Japanese

Yakitori shops—small places, mostly joints, where you sit at the counter—specialize in chicken, though you can use this sauce and technique for almost anything that can be cut into bite-sized pieces: chicken wings, chicken skin, chicken livers or gizzards, bits of pork, shiitake mushrooms, scallions, even garlic cloves. Sometimes different things are combined on skewers, too, so feel free to go that route. A good hot fire, preferably made with real charcoal (not gas and certainly not briquettes) is requisite. Chicken thighs are often boned before sale; if you can find only bone-in thighs, you will quickly figure out how to remove the meat from them—it’s simple (and the bones make great stock). Do not use breasts in this recipe unless you are a fan of dry meat. As long as you have the grill going, you might make some Roasted Red Peppers (page 470). Or, if you feel like it, Sautéed Peppers with Miso (page 78). Either is a great accompaniment. Shichimi pepper is a spice mixture sold in Japanese markets.

Teriyaki is an old preparation, but using steak is relatively new, as beef was not widely eaten in Japan until the second half of the twentieth century. So this might be considered a new classic. I love it with a simple salad (you might use Sesame-Miso Dressing, page 190) and perhaps Basmati Rice with Shiso (page 510). Other cuts of meat you can use here: the teriyaki treatment is widely used for chicken, bone in or out (see page 317), pork, and shrimp.

Said to have been brought to the islands by the Dutch, these are now as deeply ingrained in Japanese cooking as fried chicken is in ours. They are typically served on a simple bed of shredded cabbage, with a commercially prepared tonkatsu sauce. I have re-created the sauce from scratch here, and believe me, it’s far better than the bottled stuff. These can be deep-fried if you prefer (use about 2 inches of oil), but at home most Japanese shallow-fry them, as I do. Other cuts of meat you can use here: veal, chicken, or turkey cutlets.

Although this stew has much in common with the humble American beef stew, it is legitimately Japanese and wonderfully flavored with soy, ginger, mirin (the Japanese sweet cooking wine, for which sugar or honey is an adequate substitute), winter squash, and, perhaps best of all, the peel and juice of a lemon. The combination is one of simple and delicious counterpoints that make this a great stew. Ambitious cooks may want to include dashi, the quickly made stock that is one of the most fundamental flavors of Japanese cooking, but the stew is great when made with chicken stock or, for that matter, water. Other cuts of meat you can use here: short ribs (which will require longer cooking time), bone-in chicken thighs (which will cook more quickly), veal shoulder or round.

Spring through fall, you may be able to find wild Alaska king or sockeye salmon (if you live in the Northwest or even on the West Coast, this won’t be a problem), and that is ideal for this dish. Farm-raised salmon, available year-round everywhere, is certainly an acceptable substitute, but it is fattier and has less flavor, so it’ll make a bit more of a mess when you brown it, and it will not stand up quite as well to the sauce. Serve this with short-grain rice (page 507).

Soy-glazed black beans are a common panchan—little side dish—in Korea, but they’re also served in Japan; in both countries they’re usually served at room temperature. They are about as far from the cumin- and garlic-laced black beans of Mexico (see page 438) as they could be. In Asia, they’re made with black soybeans, which are larger and rounder than the more common black (“turtle”) beans you see everywhere. But you can use either. Serve this as if it were a little salad, with any Korean or Japanese cooked dish.

Essentially a simplified sauerkraut and a very light pickle. Use good-quality soy sauce and serve this as a side dish with Japanese or other Asian food. Do not try to make this in very hot weather; fifty or sixty degrees is ideal. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: any mixture of vegetables, as in the variation.

The Japanese not only love eggplant; they also produce some of the best—the slender, long, lavender-colored varieties are sweeter and firmer than the fat, almost black ones. Here the skinny ones are essential. Make this up to an hour in advance; like many eggplant dishes, it’s good at room temperature. Or make in advance and run under the broiler to reheat, until the miso topping bubbles (reserve the sesame seeds until after you do this).

Black cod, a Pacific fish also known as sable, is treasured in Japan (and at elite Japanese restaurants here) for its richness and slightly smoky flavor. With miso it is astonishingly delicious. (Mackerel is not the same but still very good.) Use white (it’s actually beige) miso if you can find it. As is common before cooking many types of fish in Japan, this is salted to firm up the flesh; you can skip this step if you prefer. This is not a super-saucy dish, but well-made short-grain rice (page 507) is still a good accompaniment, as would be any salad.

Many Japanese cooks treasure dark, oily, full-flavored fish and treat it with a simple dose of powerful seasonings and a simple cooking technique that might be called “pan-steaming.” If you think you don’t like mackerel, try it this way; it may change your mind. Serve this with short-grain white rice (page 507).

