CHAPTER 3

SOY

I honestly can’t remember the first time I had soy sauce. Even as a kid growing up in Middle America, I knew about soy sauce. It came in the bottom of the bag with our takeout Chinese, along with the packets of duck sauce and partially crushed fortune cookies.

Then I started working at a sushi restaurant. It seemed like soy sauce went into everything, and I watched as chefs would use it to completely transform the flavor of dishes in unexpected ways. I learned about the magical combination of soy sauce, mirin, and rice vinegar—as a dipping sauce, where sweetness and tartness balanced the saltiness and depth of straight soy sauce. I learned how soy sauce forms the base of teriyaki sauce, a decidedly sweet substance that reminded me slightly of barbecue sauce, especially when it was brushed over grilled meat. I learned that miso, a Japanese paste made of fermented soybeans, creates a unique and comforting soup when stirred into broth.

As I moved through Houston’s restaurants, eating and cooking and learning, soy became a constant theme. My friends Noi and Lawrence Allen, who owned a Thai grocery called Asia Market, showed me that there are different types of soy sauce for different types of dishes. I’ve tried to understand the reasoning behind why Noi reached for certain bottles of soy at certain times, but even she had difficulty explaining it. When I asked her, she told me, “I can’t really explain why I use different ones with different dishes, but when I was growing up it’s just how we did it. This food needs this type of soy sauce; that food needs that type of soy sauce. If you don’t do that, it’s not the same. We have thin soy sauce, sweet soy sauce, black soy sauce, seasoning soy sauce, and mushroom soy sauce.”

I haven’t graduated to Noi’s level of soy sauce granularity in my own cooking. I still, for the most part, reach for one staple soy sauce. But I broadened my soy pantry quite a bit with the addition of sweet soy sauce (called kecap manis) and different kinds of soybean pastes, like doenjang (Korean) and doubanjiang (Chinese). This family of ingredients is an indispensable part of my culinary arsenal, even as I’m constantly learning about new techniques and products and styles. The nuances of different soy ingredients are vast. I’m far from mastering the category, and expect that I’ll be a soy student for the rest of my career.

The opportunities that soy offers in cooking are one reason that I wanted to focus on this ingredient in the book—it’s pretty amazing that a small bean offers so many directions for creating flavor. But there’s a second layer that’s more symbolic than a list of recipes. Soy products represent a paradox of being mainstream and foreign simultaneously. Soy sauce is universal at this point; it’s one of the most popular condiments in the country (right up there with ketchup and mayonnaise). But it’s also misunderstood, marginalized, and oversimplified, like a stereotype. And often, we use “soy” as shorthand to refer to just one product: the most common form of soy sauce that I first knew as a kid from eating takeout beef and broccoli. But in doing so, we’re negating the huge range of this family of ingredients and, in turn, the nuance of the cultures and cultural traditions that claim them.

This push-pull between mainstream “acceptance” at the expense of nuance and depth is something that I’ve heard about over and over when it comes to the immigrant experience. Soy sauce is just one tiny example of ways in which different cultural traditions are shrunken and turned into tokens of something that is much more complicated, diverse, and meaningful.

I’ll admit, I have been guilty of this shorthand in the past, but as I’ve learned more about how different cultures refer to and rely on this ingredient group, it’s become impossible for me to think about soy in such a one-dimensional way.

So my goal with this chapter is to begin to unpack, if only a little, some of that multi-dimensionality through lessons that my friends and neighbors have been gracious enough to share, and the recipes that have come from them.

A BRIEF HISTORY AND GUIDE TO FERMENTED SOY

It all starts with the soybean. This pulse, which is packed with more protein than any other plant used as food by humans, has been cultivated in China for more than three thousand years. There, people had long used fermentation to preserve meat and fish. They eventually swapped out those proteins and began to ferment soy, which was far cheaper and more accessible. The resulting paste, called jiang, was the ancestor of modern soy sauce. Soybean fermentation migrated to Japan through the travels of Buddhist monks, and then spread to Korea and Vietnam.

Soy sauce arrived in Europe during the colonialist era, brought back from Japan via Dutch traders. From there, it made its way to the British colonies—there are ads mentioning soy sauce from what is now New York that date back to 1750! The first accounts of farming soybeans in the colonies take place fifteen years later, and it would be another 150 years before George Washington Carver would discover their usefulness as a rotation crop for cotton fields.

But the proliferation of soy sauce in the US mainstream market has a lot to do with one Japanese company: Kikkoman. Now the largest maker of naturally brewed soy sauce, Kikkoman opened its first US production plant in 1973. The company was already investing in the American market as early as 1957, when it opened a branch of its office in San Francisco and began to work on marketing strategies to showcase soy sauce as a mainstream product. In 1959, Kikkoman employees participated in the International Trade Fair in Chicago, presenting tastes of roast beef marinated in soy sauce to attendees.

SOY SAUCE AS A CONDIMENT

I’ve learned that one of the most common “faux pas” that a non-Japanese person can make at a sushi restaurant centers on soy sauce. I asked my friend Manabu “Hori” Horiuchi, an insanely talented sushi chef here in Houston, about soy sauce, and I watched him struggle to answer diplomatically about the American habit of drenching our sushi in little baths of soy sauce. “My biggest piece of advice,” he said, “is just use less.”

But there’s a bigger, more delicious lesson to be learned here, too. Hori also shared that most higher-end sushi restaurants don’t put straight soy sauce on sushi, but a combination of soy, mirin (seasoned rice wine), and rice vinegar. “When using soy sauce as a condiment, you need to season it.”

Try it by mixing 2 tablespoons Japanese soy sauce with 1 tablespoon rice vinegar and 2 teaspoons mirin.

This is also often true in Chinese cuisine; when soy sauce is served alongside roast meats in Cantonese restaurants, for instance, the sauce often has a little bit of rock sugar dissolved into it to balance the saltiness. Or in other cases, soy sauce is flavored with a few slices of hot chile and maybe a touch of vinegar.

Once you get used to the idea of seasoning this seasoning, a universe of possibilities opens up.

How soy sauce is made

Traditionally, soy sauce is made by steaming soybeans, sometimes mixing them with wheat flour, and introducing Aspergillus oryzae mold. The beans are transferred to pots, mixed with salt water, and left to ferment. The mold then performs its magic, turning the protein in the beans into amino acids. After fermentation, the liquid is strained off from the solid beans, pasteurized to halt fermentation, and bottled as soy sauce.

In the modern era, some commercial companies have created a workaround to make a soy-flavored sauce that forgoes fermentation entirely, but the results are not nearly as flavorful, and require additives and stabilizers. The best way to know if your soy sauce is the real deal? Read the back label for the ingredients. If you see things like hydrolyzed vegetable protein, molasses, or caramel coloring, you may want to look for a different option.

Picking a soy sauce

Want an overwhelming experience? Head to an Asian grocery store and check out the soy sauce aisle. Bottles and bottles line the full length of the aisle, all different sizes, colors, and origins. It’s dizzying.

Each bottle has its nuances and special uses: my friend Noi told me that she frequently uses three soy sauces in any given dish.

