1880 Korean recipes. Page 64 of 79. Compare ingredients and cooking times. Korean Kkaennip Deulgireum Gyeran Bap (Perilla Egg Rice).
Perilla oil and kkaennip (perilla leaves) both come from the same plant, so one bowl carries the toasty smell of the seed and the fresh, minty smell of the leaf. The egg is cooked soft in butter and folded in.
Garlic scapes taste of garlic without the sharp bite of the cloves, more sweet than pungent, and even people who shy away from garlic tend to keep reaching for them. Their season runs from spring into early summer, when the stalks are at their most tender.
The heads and part of the shells stay on these medium shrimp. Tossed for ten minutes with olive oil, rosemary, thyme and garlic, they cook for two minutes a side on a thin layer of coarse salt in a very hot pan, and the shells that were left on turn crisp.
Bean sprouts go into a milky broth made from toasted dried pollack, and it is the soup many Koreans make the morning after drinking. The sprouts cook briefly with the lid off, so their stems stay crisp.
As it simmers, the tough stems of the ugeoji (blanched outer napa cabbage leaves) loosen and soak up the doenjang. A little gochujang tints the broth reddish, and rice-rinse water gives it more body than plain water would.
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.
Sseumbagwi, a sharply bitter spring herb, soaks in cold water for 20 minutes before it ever meets the seasoning. Some bitterness is meant to remain: after a first ferment at room temperature and a stretch of refrigeration, savory and sour notes build over it, and the balance is best around day three. Sand lance fish sauce is milder than the anchovy sauce used for cabbage kimchi, so it leaves the herb's character intact, while sweet rice paste helps the dressing cling to thin stems.
Shredded brisket, fernbrake, and bean sprouts fill a red, chili-oiled broth, and thin somyeon noodles take the place of the usual bowl of rice. The heat comes from gochugaru coated on the vegetables with sesame oil and fried briefly, and chili scorched at that point turns the whole pot bitter.
Half sheets of seaweed are spread with a very thin layer of rice and rolled tightly around just three fillings: yellow pickled radish, spinach, and carrot. The result is a slim roll that cuts into small coins, each one a single bite. Carrot is stir-fried only until it wilts so it keeps some crunch and sweetness, and the spinach is blanched briefly, squeezed dry, and dressed with sesame oil.
Garlic scapes are crisp with a slight chew, which gives lean chicken breast something to bite against. Oyster sauce and soy leave everything glossy.
A heavy pan holds a 1 cm layer of coarse salt, 300 g of it, heated under the lid before the shell-on shrimp go on top and the lid closes again. Melted butter is brushed onto the shells only after the shrimp have steamed through and been lifted off the salt, and the used salt is thrown out.
The kimchi decides almost everything here. Well-fermented, sour kimchi goes in with plenty of its brine, which turns the broth a deep brick red; if yours is not sour yet, a little vinegar makes up the difference.
Brisket browned in perilla oil, then doenjang and chili flakes fried in the same fat, give this stew a savory, toasty base before any water goes in. The blanched cabbage leaves spend about 25 minutes in the pot, soaking the beef broth deep into their fibers, while the thinly sliced brisket cooks until it pulls apart along the grain. With only greens and beef in the pot, the flavor is simple and hearty.
Spicy pork and bean sprouts, usually a stir-fry, are steamed in this version, which uses no oil and lets the gochujang and gochugaru seasoning come through more directly. As the sprouts wilt under the lid they release water that turns into a light broth and carries the seasoning into the pork shoulder, while their remaining crunch eases the heat. Spreading the meat thin and low over the sprouts lets it cook at the same pace throughout. The dish is served as soon as it is done, before the sprouts give off too much water and turn limp. Rice or thin somyeon noodles stirred into the leftover broth finish the pot.
Thin lemon slices layered with the crown daisy add a citrus lift to an otherwise plain soy brine. The leaves wilt and take on the soy color after 24 hours of chilling, which makes it a next-day option when a side dish is needed fast.
Every bite mixes two temperatures: warm, savory slices of egg-battered beef on top of cold, sweet-sour gochujang noodles. If the thin beef is floured while still damp, the egg coating lifts and slides off in the pan.
In spring, when cockles are in season, their meat goes into this bowl with raw water parsley (minari) and a gochujang dressing. The cockles come out of the boiling water after 30 seconds; any longer and they shrink and turn rubbery.
Clam meat is mixed among crisp, oyster-sauce-glazed garlic scapes, and since the clams are barely more than warmed through, they stay plump and tender.
Chuck flap is so well marbled that coarse salt, pepper and a quick, hard sear are all it takes, and it stays juicy. While the steak rests, asparagus goes into the same pan and picks up the beef fat and butter left behind.
Maesaengi, a winter seaweed, grows in strands as fine as thread, and once it is loosened with chopsticks in anchovy stock the whole pot turns deep green within minutes. Its aroma fades with long cooking, so three to four minutes is all it gets.
Uijeongbu is the city where this stew took hold near US Army bases after the Korean War, and that is where the name comes from. The salt of Spam and cocktail sausages, the sourness of ripe kimchi and the sweetness of melted baked beans all end up in the same pot.
Tender raw soybean leaves are stacked two or three at a time with a thin spread of soy and chili seasoning between them, steamed briefly, then peeled off one by one to wrap around a bite of rice. Steaming softens the coarse veins, and green plum syrup rounds off the saltiness of the soy so the grassy taste of the leaves still comes through behind the garlic and chili. It works warm or cooled as a side dish; the seasoning stays put between the layers.
Crown daisy keeps its bitter, herbal perfume even under a coat of gochugaru and sand lance fish sauce, and two hours at room temperature plus a day of cold storage bring that aroma to its clearest point. The salted leaves are drained in a sieve rather than squeezed, because the tender greens bruise and turn mushy under pressure.
Even the liquid from the can of mackerel pike (kkongchi, a Pacific saury) goes in, two tablespoons of it, adding the taste of the fish to the kimchi sauce. Once the fish is in, the spatula splits it only two or three times, and it still sits on the rice in large chunks.