311 recipes. Page 3 of 13
Quick and delicious stir-fry recipes
The noodles, beef, spinach, carrot and onion are each cooked on their own and only combined at the end. There is a single batch of soy sauce, sugar and sesame oil: a little goes on the beef as a marinade, and whatever is left seasons the noodles.
Rice goes into a single cup and gochujang-glazed pork shoulder is piled over it, the way Korean snack bars (bunsik) serve it. The trick is spreading the rice out first to let the steam escape: spooned into the cup straight from the pot, it turns soggy in its own vapor.
Oyster mushrooms torn along the grain come apart in thin strands, while shiitake cut 5 mm thick have a fuller chew. Whether the mushrooms were rinsed matters less than whether they go into the pan wet or piled in layers.
Tangy kimchi and sweet soy-marinated beef cling to thick udon in a saucy, soup-free stir-fry. Searing the beef undisturbed over high heat builds flavor. Frying the kimchi until red oil pools in the pan, before any sauce goes in, keeps the seasoning concentrated. The fat, round noodles hold the sauce well, making a filling one-plate meal.
The pork shoulder marinates in gochujang for 10 minutes, then gets spread across a hot pan and left alone for the first 2 minutes. That pause is when the glaze touching the pan catches and browns at the edges.
King oyster mushrooms are torn lengthwise by hand, so their fibrous grain stays intact. They are seared in a dry pan first to drive off moisture, which is why the soy sauce clings as a dark glaze instead of turning watery.
With butter mellowing kimchi's sourness and adding a rich, nutty aroma, a splash of soy sauce is all the udon needs. The sharp tang softens once the kimchi, spread out in the pan, cooks down its juices until the edges darken. A soft-boiled egg on top breaks into a creamy sauce, with crumbled seaweed and chives for fragrance, and the whole dish comes together in about 12 minutes.
Bite-size pieces of webfoot octopus (jjukkumi, a small octopus) are scattered through rice stained red by gochujang sauce. The first sear stops the moment the pieces curl and turn opaque, because they keep cooking while the sauce and rice are stirred in.
Shiitake, enoki and oyster mushrooms share one pan, and each keeps its own texture: chewy, threadlike and thick. The first wave of liquid they release has to evaporate over high heat, and the ground perilla seed waits until the mushroom edges look slightly dry. Added any sooner, it turns into a damp paste instead of clinging.
Well-fermented kimchi gives this glass noodle stir-fry a sour, spicy edge that plain japchae lacks. Squeeze the kimchi hard: leftover juice turns to water in the pan, swelling the noodles and diluting the seasoning. Pork goes in first so its fat flavors the kimchi and onion, and sesame oil is stirred in off the heat to keep its aroma.
Daegu's junghwa bibimbap, a Chinese-Korean rice bowl, piles pork, squid, shrimp, and cabbage, stir-fried over high heat until no loose liquid is left, onto rice and tops it with a runny-yolked fried egg. Once the burner is on high there is no time to stop, and the chili powder, oyster sauce, soy sauce, and garlic are measured out beforehand.
Five ingredients: oyster mushrooms, shiitake, butter, soy sauce and garlic. The garlic flavors the butter, the mushrooms fry in it, and soy sauce poured around the rim of the pan catches and reduces into a salty, faintly sweet film on each piece. A last bit of butter melted in over low heat gives it a gloss before it goes over rice.
Thin-sliced pork belly fried until golden renders the fat that everything else cooks in. Onion, scallion and kimchi go into that fat, and the kimchi keeps frying until its juice has nearly gone, concentrating flavor and keeping the noodles from turning soggy. Older, more fermented kimchi gives a deeper sour note to the finished udon.
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.
The beef sits in a pear juice and soy marinade for 10 minutes, then shiitake, king oyster mushrooms and onion are tossed into the same bowl before anything hits the heat. With everything going in at once, a small pan is better worked in two batches. Apple juice can stand in for the pear juice if the sugar is cut back a little.
Unlike chow mein, which gets fried until crisp, lo mein tosses boiled noodles gently with sauce so they stay soft and glossy. Soy sauce, oyster sauce and a little sugar make a salty, faintly sweet coating, mixed in advance so the seasoning spreads evenly during the brief toss. Half cooking the shrimp before the vegetables go in keeps it from toughening while everything is tossed, and the broccoli and carrot come off the heat while still bright and crisp. The noodles are plated the moment the sauce turns glossy, since left in the pan they dry out. Chicken or beef works in place of shrimp with the same steps.
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.
Canned saury goes into a soy-seasoned stir-fry of oyster mushrooms and cabbage, and a teaspoon of lemon juice just before the heat goes off takes down the fishy smell. The fish is already cooked, so it waits until the vegetables have dried out again and is folded in gently to keep the pieces large.
Tamarind leads the flavor, sour and fruity, with fish sauce and sugar rounding it into a sweet-salty tang. Despite a name that points to Siam, the dish belongs to Singapore and Malaysia rather than Thailand. Thin rice vermicelli is soaked, then stir-fried hard and fast so the sauce soaks in without the noodles breaking down. The shrimp are only seared at first and finish cooking alongside the noodles and bean sprouts, which go out with some crunch still in them.
Shrimp fried rice, pale yellow from a little curry powder, goes to the table inside the hollowed-out pineapple shell it was spooned into.
Gochujang-marinated pork shoulder and Brussels sprouts share the pan. The sprouts are halved and left cut side down without much turning, since a golden, seared face is what takes away most of their bitterness. A teaspoon of vinegar and sliced red chili go in at the end.
Kecap manis, Indonesia's thick sweet soy sauce, caramelizes the moment it hits a hot wok and lacquers the egg noodles a deep, glossy brown. That sweetness is what sets Javanese mie goreng apart from Chinese-style fried noodles, and a spoonful of sambal keeps it from turning cloying. Shallots and garlic fried golden lay the aromatic base, and chicken thigh sliced thin cooks through in a few minutes over high heat while staying juicy. Noodles that are still wet drop the wok's temperature and leave the stir-fry soggy, and a weak flame in the last minute does the same. Java's street stalls serve it with a runny-yolked fried egg, prawn crackers, and a wedge of lime to cut the sweetness.
Egg and scallion are about the only other things in the pan, so the sweetness of the crab comes through first. In Thailand it arrives with a wedge of lime on the plate for you to squeeze over yourself.
The tofu is pan-fried in perilla oil until golden before anything else, so it keeps its shape when it is tossed with the broccoli in the doenjang sauce.