CELEBRATIONS & GATHERINGS
the universal language of dish-washing
THE FIRST TIME I MET THE KOREAN SIDE OF MY future husband’s extended family was at Christmas. It was the Ha annual Christmas party, and when the cavalry arrived, it took all of twenty minutes for my future mother-in-law’s kitchen to go from quiet serenity to all-out—albeit highly organized—chaos. One auntie arrived bearing a tub the size of a small whale, filled to the brim with Korean short ribs, or galbi, swimming in marinade; another auntie exchanged her outside shoes for slippers while balancing a basket of salt-and-pepper shrimp under one arm; and a third carried jeon of all types (this page) perched precariously on top of pork bulgogi (this page).
They set upon the kitchen all at once, weaving around each other to turn on burners at the stovetop, tie on aprons, and unearth serving plates from various cabinets, all while chattering to one another in Korean. I looked at my future husband, at a loss for what to do amid the hurricane. “This isn’t even half of them,” Andrew told me, laughing, and left to retrieve more aunts and uncles from the apartment building parking garage.
If I wasn’t already nervous about making a good impression on his many aunties and uncles, now I was both nervous and lost. I figured I’d know what to do at this party after all the large Chinese potlucks my parents had attended or hosted while I was growing up, but somehow I’d forgotten the key detail—that I wouldn’t understand a word of what anyone was saying—and I definitely hadn’t anticipated the practiced, swift synchrony of an army of aunties who had thrown parties, cooked bindaetteok (this page), marinated bulgogi, and pan-fried dumplings together for decades. I was anxious to have them think I was helpful! And nice! And all the things a family wants their newest addition to be. However, butting into their routine felt like I’d be disrupting a well-oiled machine, and just standing there didn’t seem like it would go any better.
So, half-panicking, I did the one thing everyone everywhere hates to do: I turned to the sink, where crockery and Tupperwares were piling up, and I started doing dishes. I washed the chopsticks we were using to transfer jeon to serving plates; I washed the giant Glasslock container that stored the raw galbi now sizzling merrily on a giant electric griddle that my mother-in-law had produced from nowhere; and I washed the little baby Glasslock that had held the dipping sauce for the jeon. I washed their lids, the tracks for the rubber rings, and the little arms that snapped the containers shut.
I washed the plastic tubs from Foodland that had held the poke now sitting neatly in a bowl, garnished with sesame seeds and scallions, and I scrubbed their lids, too. I washed the spatulas, the scissors (which, if you have never used them for cooking, are downright genius in the kitchen), and the tongs. Andrew’s aunts delivered empty plates, stripped of their plastic wrap, to my elbow and disappeared again to make more food and arrange more plates. The older aunts spoke little English (or didn’t need to at a party with mostly their family), but a younger one appeared next to me after awhile, smiling.
“Want to help me cook the mandoo?” she asked.
Her name turned out to be Auntie Christy, and she kept up a cheerful stream of part-conversation and part-instruction that slowly made me feel more at home. (She was married to the one Ha uncle, I learned, and as the one auntie not related to the others by blood, I think she recognized my plight and took pity on me.) The other aunties chatted to me with a mixture of English, lost-to-me Korean, and smiles, which always help to fill any language gap. An uncle asked me, imperiously, if I had tried his kimchi jjigae, which it appeared he was known for.
And once everything was cooked, plated, and arranged on the table, we ate—mounds of poke, fried mandoo, fish and meat and zucchini jeon, crisp, burnished orange bindaetteok, bean sprouts tossed with gochugaru, pink shrimp, japchae, and lots, and lots, and lots of kimchi.
When the night was done, the aunties descended on the kitchen with the same swift fervor they had when they arrived. This time they invited me to join in the frenzy with more than washing dishes—pointing out the foods that went in Ziploc bags, the ones that went into containers, the one Auntie Number Three (because there were so many they went by their order in age as often as they did by their name) was taking home, the plate that belonged to Auntie Christy. It’s not like that party marked “the moment I became part of the Ha family,” but it was a good start—because, as it turns out, behind all parties with a delicious array of food is an assortment of dishes that need washing, and if you are at a loss for how to put your best foot forward, doing those dishes is not a bad idea.
ALMOST GRANDMA HA’S KIMCHI PANCAKES
Makes 10 to 12 small pancakes (serves 3 or 4)
Before I met my husband, the only Korean pancake I’d ever encountered was seafood pajeon, the expansive, landscaped pancakes that were held together more by their copious fillings—octopus and shrimp and long sections of scallions—than their batter. Little did I know that that was only half of the story when it comes to Korean pancakes. My husband’s family has never put pajeon on their dining table. Instead, the only pancakes they eat are bindaetteok—made not from seafood and flour, but from kimchi and mung beans.
Ask anyone in my husband’s mother’s family about bindaetteok and they will all tell you the same thing: No one in the world can make them like Grandma Ha did. On bindaetteok days, my husband’s grandmother, parked at the griddle with a huge bowl of craggy batter, churned out pancake after pancake for her family. She served her bindaetteok to one person at a time only, because, according to her, it was only when the pancakes were freshest that they were most delicious. From oldest to youngest, with Grandpa Ha first down to the youngest grandchild, his family waited in line to devour hot, crispy kimchi pancakes, the next person eating only when the previous one had had his or her share. His grandmother’s bindaetteok were unrivalled: Orange-hued from the kimchi, nutty from the mung beans, beautifully crisp on the outside, and by turns tender and crunchy inside, they were spicy and flavorful, the stuff of legends.
None of my husband’s five aunties nor his mother have ever been able to replicate Grandma Ha’s bindaetteok, even though they all make the recipe the exact same way they recall that she did. His mother surmises that it might have been the oil she fried them in (lard, perhaps?), or the skillet. Everyone at one point or another has wondered whether it had to do with the tantalizing wait. (Except my husband, who staunchly rejects that theory.) But no matter what, the bindaetteok are never as crisp as when she made them, nor as flavorful.
I can’t claim to have done what six Ha sisters could not, but this recipe, after years of my own trials, is the closest I’ve come to replicating what Andrew has so fondly described. To make them as crisp and crunchy on the outside as possible, I use a cast-iron skillet, the Southern secret to perfect pancakes. I’ve also upped the amount of kimchi to more than any recipe I’ve ever come across, and use the leftover kimchi juice at the bottom of the jar for extra flavor. Just in case the kimchi isn’t enough, I add a healthy dash of gochugaru for just a bit more smoky, spicy oomph. They aren’t Grandma Ha’s, but they are pretty darn good—so good that they were the first spicy thing our son, the youngest Ha, ever demanded more of. We like to think she would be delighted that her great-grandson, though she never got to meet him, loves them.