But when you’re trying to get your soy sauce bearings, I find it easier to truncate your soy sauce pantry slightly.

For my go-to bottle, I like Kimlan light soy sauce. In tasting a bunch of soy sauces side by side while working on this book, I realized how much I love this Chinese soy sauce. It doesn’t hit you over the head with salt and has a round, nearly nutty flavor. It’s available on Amazon and at any Asian grocery store.

The “light” in the name refers to the color, which is determined by the amount of time the soy is left to age and ferment before the liquid is strained off. In general, Chinese soy sauces tend to be more aged, while Japanese soy sauces are less aged. I find that light Chinese soy sauce is almost the same color and intensity as dark Japanese soy. To that end, if you can’t find Kimlan light, Kikkoman would be a good substitute.

Other forms of soy sauce

There are other specialized forms of soy sauce that have different flavors and uses. Here are a few that you might come across, or want to add to your pantry.

SHOYU // Shoyu is the Japanese name for soy sauce, and it is usually made with roasted wheat rather than wheat flour. The mixture of soybeans and roasted wheat that’s been inoculated with Aspergillus oryzae mold is called koji, which is also the base of miso paste. It’s usually middle-of-the-road in strength of flavor, as it typically sees less age than Chinese soy sauce, and the ratio of wheat to soy creates a nutty balance in taste.

TAMARI // This Japanese soy sauce is made without wheat. It’s not always entirely gluten-free, as it can have traces of wheat, but it’s a good option for those who might have gluten sensitivities. Since it’s made with a higher content of soybeans, it has a pretty intense umami flavor, somewhat similar in style to a Chinese dark soy.

SHIRO // While tamari has no wheat, shiro is brewed with more than the typical amount of wheat. It has a lighter color (and thus is sometimes referred to as white soy) and a mild flavor that’s great for pairing with more delicate ingredients.

GOLDEN MOUNTAIN SEASONING SAUCE // I call this the secret weapon of stir-fries. I’d never heard of it before Noi showed me the bottle and gave me a taste. It has a touch of sugar (but isn’t nearly as sweet as kecap manis or hoisin) and is very intense in flavor. A staple of Thai cooking, it’s definitely something to add to a dish as you’re cooking, rather than using as a condiment for dipping or serving.

OYSTER SAUCE // This thick, viscous, soy-based sauce is flavored with oyster liquid reduction, giving it a roundness and slight caramel undertones. It’s almost as though soy sauce and fish sauce caramel made a baby. It’s commonly used to add to stir-fries, or as a marinade or glaze for proteins. If you can’t find oyster sauce, you can mix together hoisin sauce and soy sauce in equal parts to achieve a somewhat smilar effect.

HOISIN SAUCE // Similar to oyster sauce in consistency and texture, hoisin is a seasoned soy sauce flavored with garlic, vinegar, sugar, and five-spice powder. It reminds me of barbecue sauce and, to that end, it’s frequently paired as a condiment with a roasted meat (like Peking duck).

KECAP MANIS (SWEET SOY) // This Indonesian sweet soy sauce is a staple of my pantry. It’s really almost more of a sweetener than a soy sauce; that’s how intense the sugar factor is. Think of it like soy caramel. I use the ABC brand of sweet soy, which is the most readily available option in the United States, and is made in Indonesia. It’s available on Amazon or at any Asian grocery store. Use sweet soy instead of (or in addition to) molasses in baked beans (this page) or to create a seriously awesome glaze for grilled chicken (this page).

Soybean paste

Soybean paste is a category of regionally differing, umami-rich pastes that result from brining and fermenting soybeans until they break down into a rich, amino-acid-rich substance.

Miso, the Japanese paste, is made with soybeans, salt, and toasted wheat, and sometimes other ingredients like rice or barley. Miso has a long history in the United States. The first miso company in the country was opened in 1907 in Sacramento, by Japanese immigrants. The miso market grew, with four more miso companies opening in the next two decades. But it stayed insular, based in California and catering to the Japanese immigrant community. It wasn’t until the late 1960s that miso grew more mainstream, thanks to a new interest in macrobiotic foods. Miso’s popularity was cemented further in the 1980s, when sushi became a fad in California, causing a boom of sushi restaurants and, in turn, steamed edamame, miso soup, soy sauce, and sake.

Doubanjiang is a frequently used chile-laced Chinese version of soybean paste (though it’s sometimes technically made with broad beans, rather than soybeans—or a combination of the two); it provides the characteristic flavor to dishes like mapo tofu. The taste is deeply umami, and very intense—a little goes a long way. (For more on doubanjiang, see this page.)

Miso might be the best known, and doubanjiang might be the most intense, but my favorite is doenjang, a Korean soybean paste. It’s more intense in flavor than most misos, but usually less funky than the Chinese pastes. Think of it as the Goldilocks of the soybean paste world, just right for the vast majority of applications. Doenjang is traditionally made of just soybeans and salt, though sometimes more modern versions use rice, barley, or wheat (much like miso production). Doenjang is my all-purpose paste, and my favorite brand is Chung Jung One, which comes in a beige carton and is available on Amazon or at any Korean market.

WHAT DO YOU DO WITH IT? Using soybean paste as a base for soup is one of its most appealing functions, since it’s so easy. Simply stir some paste into broth or water, add a few aromatics like scallions and, optionally, slices of tofu, and you have it. The Korean equivalent of miso soup is doenjiang jigae, with the added bonus of sautéing vegetables (and sometimes meat) with doenjang before adding water to create a rich broth.

You can also cut back on the water to form a thicker sauce or braising liquid, as I do for the Ssamjang-Braised Short Ribs (this page).

Or use it to make a marinade for steak or pork. Here’s a basic marinade that you can make with the fermented soybean paste of your choice:

2 tablespoons soybean paste

1 tablespoon mirin

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 teaspoon rice vinegar

1 teaspoon honey

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger

Stir everything together, marinate meat in it for a few hours, and grill, roast, or sauté. Delicious.

WILTED KALE

WITH HOISIN AND SOY EGG

SERVES 4

This dish is a play on the wilted gai lan (Chinese broccoli) and oyster sauce that you see next to the dumplings and rice cakes at dim sum restaurants. I like using kale for its hearty texture and earthiness, but you could use any cooking green here—water spinach, Chinese greens, Swiss chard, or something else that grows near you.

It’s a great dish to help understand how to cook with soy, because it’s simple enough that all the flavors really come through unmuddled. I love making this with hoisin, a thick, soy-based sauce flavored with sugar, garlic, vinegar, and five-spice. But you could also try it with straight soy sauce or just a dab of a soybean paste, like miso or doenjang.

4 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 medium yellow onion, sliced

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 bunches kale, stemmed and roughly chopped

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

¼ cup hoisin sauce

2 tablespoons distilled white vinegar

1 tablespoon sugar

2 Thai chiles, sliced (optional)

4 Soy Sauce Pickled “Deviled Eggs” (this page), halved lengthwise

Toasted peanuts and sesame seeds, for garnish

1. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed sauté pan over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onion turns translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the kale and season with salt and pepper to taste. Stir constantly until the kale is wilted. Transfer the kale to a plate.