The usefulness of miso is nearly unlimited, and it can convert the simplest of ingredients into an exotic dish, a secret of much of Japanese cooking. Here the fermented soybean paste is combined with scallops and a little seasoning, then allowed to sit for a while before being grilled or broiled. It’s a traditional dish, in some parts of Japan the home-cooking equivalent of slathering something with barbecue sauce before cooking. For ease of use and strict authenticity, the miso should be thinned—it’s too thick to use straight—with mirin, the sweet, golden-colored wine made from rice (and Japan’s most important sweetener before the introduction of white sugar). Mirin, too, comes in a naturally brewed form called hon-mirin; it’s preferable to aji-mirin, which may be boosted with corn syrup; check the label. But the amount of mirin is so small, and its flavor in this dish so subtle, that you can use a fruity, sweet white wine in its place or even honey. If you can, try this with Asparagus Salad with Soy-Mustard Dressing (page 190) or a plain salad. And a bit of short-grain rice, of course.

Wonderfully sweet, this side dish is the Japanese equivalent of butter-glazed carrots. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: Butternut or other winter squash or carrots.

One of the few recipes in which eggplant is boiled. It’s an unusual preparation, and a good one, but you can also sauté it, as in Sautéed Eggplant (page 456). Small eggplants are almost always preferable to large ones, and the Japanese know this better than anyone; you don’t even see large eggplants there. (If you must use a larger eggplant, try to get a very firm one, which will have fewer seeds.) Typically, this is made with wasabi powder; but I had it prepared with Dijon mustard in Japan, so I consider this version perfectly legitimate.

This common, versatile sauce is usually served with grilled fish or vegetables or with shabu-shabu, but it turns up everywhere and can be used in many ways. It keeps indefinitely—a friend of mine insists it’s best after months in the refrigerator; certainly it’s no worse. You can buy yuzu juice frozen or—sometimes—fresh at Japanese specialty markets; it has a unique flavor but close enough to lemon and lime that the combination is a good substitute. You can also get bonito flakes at Japanese markets. If you are serving this as a dipping sauce at the table, garnish with finely chopped scallions or chives.

This is not the pickled ginger served at most Japanese restaurants: It’s better, because it contains no preservatives or coloring. It will not turn pink, or only slightly, but it will be delicious. You may have to play with the sugar content: Some people like it far sweeter than others. Two tablespoons, the amount I use here, is the minimum. If at all possible, use fresh young ginger for this recipe. It will be pinker, with a soft, smooth skin, not woody, like most of the ginger at the market (which is fine for other recipes and uses). Young ginger is easier to peel and slice, and the resulting pickle will have a more delicate texture.

Sesame seeds flavor foods from the Middle to the Far East, and this Japanese version is sublime. Spooned over grilled or broiled chicken, meat, or full-flavored fish, it produces a kind of instant teriyaki. It’s also fine over lightly steamed spinach or other vegetables. Good with a little minced ginger added, too.

The smell of dashi—the basic stock common to hundreds of Japanese dishes—is everywhere in Japan. And that makes sense: it’s a quickly made stock that gives all kinds of foods a good, distinctive flavor. The two main ingredients—kelp (a kind of seaweed also called kombu; see page 484) and dried bonito flakes (bonito is a type of tuna)—are esoteric, but they’re sold at every Japanese market and now at many more general Asian markets and health food stores. The process is simple, the results reliable; try it. But whatever you do, steer clear of instant dashi, which is just about as good as chicken bouillon cubes, which is to say not good at all.

The first time I had hiyashi somen they were a revelation. It was a staggeringly hot day, and a Japanese friend was cooking dinner. When I found out we were having noodles, I was a little dismayed—I was more in the mood for a salad than for pasta. Then she brought out (what I now know as) hiyashi somen, in little bowls on top of ice with a cool dipping sauce to accompany them—perfect food for a blistering day. You can top the somen with poached and chilled shrimp or room-temperature grilled shiitakes, but it’s plenty good plain, as here. If you want to significantly speed up an already fast dish, skip the dried shrimp and sugar (or substitute homemade sugar syrup). For information on dried shrimp, see page 185.

Where the sesame sauce in the recipe on page 532 makes for a rich, hearty dish, this one is elegant and light. In Japan—where it gets plenty hot in the summer—cold soba noodles, served with a dipping sauce, are a common snack or light meal. Soba are brown noodles, made from wheat and buckwheat, and the sauce is based on dashi, the omnipresent Japanese stock. (You can also serve somen, thin wheat noodles, cold; cook them for a little less time, but also until tender.) Dashi is close to essential here, though you can use chicken stock in a pinch. But dashi is so easy to make (and so good) that if you try it once you’ll become devoted to it.

Non-Japanese may think of this as Japanese paella. Like paella, it may be made with or without seafood. Like paella, it relies on good ingredients, including rice and stock, and, like paella, it’s pretty straightforward to prepare and easy to vary. (You can make the recipe below not only with chicken but with almost any combination of seafood. You can also make it with vegetables; see page 510.) There is, however, a critical difference. Whereas paella usually relies on chicken stock, wine, and tomatoes, Kayaku Gohan (along with, it seems, about a million other dishes in Japan) uses dashi. This isn’t a problem, since dashi is easily made, as long as you stock kelp, a dried seaweed also known as kombu, and dried bonito flakes (bonito is related to tuna). Fortunately, each of these ingredients keeps forever, and each is readily available at Asian markets.