1 cup dried, peeled mung beans
⅓ cup kimchi liquid or reserved starchy water from the mung beans
1½ cups well-fermented kimchi, finely chopped
1 teaspoon gochugaru
½ to 1 teaspoon salt
½ cup vegetable oil or other neutral oil, or as needed for frying
2 to 3 jalapeño or other hot chili peppers, thinly sliced (optional)
1 The night before, or at least 6 hours in advance: Place the mung beans in a large bowl with plenty of cold water, enough to submerge them by several inches (I use about 4 to 5 cups). Soak in the refrigerator for at least 6 hours, or overnight.
2 The day of: Drain the mung beans, reserving the starchy water. Place in a blender with ⅓ cup kimchi liquid, or, if you don’t have any, the reserved mung bean water. Blend until the mixture forms a thick purée, about 1 minute. The mixture should be somewhat coarse but should not contain any whole mung beans, about the consistency of a very thick pancake batter.
3 In a large bowl, stir together the mung bean mixture, kimchi, gochugaru, and salt until well incorporated. You may want to reserve some of the salt and gochugaru until you’ve made 1 pancake and tasted it, and then adjust the taste accordingly.
4 In a 10- or 12-inch cast-iron skillet, heat 2 to 3 tablespoons oil over medium until shimmering and a drop of water sizzles when it hits the pan. Using a measuring cup, drop 2 to 3 tablespoons of batter into the pan and use the measuring cup to nudge it into a rough circle. (The batter should be thick enough that it does not spread on its own. If it does, pour the batter into a fine-mesh colander and drain off a few tablespoons of liquid.) Let the pancake sizzle merrily until the bottom reaches a deep, crispy brown, 2 to 3 minutes. If desired, place a few slices of jalapeño or other pepper on top of the pancake—it’s not traditional, but we like a little extra heat. Once the bottom is nice and crisp, flip the pancake and cook on the second side until brown and crispy, about another 2 minutes. I usually make 1 pancake on its own first, to taste it and adjust seasonings, then make about 3 pancakes in the pan at once. Repeat, wiping out the skillet and adding more oil as needed, with the remaining batter. Serve immediately.
SLOW-SIMMERED SOY & BLACK PEPPER BEEF
Serves 6 to 8
Salty, sweet, and deeply flavorful, jangjorim is traditionally meant to be eaten as a small side dish or packed into lunchboxes (dosirak) for children, but my husband’s family loved it so much when he was growing up that they enjoyed it more like a main, and now so do we. This recipe, which comes from his mother, simmers chunks of lean beef, roughly chopped onion, and whole cloves of garlic in generous glugs of soy sauce until the onions practically melt and the beef becomes so tender that it shreds with a fork. The onions and sugar combine for a demure sweetness, while the garlic adds a pungent umami. My mother-in-law throws in an abundance of Korean peppers (gochu) and a hearty shake of black pepper, which you don’t always see in jangjorim, but they lace the stew with such pronounced warmth that I can’t imagine it without them. And, like Red-Cooked Pork (this page), the stew is finished off with a gaggle of hard-boiled eggs to soak up all that rich flavor. We like to make a big pot of this for a crowd, but if it’s just for us, we make it on Sundays and enjoy it through the week, with kimchi, rice, and a good vegetable side—it’s that kind of quick weeknight dinner that only gets better as you get closer to Friday.
2 pounds flank steak, brisket, or other lean steak, sliced against the grain into cubes
1 large onion, sliced
3 to 4 Korean green chili peppers (about 3 ounces), stems trimmed (see Notes)
⅓ to ½ cup garlic cloves, peeled and smashed (about 6 to 8 cloves)
¾ to 1 cup soy sauce, or more to taste
4 to 5 tablespoons dark brown sugar, or 3 to 4 tablespoons honey
1 to 2 teaspoons black pepper
3 to 4 cups water, or as needed to cover the beef
1 to 2 jalapeño peppers, sliced in half lengthwise (if you like heat)
8 hard-boiled eggs (any size), peeled (optional)
1 Place the beef in a 4- or 5-quart Dutch oven or stockpot with the onion, Korean peppers, garlic, soy sauce, brown sugar (or honey), pepper, and enough water to fully submerge the meat (for me, usually about 3 to 4 cups). Bring the mixture just to a simmer over medium-high, then lower the heat to low and cook for about 1 hour at a very gentle simmer.
2 After 1 hour of cooking, taste the broth and adjust seasonings as needed. If you’d like more heat, add the sliced jalapeños and other seasonings as needed. (It should be quite salty.) Continue to simmer for another hour.
3 If desired, add the hard-boiled eggs to the broth, making sure to submerge them as much as possible. Simmer until the meat is very tender and falls apart when a fork is inserted, and the eggs are browned, an additional hour or so. Remove from the heat, and serve hot or at room temperature. Leftovers taste even better the next day.
NOTES
Korean gochu peppers are generally mild. If you can’t find them, shishito peppers also work well. For more heat, add the jalapeños at the beginning.
Some recipes call for either soaking the beef in cold water beforehand, or parboiling it to remove impurities. While you can certainly do this if you’d like, I have never noticed a huge difference in taste when skipping those steps. Instead, I just find that the gentler and the longer this stew cooks, the better—low and slow makes for the tenderest beef.
CHINESE “RUSSIAN” SOUP
Serves 4 to 6
For most of my life, I thought that my mother’s luo song tang, or “Russian soup,” was entirely her creation—a comforting, crimson bowl of hearty stew that was my mother’s own quirky interpretation of what she thought Russians ate. It wasn’t until I began to write this cookbook that it occurred to me to search for the meaning of luo song tang. To my utter surprise, it was, as you might say, a thing. In some Asian families it appears to go by “Chinese borscht,” in others, “ABC soup,” but whatever the moniker, it’s usually uncannily similar to the bowls of savory, nourishing soup I grew up eating. There are chunks of rich beef or oxtail simmered until tender, with onions and carrots for sweetness, tomatoes for brightness, and cabbage and potatoes for heft, all in a thick, flavorful broth.
If you’re unfamiliar with oxtail or can’t find it, skip it and use a few pounds of some other bone-in beef that has a little bit of fat for richness. When I can find oxtail, it’s generally sold sliced into round segments—these can be an adventure to pick apart, but the work makes enjoying them all the more satisfying.
