Seaweed tumbles around in a massive tank of cold, bubbling water as Dr. Michael Graham reaches over the edge, grabs a ribbon, and pops a piece of dulse—a reddish-purple variety—into his mouth. The phycologist (a scientist who studies algae) then moves to a neighboring bin and surfaces a handful of sea grapes. He hands me the tiny green orbs, which look like miniature versions of the fruit. The spheres burst gently in my mouth, releasing a pleasant cascade of briny water.

Other than apple orchards and the fruit trees in my parents’ backyard, the Monterey Bay Seaweeds farm might be the closest I’ve come to eating something at its source. Graham’s lean operation—rows of open-air basins clustered a stone’s throw from the shore in Moss Landing, California—requires little input beyond sunlight and ocean water. The macroalgae grown here end up in savory dishes, baked goods, and even cocktails served at restaurants nationwide, but Graham insists that there are other reasons to cultivate edible seaweed. As it grows, seaweed can absorb excess carbon dioxide and nitrogen that’s accumulated in the ocean from fossil-fuel emissions and runoff. This, combined with the fact that it requires no fresh water or synthetic fertilizer, means it can be an ecologically efficient crop to cultivate.

Monterey Bay Seaweeds is one of few farms in the States selling fresh, culinary-grade seaweed directly to consumers. While the global commercial market is projected to swell over the coming years, domestic cultivation remains small compared to that of Asia, which overwhelmingly dominates the world’s seaweed aquaculture. But as the American food industry is increasingly rocked by climate change, more people in the U.S. are turning their attention to the environmental benefits—not to mention the nutrients and economic potential—of macroalgae as a food source. Because seaweed absorbs carbon dioxide through photosynthesis, well-managed farms can strengthen marine ecosystems by helping to mitigate local ocean acidification, which is harmful to coral, mollusks, crustaceans, and more. As cultivators pioneer new farming ventures off both U.S. coasts, the emerging industry is taking steps to not only scale production, but also generate demand in a population that’s largely unfamiliar with eating algae.

Becoming a seaweed farmer isn’t as simple as foraging for algae and watching it multiply. In places like California and Washington, you need a permit to set up in state waters, and acquiring one can be an expensive and highly complex process. Beginners might also struggle with sourcing high-quality seeds, navigating the unpredictable whims of the ocean, and determining best practices for a low-impact, ecologically beneficial operation.

Bren Smith used to work in commercial fishing, but after Newfoundland’s cod stocks collapsed, he moved into salmon aquaculture, where he grew disillusioned with the industry’s environmental toll. After pivoting to seaweed, Smith created a training program to share his learnings. When 8,000 people signed up, he quickly realized how much the nascent industry needed guidance. The unexpected level of interest led him to grow his grassroots initiative into GreenWave, a nonprofit that offers training and resources to ocean farmers around North America. The organization works to scale regenerative farming through polyculture models that symbiotically pair seaweed and shellfish cultivation.

At its best, seaweed aquaculture can catalyze environmental feedback loops that support surrounding marine life. “With ocean acidification, poor shellfish can’t produce as much calcium carbonate, and their shells become thinner and weaker,” says Charles Yarish, GreenWave’s chief scientist and a researcher at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Implementing a strategic polyculture system that grows macroalgae alongside shellfish allows farms to improve the balance of the ecosystem. As seaweed photosynthesizes, it can raise the pH of the surrounding waters, helping create more favorable conditions for local shellfish to produce thicker, stronger shells. In turn, the shellfish feed on the phytoplankton that compete with seaweed for nutrients, explains Markos Scheer, founder and CEO of Juneau-based ocean farm Seagrove Alaska.

Polyculture setups can help ensure the seaweed sector grows sustainably, not just ecologically but also economically. “Concurrent to the story of an emerging seaweed industry is the story of fisheries in decline, and threatened livelihoods,” says Kelly McGlinchey, founder of food sustainability consultancy Table & Tilth and former research associate for the Regenerative Agriculture Initiative at the Yale Center for Business and the Environment. Many coastal areas have seen climate change jeopardize the marine species their communities have come to depend on.

In the Gulf of Maine, for example, rising ocean temperatures are driving lobsters farther away from the coast, and populations are on the decline. Seaweed farming could open up an additional income source that makes use of fishers’ existing gear and expertise. “I want to die on my boat one day, and everyone I know and hang out with wants to die on their boats one day,” says Smith. “How do we take all of our skills, our culture, our entire identities, move them over into this climate-solution space, and tap into that blue-collar innovation?”

