Grilling

As is so often the case in Indian cooking, butter is the “secret” ingredient here, one that gives the chicken extra moisture and richness. The combination of that, mild spices, and grilling is what has made this dish so popular in the West. Serve with plain Paratha (page 559) and mint chutney, if you can.

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.

I don’t know how strongly to stress that the boneless chicken meat to be used for kebabs should be from the thighs rather than the breasts. Thigh meat will remain juicy and tender, whereas breast meat—almost no matter how careful you are—will become dry, pasty, and tough. Buy boneless thighs (or, as I’ve seen recently, boneless legs) or bone them yourself (and save the bones for stock)—the process is intuitive and easy. As with Shish Kebab (page 354), if you want to grill other vegetables—tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms, more onions, whatever—skewer them separately, then brush them with a little olive oil and sprinkle them with salt and pepper before grilling. Sumac is a sour spice found at Middle Eastern food stores.

These are best grilled slowly so that the sweet sauce caramelizes slowly as the chicken cooks through. You can use boneless breasts for these, but they will almost invariably dry out. Do not marinate these for more than an hour or so; the meat will begin to get mushy. In fact I don’t bother to marinate them at all unless it fits into my schedule. Thai fish sauce (nam pla) is described on page 500.

Squab is the best bird for this—in fact it’s one of the best eating birds there is—but it’s expensive and not easy to come by. If you use quail instead, you’ll need eight birds (one is not enough for even a light eater). If you use Cornish game hens, you’ll need only two. Note the simple finishing “sauce” of salt and pepper mixed together. In Vietnam, this is more common than salt alone. See page 500 for information on fish sauces like nam pla and nuoc mam.

You cannot make “authentic” tandoori chicken without a tandoor, the clay oven closely associated with Indian cooking and used to make many of that country’s wonderful breads. But you can replicate the seasonings and grill or broil it so that it becomes very similar to the original. It isn’t difficult, and it’s really rewarding. Most tandoori chicken gets its bright red color from food coloring, but some cooks use a mild chile powder or a healthy dose of paprika, and that’s what I do here. Nice with Tomato Salad with Ginger (page 173) or Panfried Spicy Potatoes with Eggplant (page 476). Equally good with Paratha (page 559) or even plain rice.

Koreans are big on sesame seeds, and they’re big on marinating. They’re also big on big flavors, as this wonderful grilled chicken demonstrates. You can buy pretoasted sesame seeds and even sesame seed powder at Korean markets, something you might consider if you become addicted to this cuisine; but toasting them takes no time at all. If you’re really feeling energetic, serve this with Potato Pancakes with Scallions and Kimchi (page 474). But plain white rice and a salad would also be fine, especially if the salad were made with seaweed, like the one on page 200 (omit the chicken or shrimp).

A near no-brainer, as long as you have Tomato-Chipotle Salsa on hand. Even if you don’t, not a lot of trouble, and one of the best grilled chicken recipes I know. See the variations for an even faster way to make this and one that works as an appetizer. Don’t serve this, however, to people who do not like hot food. There is no taming chipotles, though most people find them delicious. You need rice here; Arroz a la Mexicana (page 517) would be ideal. Some slices of (cooling) avocado would be welcome as well.

No one does grilled chicken better than in Southeast Asia, where it seems to come straight from heaven. The key ingredients were all exotic and hard to find here just ten years ago, but now you can make this routinely. Once you try it, you probably will. This is wonderful teamed with Sticky Rice (page 508) and Green Papaya Salad (page 174). But it’s fine with any rice dish and vegetable, too, because it is really a star.

It’s not much different from an American steak, but the combination of cut (almost always a T-bone, though occasionally you’ll see ribeye), olive oil, and lemon juice marks this preparation as distinctly Tuscan. If you can find a piece of dry-aged prime meat, go for it. I love the combination of steak and bread, and of course tomato or other salad, but you can use any typical steak side dishes you like—even in Italy they might serve this with French fries.

If you think Eastern European cuisine is boring, this will change your mind. It’s probably the most famous dish from Romania and something that may become a part of your summer grilling repertoire. Flank steak is classic for this, but I like it best with sirloin or ribeye. Omit the butter if you’re feeling health-conscious, but it adds a wonderful richness. Garnish with the parsley and serve.

A dish that often appears on bistro menus in France and increasingly here in the States. It’s best, I think, with Roquefort, which is made from sheep’s milk. But Stilton, Gorgonzola, Maytag blue, or any high-quality fairly soft blue cheese will work well. Don’t bother, however, trying to make this sauce with commercially produced domestic blue cheese, such as that sold precrumbled for salads. Not only will its taste be inferior, but it will not give the sauce the same creaminess. You need a salad here, to provide some offsetting lightness. Some bread wouldn’t be bad either; whatever your side dishes, they should be relatively uncomplicated.