2 pounds beef oxtail, trimmed of as much fat as possible
1 pound flank steak, brisket, or eye of round, sliced against the grain into cubes
1 to 2 teaspoons salt, divided
½ to 1 teaspoon black pepper, divided
1 tablespoon vegetable oil or other neutral oil
2 cups diced onion (1 to 2 onions)
½ cup diced celery (1 to 2 stalks; optional)
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
1 teaspoon finely grated ginger root
2 tablespoons tomato paste (or 2 to 3 tablespoons ketchup, if you don’t mind a sweeter soup)
8 cups water or chicken stock
3 to 4 tablespoons Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
2 cups diced tomatoes (about 2 tomatoes)
1 cup diced carrots (1 to 2 carrots)
1 to 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar (optional)
4 cups diced cabbage (¼ to ½ head)
1 pound baby red potatoes, scrubbed and halved (or quartered, if large)
1 Place the oxtails in a 5- to 6-quart heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil over high heat and let bubble for about 10 minutes. Skim off any scum that rises. Meanwhile, season the steak generously with about ½ teaspoon salt and ¼ teaspoon pepper. When the oxtails have boiled for 10 minutes, drain, rinse, and set them aside.
2 Wipe out the pot and return it to medium-high heat. Add the oil and heat until shimmering. Add the onions, celery (if using), garlic, and ginger, and season generously with ½ teaspoon salt and ¼ teaspoon pepper. Cook until the vegetables begin to soften, 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and cook until the paste darkens just slightly, 1 to 2 minutes.
3 Add the water, rice wine, tomatoes, carrots, oxtails, and steak to the pot. Reduce the heat to medium-low. Cover and let simmer very gently for at least 2 to 3 hours. Skim any scum or fat off the top of the soup as it forms.
4 Taste the soup and adjust with more salt and pepper as needed, as well as brown sugar, if desired. Add the cabbage and potatoes, cover again, and let simmer, until the beef and potatoes are fork-tender and the cabbage is cooked through, another 20 to 30 minutes. Serve hot.
NOTES
I like to make this a day or so in advance of serving, as the flavor only improves with time, plus you can remove any fat from the top of the soup after it chills, which makes for a lighter, cleaner-tasting dish. When preparing it ahead, add the cabbage and potatoes and immediately remove from the heat. Once cool, refrigerate overnight. Before reheating, remove any solidified fat from the top of the soup, then place the pot over medium heat. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 6 to 8 minutes to cook the potatoes and cabbage to the right tenderness.
If you like firmer carrots, add them at the same time as the potatoes and cabbage.
KOREAN FRITTERS, THREE WAYS
(JEON)
Serves 4 to 6 as an appetizer
For something as simple as a few slices of fish or vegetables fried up in flour and egg, these fritters, or jeon, are so much more than they seem. They’re savory and substantial yet light enough to snack on, and you’ll hardly find a party—at least, any party thrown by my mother-in-law or anyone in my husband’s family—that doesn’t include a sprawling platter of at least three types, shingled neatly together around a bowl of dipping sauce. These versions are our favorites, made from bulgogi-marinated beef, zucchini, and tender white fish.
BULGOGI JEON
1 pound zucchini (about 2 large or 3 medium zucchini)
½ teaspoon salt, divided, plus more to taste
½ cup (63 grams) all-purpose flour, or more if necessary (whole-wheat flour makes a great substitute)
3 large eggs
Generous pinch black pepper (optional)
2 to 3 tablespoons vegetable oil or other neutral oil, or as needed for frying
1 batch Jeon Dipping Sauce (this page), for serving
1 Up to 1 day ahead, or at least 1 hour in advance: Combine the beef, soy sauce, brown sugar, scallions, rice wine, sesame oil, and garlic in a large bowl and massage thoroughly until each piece of beef is coated in marinade. Place in an airtight container or Ziploc bag and let marinate for at least 1 hour or up to 1 day in advance.
2 When ready to cook: Remove the beef slices from the marinade, letting any excess drip off, and combine in a shallow plate with the flour. Toss until evenly coated in flour. Alternatively, dip the pieces into the flour one by one.
3 In a small bowl, beat the eggs until well combined.
4 Heat a large cast-iron or nonstick skillet over medium-high. Add a tablespoon or so of oil (or use cooking spray) and swirl it until it evenly coats the pan. Working one by one, dip the slices of beef into the egg batter and place into the pan in a single layer. Cook until golden-brown on one side, 1 to 2 minutes. (I usually find that the first fritters are ready to flip by the time I’m done placing the last ones in the pan.) Flip and cook on the other side until meat is cooked through and the second side is golden-brown, an additional 1 to 2 minutes. If the jeon are browning too quickly, reduce the heat to medium or medium-low. When done, remove to a plate, wipe out the skillet if needed, and repeat until all the pieces are fried. Serve immediately, with dipping sauce on the side.
ZUCCHINI JEON
1 pound thinly sliced beef rib eye, sirloin, or brisket
¼ cup soy sauce
¼ cup packed dark brown sugar
¼ cup sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
2 tablespoons Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
¾ cup (94 grams) flour, or more if needed
3 large eggs
2 to 3 tablespoons vegetable oil or other neutral oil, or as needed for frying
1 batch Jeon Dipping Sauce (this page), for serving
1 Slice the zucchini into coins between ⅛- and ¼-inch thick. Spread in a large shallow dish and sprinkle evenly with salt (I usually use about ¼ teaspoon). Let sit until the coins soften just a bit, about 15 minutes.
2 Drain any water from the zucchini that was released from the salt. Add the flour and toss until all the coins are evenly dredged. (Alternatively, you can dip the coins one by one into the flour, which ensures they’re dredged more evenly, but I find just tossing them together saves time and works nearly as well.)
3 In a small bowl, beat together the eggs, ¼ teaspoon salt, and pepper (if using), until well combined.
4 Heat a large cast-iron or nonstick skillet over medium-high. Add a tablespoon or so of oil (or use cooking spray) and swirl it until it evenly coats the pan. Working one by one, dip the zucchini coins into the egg batter, then place them into the pan in a single layer. Cook until golden-brown, 1 to 2 minutes. (I usually find that the first fritters are ready to flip by the time I’m done placing the last ones in the pan.) Flip and cook until that side is also golden-brown, an additional 1 to 2 minutes. If the jeon are browning too quickly, reduce the heat to medium or medium-low. When done, remove to a plate, wipe out the skillet if needed, and repeat. (You may want to taste one as you go to check whether it’s salty enough for your liking, and add more salt to the egg mixture if needed.) When all the zucchini coins are fried, serve immediately, with dipping sauce on the side.
FISH JEON
1 pound haddock, cod, or other mild white fish
½ teaspoon salt, divided
¼ teaspoon black pepper, divided (optional)
¾ cup (94 grams) flour, or more if needed
3 large eggs
¼ cup sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
2 to 3 tablespoons vegetable oil or other neutral oil, or as needed for frying
1 batch Jeon Dipping Sauce (this page), for serving
1 Slice the fish into thin pieces about ¼-inch thick and 2 to 3 inches wide. Season with ¼ teaspoon salt and ⅛ teaspoon pepper and let sit for 10 to 15 minutes.