To that end, lowering the barrier to entry is a logical first step. In Maine, food manufacturer Atlantic Sea Farms supplies lobstermen with seeds and technical assistance as they incorporate seaweed into their existing setups. Founder and former CEO Briana Warner notes that for most lifelong lobstermen, cultivating seaweed isn’t a huge leap from how they’re already working on the water. “I [didn’t] have to teach anyone how to tie a knot,” she says. Moreover, harvesting sugar kelp, the primary seaweed species cultivated in Maine, usually happens in April or May, which generally doesn’t interfere with lobstermen’s busy season: summer to late fall. Once the farmers collect their yield, Atlantic Sea Farms turns it into value-added products like kelp powder, smoothie starters, and gochujang-seasoned salad. “Seaweed isn’t going to replace lobster,” Warner says, but she notes that the crop is still a meaningful step toward building the community’s economic resilience in the face of climate uncertainties.

Much of the appeal of Atlantic Sea Farms’ business model is that someone else takes care of the processing. “Kelp is vulnerable to decay once harvested,” McGlinchey says, which means that having the infrastructure for drying, blanching, or freezing is critical for opening farmers up to higher-volume distribution channels. “You don’t want to be in the business of selling raw kelp,” Smith adds. “It has no shelf life, and you’re going to flood the market with a quarter-million pounds off your farm in a two-week period.” Industry advocates like Smith and McGlinchey emphasize that innovative processing solutions—revitalizing old waterfront facilities or developing cutting-edge methods to stabilize kelp at room temperature—could be game-changers.

Yet even if farmers scale production, the future of the seaweed industry will depend just as much on what happens in grocery stores and at the table. “We haven’t been able to build that market demand as quickly as the capacity for production has increased,” Scheer says. He estimates that Alaska’s farms are only producing about 20 percent of what they could be with a viable culinary market. 

The reality is that, despite seaweed’s rapid growth cycles and potential for climate-positive impacts, the ingredient has yet to take hold in mainstream U.S. dining culture. “It’s been an uphill journey for sure, and it continues to be,” Scheer admits. To shift the tides, growers and producers are taking it upon themselves to whet people’s appetite for algae—a tall order, given that they’re trying to fundamentally change America’s perception of the sea vegetable.

“We often handle seaweed as if it’s this artisanal thing, but if we’re going to make an impact, we need this to be in every aisle of the grocery store,” Warner says. Many Americans still consider the ingredient, as Graham puts it, “something you pick off the beach,” or a novel garnish in an experimental chef’s tasting menu. In The Menu, a 2022 dark comedy that satirizes ultra-fine dining during a pretentious and ultimately violent dinner, Graham’s seaweed appears in the very first course, dramatically draped over a plate of rocks. (Dominique Crenn, chef-owner of the decorated Atelier Crenn, was a technical consultant on the film and is a longtime Monterey Bay Seaweeds customer.) Graham says it looked uncannily like what some of his customers might serve at their restaurants. Though it was exciting to see his product on the silver screen, he insists that the ingredient can be more than a fancy flourish, and that eaters should use it “like a vegetable.” Graham notes, “You can make a smoothie out of sea lettuce or a salad out of dulse.”

Many cultures—including Japanese, Irish, and Indigenous American communities—have a long history of eating seaweed. When Candice Choi founded her seaweed snack brand Geem, she drew upon her Korean upbringing to develop something American snackers would crave. “I think America in particular is very crunch-obsessed, me included,” Choi says. Harnessing Korean pantry staples, she combined seaweed with crispy rice and sesame seeds and turned them into crunchy chips seasoned with gochugaru and tamari—her way of celebrating the flavors of her heritage while adapting the ocean green to U.S. palates.

To meet average U.S. consumers where they are, food producers are introducing the ingredient in familiar contexts that leverage seaweed’s unique strengths, like its oceanic savoriness and natural thickening power. North Coast Seafoods sells a briny, herbaceous kelp-based burger, which combines New England seaweed with chickpeas and brown rice. Alaska-based Barnacle Foods uses kelp to add savory notes in salsas and hot sauce. And Maine Coast Sea Vegetables combines it with sesame seeds, brown rice syrup, and maple syrup to make crunchy, salty-sweet sesame bars.