2. Return the sauté pan to medium heat and add the remaining 2 tablespoons oil. When it’s hot, whisk in the hoisin, vinegar, sugar, and chiles (if using) and stir to cook out some of the rawness and melt the sugar. Pour the sauce over the kale and top with the soy egg halves. Garnish with a sprinkling of peanuts and sesame seeds and serve immediately.

SOY SAUCE PICKLED “DEVILED EGGS”

MAKES 24 PIECES

Chinese tea eggs are hard-boiled and marinated in a dark mixture of spices, tea, and soy sauce. And they should be an easy sell for Southerners: we’re no strangers to pickled eggs, and we’re all about tea. To push the connection even more, we make these soy-pickled eggs and serve them as the base of our deviled eggs (about the most Southern thing on the planet). Eggs take on the savory depth of soy sauce beautifully, and this soy marinade adds just enough punch to the richness of the egg. For more soy flavor, we top them with a little miso-infused mayonnaise. (A finish of bonito flakes—dried smoked fish—gives them a hint of smoke.)

And before the deviled egg traditionalists come for me, I’ll go ahead and cave to the fact that these are not deviled eggs in the classic sense. But the base ingredients and idea—eggs and mayonnaise in a bite-size snack—are close enough to share reference, even if only in title.

1 cup soy sauce

1 cup rice vinegar

½ cup packed dark brown sugar

1 cinnamon stick

3 star anise pods

4 garlic cloves

12 large eggs, at room temperature

2 teaspoons to 1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon white miso

1 cup mayonnaise

¼ cup bonito flakes (see Note, this page)

1. In a medium saucepan, combine the soy sauce, rice vinegar, brown sugar, cinnamon stick, star anise, garlic, and 1 cup water. Cook over medium heat until the brown sugar dissolves, then remove from the heat and let cool completely.

2. Place the eggs in a saucepan large enough that they can all fit in a single layer. Cover with enough water to submerge them. Add the salt and bring to a boil over high heat. As soon as the water boils, remove the pan from the heat and cover; let sit for 7 (for a soft, pudgy yolk) to 10 minutes (for hard-boiled). Drain the water, then transfer the eggs to a vessel filled with ice water to stop the cooking. Peel the eggs and place in a large container. Pour the cooled soy liquid over the eggs, transfer to the refrigerator, and let marinate for at least 2 and up to 6 hours. Drain the eggs.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together the miso and mayonnaise until completely smooth. Halve the eggs lengthwise, spoon a small dollop of miso mayo on the cut side of each egg half, and top with a sprinkle of bonito. Serve.

COCA-COLA PICKLED RED ONIONS

MAKES ABOUT 1 QUART

Well, here’s a match made in modern food heaven: Coca-Cola, one of the most exported American food products in existence, and soy sauce, one of the most exported Asian food products in existence, find love in a pickle recipe.

Here is my super complicated thought process for this dish: pickle brines require salt, sugar, and vinegar. Soy sauce = salt. Coca-Cola = sugar. There you go.

But why is this combo better than using salt and sugar in their basic forms? Both soy sauce and Coca-Cola represent deeper, more complex (and, for soy sauce, umami-rich) versions of their building blocks. Since the main goal with pickles is to preserve while introducing seasoning, these swaps are extra satisfying.

These onions are delicious on everything. Layer them on tacos, use them to garnish deviled eggs, or tuck them in a sandwich.

1 (12-ounce) bottle Mexican Coca-Cola (if you can’t find Mexican Coke, regular Coke will work, but the Mexican stuff is still made with pure cane sugar)

1½ teaspoons yellow mustard seeds

1 garlic clove

3 medium red onions, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon pickling salt or kosher salt

1 cup seasoned rice vinegar

½ cup soy sauce

1 tablespoon sambal oelek (optional)

1. In a medium saucepan, bring the Coke to a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer. Add the mustard seeds and garlic and let the liquid reduce by half (to approximately ¾ cup), being careful not to let it boil over, about 12 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, mix the onions and salt, so they’re well coated, and set aside.

3. When the liquid has reduced by half, add the vinegar, return to a simmer, and let reduce for another 5 minutes. Stir in the soy sauce and sambal (if using). Pour the hot pickling liquid over the onions—it won’t cover them. Let cool completely, stirring well every 5 to 10 minutes to coat the onions (they will reduce in volume substantially). Transfer the onions and their liquid to a lidded jar and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before using (they get more flavorful the longer you let them marinate).

4. The onions will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 1 month.

ORANGE PEEL BEEF

SERVES 4

I love American Chinese food. A to-go container of orange peel beef is one of my most frequent food cravings. The crispy, sweet, hot pieces of beef doused in a cornstarchy sauce don’t really resemble anything you’d find in China. But it’s delicious, comforting, and ubiquitous—more or less consistent in Chinese restaurants across the United States.

So consider this my personal take on one of the dishes of the American canon, with an eye toward using local citrus, which we have an abundance of in Houston. I use satsuma mandarin juice and peels, but you can use any kind of orange you like.

When you bite into a piece of this beef, soy sauce may not be the flavor you immediately taste. This dish is a great example of the fact that for so many dishes, soy sauce is less of a dominating flavor than the umami base that bolsters the rest of the ingredients. Soy, sesame oil, chile, and some form of acid (either citrus, as in this case, or vinegar in other instances) run through an array of American Chinese dishes as a unit.

FOR THE STEAK

2 tablespoons soy sauce

¼ teaspoon finely grated orange zest

2 tablespoons fresh satsuma, mandarin, tangerine, or orange juice

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

1 tablespoon sambal oelek

1½ teaspoons cornstarch

1 pound flank steak, cut into ¼-inch-thick strips

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

Steamed rice, for serving

FOR THE SAUCE

2 tablespoons oyster sauce

2 tablespoons sambal oelek

2 tablespoons soy sauce

4 dried árbol chiles

1 tablespoon chopped garlic (about 6 cloves)

1½ teaspoons cornstarch

Finely grated zest of ½ orange

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, orange zest and juice, sesame oil, sambal, and cornstarch until combined. Add the steak strips and toss to coat. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for 12 to 24 hours.

2. Meanwhile, make the sauce: In a medium bowl, whisk together the oyster sauce, sambal, soy sauce, chiles, garlic, cornstarch, and orange zest. (The sauce can be made up to 4 days in advance and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator.)

3. Set a large sauté pan over high heat. If the sauce has been sitting for a while, quickly whisk it back together, as the cornstarch tends to settle on the bottom. When the pan is very hot, add the oil. When it begins to smoke, add the beef and sear quickly, stirring frequently while it cooks, stir-fry style. Add the sauce and use a wooden spoon to scrape up any browned bits.

4. Bring the mixture to a simmer and cook until the cornstarch thickens, about 2 minutes. Remove from the heat, remove the whole chiles if desired, and serve immediately with steamed rice on the side.

GRILLED SHRIMP SOBA NOODLE SALAD

SERVES 6

This is a great recipe to get more familiar with soy sauce, because it’s easy to prepare and shows off some of the ways that soy sauce can be manipulated in the presence of other ingredients (like Meyer lemon and bonito, in this case) to take on different roles. Soy sauce enhances the flavor of other ingredients while accenting everything with its own depth.