I was in a restaurant in Martinique where this sauce—which translates as “dog sauce,” for reasons I don’t want to know—was served on everything, from kidneys to chicken to vegetables. I liked it best on steak. As with so many Caribbean dishes, this would be served with Coconut Rice and Beans (page 516). Other cuts of meat you can use here: almost anything, from liver to bone-in dark-meat chicken, to pork chops or ribs.

Tenderloin—most commonly sold as filet mignon—has just about the least flavor of any cut of beef, but it is wonderfully tender and juicy, and it sure takes well to this sauce, which everyone seems to love. I’m not usually a big fan of long marinating periods, but here it seems to make a big difference; the miso completely changes the flavor of the meat in a spectacular way. I grill these, but you can broil the meat or roast it at 500°F for just a few minutes. (In any case, cook until the interior of the meat is about 125°F.) Other cuts of meat you can use here: ribeye; pork tenderloin, cut into medallions as you would the filet.

Lemongrass has a distinctive flavor that is instantly likable and very closely associated with the cuisine of Vietnam (it’s grown and used elsewhere, especially in Southeast Asia, but nowhere quite as widely). This dish is often served on a flat bed of plain rice noodles, but I like it best over a salad, dressed with a little nuoc cham. For information on Asian fish sauces like nam pla, see page 500. Other cuts of meat you can use here: pork, cut from either the loin or the shoulder.

Of all the powerful ingredients in these burgers— lemongrass, shallots, garlic, chile, and nam pla (called nuoc mam in Vietnamese; see page 500 for information on these Asian fish sauces)—none survives the cooking as well as the lemongrass, whose distinctive scent and flavor override all the others, reducing them to bit players. Lemongrass is changed less by cooking than most seasonings, and this goes for its woody texture too, which is why you remove the tough outer layers. You can grind the tender cores with the meat instead of chopping them if you like. Serve the burgers on rolls, rice noodles, or salad. Other cuts of meat you can use here: ground beef sirloin or chuck, which may be combined with pork if you like.

Often the most effective marinating happens not before but after cooking. This technique, usually called escabeche, was once used to preserve food. It’s really a form of pickling: hot food was put into hot liquid containing a good deal of vinegar. Treated thus, it would keep for some time (if canned, for a long time). Since we don’t need escabeche for preserving, the postgrilling marinating time can be as little as a few minutes, but it can also be as long as overnight—it doesn’t make much difference; in either case, it produces a highly flavored, prepared-in-advance, room-temperature dish that is good as part of a buffet with a variety of other dishes (none of which should be noticeably acidic). Other cuts of meat you can use here: any cut of chicken, bone in or out (be careful not to overcook), or mackerel or other fish (typically floured and sautéed or fried before marinating).

Here’s how you really make cochinita pibil: Dig a pit and build a large wood fire in it. Cover the wood with rocks. When the rocks crack, they’re ready. Rub the pork as directed here, then wrap it in banana leaves. Put in the pit, then cover with leaves and douse the whole thing with water. Cover the pit. Let sit for a day or so. Eat. Or try my method, which is not bad at all.

Among the most mistreated and overused terms in cooking is jerked, which, at least when I had it in the central Jamaican highlands—Cockpit Country, as it’s called—is essentially a beautifully seasoned pork (or, originally, boar) shoulder slow-cooked over coals. (You cannot make a “jerked” pork tenderloin; it will simply dry out.) The distinctive flavors are nutmeg, allspice (which is called pimento in the islands), and habanero peppers. If possible, crack a nutmeg into pieces and toast about half of it in a skillet until fragrant, with about a tablespoon of allspice berries, then grind them together. If not, use dried spices as directed here. If you have a gas grill, this will be easy; but if at all possible, set up an aluminum tray of soaked wood chips over the side with the heat and replenish as necessary. If you use charcoal, use real charcoal instead of briquettes if you can. Serve this with Coconut Rice and Beans (page 516) and, if you dare, Habanero-Garlic Salsa (page 611). Other cuts of meat you can use here: bone-in chicken legs (cooking time will be considerably shorter, about 1 hour); spareribs, though not traditional, are also good.

You can make this easy mint chutney quite hot, and it still seems balanced, especially when served with a rich, flavorful meat like lamb. Heat, as aficionados know, comes in a wide variety of flavors, and what works best here is a bit of roasted fresh habanero (also called Scotch bonnet), the hottest chile you can find. But minced raw jalapeño or hot red pepper flakes are also good. No matter what you use, add a little at a time (I’d start with a quarter teaspoon if you’re using habanero) and taste repeatedly, bearing in mind that the heat of chiles can “bloom” after a few minutes. Serve this with a neutral dish like plain rice, and perhaps a cooling salad.