2 Add the flour to the fish slices and toss gently until evenly coated. Alternatively, dip the pieces into the flour one by one.
3 In a small bowl, beat together the eggs, scallions, garlic, and remaining salt and pepper (if using) until well combined.
4 Heat a large cast-iron or nonstick skillet over medium-high. Add a tablespoon or so of oil (or use cooking spray) and swirl it until it evenly coats the pan. Working one by one, dip the fish into the egg batter and place into the pan in a single layer. Cook until golden-brown on one side, 1 to 2 minutes. (I usually find that the first fritters are ready to flip by the time I’m done placing the last ones in the pan.) Flip and cook on the other side until the fish is cooked through, flakes easily, and the second side is golden-brown, an additional 1 to 2 minutes. If the jeon are browning too quickly, reduce the heat to medium or medium-low. When done, remove to a plate, wipe out the skillet if needed, and repeat until all the fish pieces are fried. (You may want to taste one as you go to check whether it’s salty enough for your liking, and add more salt to the egg mixture if needed.) Serve immediately, with dipping sauce on the side.
jeon dipping sauce
MAKES ABOUT ⅓ CUP, OR ENOUGH FOR 1 BATCH OF JEON
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
½ teaspoon sesame oil
½ to 1 teaspoon gochugaru (Korean chili powder), depending on preferred spice level
2 tablespoons chopped scallions
½ teaspoon toasted sesame seeds (optional)
1 to 2 tablespoons water, as needed for thinning
In a small bowl, mix together the soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, oil, gochugaru, scallions, and sesame seeds (if using). Thin with water to your desired consistency, and serve. The sauce will keep for several days in the fridge.
NOTES
If you have any left over, this makes for a good, slightly different alternative to the dipping sauce for Potstickers (this page).
RED-COOKED PORK
Serves 4 to 6
This classic Shanghainese dish is the first way that I ever enjoyed pork belly, with ruby-red chunks of meltingly buttery pork cloaked in a glossy sweet-salty sauce, and after all the various preparations of pork belly that have appeared on the restaurant scene, it is still—to me—the best one. The meat is quickly parboiled to remove any scum, tossed in a hot wok with sugar until caramelized and heavenly fragrant, then simmered slowly and gently in soy sauce, scallions, ginger, and star anise until it all reduces into a lustrous glaze. You can keep it simple and make the pork the star of the show, or you can toss in my favorite additions—knots made from tofu skin (fu zhu) and hard-boiled eggs.
2 pounds pork belly or pork shoulder (I prefer a leaner pork belly, if you can find it, or a combination of belly and shoulder), cubed
¼ cup sugar, plus more to taste
3 to 4 scallions, cut into 2-inch pieces (about ¼ cup sliced)
3 to 4 garlic cloves, smashed, or 1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 inch ginger root, sliced into 6 to 8 pieces
3 whole star anise
⅓ cup Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
3 tablespoons light (regular) soy sauce, plus more to taste
3 to 4 teaspoons dark soy sauce (see Notes)
Cooked rice, for serving
1 Bring a large pot of water to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the pork and boil for about 10 minutes, skimming off any scum as it forms on top of the water. Drain the pork and rinse to remove any remaining scum, then set aside.
2 In a large wok, combine the sugar and 2 tablespoons water over medium-high heat and stir until just dissolved. Swirl the mixture without stirring just until it bubbles and begins to turn slightly darker in certain spots, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the cubed pork belly to the wok and sauté it with the caramelized sugar until pork is browned and smells fragrant, 3 to 4 more minutes.
3 Add the scallions, garlic, ginger, and star anise and toss for 1 to 2 minutes to give the aromatics a quick cook. Add the rice wine, both soy sauces, and enough water to cover the pork, about 3 to 4 cups. Stir to combine, then cover and simmer over low heat until the pork is tender, at least 1 hour, or you can keep it at a low simmer for even longer, 2 hours or more, if you’d like it even tenderer.
4 Once the pork is tender, uncover and turn the heat back to medium-high. Simmer until the sauce reduces to a smooth consistency, another 10 to 15 minutes. Taste and adjust with more soy sauce or sugar, if desired. Enjoy hot, over rice. Leftovers will only improve with time, and can be frozen and reheated wonderfully.
NOTES
If you can track it down at a Chinese supermarket or find it on Amazon, dark soy sauce helps create the glossy, viscous red sauce that gives rise to the name of this dish. If you don’t have it, don’t worry—I generally find that it does more for the appearance of the dish than the flavor, and have always loved this every bit as much when made with only light soy sauce. If you like, though, you can add a teaspoon or two of molasses to compensate.
Some recipes call for blanching the pork belly in long strips (as it is often sold) and cubing it only after blanching. This can help preserve the shape of the pork belly after cooking. For ease, and so that I don’t have to wait for the meat to cool between steps, I prefer to cube it raw. But you should feel free to experiment with both methods.
If you like, you can add a few extra goodies to this dish during the last 20 to 30 minutes of cooking. Dried bean-curd (tofu) knots or sticks made from tofu skin are my very favorite addition for their chewy texture and ability to soak up the flavor of the sauce—I end up picking out every last one when I include them. That said, they can be hard to find without forking over a markup cost on Amazon or trekking to a specialty supermarket. If you do find them, soak about 2 to 3 cups’ worth for 6 to 8 hours, or overnight, before adding them during the last 20 minutes of cooking. You may need to add a bit more water and soy sauce to compensate. Hard-boiled eggs are also a welcome addition for many of the same reasons (and they pop up in the same role in jangjorim, this page). If you decide to use them, make a few slits lengthwise in the eggs before adding them to better soak up the flavor. You can use anywhere from 4 to 6 eggs, and add them during the last 30 minutes of cooking.
Note that these additions soak up sauce and will make it less likely to turn glossy and thick—but are so tasty that it’s worth it!
MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S LION’S HEAD MEATBALLS
(SHI ZI TOU)
Serves 4
My father’s earliest memories of Shanghainese food come from his grandmother, who raised him for most of his childhood. She made him savory Shanghainese fava beans, or can dou, flash-fried in a wok until tender; large, puffy steamed buns (this page) when they could get their hands on good flour; wontons in soup (this page); and regal Shanghainese lion’s head meatballs. She churned out these dishes in the narrow kitchen of her stately old townhouse in a network of alleys in Shanghai, carrying them up the stairs from the kitchen into the front room where they’d eat, and she cooked them for him whenever he visited all the way until my father grew up, moved to the States, and came back with me in tow.
