236 recipes. Page 5 of 10
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Nothing else goes into the pot as filling. Yamataro crabs, with only the top shell removed, are pounded with miso in a mortar, mixed with water and strained three times, and as that liquid heats, the crab protein sets into curds like soft tofu. Ginger juice and sliced scallion are the only things on top.
The sea bream is steamed whole and goes to the table that way, which is why the dish turns up at holiday meals and when guests come. Soy sauce never touches the fish before steaming; it is heated, mixed with the juices that collect on the plate, and spooned over at the end.
This kimchi is eaten the day it is made rather than aged: oyster and shiitake mushrooms get a one-minute blanch and a dressing of gochugaru and anchovy fish sauce. Tearing the oyster mushrooms along the grain into thick strips keeps them from collapsing, and the thick shiitake caps stay chewy throughout. Mushrooms that are not squeezed hard thin the paste and soften further in storage. Even chilled, it is best within 2 days.
Beef shank, first fried with doubanjiang (fermented chili bean paste), simmers in a soy broth until it splits under a chopstick, then goes over wheat noodles in big chunks. The broth is dark with soy and only gently hot, and a few blanched bok choy leaves add some green.
No cream goes into this sauce; its sweetness and body come from onions cooked for 15 to 20 minutes until deep brown. A staple of Punjabi home cooking, it is scooped up with roti on an ordinary weeknight, and paired with fried bhatura it becomes chole bhature.
One pot does double duty: the water that poaches the chicken thighs becomes the cooking liquid for the rice. The heat stays low enough that only small bubbles rise at the edge, because a rolling boil splits and dries the meat.
Ketchup, chili sauce and sugar form the base, and sweet-tangy comes through before any heat. The sauce is thickened twice: first with starch slurry added a little at a time, then with a beaten egg trickled in around the edge of the wok for soft ribbons. Bread or rice goes on the side.
Licorice root and pear do most of the sweetening in this simmered tea, and only a little honey is stirred in at the end. Licorice turns cloying in larger amounts; about 3g per person is enough. The pear goes in late and cooks only until it turns translucent.
On a flat, thin fish like tongue sole, the chili marinade sits evenly on the surface and seasons the flesh quickly. Maesil cheong, a green plum syrup, takes the pasty edge off the gochujang and, with the sugar, caramelizes into a glossy brown coating.
In Jeju, pork backbone and belly simmer for an hour and a half, and gulfweed goes into that broth along with buckwheat flour to thicken it. It keeps thickening as it cools, and the heat goes off while it still runs slowly off a spoon.
This cold-weather braise calls for frozen pollock on purpose, not fresh. Freezing and thawing firms up the flesh and leaves it slightly spongy, and the pieces hold together through a long simmer in the spicy broth.
Blanched cabbage is layered with cooked salted trout, carrot, ginger and chili, and each layer gets a splash of amazake and vinegar. In inland Tsugaru, Aomori, fresh seafood was once hard to come by, and through about four months of heavy snow, pickled vegetables and long-keeping salted trout carried households through winter. Families ate the grilled flesh and put the remaining edible parts into pickles or shirani soup. The batch fills an 18L container and stays at 4°C or below from start to finish, so refrigerator space is the first thing to sort out.
Sesame paste whisked into chicken stock turns the broth thick, tan, and nutty, and a spoonful of crumbly pork plus a drizzle of chili oil sit on top as separate layers of salt and heat. Doubanjiang, a fermented chili bean paste, gives that pork its savory backbone, and the pork is fried until its moisture is gone and the edges brown and crisp. Stirring the bowl gradually blends the chili oil into the sesame broth, changing the taste of the soup from the first sip to the last. Peanut butter can stand in for half the sesame paste, and the amount of doubanjiang sets the heat. The noodles come out a little before the package time so they stay firm in the hot soup. Blanched bok choy adds a crisp, green bite against all that richness.
Buhari Hotel in Chennai is usually credited with introducing this South Indian fried chicken in 1965. Stories about the name point to a 65th menu item, among other theories, and none is settled. Thigh pieces marinated in yogurt, chili, garlic, and ginger get a sticky coat of egg and cornstarch and are fried twice, which gives a firm, deep-golden outside and a juicy inside. It spread across India as a bar snack with beer. Many restaurants finish it with fried curry leaves, but this version skips that step.
Toasted iriko (dried sardines), sesame and peanuts are pounded with miso, browned under the grill, then whisked into cold bonito stock until it is stronger than everyday miso soup. Torn tofu, cucumber, shiso, myoga and ginger float in it, and it is ladled over freshly cooked, hot barley rice. In Miyazaki it is said to have grown out of a farmhouse habit of putting raw miso and water on barley rice on hot days.
The eggplant is fried and set aside first, then returned to the sauce at the end, which keeps the pieces whole. The sauce starts from the spicy oil released as ground pork and doubanjiang (chili bean paste) fry together, and the sourness is adjusted at the very end with a little vinegar at a time.
Sliced ginger simmers in water for ten minutes and is strained out before the milk goes in. Because the ginger never sits in the milk, there are no fibers to catch on the tongue, and its heat comes through as warmth rather than a sting. Honey is added off the heat, with a dusting of cinnamon on top.
The neungi mushrooms join the pot only for the final 15 minutes, after the chicken has spent 50 minutes making its stock. Boiled from the start, they would lose their aroma and leave something close to an ordinary chicken soup.
The ribs spend half an hour in cold water and get a quick blanch and rinse before they ever meet the soy braising liquid. It is an extra step, but it keeps the foam and impurities out of the pot, and the finished sauce tastes clean rather than murky.
Cheonggak, a branching green seaweed, gives this radish kimchi a firm, almost crunchy chew and a marine aroma that land-vegetable kimchi lacks. Half the paste is massaged into the julienned radish first so it seasons evenly; the seaweed joins the remaining paste and is tossed quickly, because long handling toughens it. A day in the fridge lets the seaweed's salinity merge with the fish sauce paste, and the briny result sits naturally beside seafood and mild rice soups.
Pork back bones and trotters boil hard for hours until their collagen and fat emulsify into a milky broth thick enough to feel sticky on the lips. Soaking and blanching the bones beforehand cuts down the porky smell. That rolling boil is the opposite of the gentle simmer used for clear stocks, and it is what separates tonkotsu from an ordinary pork soup. When the pot runs low, it is topped up with hot water, never with a lower flame. Thin, firm noodles, pork belly chashu braised in soy sauce and mirin, a soft-boiled egg, and sliced green onion top the bowl. The chashu slices thin most easily when made a day ahead and chilled, and the eggs marinate in its braising liquid.
Soaked cashews, ground smooth and stirred over low heat with yogurt and cream, make a thick sauce with little chili heat. The brown color comes from onions fried for a long time and then blended in.
Regular khao man gai tops the rice with poached chicken; this version swaps in chicken thighs seasoned with soy and fish sauce, dredged lightly in flour, and fried skin side first to a deep gold. The rice cooks with garlic and ginger, giving it more aroma than plain steamed rice to stand up to the fried chicken. Excess flour is shaken off before frying, since a heavy coat tends to slip away in the oil. Sliced chicken goes over the rice with a sauce on the side.
The dried persimmons go in only for the last eight to ten minutes, and in that time they fall apart, thickening the tea slightly and giving it a jammy sweetness. Their sugar content varies a lot, and very sweet ones can take as little as 20g of dark brown sugar. The strained, reddish-brown tea is topped with a spoonful of walnuts. On holiday tables it sometimes sits beside sujeonggwa.