the grain, the classic jangjorim texture for spooning over rice from a container in the fridge.
Skipping the usual long salting, raw napa cabbage goes straight into the chili seasoning and the leaves stay crunchy, cool, and full of juice. Green plum syrup brings a rounded sweetness that fermentation would otherwise supply, softening the salt of the anchovy sauce. Tossing stops as soon as the red paste coats the leaves evenly, because any water left on the cabbage, or too much mixing, thins the seasoning.
The king oyster mushrooms are torn by hand along the grain instead of sliced, then steamed. The soy, vinegar and chili flake dressing seeps into the torn fibers, and with no oil in the pan the mushroom stays clean-tasting.
Tiny dried anchovies end up glossy, sweet-salty, and crisp once the glaze sets as they cool. After they go back into the bubbling syrup, 30 seconds to a minute of tossing is all they need; chasing every last bit of sauce on the bottom only makes the coating hard and clumpy.
Twelve whole garlic cloves braise alongside the beef until their raw bite disappears and they turn soft and mellow. Shiitake mushrooms take on the soy glaze and a glossy sheen, and they add an earthy aroma to the beef stock that plain jangjorim, Korean soy-braised beef, does not have. An overnight rest in the fridge lets the seasoning soak all the way in, and the flavor is noticeably darker the next day.
Paper-thin slices of ginger are blanched for exactly 30 seconds, long enough to relax the tough fibers and tame the sharp heat. Any longer and the ginger's own fragrance dissolves into the water. Three days of cold storage lets the soy and vinegar soak deep into each slice, turning the raw bite round and mellow, and the thinner the slices are cut along the grain, the sooner that happens. One slice with a spoonful of rice is enough, and beside fatty pork belly or boiled pork it cuts the richness. A hot green chili added to the brine brings a second, brighter kind of heat.
Saeujeot, tiny salted shrimp, supplies every bit of salt in this side dish; the chili flakes, garlic, scallion, and sesame oil only round it out into something eaten a little at a time from a small bowl. Jars vary a lot in how much brine they hold, and too much liquid leaves the seasoning sliding around in a puddle. Coloring the shrimp with chili flakes first, then folding the rest in from the bottom up, keeps the little shrimp whole instead of mashed.
With no gochujang, only soy sauce and starch syrup for the glaze, these anchovies are sweet-salty with no heat at all, which is why they turn up so often in children's lunchboxes. Turn the heat down as soon as the syrup bubbles once, or the glaze sets hard as it cools. Once cool, the anchovies cling together loosely, just right for picking up a small clump at a time.
In this braise the radish matters as much as the beef: thick rounds go into a soy broth that has already simmered with brisket and drink up its meaty flavor as they turn translucent at the edges. Trimming the sharp corners of each piece keeps them whole through the long, low braise. Serve the radish with a spoonful of the salty-sweet liquid over rice.
Nothing but tiny jeot shrimp and salt goes into the crock, and the shrimp are left until they break down completely, ready to season kimchi. Unlike dishes that coat plump prawns in sauce, this relies on the thin-shelled shrimp slowly dissolving into a salty, savory paste. When shopping, tell apart ready-aged saeujeot from raw shrimp meant for salting at home. The crock needs shade, temperatures kept under 25°C, and at least two weeks, so it is not something to eat right away. The salty brine it produces counts toward the kimchi's salt too.
These are not fresh soybean leaves but leaves that have been fermented in brine, so the first job is soaking out their strong funk and excess salt before any seasoning touches them. Rather than tossed loose, they are stacked a few at a time with the fish sauce and chili dressing brushed between the layers, then packed into a container and chilled.
Medium anchovies are bigger and thicker than the tiny ones used in the sweet version, and their heads and dark guts, which would make the dish bitter, come off one by one. Gochujang brings a fermented heat, chili flakes deepen the red, and the amount of flakes is the dial for spiciness.
Chicken wings have plenty of skin, and in the final reduction the soy and sugar liquid clings to it in a thin, shiny lacquer. The wings first cook covered so the meat turns tender in the broth, and only then does the lid come off to boil the sauce down around them. Shallow cuts in the thick parts let the seasoning reach past the surface, and a teaspoon of sesame oil stirred in off the heat adds a toasted aroma.