“We need all kinds of innovative product development,” says Anoushka Concepcion, chair of the Global Seaweed Coalition’s strategic advisory council. New food creations, she explains, give the industry a chance to learn what customers are drawn to, whether that’s kelp noodles or seaweed-seasoned chocolate bars. After all, the reality is that customers won’t buy food products for environmental benefits alone. “We’re so jaded by all the greenwashing that’s happened in the last 10, 20 years,” Choi observes. For many customers, she says, sustainability is “a nice-to-have” only after the box for tastiness is checked.

As McGlinchey sees it, chefs have a critical role to play when it comes to shifting people’s mindsets. “They are trendsetters,” she says, “and they have an opportunity to experiment with and normalize new foods in a way that could be incredibly powerful.” In Monterey County, local chefs are some of the biggest advocates of Graham’s seaweed, experimenting with it in a wide range of sweet and savory dishes. Chef-owner Klaus Georis at seafood-driven Maligne has used multiple varieties in his take on chawanmushi, Japanese steamed egg custard. At Coastal Kitchen in the Monterey Plaza Hotel & Spa, chefs Michael Rotondo and Lisa Baty have incorporated briny nori and kombu into a sablé Breton, topping the sweet-salty shortbread with panna cotta and a verdant drizzle of kelp oil. At Cella Restaurant & Bar, barkeep Joshua Perry created an oceanic cocktail in which the cucumber-kombu dashi and a sea-grape garnish evoke “the sun in your face, the sea spray hitting you,” he says. By using seaweed in unexpected ways, restaurants can pique curiosity about the macroalgae’s different forms and push the boundaries of its culinary potential. “Once people become familiar with something, they’re much more open-minded to it,” Georis says.

Making seaweed mainstream requires more than just exposing the masses; it also means educating cooks on how to unlock its versatility. “It’s good at soaking up the flavors of whatever it’s cooked with while also imparting an important flavor of its own—namely, umami,” says Susan Jung, cookbook author and food columnist for Vogue Hong Kong. One of her favorite ways to use seaweed is to toast and shred dried sheets and sprinkle them over rice or soups, like one that Jung’s mother used to make with bean curd, eggs, and sesame oil. You can also make dashi—a Japanese stock with a base of kombu, a type of dried kelp—to enrich brothy dishes like ramen and sukiyaki. The spent kombu, when tossed with seasonings like soy sauce and mirin and sprinkled with sesame seeds, also makes a tasty side dish that’s popular in Japan, Jung adds. Seaweed belongs in any dish that could use a touch more savoriness or brine—think a creamy pasta or a simple pesto.

Fortunately for both chefs and diners, seaweed comes in an array of textures and flavors. Some varieties have dense, meaty consistencies, like the North Pacific giant kelp, which is turned into lasagna noodles at the Eternal Abundance Organic Market & Eatery in Vancouver. Graham’s wife and business partner, Erica, who is a chef, says frying dulse makes it taste like bacon. And if you love truffles but not the hefty price tag, sea truffle uncannily evokes the fungus it’s named after. There are also nutritional perks: Depending on the species, seaweed can be a good source of fiber, protein, and nutrients like iodine, potassium, and magnesium.

Scheer acknowledges that looking for a market while ramping up production can feel a bit like building a car while driving it. That tension is reflected in how growers are increasingly banding together—not just to produce more seaweed, but to support a more consistent supply and widen the crop’s reach. In the bays around Long Island, a group of women from the Shinnecock Indian Nation joined forces to found Shinnecock Kelp Farmers, a nonprofit organization working with GreenWave and the Sisters of St. Joseph in Brentwood to establish their own kelp hatchery and farm—building up local production capacity while reasserting their community’s longstanding role in stewarding local marine resources. The Maine Family Sea Farm Cooperative, also supported by GreenWave, unites multiple polyculture farms in Casco Bay, enabling growers to share resources, pool funds for equipment, and step in for one another during periods of worker shortages. Across the country, such efforts and momentum are laying the groundwork for the kind of stable, predictable supply needed for seaweed to sustain and expand its presence in grocery stores, restaurants, and home kitchens.