Oil was hard to come by back then, and used only sparingly, but my dad remembers these meatballs being a worthy cause for a splurge. The meatballs are shallow-fried in just enough oil to give each side that brown, Maillard umami, then tucked into an impossibly tall pile of bok choy, where it’s all steamed until the meatballs are soft, tender, and rich, and the bok choy wilts into a savory-sweet heap under the oil and juices. They turn out comfortingly flavorful without being overwhelming—a true homestyle food, the kind that feels like your grandmother’s hug, and lingers with you like a good memory should.
FOR THE BOK CHOY
1½ pounds bok choy (Shanghai baby bok choy is my favorite, but larger varieties will work, too)
1 tablespoon soy sauce
½ tablespoon sesame oil
¼ teaspoon salt
FOR THE MEATBALLS
1 pound ground pork
¼ cup finely sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
1 teaspoon finely grated ginger root
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon salt
3 large eggs
¼ cup cornstarch
1 cup vegetable oil or other neutral oil, or as needed for frying
Cooked rice, for serving
1 Prep the bok choy: Thoroughly wash and clean the bok choy, aiming to leave the heads more or less intact, except for trimming the very ends of the stems. (This method is best for small, Shanghai baby bok choy. If you are using larger, tougher bok choy, feel free to separate the leaves.) Place the bok choy in a heavy-bottomed 4-quart pot. It should more or less fill the pot to the top, which will look like too much, but it will be just right once the bok choy steams and wilts. It will amaze you how much they shrink. Drizzle the bok choy with soy sauce and sesame oil, and sprinkle with salt. Set the pot aside.
2 For the meatballs: In a large bowl, combine the ground pork, scallions, ginger, garlic, sugar, soy sauce, rice wine, sesame oil, and salt, and stir with chopsticks or a wooden spoon until well blended. Next, add the eggs and mix vigorously until well combined. The mixture will seem loose and liquidy; this is okay. Add the cornstarch and mix again until the mixture forms a porridge-like consistency, like a thick muffin batter.
3 Pour the vegetable oil into a large wok or nonstick skillet, enough to coat the bottom with about ½ inch of oil. Turn the heat to medium-high and give the oil a few minutes to heat up. When the oil reaches 375°F to 400°F, or a wooden chopstick bubbles energetically when inserted into the oil, use a ¼-cup measuring cup or large ice cream scoop to drop balls of the pork mixture into the wok in a single layer. (I fry 4 or 5 balls at a time, and end up frying in 2 or 3 batches.) Let them sizzle in the pan until nicely browned, 2 to 3 minutes, then flip and brown the other side, another 3 minutes or so. They do not need to cook through, since they’ll be finished in the steamer. Once the meatballs are browned on both sides, transfer them with a slotted spoon to set on top of the prepared bok choy. Repeat with the remaining pork mixture.
4 Once all the meatballs are browned and nestled on top of the bok choy, cover the pot and place over medium-low heat. Let the bok choy and meatballs steam until the meatballs are cooked through and the bok choy leaves have wilted and the stems are tender, 20 to 30 minutes. Remove from the heat. Serve warm, with plenty of rice.
POTSTICKERS
Makes 24 to 32 dumplings (serves 2 or 3)
To me, there’s hardly anything more satisfying than devouring my way through a platter of homemade potstickers. I can still remember the first time I ever had one—guo tie in Chinese, translated literally as “potstick”—in a Shanghai breakfast house as a child. My household tended toward boiled dumplings, so my first experience crunching into a fried potsticker, stuffed with a juicy pork filling and irresistibly crisp on the bottom, was love at first bite.
Though a tad time-consuming, potstickers are gloriously easy to make at home. The dough for the wrappers is elegant simplicity at its best, the very same dough used in Ginger-Scallion Chicken & Dumplings (this page) and kimchi sujebi (this page), and my favorite pork filling is hearty and savory, with just a bit of crunch from plenty of vegetables. I now like to roll my wrappers a bit thicker than my Southern Chinese parents prefer, after becoming smitten with the “Peking ravioli” widely offered at Chinese restaurants in Boston. True to their Bostonian nicknames, potstickers in Beijing and the northern parts of China are chewier and doughier than the norm. If you’re partial to a more delicate dumpling, however, feel free to use store-bought gyoza wrappers, or just roll the dough out to a thinner, more pasta-like thickness.
FOR THE FILLING
1½ cups shredded napa cabbage, or 1 cup shredded regular cabbage (see step 1), or 1 cup other hardy, leafy vegetable (kale, Swiss chard, or even shaved Brussels sprouts work well here)
½ teaspoon salt, plus ¼ teaspoon more if using napa cabbage
½ pound ground pork (ground chicken or turkey also work well here)
¼ cup finely sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons sesame oil
1 tablespoon Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
2 teaspoons minced garlic (1 to 2 cloves)
1 teaspoon finely grated ginger root
½ to 1 tablespoon sugar, to taste
1 tablespoon cornstarch
TO ASSEMBLE AND FRY
1 batch Dumpling Dough (this page)
All-purpose flour, for rolling
1 to 2 tablespoons neutral oil
FOR THE DIPPING SAUCE
2 tablespoons Chinkiang black vinegar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 to 3 teaspoons chili garlic paste (1 to 2 teaspoons sriracha also works)
1 teaspoon dark brown sugar
1 If using regular cabbage or another leafy vegetable, skip this step. If using napa cabbage, rinse the cabbage, then sprinkle ¼ teaspoon salt over the leaves and let it sit until it wilts and releases water, 10 to 15 minutes. (Otherwise, the water is released while cooking and can result in soggy dumplings.)
2 Combine the cabbage and pork together in a large bowl. Add ½ teaspoon salt, the scallions, soy sauce, sesame oil, rice wine, garlic, ginger, and sugar, and mix well. Sprinkle the cornstarch evenly over the mixture and mix again until well combined. Cover and chill in the refrigerator while you roll out the dumpling wrappers.
3 To roll the wrappers the traditional way: Divide the dough into 4 equal balls. Working with 1 ball at a time and keeping the others covered or in a sealed container, roll the dough out into a short cylinder. Cut into about 6 to 8 pieces—fewer for thicker skins and more for thinner ones. Use a small Chinese rolling pin or other small dowel to roll each piece of dough into a circle about 3½ to 4 inches in diameter, aiming to make the edges a bit thinner than the center. Flour generously and set aside, covered. Repeat with the rest of the dough.
