689 recipes. Page 3 of 29
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In Gunma's wheat-loving farm villages, jiriyaki, a thick wheat pancake with green onion and sakura shrimp, was the snack eaten by hand at the work breaks at 10 in the morning and 3 in the afternoon. It once cooked slowly over the ash heat of an irori hearth, and the name is said to echo the jiri-jiri sound of the batter sizzling.
The broth here comes from a generous 700 g of hard clams. Thick slabs of tofu go in only after the clams open and simmer for five minutes, long enough to soak up the clam juices that come out again when you bite. The shells bring their own salt; soup soy sauce is kept light.
Pollock roe and milt are braised together in a chili and soy sauce. They come from the same fish but cook in opposite directions: the roe firms up, each tiny egg popping under the teeth, while the milt turns soft as custard and breaks into tender curds. In east coast port towns, where fresh roe is easy to find during the pollock's winter spawning season, it has long been a winter dish.
Whole stalks of green onion ferment into this kimchi, and time turns their sharp, raw bite mellow while the white stems go supple. A shallow slit down the thick white part lets salt and paste reach inside rather than sitting on the surface.
Manila clam broth is naturally salty, so a little soup soy sauce is enough, and more would bury the clean, mineral sea flavor. For a stronger soup, the answer is more clams rather than more seasoning.
The cockles of Beolgyo, on the wide tidal flats of South Jeolla, are plump and notably sweet, and they are fullest from November through March. Stirring in one direction while they boil helps every shell open at the same time, and they come out the moment they gape, before the meat shrinks and turns rubbery. A dressing of chili flakes, soy sauce and vinegar lays a sour, spicy edge over their briny sweetness, and a short rest lets it soak into the flesh.
Star anise and ginger are in the pot too, but what reaches you first from these ribs is clove, with a faintly medicinal edge. Cloves are strong, and the count stays at five. Before any soy goes in, the ribs are tossed in rock sugar melted to amber, which leaves a glossy dark-brown coat, and then they braise low with dark soy and Shaoxing wine until the meat slips off the bone.
Bok choy usually ends up in stir-fries, but blanched and dressed with doenjang (Korean soybean paste) it becomes a namul with crisp stalks and an earthy, salty seasoning. Rub the dressing right into the hollow of each stalk with your fingers.
The oil from the tuna can goes straight into the pan and the onion and carrot fry in it, so the tuna flavor gets into the vegetables and rice. Each bowl is topped with its own fried egg.
Canned silkworm pupae are rinsed, drained and stir-fried until soy sauce and chili flakes cook down into a thin glaze on the outside. In Korea this is a drinking snack, and the firm yet slightly yielding bite sets it apart from fish cake or tofu.
Soy sauce and sugar replace the usual red gochujang, so the rice cakes taste like Korean soy-marinated galbi rather than spicy street tteokbokki. The marinated boneless pork rib is seared hard first, then water lifts the browned glaze off the pan and carries the meat flavor into the sauce.
Most of the toughness in chicken gizzards sits in the silver membrane, and peeling it off carefully is the main job of prep. The more thoroughly it comes off, the easier they are to chew after a fast sear. They come out browned and crisp outside, springy inside, with a little lemon squeezed over.
Perilla seed powder turns the broth a pale cream color and brings a grassy, nutty smell unlike sesame oil or sesame seeds. The base is doenjang dissolved in rice-rinsing water rather than a fish stock. It belongs with the Korean perilla soups made from dried radish greens or mushrooms, and it comes to the table with white rice once autumn starts to turn cold.
Shredded potato and kimchi are pressed into a pan or cup-shaped mold to form a thick base and rim, and the hollow in the middle is filled with mozzarella and green onion and covered until the cheese melts. The potato is rinsed only once in cold water to keep its starch, which is what holds the cup shape. Being bite-sized, they also work as party finger food.
Clams and seaweed go into a base broth of simmered radish, and with no meat in the pot, the clams carry the flavor. Their briny savoriness and the sea smell of the miyeok layer up in the same pot.
This bulgogi never goes over a flame. It simmers down in its marinade in a wide pan and comes to the table still juicy, with about half the liquid left. Soy sauce is the only seasoning, no gochujang or doenjang, in the inland North Gyeongsang manner, and in Andong it has long been set out in its pan at ancestral rites and family gatherings for everyone to serve themselves.
Chewy and clear, sweet-potato glass noodles grab the gochujang-soy sauce tightly and bring a vivid sweet-spicy hit with every lift of the chopsticks. The dish comes from street food sold in Busan's markets, and it is quick: boil the noodles, then toss them with briefly stir-fried vegetables, fish cake, and the sauce. Fish cake adds a soft savory note against the springy noodles, while cabbage and carrot, cooked only until just bent, keep some crunch.
Unlike kimchi, mu-saengchae skips fermentation: the julienned radish is dressed and eaten the same day, with its crunch intact. Ten minutes under coarse salt pulls water from the strips so the chili-flake dressing clings instead of sliding off. Anchovy fish sauce lays a savory base under the radish's clean, mild flavor. Fresh from the bowl it snaps; after a night in the fridge it softens into a lightly pickled side with a different character. It is a standard partner for fatty dishes like samgyeopsal or braised short ribs.
A winter side dish from the Tsugaru region of Aomori, where cod was eaten from head to innards and the roe was salted for keeping or saved for New Year and celebration food. Carrot, koya-dofu (freeze-dried tofu) and shirataki are cooked in sake first, then fresh roe scraped from its membrane is stir-fried in until it turns opaque and scatters into dry little grains that cling to every piece.
Slightly bitter chwinamul is blanched for 2 minutes and dressed with doenjang, soup soy sauce and sesame oil, then finished with perilla powder and scallion. The doenjang is worked in with spread fingers so it reaches between the leaves, and the greens rest five minutes before serving. In winter, when fresh chwinamul is not around, dried chwinamul soaked until soft can stand in.
Like the cup rice sold at Korean snack shops, it is warm rice topped with tuna mayo and a heap of crushed seaweed. The tuna is first cooked with onion, scallion, soy sauce and sugar, and the mayonnaise goes in only after the heat is off, which keeps it from separating.
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.
Said to have started at snack shops outside Seoul schools in the 1970s and 80s, this tteokbokki has no broth at all. The rice cakes brown in oil one side at a time, then the heat drops and a chili flake and soy paste goes in to coat them thinly. Warmed in the oil, the chili flakes smell toasty before they taste hot.
Drumettes have plenty of collagen around the bone, and fully cooked, the layer under the skin turns pleasantly sticky. The soy and honey glaze sets dark brown only in the last few minutes, after the oven is turned up, and it can tip into burnt fast, so stay by the oven.