This sauce/dressing is our take on ponzu, a classic Japanese dipping sauce that usually includes citrus and bonito, a smoked and dried tuna-like fish that’s steeped to add depth to stocks and sauces. The recipe here makes way more ponzu than you’ll need for one noodle salad. But the good news: This stuff is great with pretty much everything. Cold seafood? Dumplings? Mixed into beaten eggs for an omelet? All of the above, and more.

Here, the ponzu acts as both marinade for the shrimp and dressing for the noodles. It anchors the dish, allowing for plenty of improvisation with the other ingredients. Broccoli and bell pepper can be swapped out for whatever’s in season: corn and shishitos, or cucumbers and bok choy. The shrimp is negotiable, too: chicken or seared flank steak would work great here.

2 pounds 16/20 count shrimp, peeled and deveined

8 tablespoons Meyer Lemon Ponzu (recipe follows)

2 (9-ounce) packages soba noodles, cooked according to the package instructions, then shocked under cold water

¼ cup thinly sliced red onion

1½ cups small raw broccoli florets (if you don’t like raw broccoli, feel free to blanch it before adding)

½ cup thinly sliced red and/or green bell pepper

¼ cup fresh cilantro leaves

1. Combine the shrimp and 2 tablespoons of the ponzu in a large bowl and marinate for 30 minutes while you prepare a hot grill. Remove the shrimp from the marinade and grill, flipping once with tongs, until they’re cooked through (shrimp have an internal thermometer—when they’re pink and firm, they’re done). It should take just a minute or two on each side.

2. In a large bowl, combine the noodles, onion, broccoli, bell pepper, and cilantro and toss with the remaining 6 tablespoons ponzu. Divide between bowls and top with equal portions of the grilled shrimp. Serve immediately.

MEYER LEMON PONZU

MAKES ABOUT 2 CUPS

½ cup soy sauce

¼ cup seasoned rice vinegar

3 tablespoons mirin

¼ cup bonito flakes (see Note)

1½ teaspoons dark brown sugar

3 garlic cloves, cut in half lengthwise

2 Meyer (or regular) lemons, halved

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, rice vinegar, mirin, bonito, brown sugar, and ¼ cup water until the sugar dissolves. Add the garlic and squeeze the lemons into the mixture, then add the juiced halves to the bowl as well. Transfer the sauce to an airtight container and let sit in the refrigerator for 2 days. Strain, discarding the solids. The sauce will keep in a lidded container in the refrigerator up to 1 month.

NOTE: Bonito flakes, also called katsuobushi, are very fine wisps of dried smoked tuna that are frequently used as a garnish in Japanese food and for making dashi, a seasoned broth. They have a smoky, sea-like taste. When used as a garnish, the flakes often wave back and forth because they’re thin enough to catch even the tiniest motion in the air; it gives the appearance that the dish is alive and moving. Opened bags of bonito flakes will keep in a sealed container at room temperature for 2 to 3 weeks before they start to get stale and lose potency.

JAPCHAE

SERVES 6 TO 8

Vegetables are the focus of this Korean-style stir-fry; I think of it almost like a salad, except with heat applied. (Don’t let the visual of a warm salad gross you out—it’s delicious and makes you feel like you’re doing something good for yourself by eating it, which is a win-win in my book.) Think of the combination of soy sauce, sesame oil, rice vinegar, and sugar almost like a vinaigrette, where the goal is to create an equilibrium of seasoning that can coat the vegetables.

In this case, the effect of this balanced sauce is pretty mild in flavor—not overly salty or punchy with umami, but just distinct enough to give an edge to the stir-fry. It’s a subtler application for soy sauce, which can sometimes come across as aggressive in the kitchen.

The noodles, made of sweet potato starch, also fall under my definition of “vegetables,” making this a meal I frequently turn to when in need of something that is both hearty and healthy.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 cups thinly sliced cabbage (about ½ large head)

1 medium white onion, sliced

3 garlic cloves, minced

1 red bell pepper, seeded and thinly sliced

12 ounces fresh shiitake mushrooms, stems removed and caps sliced

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

8 ounces Korean sweet potato noodles

1 medium carrot, peeled and cut into 2-inch matchsticks

1 bunch scallions (6 to 8), sliced, dark green parts separated from white and light green parts

⅓ cup soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

½ teaspoon sugar

Sesame seeds, for garnish

1. Bring a stockpot of water to a rolling boil over high heat.

2. Meanwhile, in a large, high-sided skillet, heat the vegetable oil over medium heat until it begins to smoke. Add the cabbage, onion, garlic, bell pepper, and shiitakes to the pan. Cook, stirring often, until all the vegetables soften and some of their natural moisture evaporates, about 10 minutes. Season lightly with salt.

3. Add the Korean sweet potato noodles to the boiling water and give them a good stir to make sure they don’t stick to each other. Cook the noodles for about 5 minutes, until chewy-tender. Drain the noodles in a colander and run cold water over to stop the cooking.

4. Add the noodles to the skillet with the vegetables, along with the carrots, white and light green parts of the scallions, soy sauce, vinegar, sesame oil, and sugar. Toss all the ingredients thoroughly, then taste and adjust seasoning as you prefer, adding more salt, pepper, soy, vinegar, or sesame oil. You could also add chile oil here if you want a bit of heat (or if I was coming over for dinner). Garnish with the dark green parts of the scallions and the sesame seeds and serve immediately.

Fermented Bean Pastes

As I’ve mentioned, navigating the soy sauce aisle at an Asian grocery store can be overwhelming. Well, the fermented bean paste aisle can be just as intense, and requires some guidance for the unfamiliar. Just as with soy sauce, pretty much every East and Southeast Asian culture has several versions of the stuff. We talked about doenjang (see this page), which is my default soybean paste, and we spent lots of time with gochujang, a fermented soybean-chile paste, in chapter 2.

But there are so many others, each different in flavor and intensity. Unless you are really into the flavor of bean paste, I don’t think you need to buy more than one or two versions at a time. With these a little goes a long way, and they last forever in your fridge.

Here are a few more details on two specific Chinese bean pastes, doubanjiang and douchi, which you might have hanging around your kitchen if you decide to make Mapo Tofu (this page).

Doubanjiang

What is it? Not technically a soy product, this paste is a combination of fermented broad beans (close to what we call fava beans stateside) and chiles that is usually aged for a minimum of one year. It’s a core ingredient in recipes from the Sichuan province of China.

What does it taste like? Doubanjiang is intensely salty, with a softly spicy undertone and a fermented funk.

Where do I buy it? There are a few different brands available in the United States. I prefer Pixian brand, which is available via Amazon, over the more ubiquitous Lee Kum Kee brand (which has more stabilizers).

What do I do with it? I love using it as the base of a marinade with pork or fish. Try it in the Sichuan BLT (this page). Or whisk a spoonful into some mayonnaise and rub it all over roasted chicken. And it would definitely complement any kind of braised red meat.

How do I store it? Once opened, doubanjiang should be kept in a covered container in the refrigerator; it’ll last indefinitely.