4 To roll the wrappers using a biscuit cutter: Divide the dough into 4 equal balls. Working with 1 ball at a time and keeping the others covered or in a sealed container, roll the ball at least ⅛-inch thick, preferably a bit thinner. Using a 3½- to 4-inch biscuit or cookie cutter, cut as many rounds as you can from the dough (I aim for at least 4). Flour the wrappers generously and set aside, covered. Reroll the scraps as needed. If the scraps begin to resist your rolling pin, place them back into the container with the remaining dough until they soften again. Repeat with the rest of the dough. I usually get about 24 wrappers if aiming for a thicker skin, and up to 32 if aiming for a thinner one.
5 To pleat: To pleat the dumplings, place 2 to 3 teaspoons of filling in the center of a wrapper. Lightly fold the wrapper in half to make a half-moon shape, like you’re making a taco, but keep the edges apart. Dampen the inside of one edge to help seal, if needed, then gently make pleats, pressing one side to the other as you go. Once the dumpling is fully pleated, pinch all along the pleats to make sure the dumpling is tightly sealed. Place the dumpling on a plate, seam-side up, and press down slightly to create a flat bottom. Set aside and cover with a damp dish towel while you pleat the rest. Alternatively, simply place 2 to 3 teaspoons of filling in the center of 1 wrapper, then fold in half and pinch the edges shut to form a flat half-moon.
6 To cook: In a large skillet or wok that can be covered, heat about 1 tablespoon oil over medium-high until shimmering. Add as many dumplings as will fit in a ring around the edge of the pan, flat-side down. If you like, you can leave a little room in between to ensure they won’t stick to one another.
7 Cook the dumplings until the bottoms are crisp and nicely browned, about 2 minutes. Drizzle 2 to 4 tablespoons of water into the pan (enough to cover the bottom of the pan) and cover. Steam until the dumplings are cooked through and the wrappers are no longer doughy, 4 to 6 minutes. If the water cooks off during that time, add another tablespoon or so, and reduce the heat to medium.
8 Meanwhile, make the dipping sauce: Mix all the sauce ingredients together. Set aside until ready to eat.
9 To finish: When the dumplings are cooked through, remove the cover and let any residual liquid in the pan cook off—this helps nice crisp crusts form on the bottoms of the dumplings. Remove to a plate, wipe out the skillet or wok, and repeat as necessary with the remaining dumplings. Serve immediately, with dipping sauce on the side.
NOTES
To boil your dumplings: If you prefer, you can boil your dumplings instead of frying them into potstickers. Bring a large pot of water to a boil and add as many dumplings as can comfortably fit in a single layer in the pot. Let cook until the dumplings float, about 3 minutes. Let boil another 1 to 2 minutes, until cooked through, then use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a plate. Repeat with any remaining dumplings. Serve immediately, with dipping sauce on the side.
SHANGHAI-STYLE SWEET & SOUR BABY-BACK RIBS
Serves 3 to 4
When it comes to food, my father is a creature of habit. While my mother urges us to try the newest falafel place in town or comes home gushing about her first taste of chicken tikka masala, my dad gravitates toward the familiar, looking for the comforting Chinese food of his childhood wherever he goes.
There are a few exceptions—my father is a surprising but ardent supporter of Pizza Hut—but for the most part, my dad’s thirty years in the United States hasn’t changed his tastes. He hopefully suggests going to a Chinese restaurant whenever we decide to eat out as a family, whether we’re in California or South Carolina or on a vacation in Germany, and if we don’t go to a Chinese restaurant, he divines a dish from the menu that is closest to what he knows.
At barbecue restaurants in my hometown in South Carolina, my father’s favorite dish became baby-back ribs, smoked until tender and slathered with a sweet-and-sour barbecue sauce. I never considered why that might be until we went to Shanghai a few years back and enjoyed Shanghainese short ribs for an appetizer. Just like the American South, the Chinese “South” prepares their ribs with a sticky glaze that uses vinegar as one main ingredient and sugar as another—it’s simply Chinkiang black vinegar instead, with a few other flavors, like soy and sesame, in the mix, slathered on short, chopped ribs instead of long racks of baby-back ribs. This version combines American-style baby-back ribs, prepared in an oven (which is deceptively and unexpectedly easy), with a Shanghai-style sweet-and-sour glaze, for a dish that might just be familiar to both cultures.
3 pounds pork baby-back ribs
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons packed dark brown sugar
½ cup Chinkiang black vinegar (balsamic vinegar works in a pinch)
¼ cup soy sauce
¼ cup Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
¼ cup sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions), plus more for garnish (optional)
1 inch ginger root, sliced into 6 pieces
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
¼ teaspoon white pepper
½ tablespoon toasted sesame seeds, to garnish (optional)
1 Preheat the oven to 275°F. Place a piece of foil, large enough to fold and seal around the ribs, on a rimmed baking sheet. Place the rack of ribs meat-side down on the foil and prick the membrane several times.
2 In a medium bowl, mix together ½ cup brown sugar, the vinegar, soy sauce, rice wine, scallions, ginger, garlic, and white pepper. Pour half the marinade over the ribs, lifting them to allow the marinade to pool underneath, and fold the foil up around the ribs, sealing tightly. Reserve the other half of the marinade for basting.
3 Transfer the foil packet to a sheet pan and bake for about 2 to 3 hours, until a fork slides easily through the meat and the meat has pulled away from the bone. If you find your fork is encountering resistance, continue baking for an additional 30 minutes or more, until the meat is tender. Remove from the oven and let cool, still wrapped, for about 15 minutes.
4 Increase the oven temperature to 350°F. Open the foil and carefully drain the juices, reserving about ¼ cup. Pour the ¼ cup of juice into a small saucepan and add the reserved marinade. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat and cook, stirring regularly, until the marinade thickens and coats the back of a spoon, 6 to 7 minutes.
5 Position the ribs meat-side up and brush them with marinade. Return to the oven, leaving the foil open, and bake, basting the ribs with more marinade every 10 minutes, until the meat is very tender, a total of 50 to 60 more minutes.
6 During the last 10 minutes of baking, use any leftover marinade to make a dipping sauce. Return the marinade to the stove and add the remaining 2 tablespoons brown sugar. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens and turns viscous, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.
7 When the meat is done, remove from the oven and cut the rack into individual rib segments. Garnish with sesame seeds and more scallions, if desired, and serve immediately, with the sauce on the side for dipping.
NOTES
If you find the ribs aren’t coming out as tender as you’d like, reduce the heat to 225°F in the first step and bake for longer, about 4 hours, before moving on to basting and baking for an additional 50 to 60 minutes. Also, I have found that when doubling the batch and baking more ribs at once, I have needed to increase the baking time.
