87 recipes. Page 2 of 4
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Snappy shrimp and soft, ripe mango are pulled together by lime juice and fish sauce, salty and sour at once. It is best eaten cold, soon after tossing, before the mango and shrimp start shedding liquid into the bowl.
Grits simmered in equal parts water and milk turn into a soft, porridge-like base once cheddar and butter melt in. The shrimp cook in the fat left from crisping bacon, picking up a smoky, salty edge along with the paprika, and the bacon goes back on top. Grits catch on the pot easily, so scraping the bottom and sides throughout keeps them smooth and free of lumps.
The name echoes the loud sizzle the batter makes when it hits a hot, oiled pan. In southern Vietnam this turmeric-yellow crepe, crisp and lacy at the edges, is torn into pieces, wrapped in lettuce with mint and perilla, and dipped in nuoc cham.
As soon as the clams start giving up their liquid, the oyster sauce and soy go in, and thirty seconds later the cornstarch slurry. Cook it any longer and the squid toughens while the shrimp dry out. Thickened like this, the sauce sinks slowly into the rice instead of running straight to the bottom.
Garlic goes into melted butter, then the shrimp, and as soon as they turn pink the soy sauce, sugar and cheongyang chili go in for a thirty-second finish. There is no time to measure anything in those thirty seconds, so the seasoning is set out before the burner goes on.
Hard scorched rice dropped into hot seafood broth starts out crisp, turns chewy, and if left a while longer softens into something like porridge. It goes into each bowl at the table rather than into the pot, and how long you wait decides which version you eat.
The blue crab simmers first and gives the broth its sweetness; clams and shrimp come after. It is a red, chili-heavy stew, but a spoonful of doenjang underneath keeps it from being only hot.
Shrimp, squid and springy fresh wheat noodles share a dark, glossy dressing of chili oil, soy sauce and oyster sauce. Oyster sauce bridges the seafood's briny sweetness and the soy base, so the bowl leans toward savory depth rather than plain saltiness. Blending the chili oil evenly into the soy seasoning before tossing lets it coat the noodles and seafood in a thin, even film. Speed decides the texture: a short blanch and a quick high-heat toss keep the shrimp bouncy and the squid tender instead of rubbery. The noodles keep softening while they are mixed, so they come out of the pot 30 seconds short of the package time, and both noodles and seafood are drained hard so no water dilutes the sauce.
Short noodles take the place of rice in this Spanish pan dish, a close cousin of paella. Toasting them in oil until the tips turn golden gives a nutty note, and leaving the pan mostly unstirred after the stock goes in lets a thin crust form underneath. The shrimp and squid are only seared at first and go back on top near the end, so they stay tender. Serve with aioli if you have some.
Potatoes, corn, smoked sausage, and shrimp all cook in one pot of salted, paprika-seasoned water, added in order of how long each needs. The potatoes get a head start, the corn and sausage follow, and the shrimp go in only for the last couple of minutes. Drained and tossed with melted butter and lemon juice, everything is tipped out onto a large platter or table for a crowd to eat with their hands.
Egg beaten with a generous amount of dashi and steamed in individual cups sets into a soft, trembling custard that is savory, not sweet. It firms at the edges while the center still wobbles, with the broth flavor up front. Shrimp, sliced shiitake and ginkgo nuts sit at the bottom, and each spoonful turns up something different.
The browned bits left in the pot after searing chicken and andouille sausage end up soaked into every grain of rice. This Louisiana one-pot rice is not a stir-fry: tomatoes, Cajun seasoning, and stock go in, the lid goes on, and the rice absorbs the liquid over low heat.
Only soy sauce, cooking wine and garlic season it, and lightly, so the sweetness of Korean zucchini (aehobak) and the shrimp come first. It holds up well at room temperature.
With no chili paste or doenjang, only salt, garlic and scallion, the broth tastes of nothing but the clams, shrimp and squid. Each bowl holds open clam shells, curled red shrimp and white rings of squid.
Ninety grams of scorched rice, broken into chunks rather than crumbs, is added for the last three minutes. It is served while the edges have melted into the broth and thickened it but the centers still have some bite. Seasoning waits until the rice has swelled and the stew has thickened.
Squid and shrimp take the place of pork, so the familiar black bean sauce picks up a briny note as the seafood releases its juices into it. Potato, onion and zucchini soften into the sauce for sweetness and body, and a little starch slurry gives it the glossy, clinging texture that coats the noodles.
Gochujang stirred into cream and milk, with no tomato involved, makes an orange sauce where the heat arrives slowly behind the cream. Brands of gochujang differ in saltiness, so start small and taste before adding more.
A roux of butter and flour, stirred only to light brown, gives etouffee both its nutty aroma and its body. Taken darker, it turns bitter and overpowers the delicate shrimp. Onion, celery, and bell pepper go straight into the hot roux, and their moisture loosens it before chicken stock is whisked in a little at a time. Compared with shrimp creole, the sauce is brown and buttery rather than tomato-red. The shrimp cook in it only briefly at the end and are served over rice.
Hong Kong-born chef Chou Yuanji came up with this in Japan by adding mayonnaise to a Cantonese shrimp dish, and it now shows up at Chinese restaurants, izakaya and in convenience-store bento. Shrimp in a thin egg-and-starch coating are fried, then rolled quickly through a sweetish sauce of mayonnaise, condensed milk and lemon juice.
Fish sauce and oyster sauce do all the seasoning, which gives the rice a briny savoriness quite unlike a soy-based fried rice. Shrimp, egg, and onion are about all that goes in, and in Thailand the shrimp is often swapped for chicken or crab, or dropped so the egg carries the dish alone.
Once the pan is hot, the heat stays high until the end. Pork goes in first, then shrimp and squid, then the vegetables, roughly a minute apart, with no gap for chopping or drying anything, which is why everything is prepped and lined up beside the stove. There is no starch at the finish: oyster sauce and water boil for 2 minutes and leave only a thin coat.
Blue crabs go in shell and all, turning red as they cook and flavoring the radish broth, and with cheongyang chilies for heat the pot goes in the middle of the table for everyone to dip into.
The gochujang is stirred into the stock rather than fried in the oil, so there is no scorched edge and the broth comes out an even orange. Clams and shrimp layer their sea flavor over the anchovy stock.
Shrimp and squid take over from meat, bringing two textures to the glass noodles: a springy snap from the shrimp and a firmer chew from the squid. Scoring the squid makes it curl in the heat and leaves a pattern on the surface. Patted dry before they meet a very hot pan, the shrimp and squid sear instead of boiling in their own liquid. The moment the shrimp turn pink and the squid curls, they come out of the pan, rejoining the noodles only at the end. Glass noodles soaked thoroughly before boiling take up the seasoning evenly and turn glossy. Korean holiday tables sometimes swap this in for beef japchae.