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Little dishes of rice flour and tapioca batter go into the steamer and come out as soft discs, translucent at the rim and opaque white in the middle. This snack from Hue in central Vietnam is topped with dry, crumbly shrimp, toasted in a dry pan until every bit of moisture is gone; any left behind turns soggy on the cake.
The eggs are fried first, then the same pan goes up to high for the shrimp and squid, which come off the heat the moment they turn opaque. Whatever juices collect in the pan are poured over the rice along with the seafood.
The garlic chives are split into white stems and green leaves and go in separately. Shrimp cook in oil already scented with sliced garlic, the stems join with the soy and oyster sauce, and the leaves go in last and are done within a minute.
Shrimp, squid and clams share one batter, but each gets its own prep. The shrimp have the tendons along their backs cut so they fry straight, and the squid is scored so it does not shrink up in the oil. Everything goes through the oil only once, briefly, at 170°C.
Shrimp and squid are brushed with a thin layer of doenjang sauce and grilled. There is only half a tablespoon of gochujang in it, so it tastes more savory than hot. You know it is done by smell: once the sauce turns deep brown and smells toasty, it comes off the heat, and a little longer brings a burnt note.
Saffron soaks first in a few spoonfuls of warm fish stock until it turns deep gold, then joins the rest of the stock; that is where the color of the stew is set. The seafood goes in by stages: firm white fish, then the softer pieces and shrimp, and mussels last. In the end, the freshness of the fish decides how it tastes.
Long green onions cut to the length of the pan form the base layer here, with squid, shrimp and mussel meat on top and only enough thin batter to fill the gaps. Unlike a pajeon where batter covers everything, the scallions carry the structure, and each slice shows stacked layers of onion and shellfish.
Clams and shrimp give this doenjang stew the smell of the sea. The clams bring salt of their own, so start with a little less paste than usual.
Crunchy bean sprouts and chewy squid and shrimp share one platter, all coated in a thick red sauce. It shows up often as a dish to go with drinks.
Penang hawkers built this dish for laborers who needed a cheap, filling plate cooked fast, and its flavor depends on wok hei, the charred breath of a wok heated until it smokes. Wide flat rice noodles, prawns, egg, bean sprouts and Chinese chives move through the pan in a few minutes, while dark soy and oyster sauce stain the noodles a glossy brown. Drying everything and lining it up within reach before the burner is lit keeps stray water on the noodles or prawns from dropping the wok temperature and steaming the food instead of searing it.
Cajun seasoning, a Louisiana Creole blend of paprika, cayenne, oregano, thyme, and garlic and onion powders, gives this cream pasta a smoky, moderate heat. Half of it coats the shrimp and the other half seasons the sauce, spreading the spice evenly. The butter and spiced fat left after searing the shrimp become the base for the onion, garlic, and bell pepper, and a mix of cream and milk keeps the sauce lighter than cream alone. The shrimp leave the pan as soon as they turn pink and only return on top at the end, which keeps them snappy.
Thin slices of lotus stem stay crunchy, while shrimp split lengthwise open up a wider surface for the fish sauce dressing to soak into. The vinegar soak at the start removes the astringent aftertaste of the stem; skip it and no amount of dressing hides it. Leave the stems in much past 10 minutes, though, and their own aroma fades as well. Salty, sour and sweet hit together, with cilantro on top, in the style of a Vietnamese goi salad. Resting the tossed salad for 5 minutes or more lets the dressing reach into the shredded carrot and the shrimp.
Garlic and dried chili warm slowly in olive oil until fragrant, the shrimp cook in that oil, and whatever is left gets mopped up with baguette. The garlic should only reach pale gold at the edges when the shrimp are added, because browned garlic turns the whole pan bitter.
Crisp at the edges and custard-soft in the middle, these small cup-shaped pancakes come from Vung Tau on Vietnam's southern coast. Coconut milk in the rice batter adds a gentle richness, and shrimp and scallion placed on top cook with the batter before it sets. They are wrapped in lettuce or herbs and dipped in a fish sauce and sugar mix.
Shrimp, squid and mussel meat hit the hot pan first, followed by carrot, egg and cold rice in turn. Soy sauce and oyster sauce are measured in teaspoons, enough to season without covering the seafood. Sesame oil goes in only after the heat is off, for its aroma.
Ketchup, chili sauce and a splash of vinegar make a sauce that leans sweet and tangy rather than hot. Shallow-frying the shrimp in a starch coat, rather than deep-frying them, leaves a coating that turns silky in the sauce while the meat stays springy.
Sweet potato, carrot, onion, squid, and shrimp share one pot of oil here, and they cook at very different speeds. Slicing the dense vegetables thin lets their centers soften before the coating darkens, while dry seafood spits less in the oil and carries a lighter batter. Cold water and a brief stir give a light, shattering shell, and the platter goes to the table with a small dish of soy sauce instead of salt.
Squid, shrimp, scallops and clams all cook at different speeds, so even on one grill each comes off on its own schedule. The clams are lifted out as soon as they open, juices and all. With nothing but olive oil, salt, pepper and lemon on them, any overcooked, rubbery piece gives itself away.
A roux of equal parts flour and oil, stirred until it nears the color of chocolate, gives this Louisiana stew its dark color and toasty flavor. The roux can darken suddenly near the end; at the first bitter smell the heat has to come down, because a scorched roux leaves its bitterness in the whole pot. Sliced okra simmers for 40 minutes with smoked sausage and lends the broth a light body, and the gumbo is spooned over white rice.
The batter is pancake mix stirred loosely with cold water. Scallions go into the pan first, then squid, shrimp and thin slices of red chili, and the batter is poured over; the scallions touching the oil turn sweet and give off the smell that makes pajeon what it is. It comes to the table with makgeolli.
Blue crab, clams, squid and shrimp share one pot that keeps simmering on a low flame at the table. The seafood gets fished out first as it's ready; the tofu and zucchini stay in the red broth a while longer.
The shrimp steam on a bed of onion, green onion, and garlic, and the rising vapor carries those aromas in between the shells. Apart from a splash of rice wine and a squeeze of lemon there is no seasoning, which puts the shrimp's own sweetness at the center. The steaming stops within 8-9 minutes, before overcooking can shrink the flesh and make it stiff.
Translucent rice sheets come out of the steamer soft enough to roll around chopped shrimp, then get a lightly sweet soy sauce poured over the top. Hong Kong dim sum tables rarely go without them, and street carts there steam them to order, filling them with char siu or beef instead, or rolling them plain. This version uses rice flour with cornstarch rather than tapioca, and because the starch settles fast, the batter needs a stir before every pour. Too thick a layer makes the roll heavy and doughy, while too thin a layer tears during rolling. The shrimp are done only when firm and opaque all the way through, not when the sheet turns translucent.
Pulling the shrimp out early and returning them for only the last 30 seconds keeps them tender instead of rubbery. While they wait, the cream reduces in the same pan and picks up the garlic butter and shrimp juices, so the sauce needs no stock.