SPICY BRAISED LAMB WITH RADISHES & NOODLES
Serves 6 to 8
I’ve never come across lamb shank made this way anywhere but in my mother’s kitchen—and I’ve never had lamb this good anywhere else, either. The shanks are braised in layers of complex flavors, gradually added one by one by my mother over the years as she experimented with lamb’s strong, distinctive taste. The radishes, pink and cheerful, add a welcome brightness to the soup and help cut any gamey flavor from the meat, as does the sprig of rosemary. As the lamb shanks cook down into tender, fall-apart chunks, the chili garlic paste adds heat and the soy sauce laces the soup with umami. Cilantro (or parsley, if you prefer) finishes the soup with a little extra zing, and noodles cooked during the last few minutes soak up all the nuanced flavors into hearty, slurpable bites. My mother knows this dish is my favorite; it’s the one she always has cooking on the stove when I come home for visits.
2 pounds lamb shank (about 2 shanks)
2 cups radishes (about 20 bulbs), with the greens on top intact
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or other neutral oil
4 scallions, sliced into 2-inch pieces (about ½ cup sliced)
⅓ cup garlic cloves, peeled and smashed (5 to 6 cloves)
1 inch ginger root, sliced into 6 to 8 pieces
5- to 6-inch sprig rosemary
1 cup Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
⅓ cup soy sauce, or more to taste
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
3 to 4 tablespoons chili garlic paste (1 to 2 tablespoons sriracha also works)
FOR SERVING
2 pounds fresh Chinese noodles, dried wide broad bean noodles, cellophane noodles, or other noodles of your choice (most long pastas work just fine here)
¼ cup cilantro or parsley leaves, chopped
1 Preheat the oven to 300°F. In a large ovenproof pot (see Notes), bring 4 quarts of water to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the lamb shanks and cook for 5 to 10 minutes, skimming off any scum that forms. Meanwhile, cut the radishes from their tops, reserving the greens, and trim the ends. Set both the greens and the radishes aside (discard the ends).
2 Drain the shanks and rinse them to remove any remaining scum. Dry the pot and place it back over medium-high heat. Add the oil. Once the oil is shimmering, add the scallions, garlic, ginger, and rosemary, and cook until the aromatics just begin to turn fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes.
3 Add the lamb shanks, trimmed radishes, rice wine, soy sauce, brown sugar, and chili garlic paste, along with enough water to cover the shanks (I usually add about 5 to 6 cups). Give the mixture a few stirs to incorporate, then bring it to a simmer. Cover the pot and place it in the oven.
4 Cook for about 2 hours, turning the lamb shanks and adding more water every 45 minutes or so if the liquids have cooked off. After 2 hours, remove from the oven and add the radish greens. Set the pot on the stove over medium-low heat and simmer until the shanks shred easily and both the radishes and their greens are very tender, 30 to 45 minutes. Meanwhile, cook the noodles of your choice according to the package directions.
5 When the lamb is done, pull the meat from the bones and discard the bones. Add the meat back to the pot, along with the cilantro, and give it a stir. Taste and adjust seasonings if needed. To serve, divide the noodles, meat, radishes, and radish greens among 6 to 8 bowls. Alternatively, stir the noodles right into the pot and let your guests serve themselves.
NOTES
If you don’t have an ovenproof pot, simply cook the shanks on the stovetop on a low simmer for about 2 hours, before adding the radish greens and proceeding with step 4. The heat will be a bit less even, but you’ll end up with a dish that’s just as tasty.
COLLARD WONTONS
Yields 70 to 80 wontons, or enough for 4 to 6
In our house, making wontons began late in the afternoon. My mother started it off by making the filling—squeezing the moisture from greens, chopping them with her heavy, Chinese-style cleaver, and stirring them together with ground pork, garlic, ginger, and various fragrant condiments. Next, the bowl landed on our kitchen table, where my father waited, cross-legged. Peeling the wonton wrappers off a block, he laid neat dollops of filling on them one by one, then tossed them flat on the table in front of him. Once he’d amassed a long row he’d pick them up and fold them into plump little bundles before lining them up in neat spirals on platters that were returned to my mother to be simmered in broth.
When I think back on wonton nights, I hear the light pitter-patter of wonton wrappers hitting the table and see my dad’s impossibly quick, origami-like folding, producing beautifully uniform wontons with their little chests puffed up proud and boisterous, as though they knew how well they were made. When my parents had Shanghainese friends over, they’d join the process as though they’d been there the entire time, filling and folding the wontons seamlessly the way my dad always had—I was startled the first time I saw it, surprised that anyone else knew what I’d thought were our own wonton family secrets, but food, as I’ve learned over and over, is a language you don’t need to grow up speaking together to understand.
My mother typically uses a pungent, fragrant Chinese vegetable called shepherd’s purse, or ji cai, but since this is hard to come by even in some Asian supermarkets, I’ve swapped in an unlikely but worthy substitute native to my childhood home—collard greens. Surprisingly, collards add just the right bite to the wontons, mimicking the slight spicy kick of shepherd’s purse so closely that I might not know the difference if I hadn’t made it myself. If you can’t find either of these, though, any hardy leafy green will do (kale, Swiss chard, or cabbage all work).
FOR THE WONTONS
½ pound collard greens, roughly chopped
1 pound ground pork
¼ cup thinly sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
1 tablespoon finely grated ginger root
3 tablespoons Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
2 tablespoons sesame oil
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon sugar (optional)
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon white pepper
70 to 80 wonton wrappers (15 to 16 ounces, or about 1⅓ packages; keep unused wrappers covered in plastic wrap, sealed in a Ziploc bag, and frozen for later use)
FOR THE BROTH
4 cups water
4 cups chicken broth
1 to 2 teaspoons soy sauce, for serving
½ teaspoon sesame oil, for serving
¼ cup thinly sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions), for serving
1 Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high heat. Add the greens and reduce the heat to medium. Simmer until the greens are bright green and beginning to turn tender, but still have some bite, 10 to 15 minutes. Drain and add to a food processor. Pulse until finely shredded.
2 In a large bowl, combine the greens, pork, scallions, ginger, rice wine, sesame oil, soy sauce, sugar (if using), salt, and white pepper. Using chopsticks or a wooden spoon, stir vigorously until all ingredients are well combined and the filling forms a thick paste.
3 Prepare a small bowl of water for sealing the wrappers. For each wrapper, place 1 teaspoon of filling in the center. Dab a bit of water on one edge and fold the wrapper in half, taking care to seal the wrapper well around the filling. Dab water on one corner of the folded seam and bring the two folded corners together to form a small bundle (see this page). Place on a tray and repeat. You should end up with 70 to 80 wontons. To save them for later, freeze on the tray, then place in a Ziploc bag. They’ll keep in the freezer for up to 6 months.