Douchi

What is it? Douchi is referred to as Chinese black bean paste or fermented black bean paste. It’s commonly used in dishes in Southern China.

What does it taste like? If you, like me, order Chinese takeout on the regular, then you’re already probably acquainted with the flavor—this is the base of “black bean sauce.” It’s salty, with a sharp edge, and slightly bitter.

Where do I buy it? Most Asian supermarkets carry fermented black soybeans (which you can rehydrate and use), douchi (the paste form), and black bean sauce. For douchi, I prefer the Pearl River Bridge brand.

What do I do with it? Combined with minced garlic and ginger, the paste is the ideal base for a stir-fry.

How do I store it? Once opened, douchi should be kept in a covered container in the refrigerator; it’ll last several months.

EGGPLANT

WITH SPICY BEAN PASTE

SERVES 4 TO 6

One of the beautiful things about kitchens is that no matter what language is being spoken or what kind of food is being made, they mostly function the same way. This comes in handy when you’re like me: wildly curious about how other cultures cook, but limited by the knowledge of just one language.

Once I’d scored an invitation to observe the kitchen at Mala Sichuan Bistro, one of the top restaurants in Houston, we didn’t do much talking. But I could see which ingredients were especially important in creating the flavors of their food just by their location on the line—the container of fermented bean paste, a thick, chunky red mixture called doubanjiang, was never more than an arm’s length away. Chef Ye reached for it the way a restaurant serving Italian food would reach for garlic or a French chef would reach for butter.

After finishing my kitchen visit, I immediately went out and bought a few different brands of bean paste to experiment with at home. But in all my riffing, I kept coming back to this simple vegetable preparation, similar to one that was prepared at Mala: fried eggplant dressed in a spicy soybean sauce. I loved it so much that we ended up making it one of the dishes we served at the Southern Foodways Alliance symposium luncheon, a huge meal prepared for a gathering of chefs, journalists, and avid Southern food lovers. Mala’s owners, Cori and Heng, were also in attendance as presenters, and it was a humbling moment to pay homage to them with this dish. The eggplant dissolves into a creamy puree in your mouth, which contrasts against the spicy funk of the soybean paste.

This dish is quick and can be made with essentially any hearty vegetable you have on hand. We use eggplants during the height of eggplant season in Texas, but it’d be equally delicious with broccoli, green beans, or summer squash. If frying freaks you out, you could roast the vegetable in a hot oven instead.

2 (1- to 1¼-pound) purple eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2¼ cups vegetable oil

1 medium yellow onion, sliced

1 tablespoon minced garlic (about 3 cloves)

2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon Sichuan peppercorns, finely ground in a spice grinder

1 teaspoon five-spice powder

⅓ cup doubanjiang

3 scallions, sliced

Red chile oil, for garnish (see Note, this page)

Sesame seeds, for garnish

1. Put the eggplant cubes in a colander in the sink and toss with a generous amount of salt. Let them sit for about 30 minutes to draw out moisture. Pat the eggplant pieces very dry with paper towels (if they’re wet, the oil will sputter all over the place when you fry them). (Skip this step if you are using a different vegetable.)

2. In a large, high-sided skillet, heat 2 cups of the vegetable oil over medium-high heat until it reaches 300°F on a deep-fry thermometer. Line a large baking sheet with paper towels and set it next to the stove. Working in batches, add some of the eggplant and fry, stirring occasionally, until it turns golden brown, about 4 minutes. (Do not overcrowd; you want the eggplant in a single layer.) Using a slotted spoon, transfer the eggplant to the prepared baking sheet. Repeat until all the eggplant is fried.

3. In another large skillet, heat the remaining ¼ cup oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic, sugar, peppercorns, five-spice, and doubanjiang. Cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Add the eggplant to the sauce and toss to coat. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Transfer to a platter or bowl and garnish with scallions, a drizzle of red chile oil, and sesame seeds.

MAPO TOFU

SERVES 4 TO 6

Mapo tofu is a spicy stew of ground pork and tofu that has served as the gateway for millions of diners looking to try Sichuan food for the first time. Mapo tofu’s role as “Sichuan poster dish” makes sense because it features some of the most characteristic flavors of Sichuan food (the tingling and numbing of Sichuan peppercorns; the salty funk of fermented bean paste) but also echoes familiarity to anyone who’s eaten meat sauce over pasta or even a bowl of chili. Even my mom would understand it.

This recipe requires two ingredients that you probably don’t have lying around your pantry: doubanjiang, a chunky, spicy paste of chiles and fermented beans, and douchi, a salted and fermented black soybean. Both add a distinct and important flavor here. In a pinch you could substitute doenjang, if you have it on hand—I won’t hold your feet to the fire. But I’ve included a few suggestions of other ways to use these special condiments on this page, to help convince you to go to the store.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 garlic cloves, minced

8 ounces ground pork

¼ cup doubanjiang (see this page)

2 tablespoons douchi (see this page)

¼ cup soy sauce

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil, plus more for garnish

1 tablespoon cornstarch

1 teaspoon Sichuan peppercorns, finely ground in a spice grinder

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 (12- to 14-ounce) package medium-firm tofu, cut into ½-inch cubes

Steamed rice, for serving

3 scallions, sliced

2 tablespoons red chile oil (see Note, this page)

1. In a large sauté pan, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat. Once hot, add the garlic and cook, stirring constantly, until fragrant. Add the ground pork and continue to cook, breaking up the meat with the back of a heatproof rubber spatula or wooden spoon, until it is browned all the way through. Transfer the pork to a plate and set aside.

2. Return the pan to medium heat and add the doubanjiang and douchi. Cook, stirring, until the mixture begins to thicken slightly. Add the soy sauce, sesame oil, and 1½ cups water and stir to combine.

3. In a small bowl, whisk the cornstarch into ½ cup water to create a slurry. Stir the cornstarch into the sauce and bring back to a simmer, then reduce the heat to low. Continue stirring until the sauce thickens to the consistency of gravy.

4. Add the pork and Sichuan peppercorns to the sauce and stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Carefully fold in the tofu, trying not to break up the cubes too much. Bring the mixture to a simmer, then cook for 3 minutes, or until warm throughout. Spoon the stew into bowls with rice and top with sliced scallions and a light drizzle of red chile oil.

Soy Mayonnaise, and What to Do with It

Mayonnaise may have its roots in French kitchens, but I’d argue that Americans have stretched the limits of what mayonnaise can really be (or do). Mayo, like butter or coconut milk, is great for conveying other flavors. I turn to it to add spice or seasoning to a dish in a mellow way. It’s also a great foil because it’s fatty and delicious and familiar to so many of us, so I often use it to introduce people to things they may not have tried before. Sneaky, yes, but effective.

Soy, in either sauce or paste form, creates a rich, flavorful condiment when mixed into mayonnaise. Here are a few versions to try:

Miso Mayo

1 teaspoon white miso + ½ cup mayo

Dollop on top of Soy Sauce Pickled “Deviled Eggs” (this page) for a deviled egg riff.

Use it as the binder in potato salad.

