1421 recipes. Page 32 of 60
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A handful of crown daisy goes into the broth once the oysters and tofu are cooked, and the heat goes off as soon as it starts to wilt. The seasoning is soup soy sauce, which keeps the broth from turning dark.
Soft, collapsing eggplant with springy shrimp in between. Oyster sauce goes in with the soy sauce, which makes it more savory than a plain eggplant braise, and with only a pinch of chili flakes it tastes salty and a little sweet rather than spicy.
Raw soybean leaves go straight into the brine, neither salted nor blanched, and their green, beany aroma comes through intact. Pear, garlic and ginger are blended and strained through cloth so that only the juice is used. Without that step, pulp ends up floating in the liquid and stuck between the leaves.
Beef shank simmered for 2 hours with star anise, cinnamon and ginger yields a clear broth with a gentle spice aroma. The dish comes from Lanzhou in Gansu province, where the noodles are hand-pulled; store-bought Chinese wheat noodles stand in for them. Keeping the pot at a quiet simmer the whole time decides whether the broth stays clear. Daikon, sliced beef, cilantro and chili oil finish each bowl.
Blended with walnuts, perilla leaves make a pesto whose scent recalls perilla oil: slightly bitter, quietly nutty and nothing like basil. Bite-size pieces of chicken breast stay lean and plain, letting the pesto carry the flavor, and the hollow penne fill with sauce.
Butter mixed with rosemary, thyme, and garlic is pushed under the breast skin, where it melts during roasting and coats the leanest part of the bird. A lemon and the remaining herbs go into the cavity. The oven starts hot to color the skin, then drops lower to cook the meat through, and the drippings left in the pan become the base for a gravy. Letting the bird rest before carving keeps the juices in the meat rather than on the board.
Whole yellow croaker spends two days buried in sea salt in the fridge, then gets a coat of garlic, ginger, chili flakes and cheongju (clear rice wine) and goes back to the fridge for 5 to 7 days. Unlike jeotgal left to ferment at room temperature for a long time, every stage here happens in the fridge. The seasoning has to reach inside the belly as well as the skin, otherwise the flesh near the bone stays plain. Small pieces go with plain rice or into kimchi jjigae.
Bulgogi-cut beef is seared in the pot just until it changes color, then the soaked rice and water go in on top and cook with it. Water parsley and the last of the soy sauce are laid over after the heat is off, and the parsley is still green when everything is stirred together. A heavy-bottomed pot leaves a layer of scorched rice as well.
Thick 1 cm half-moons of eggplant get a seared face before they are turned, so the pieces hold their shape and only the centers go soft, unlike limp versions of this banchan. Stirring too early stops the browning, and stirring too long makes the slices collapse.
Green onion cut into thick 5 cm lengths cooks beside the pork jowl, left mostly alone and then charred lightly over high heat at the end. The pork gets only 15 minutes in the soy marinade; past 20, the salt works too far into the meat.
The point is the ox knee cartilage, cooked until it turns soft and chewy, so it is the texture of the pieces, not the color of the broth, that tells you when to stop. There are no marrow bones in the pot, so don't expect a milky broth. Butchers sometimes sell knee and tendon together, but they are different cuts.
Clam juice forms the base, with gochugaru and gochujang turning the pot deep red and spicy. Thick slices of tofu and zucchini soak up the seafood broth all the way through. Served straight from the pot, it stays bubbling until the last spoonful.
Each piece of eggplant gets a deep cross cut that stops just short of the base, which opens it up like a pocket for a beef and tofu filling before it is steamed. Stuffing every piece by hand takes time, and the dish was traditionally kept for guests and feasts.
Larger and thicker than perilla leaves, soybean leaves take longer to absorb the brine but reward you with a hearty chew, and a single leaf wraps a whole spoonful of rice. Give them at least two days in the fridge, until the soy color reaches the middle of each leaf; this is not a same-day banchan. Garlic, cheongyang chili, and onion steep in the brine alongside the leaves, giving the soy flavor a sharp, peppery lift. The usual way to eat it is draped over hot rice.
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.
The pesto never touches a hot pan. Spaghetti goes from the pot into a large bowl and the sauce is tossed through it there, away from the stove, keeping the basil's raw aroma and bright green color. The processor is the other source of heat, and short pulses with the sides scraped down keep long runs from warming the inside and dulling the basil. Pine nuts are toasted dry only to a light gold, and the olive oil goes into the processor in two or three additions, stopping when the pesto is thick yet still drops slowly from a spoon.
The name means 'old clothes' in Spanish, a nod to the beef pulled into thin shreds that look like rags. Chuck is simmered whole in water until it gives easily, then shredded along the grain and cooked again in a sauce of onion, green pepper, tomato, and paprika that every strand soaks up. The simmering liquid is kept rather than discarded and added as needed to loosen the sauce.
Each braised perilla leaf is peeled off the stack and wrapped around a bite of rice. The leaves are stacked five or six at a time with sauce spooned between the layers and braised gently, so every leaf, wilted and soft, is seasoned evenly.
The seaweed and garlic are fried in sesame oil before the rice ever goes in. That step takes the fishy edge off the seaweed, and the nutty smell stays in the porridge through the long simmer. Soup soy sauce is used sparingly so it does not cover the seaweed.
Eggplant in summer drinks oil readily. Here the cut pieces are salted briefly and patted dry, which cuts down how much they soak up, then stir-fried with pork in a salty soy and oyster sauce.
The mussels start with two tablespoons of white wine and a lid, steaming for about 2 minutes. Only the opened ones are set aside; butter and garlic melt into the liquid left in the pan, and the mussels go back in for 2 or 3 minutes of tossing. Half a lemon is squeezed over once the heat is off.
No stock is needed: the salty liquor from the dongjuk, a surf clam, makes the broth on its own. Radish adds a little sweetness, and a single cheongyang chili leaves just a hint of heat.
With Spam and Vienna sausages piled in by the handful, the salty, meaty side of budae jjigae leads. Well-aged kimchi cuts through the processed meat with its sourness, and a block of instant ramen soaks up the seasoned broth as it cooks.
The eggplant is sauteed in oil for a few minutes before the sauce goes in. Dropped straight into the liquid, it would release water and thin the seasoning. Any braising liquid left over can go into bibimbap.