4 When you’re ready to cook the wontons, in a large pot, bring the water and chicken broth to a boil. Add about 20 wontons, stirring gently to ensure they don’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Cook until the water comes back to a boil and the wontons float to the surface, about 2 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the wontons to plate. Repeat with the remaining wontons until they’re all cooked, or freeze a portion of the uncooked wontons for later. To cook from frozen, use the same method, but boil for 4 to 6 minutes, until the wontons float.
5 To serve, divide the wontons among several small bowls and ladle a bit of the cooking broth over each bowl. Drizzle lightly with soy sauce and a few drops of sesame oil, and top with scallions. Enjoy immediately.
A GOOD MAKE-AHEAD CHILI
Serves 8
It is my opinion that a good, respectable chili is a necessity in anyone’s kitchen repertoire. This is ours, made the way we like it—thick and hearty, heavy on the beef but light on the beans, plenty of smoky spice and a present but not overwhelming sweetness, for a flavorful chili that only gets better as it sits in the fridge overnight. I grew up eating chili on its own or with a thick slice of cornbread (this page), but my husband enjoys it the Hawaii way, with plenty of white rice. Both are delicious, and both are best when you don’t hold back on the toppings.
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cups diced or minced onion (about 1 large onion)
2 tablespoons minced garlic (5 to 6 cloves)
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1 cup diced or minced carrots (4 to 5 carrots)
1 cup diced or minced celery (about 2 stalks)
½ cup diced bell pepper (about 1 bell pepper)
2 pounds ground beef (preferably 86% lean or more)
3 to 4 tablespoons chili powder
2 teaspoons cumin
½ teaspoon paprika
¼ to ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or more to taste
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper, or more to taste
1 (28-ounce) can crushed tomatoes
1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes
1 (14-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and sliced (or seeds left in, for more heat)
¼ cup ketchup (optional)
2 to 3 tablespoons dark brown sugar, or more to taste
Water or chicken stock (optional, as needed to thin)
FOR SERVING
Cooked white rice (about 1 cup per person)
Sour cream
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sliced scallions
Diced raw onion
Sliced jalapeño peppers
1 Heat the olive oil in a large pot (at least 5 quarts) over medium until shimmering. Add the onion and garlic, season generously with salt and black pepper (I use about ¼ to ½ teaspoon salt and ¼ teaspoon pepper at each step), and sauté just until the onion begins to soften, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the carrots, celery, and bell pepper, season again with salt and black pepper, and continue to sauté until onion begins to turn translucent and the other vegetables begin to soften, another 2 to 3 minutes.
2 Add the beef and continue to cook, breaking up the beef into small pieces, until the meat is browned and no longer pink, about 5 minutes. Add the chili powder, cumin, paprika, red pepper flakes, salt, black pepper, and cayenne, and stir until well combined. You may want to start with a smaller quantity of spices and adjust to taste as the chili cooks.
3 Add the crushed and diced tomatoes, black beans, jalapeño, ketchup (if using), and brown sugar. Stir until well incorporated, then reduce the heat to low and let simmer for at least 1 hour, ideally 2 or 3. If the chili cooks down too thick, add water or chicken stock, ¼ cup or so at a time, to thin it out to your liking. When done, adjust the seasonings, and serve with plenty of white rice, sour cream, shredded cheddar, sliced scallions, diced onions, and more sliced jalapeño. As the title suggests, the chili just gets better the next day.
NOTES
If you have an ovenproof pot, such as a Dutch oven, this chili is also excellent if simmered in the oven at 350°F for 1 to 3 hours instead of on the stove, in a method similar to the lamb ragù (this page) or the spicy braised lamb (this page).
If using ketchup and brown sugar, the chili will come out on the sweeter side—you might want to hold off on the sugar for a less sweet chili.
CHINESE COLA CHICKEN WINGS
Serves 3 or 4
During my first year of law school, I shared the communal kitchen on my floor with a group of Chinese international students who loved cooking. They were kind enough to include me in their evening adventures in the kitchen, and I usually hung out in the corner, listening to them chatter while they prepared mouthwatering creations in a large wok. Some dishes were new to me and others were wonderfully familiar, like Chinese Scrambled Eggs & Tomatoes (this page) or Tea Eggs (this page).
One night I walked into the kitchen to find, to my amazement, a girl pouring a can of Coke over chicken wings. What could a can of soda possibly be doing in a Chinese dish? I watched, with more than a little incredulity, as the soda foamed inexplicably into a velvety, glossy sauce that was indistinguishable in appearance to the more traditional soy-glazed dishes I grew up with. This was the first surprise; the second surprise was, upon trying a wing that she offered me, how absolutely delicious it was. As it turns out, soda simmered with soy sauce and a few aromatics results in a sticky, savory-sweet soy glaze that betrays no trace of carbonated artificial flavor. Simple to prepare, yet nearly identical in flavor to dishes like Red-Cooked Pork (this page), there’s a reason these wings are popular in China. They were so good that I emailed her later, after we’d all left for the summer, for the recipe. She was kind enough to share it, and here it is.
2 pounds chicken wings, cut in half at the joint
¼ cup Shaoxing rice wine, dry sherry, or sake
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon white pepper
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or other neutral oil
½ inch ginger root, sliced into 3 or 4 pieces
1 tablespoon minced garlic (2 to 3 cloves)
¼ cup sliced scallions (2 to 3 scallions)
1 star anise (optional)
1 cup cola, such as Coca-Cola or Pepsi (do not use diet or sugar-free versions; if you prefer, you can use ¾ cup water and ¼ cup packed dark brown sugar instead)
¼ cup soy sauce
Cooked rice, for serving
1 Make 2 or 3 small cuts on each of the chicken wings to help them absorb the sauce. Place the wings in a large bowl with the rice wine, salt, and white pepper and toss to evenly coat. Let marinate in the refrigerator for 15 to 20 minutes, then drain, reserving the marinade.
2 Heat the oil in a large wok over high until shimmering. Add the chicken wings, ginger, garlic, scallions, and star anise (if using), and cook, stirring occasionally, until the wings get a bit of nice browning here and there, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the reserved marinade, cola, and soy sauce, and reduce the heat to medium. (The cola will foam up quite a bit, but will subside into a simmer.) Let simmer, turning the wings occasionally, until the sauce reduces and thickly coats the wings, about 15 minutes. Serve with rice and plenty of napkins.
NOTES
If you don’t have a wok, a 12-inch skillet will work as well, but you may get a bit less browning (especially if using a nonstick skillet) and you may want to turn the wings more frequently, to make sure all sides are submerged in the sauce.