Swipe it on your bread for a fried egg sandwich.

Soy Mayo

1 teaspoon soy sauce + ½ cup mayo

Try this on your roast beef sandwich (or with leftover Ssamjang-Braised Short Ribs, this page) and get ready for your taste buds to explode with gratitude.

Gochujang-Kimchi Mayo

1 tablespoon soy sauce + 1½ cups mayo + 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil + 1 tablespoon gochujang + ½ cup chopped kimchi

Try this in your favorite deviled egg recipe, or any sandwich, or to bind Korean Pasta Salad (this page).

KOREAN PASTA SALAD

SERVES 6

If I were to ever go on a picnic (which feels like a stretch), this is what I would want in my basket: cold Korean Fried Chicken (this page), Spicy Cucumbers with Jalapeño (this page), and this pasta salad. It’s a slight tweak on a well-known format, but binding everything together with kimchi mayo turns the familiar dish into something pretty exciting. Pineapple might seem out of place…and it is, if we’re being honest. But I love the way the sour sweetness plays off the heat and funk of the mayo.

Kosher salt

1 pound fusilli pasta

1 cup Gochujang-Kimchi Mayo (this page)

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

½ cup blanched green peas

½ cup julienned red onion

¼ cup diced pineapple

Sesame seeds, for garnish

Fresh cilantro leaves, for garnish

Bring a large saucepan of water to a rolling boil over high heat. Salt it well and add the pasta. Cook until al dente. Drain the pasta and run under cold water until chilled. In a bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise and rice vinegar. Toss the cooked pasta with the peas, onion, pineapple, and dressing. Season to taste with salt. Garnish with sesame seeds and cilantro leaves and serve.

SICHUAN BLT

MAKES 2 SANDWICHES

Bacon (and its cousin, pork belly) is pretty excellent in the presence of anything sweet and spicy. Playing on that idea, I mix doubanjiang and honey to form a kind of shellac that simultaneously quick-cures and candies thin slices of pork belly. All the intense flavors require some balance, which comes in the form of ripe tomato slices and crunchy iceberg lettuce.

8 ounces skinless pork belly, cut into ¼-inch-thick slices

1 tablespoon doubanjiang (see this page)

1 tablespoon honey

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

Mayonnaise, as needed

4 slices sandwich bread

1 ripe tomato, cored and sliced

4 iceberg lettuce leaves

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F and line a rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil. Arrange the pork belly slices in a single layer on the baking sheet.

2. In a small bowl, mix the doubanjiang, honey, and sesame oil. Use a pastry brush to brush the paste over the surface of the pork belly so that each piece is well coated. Roast the pork belly for 10 to 12 minutes, until sizzling and crispy. Remove from the oven and let cool.

3. Smear the mayonnaise thickly on each slice of bread. Divide the tomato slices between 2 of the bread slices, piling them on top of the mayonnaise. Follow with 2 lettuce leaves, then top with a few slices of pork belly. Place the remaining bread slices, mayonnaise-side down, on the pork belly, and serve.

NEGIMAKI WITH SWEET SOY

GRILLED BEEF AND ONION ROLLS

SERVES 3 OR 4

My very first restaurant job was as the dishwasher at the only sushi restaurant in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I washed dishes for a year before they let me touch any food. But that year in the dish pit taught me how to be patient and how to listen. It was my first class on how food can teach you about people, and it planted the seeds for the rest of my career, and my life.

One of the first dishes I learned to make from the chef, Nobu Terauchi, was a version of negimaki, a thin layer of beef rolled around scallions, brushed with teriyaki sauce, and grilled. I’ve kept the dish in my repertoire, tweaking little things here and there as I discovered my voice as a chef and expanded my pantry. At every restaurant that I’ve worked at, I’ve put some version of it on the menu. It’s a dish that other chefs love to dissect and ask questions about, because it packs so much flavor in a simple package.

This version uses the sweet soy sauce from Indonesia called kecap manis in place of teriyaki, because I love it and we always have it around in my kitchen. It’s a thick, almost syrupy sauce with molasses notes and a perfect balance between savory and sweet.

4 ½-inch-thick slices ribeye or strip steak (totaling 1 pound)

8 large scallions

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ cup sweet soy sauce (kecap manis)

2 tablespoons seasoned rice vinegar

1 teaspoon togarashi (Japanese chile powder, optional)

1. Place an 8 × 8-inch square of plastic wrap on a cutting board. Place one slice of steak on the plastic wrap and cover it with a second layer of plastic wrap. Using a mallet or an empty wine bottle, gently pound the meat until it is roughly ¼ inch thick. Repeat with the remaining slices of steak.

2. Prepare a medium-hot grill and grill the scallions, turning halfway through, until well charred, about 2 minutes per side. Transfer to a cutting board and season lightly with salt and pepper. Trim the root end of each scallion and discard, then cut each scallion in half across the middle.

3. In a small bowl, whisk together the sweet soy, rice vinegar, and togarashi (if using).

4. Place one of the ribeye slices on a flat work surface and brush the surface with about 1 teaspoon of the sauce. Lay 4 scallion pieces along the bottom edge of the steak slice. Roll the steak over the scallions as if you’re rolling up a spring roll. Wrap the steak roll in plastic wrap to hold its shape. Repeat with the remaining slices of steak and scallions. (You can assemble the negimaki up to 1 day in advance; cover and refrigerate until ready to serve. Cover and refrigerate the remaining sauce, too.)

5. Remove the plastic wrap and season the outside of the rolls generously with salt and pepper. Place the rolls on the grill over medium heat and grill, rotating every 2 minutes, until the rolls are evenly browned on all sides, 8 to 9 minutes total. Transfer the rolls to a cutting board and let rest for 5 minutes. Slice each roll crosswise into ½-inch-thick pieces.

6. Serve the negimaki with the remaining sauce for dipping.

SWEET SOY-GLAZED BBQ CHICKEN

SERVES 4 TO 6

Growing up in Oklahoma, sticky-sweet barbecued chicken with baked beans was a staple on the dinner table. The version I make now is influenced by what’s local to me. First, I rub the chicken with a spice rub inspired by our good friend Aaron Franklin, pitmaster of Franklin Barbecue in Austin. Then, in the last stages of cooking, I glaze the chicken with a sauce of kecap manis (Indonesian sweet soy sauce), rice vinegar, Sriracha, and Dijon.

Be sure to wait until the chicken has almost completely finished cooking before you apply the glaze, which has enough sugar in it that it’ll burn if exposed to too much heat (though a little char is always good). Pair this with the BBQ Baked Field Peas (this page).

FOR THE BBQ RUB

¼ cup smoked paprika

1 to 1½ tablespoons kosher salt

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon garlic powder

1 tablespoon onion powder

1 teaspoon crushed red pepper

1 teaspoon dried thyme

½ teaspoon cayenne

FOR THE GLAZE

½ cup sweet soy sauce (kecap manis)

2 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

1½ teaspoons Sriracha

1½ teaspoons Dijon mustard

FOR THE CHICKEN

1 (3- to 4-pound) whole chicken

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1. Make the rub: In a small bowl or jar, combine all the ingredients. Stored in an airtight container, the rub will keep at room temperature for 3 months before it begins to lose potency.

