189 recipes. Page 5 of 8
Hearty steamed and braised dish recipes
The eel is steamed once with a splash of rice wine, and only after the flesh has turned white and given up some of its fat is the soy glaze brushed on for a second round. Brushed onto flesh that has lost some of its fat, the glaze settles in and sets glossy. In Korea it is a common dish for the bok days at the height of summer.
Steamed in the shell with only green onion and ginger beneath it, abalone keeps its sea-sweet aroma, with seasoning limited to a little soy sauce, rice wine and sesame oil spooned over afterward. A shallow crosshatch on the thick side lets heat reach the center so the edges do not toughen while the middle catches up.
Gizzard shad, a small fish at its fattiest in autumn, stays moist even when braised in a soy and gochugaru sauce. Three deep scores along the back let the sauce reach the thick part of the fish without a long cook. Thick slices of radish packed across the bottom of the pot keep the fish from scorching and turn sweet as they soak up the sauce; the thicker the slices, the sweeter they get. Basting with a spoon takes the place of flipping, which would break the delicate flesh apart. The reduced sauce left in the pot is spooned over steamed rice.
As the soy-based liquid reduces, glass noodles (dangmyeon) soak it up and turn chewy, while big chunks of potato go fluffy and take on the salty-sweet sauce. The dish traces back to the chicken shops of the old market in Andong, North Gyeongsang Province. Timing the noodles is the key move: added too early they drink all the liquid and go limp, so they only join once the potatoes are about half done. With no chili in the pot, the flavor is pure soy, sugar and garlic, and the glossy sauce is made for spooning over rice.
Baby octopus, at its best in spring, spends only a short time in a gochujang and gochugaru marinade before steaming on a bed of cabbage and onion. Ten minutes is enough to coat the pieces before they start giving up water. As the vegetables soften, their juices mix with the marinade into a small pool of spicy sauce at the bottom. The cabbage keeps the octopus off the steamer and takes the edge off the heat. The steamer should be at a full boil before the octopus is added, and the lid stays shut so the steam stays strong. The window between springy and rubbery is narrow, and the moment the pieces curl up plump is the moment to stop.
Whole garlic cloves and rice wine come to a boil before a mix of clams is added, giving the broth they release a slow, mellow garlic note. With the clams bringing their own salt, the measured salt is stirred in only after tasting, a little at a time. Green onion and cheongyang chili steam for just half a minute at the end to perfume the broth; any longer and the clam meat shrinks and toughens. Purging the clams in salted water beforehand matters as much as the cooking, because any sand ends up in the bowl. Clams that stay shut are thrown out, and the leftover broth makes a base for noodles or porridge.
A knob of butter dropped in as the first clam opens turns the salty mix of rice wine and clam juice cloudy and rounded. No stock is used, so the broth tastes only as good as the clams and how well they were purged. Tilting the lid as it comes off sends condensation away from the pot instead of back into the liquid, and a scatter of chopped chives cuts through the butter. In Korea this is a drinking snack, brought to the table while the shells are still steaming.
Yellow croaker has fine, tender flesh that separates into neat flakes under chopsticks, and the soy sauce seasoning seeps along deep scores in its sides. The fish stays put in the steamer from start to finish, and the few spoonfuls of liquid left underneath are poured back over it to eat with rice.
Soft, mild yellow croaker with little fishiness needs nothing more than a simple sauce of soy, gochugaru and garlic. Some croaker is sold already salted and needs less soy sauce. Taste before adding the full amount. Sliced radish under the fish keeps it from sticking and turns sweet and tender in the liquid. Korean families often put this on holiday tables, and the saucy braising liquid is meant to be spooned over rice.
After an hour and a half of slow braising in soy sauce, pork trotters develop glossy, sticky skin over meat soft enough for a chopstick to slide through. Onion, garlic, ginger and whole peppercorns in the braising liquid carry the soy flavor into the layers between skin and meat. The braising liquid is not wasted: strained and reduced, it becomes the glaze spooned over the slices. Jokbal is eaten wrapped in lettuce with salted shrimp sauce or ssamjang, often late at night with drinks.
Perilla leaves, brushed thinly with soy and chili seasoning and stacked, braise gently into soft, dark green sheets that still peel apart one at a time. Draped over a spoonful of rice, each leaf brings its strong herbal aroma and the salty sauce together in one bite. Leftover rinsing water is what usually goes wrong, since it dilutes the seasoning and leaves the stack bland. Alternating the stem direction as the leaves are stacked evens out the thickness on both sides. Spooning the liquid from the bottom over the top midway lets every layer take on salt, and a day in the fridge evens it out further.