2. Make the glaze: In a small saucepan, whisk together the kecap manis, soy sauce, vinegar, Sriracha, and mustard. Bring to a simmer over medium heat and cook, stirring, until completely combined and just slightly reduced. Remove from the heat and let cool. Stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator, the glaze will keep for about 2 weeks.

3. Prepare the chicken: Set the chicken breast-side down on a cutting board and use kitchen shears or a sharp, heavy knife to remove the backbone by cutting it away from the ribs (you can discard the backbone or save it for making chicken stock). Turn the chicken over and press down hard in the center of the chicken to flatten it (you might hear a crack). This technique is called spatchcocking; it lets the chicken cook much faster and more evenly.

4. Lightly rub down the chicken with the oil. Then dust the chicken all over (both sides) with 3 to 4 tablespoons of the spice rub, enough to form an even coating. (This can be done just prior to grilling or up to 1 day in advance.)

5. Prepare a medium-hot grill. If using coals, build the fire off to one side of the grill, giving you direct and indirect heat. Place the chicken, skin-side down, on the hotter side of the grill and cook until a nice char forms, 3 to 5 minutes, then rotate the chicken 90 degrees and grill for another 3 to 5 minutes.

6. Flip the chicken over and grill to char the undercarriage of the bird, about 3 minutes. Rotate 90 degrees and continue to grill for another 3 minutes. Lower the heat to medium (if using coals, do this by moving the chicken to the cooler side). Cover the grill and continue to cook until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the breast reaches 130°F, about 20 minutes.

7. Flip the chicken over, cover, and continue to cook until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the breast reaches 145°F (timing varies, but start checking at about 10 minutes). At this point, use a pastry brush or spoon to paint the entire chicken with about 3 tablespoons of the glaze. Cover the chicken and continue to cook for 3 minutes. Flip the chicken so it’s breast-side up again and apply another 3 tablespoons of glaze, then cook until the chicken reaches 165°F in the breast and 170°F in the thigh. Transfer to a baking sheet, glaze once more, then let rest for 5 to 10 minutes. Cut the chicken into 8 pieces, transfer to a serving platter, and serve.

YAKAMEIN

SERVES 6

I’m deeply interested in learning about the origins and backstories behind dishes and ingredients. But discussions about “authenticity” frustrate me, because humans move and change, so food moves and changes. It’s really tricky to claim that one way to make something is right or wrong or somehow superior.

Still, I approach my study of food with respect for the cultures it comes from. So I get just as frustrated with the idea of “fusion,” or throwing ingredients together willy-nilly, as I do with “authenticity.”

It’d be easy to look at my food and chalk it up as a giant piece of modern fusion. But I don’t think that’s what I do. I call my cooking a kind of “creolization.” It’s a reflection of the city in which I live, one whose culture is fed by a wildly diverse set of people. Everything that I cook belongs together, because it already all exists together in Houston.

But Houston isn’t the only place where this type of creolization occurs—in fact, I’d argue that it’s happening all over the United States, to some extent. This dish, yakamein—also called yockamein, yet-ca-mein, or yaka-meat—isn’t something you can find in Houston. I had my first bowl of it in New Orleans, and I was struck by the taste, which had the undeniable flavors of Louisiana Creole cooking, combined with soy sauce, noodles, and ketchup. (In some versions, ketchup takes a predominant role, creating what could be described as “ketchup soup.”)

Fascinated, I started digging around. It has been around for decades in New Orleans, as well as in the Tidewater region of Virginia. The origin story is fuzzy, but best I could tell, it evolved out of two groups of people—Chinese immigrants and black laborers—finding themselves in close proximity to each other. So this dish isn’t an accident of random ingredients; it’s a culinary manifestation of migration patterns and settlements.

The only real constants: soy sauce and ketchup, whatever meat you have on hand, whatever noodles you have on hand, and broth. For my take, we use brisket (we are in Texas, damn it), and a little Creole seasoning in a nod to the Gulf Coast recipe.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 (4-pound) beef brisket, cut into 2-inch pieces and patted dry

3 cups large-diced white onion (2 large onions)

2 small green bell peppers, seeded and large-diced

4 celery stalks, large-diced

2 medium carrots, diced

15 garlic cloves, smashed

2 thyme sprigs

Kosher salt

1 (750 ml) bottle dry red wine

3 quarts reduced-sodium beef broth

¼ cup soy sauce

2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

2 tablespoons Crystal hot sauce

3 tablespoons Creole seasoning (Tony Chachere’s and Zatarain’s are common brands)

2 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper

1 pound spaghetti, udon, or egg noodles

¾ cup ketchup

6 Soy Sauce Pickled “Deviled Eggs,” halved (this page) or soft boiled eggs

1 bunch scallions (about 6), thinly sliced

1. In a 12-quart stockpot, heat the oil over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the brisket in one layer (do not crowd; work in batches if you have to) and sear, turning every few minutes, until deeply caramelized, with a nice brown color, about 8 minutes. Transfer to a plate. Add the onions, bell peppers, celery, carrots, garlic, thyme, and 1 teaspoon salt to the drippings in the pan. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables soften, 10 to 12 minutes. Add the wine, scraping up any brown bits on the bottom of the pan.

2. Return the brisket to the pan, then add the broth, soy sauce, Worcestershire, hot sauce, Creole seasoning, black pepper, and 1 teaspoon salt. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce to a slow simmer and cook until the beef is tender, about 3 hours.

3. Bring a stockpot of well-salted water to a rolling boil over high heat. Add the spaghetti. Cook until al dente. Drain and set aside.

4. Use a big spoon to break up the meat a bit, smashing it against the sides of the pot. Stir in the ketchup, add the spaghetti to the pot, and let simmer for 1 to 2 minutes.

5. To serve, ladle the stew into 6 large bowls. Garnish with the egg halves and a sprinkle of scallions.

SSAMJANG-BRAISED SHORT RIBS

SERVES 4 TO 6

My first visit to Houston’s Chinatown blew my mind, partially because of the sheer size of it. Honestly, in any other city, it wouldn’t qualify as simply a neighborhood, it would be its own freakin’ ZIP code. But mostly I was excited because I could feel my perspective widening. The flavors and textures and people of many Asian cultures (“Chinatown” in Houston is much more than Chinese) had been just a short drive away this whole time, and I’d never even known it.

Every free minute, every night off, I was heading to Bellaire to duck into a new place and order every unfamiliar thing I saw. I couldn’t get enough. (Still can’t.) One day I was telling a friend about my most recent dinner and it prompted him to say, “Well, let’s go hit Koreatown next week.” I said sure, thinking that Koreatown was just part of the sprawling Chinatown I’d been visiting. “No, no,” he corrected. “Koreatown is a whole different neighborhood, it’s in Longpoint.” On the other side of Houston.

“Get out of here!” I said. (Well, I may have used more colorful language.) It reminded me that my experience of Houston, even though I felt as if it was always expanding, was still just a tiny sliver of the many different stories unfolding simultaneously across the city. It made me remember that I’ll always have blind spots to try to work on.

The next week, we went to Seoul Garden, a Korean barbecue place. Next to the meat was a bowl of ssamjang, a red-brown sauce that is a mixture of doenjang (Korean fermented soybean paste) and gochujang (Korean fermented chile paste). It was funky and spicy, a little sweet, and deeply toasty. I couldn’t get enough.

Ssamjang is traditionally used as a condiment to dress lettuce wraps of Korean barbecue. This flavor combination is one of my very favorite things, so I’ve taken to using ssamjang as a marinade for proteins, particularly those that I’m looking to braise or smoke. It’s so delicious that it powers this super simple braise, delivering so much flavor that no searing is required.

4 pounds bone-in beef short ribs

1 cup doenjang (Korean fermented soybean paste)

½ cup gochujang (Korean fermented chile paste)

½ cup pineapple juice

¼ cup peanuts (optional)

3 garlic cloves

2 small shallots

4 cups beef stock

1 medium yellow onion, quartered

2 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped

3 celery stalks, roughly chopped

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Steamed rice, for serving

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F.

2. Put the short ribs in an ovenproof baking dish or Dutch oven with a lid.

3. In a blender, combine the doenjang, gochujang, pineapple juice, peanuts (if using), garlic, and shallots. Blend until the mixture is smooth. Pour over the short ribs, making sure to coat them completely. It’s helpful to massage the marinade into the meat for a few minutes, to make sure the flavors permeate it.

4. Add the beef stock, onion, carrots, and celery, cover the pot with a tight lid, and transfer to the oven for 2 to 2½ hours, until the meat easily pulls away from the bones.

5. Transfer the short ribs to a cutting board and strain the braising liquid through a fine-mesh sieve over a pot, discarding the solids.

6. Set the pot over medium-high heat. Bring the broth to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and let it reduce to about 2 cups, about 20 minutes. Taste and season with salt and pepper as needed. Remove the broth from the heat and add the butter, swirling the liquid to combine and give it some nice shine.

7. Place the short ribs on a plate and spoon some of the sauce over the meat. Serve with steamed rice.

BBQ BAKED FIELD PEAS

SERVES 4 TO 6

When I’m cooking, I’m always looking for balance. I want every bite to hit the palate evenly. Sweetness is essential to finding balance in a dish, which is one of the reasons I’m so crazy about sweet soy sauce, kecap manis.

Try it as the sweet-savory undercurrent in this otherwise fairly traditional take on bacony baked beans and you’ll never go back to the canned version. We use field peas (also called shelling peas in some parts of the country) because we get tons and tons of them each summer and they freeze beautifully to use throughout the rest of the year.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

8 ounces bacon, chopped

1 large yellow onion, diced

½ cup minced garlic (about 24 cloves)

2 (12-ounce) bottles cold Lone Star beer or lager of your choice (one for drinking, one for cooking)

2 pounds fresh field peas (black-eyed, purple hull, or crowder) or 1 pound dried beans (see Note)

¾ cup apple cider vinegar

½ cup sweet soy sauce (kecap manis)

½ cup ketchup

½ cup yellow mustard

3 tablespoons molasses

3 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

3 tablespoons soy sauce

2 tablespoons Tabasco

2 tablespoons dark brown sugar

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ cup crushed potato chips

1. In an 8-quart pot, heat the oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Add the bacon and let it begin to brown, stirring occasionally. Once it has a nice golden color, add the onion and garlic. Sauté until the onion becomes translucent and the garlic is fragrant, 5 to 7 minutes.

2. Pour in 1 bottle of the beer. Add the field peas and 2 quarts water and bring to a boil. Stir in the vinegar, sweet soy sauce, ketchup, mustard, molasses, Worcestershire, soy sauce, Tabasco, and brown sugar. Lower the heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the peas reach your preferred tenderness, 1 to 1½ hours. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

3. Preheat the oven to 400°F. Once the peas are tender, strain them through a fine-mesh sieve, reserving both the peas and the liquid. Transfer the peas to a 9 × 13-inch baking dish. Measure 1 cup of the reserved broth and pour it over the peas. Top with the potato chips. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until the chips are toasted and the beans are bubbling. (This last part gives you a sticky, crusty, crunchy top that you get to break into with a spoon.) Serve hot.

NOTE: If you don’t have fresh field peas, you can substitute 1 pound dried black-eyed peas or pinto beans. Place them in a large saucepan of water, bring to a boil, then cut the heat and let them soak overnight. Strain and proceed with the recipe as written.

GREEN CURRY PANCAKES

SERVES 4

You can keep your green eggs and ham; I’ll take green pancakes.

Well, these aren’t actually green in color, but green curry is the key. My favorite flavors and ingredients to cook with are often deeply savory and umami rich, so they don’t usually overlap with the dessert menu. But this recipe is an exception. Our pastry chef, Victoria Dearmond, dreamt this up after we’d made a big batch of green curry paste (a rewarding, challenging, laborious, time-consuming process that I recommend only if you enjoy challenging, laborious, time-consuming processes). I never would have imagined a curry-based sweet dish, but somehow this one just works, with the tang of yogurt, crunch of peanuts, and a sweet-savory syrup. One note: Every component of this dish is important to making it all work together. If you leave one out, the intensity of the other flavors will bully one another. Together, they all play nicely. Serve this for an impressive brunch or an unexpected dessert.

FOR THE SOY SYRUP

½ cup sweet soy sauce (kecap manis)

¼ cup honey

FOR THE LIME YOGURT

1 cup Greek yogurt

Grated zest of 2 limes

FOR THE PANCAKES

3 cups all-purpose flour

¼ cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

1½ teaspoons baking soda

½ to ¾ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ cup green curry paste

1 (5.5-ounce) can coconut milk

1½ cups milk

3 large eggs

⅓ cup melted butter, plus more for greasing the pan

1 cup roughly chopped candied or honey-roasted peanuts

1. For the syrup: In a small saucepan over medium-low heat, warm the sweet soy sauce and honey and combine. Keep warm.

2. For the yogurt: In a small bowl, stir the yogurt and lime zest together until combined.

3. For the pancakes: Preheat the oven to warm.

4. In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. In a small bowl, whisk the curry paste into the coconut milk, then whisk in the milk. Whisk in the eggs and butter. Pour the wet mixture into the dry ingredients, using a spatula to mix until just combined (do not overmix; a few lumps are okay).

5. Place a nonstick skillet over medium heat. When the pan is hot, add enough butter to coat the pan (about 1 tablespoon should do it) and then ladle in your batter, taking care to leave enough room between pancakes—¼ cup of batter makes small “silver dollar”–size pancakes; ½ cup of batter makes a standard–size pancake.

6. Cook the pancakes on one side until the edges are cooked through and all the bubbles on the surface of the pancake pop, about 4 minutes. Flip and continue cooking until the other side is golden brown, 2 minutes longer. Set on a heatproof plate in the oven to keep warm while you repeat the process with the remaining batter.

7. To serve, place a few pancakes on a plate. Top with a dollop of yogurt, a scattering of peanuts, and a gentle drizzle of the soy syrup. Serve immediately.