Oily Pacific saury can braise for a good twenty minutes in a spicy soy broth and still come out moist. Laying the fish in a single layer over thick radish slices, and pouring water in around the edge rather than over the top, keeps the soft flesh in whole pieces. Skimming the foam when it first boils keeps the sauce clean, and spooning the liquid over the fish midway seasons the exposed top. The liquid is cooked down until only a shallow layer remains, which coats both the fish and the radish. Whatever sauce is left gets spooned onto rice.
Canned saury comes with bones already softened, so draining and rinsing it cuts the cooking time roughly in half, while fresh saury takes longer to cook through. Either way the oily flesh holds its own against a sauce of gochujang and gochugaru, and the radish underneath turns into a sweet, sauce-soaked braise of its own.
Well-fermented kimchi, sour and soft, meets the oil from canned Pacific saury and cooks down into a tangy, concentrated sauce. With no fish to clean, the work is mostly waiting: about twenty minutes of simmering, partly uncovered, until the kimchi turns tender and the liquid thickens. Sliced cheongyang chili goes in near the end to keep its sharp heat. The fish only needs heating through and stays in large pieces as long as nobody stirs it.
Collagen from the oxtail joints melts into the pot over a long simmer, thickening the sauce to a glossy, sticky finish while the meat slips off the bone. The tails first simmer for 90 minutes with just green onion and ginger, so the meat is tender before the soy sauce and sugar are added. Radish and carrot join for the last stretch, sweetening the sauce and soaking it up. Chilled, the sauce sets like jelly and melts again on reheating, and lifting off the fat that hardens on top makes the braise taste cleaner. The dish is a fixture of Korean holiday tables.
Steaming a whole blue crab keeps more of its sweet juices inside the shell than boiling does, and the meat comes out briny and moist. In spring and autumn the crabs are full of roe and tomalley, which adds plenty to eat beyond the white meat. A simple dip of soy sauce sharpened with vinegar brings the sweetness forward. Eating it is hands-on work, cracking each leg joint and pulling the meat out piece by piece.
The potatoes finish with a sweet-salty soy glaze clinging to the outside and a floury interior. Because their wrinkled skins catch the sauce quickly, the shishito peppers wait until the potatoes are about halfway done and still keep a bit of crunch. The heat is mild enough for children, and once the glaze sets the dish holds its flavor at room temperature in a lunchbox.
Rolled around in a soy, sugar and mirin braise, the small quail eggs brown evenly and take on salt almost to the yolk. Added once the liquid has reduced by about half, the shishito peppers soften without bursting and keep their green, slightly grassy taste. A couple of toothpick holes in each pepper let the sauce inside and keep the skins from splitting. The braise should end with a little syrupy liquid still in the pot rather than a dry pan, giving each egg a shiny coat. Refrigerated, it keeps for three to four days as a ready side dish.
Squid and shishito peppers end up coated in a spicy glaze of soy sauce, gochujang and gochugaru, with just enough sauce left in the pan to spoon over rice. The squid gets only a short, hot reduction, since it turns rubbery the longer it simmers; once the edges curl and turn white, it is nearly there. Residual heat keeps cooking it, which is the reason to stir in the sesame oil off the heat and plate right away.
Tofu and shishito peppers carry this meatless braise, and the salty, mildly spicy sauce that remains is meant to be mixed into rice. The tofu is basted with a spoon rather than flipped, so the slices stay neat and square to the end. Onion cut on the thick side keeps its shape through the braise and adds a bit of bite. Patting the tofu dry one more time just before it hits the pan cuts down on spattering oil.
Instead of being stir-fried, shishito-style peppers are dusted with a thin layer of flour and steamed, which keeps their mild sweetness and soft bite. During steaming the white coating turns translucent, forming a thin film that the dressing of soy sauce, gochugaru, garlic and sesame oil clings to.
The firm, slightly chewy flesh of half-dried pollock holds together through a long spicy braise and takes the seasoning all the way in. Gochugaru and gochujang together give the sauce body and a deep red color, and a spoonful of syrup added near the end gives it shine. Basting two or three times beats flipping, which only tears the fish. When the sauce turns thick and sticks to the pollock, it is ready to serve with the radish and a bowl of rice.
Dried only partway in the sea wind on Korea's east coast, kodari pollock keeps some moisture in its flesh. Braised, it turns chewy without the dry, fibrous texture of fully dried hwangtae or bugeo. Radish under the fish keeps it off the hot pot bottom while a spicy-sweet sauce of gochujang, gochugaru, soy sauce and sugar cooks into it over about half an hour. It tastes even better after a night in the fridge, and leftover sauce makes a good bibimbap seasoning.
Each bean ends up with a clear, glossy shell of soy and sugar syrup, salty first and then nutty as you bite through. Known in Korea as kongjorim or kongjaban, it works with black seoritae beans or yellow soybeans. The beans are soaked and boiled until soft before they ever meet the sauce. That keeps the braising short while the seasoning still reaches the center. Kept in a sealed container in the fridge, it is a classic make-ahead banchan for rice bowls and lunch boxes.