Seaweed as an ingredient may be ancient, but it’s still in its early days as a cultivated American crop. Concepcion notes that different U.S. regions are suited to growing different species, and it will take time for farmers to ascertain what kinds of products their seaweed is best suited for—and how those foods will be received by eaters. Land-based farms like Monterey Bay Seaweeds enable daily harvesting and offer growers more precise control over their environments—ideal for selling to chefs seeking the freshest options. Ocean farms, on the other hand, generally have lower operating costs and tend to harvest less often and in larger batches—supplying the level of volume needed for packaged food companies. The bottom line? The industry needs all kinds of farms to meet all kinds of market needs. “The bigger the scale, the lower the cost and the more access people will have,” Graham says. “I think that’s when everything’s going to change.” 

The post The Future of American Farming Might Be Underwater appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a SAVEUR column by contributing editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

During my time in college, when I was just beginning to cook for myself, I chanced upon an episode of The French Chef. I watched Julia Child expertly whisk and roll a lovely French omelet, all the while explaining every step with her signature sunniness. The footage was in black and white, but as she deftly plated the dish, I could imagine the omelet’s pastel yellow hue and practically taste its soft, custardy center.

The French omelet is revered for a reason: Jeremiah Langhorne, the chef behind the Dabney in Washington, D.C. (and formerly the French-inspired diner Petite Cerise), considers the elegant dish an encapsulation of the precise, meticulous technique that has made French cuisine a pillar of culinary excellence. “[French culture is] always looking for ways to finesse food,” he says. “You’re going to take these humble ingredients, but through your skill and finesse, create something amazing.”

Of all the global takes on omelets, the French style seems particularly technique-driven, asking cooks to master temperature and timing, as well as nimble coordination. The proof will be right there in the pudding: “The outside of the omelet should look very silky and pale yellow, while the texture should be soft and pillowy, ethereally tender,” describes chef Laurent Réa, who helms the kitchen at Brasserie Mon Chou Chou in San Antonio, Texas. The refined meal (in France, ironically, usually served as lunch or dinner) is a paean to the magic of eggs.

It’s unsurprising that, in culinary lore, the French omelet is a test chefs often administer to prospective new hires to quickly gauge their competence. “The difficulty in mastering a French omelet lies in the combination of technical skills, sensitivity to texture, and the need for a delicate touch throughout the entire cooking process,” says Patrick Charvet, the executive chef behind Brasserie Lutetia in Paris.

I learned this all first-hand shortly after watching that clip of Child in my dorm room. Visions of elegant brunches swirling in my head, I grabbed my roommate’s questionably nonstick skillet and turned on a tiny burner in our ten-square-foot kitchen. To my chagrin, nothing went as well as Child had demonstrated: The bottom browned too fast, the curds were huge, and the final invert flopped a good chunk of omelet onto the countertop. Deflated, I told myself this was a dish best left to the pros, then tucked the event away in the furthest recesses of my memory (and went to Le Pain Quotidien instead).

In the decade since that attempt, my fondness for omelets endures. On weekends at home, I love hopping around the globe, cooking a Spanish version one week and trying a Desi one the next—but always sidestepping the French style. Recently, though, I tasted Langhorne’s take on the French omelet and found my dormant aspiration reawakening. Filled with tender onion and soft goat cheese and nestled in a pool of Gruyère sauce, his elegant riff seemed true to classic French technique yet unconstrained by it. It was the inspiration I didn’t know I needed to dust off an old objective.

This time, no longer a stumbling teen and armed with a little more cooking know-how, I gave it another go. One of many mistakes I’d made in my first trial, I realized, was rushing into the process before actually understanding the techniques and variables. So, I reached out to several pros to ask them what critical points a cook should keep top of mind in order to make a great French omelet.

With their sage advice, I’ve been cracking a lot of eggs lately. Though my omelets won’t win any beauty pageants soon, they’re thankfully a far cry from the darkened, rubbery mass of curds I made in college—and the learning curve has been tasty. If you, too, dream of someday whipping up a French omelet as effortlessly as Child, here are some of the chefs’ tips that helped me most. 

Put down the whisk.

When beating, whip with vigor using a fork instead of a whisk. The eating utensil creates a homogenous mixture without incorporating too much air, Charvet explains. (We’re not after a soufflé texture.) Though adding liquid isn’t necessary, some cooks mix in a splash of milk, cream, or water. According to Le Bernardin alum Robert Sisca, who now owns Bistro du Midi in Boston, milk or cream yield a richer omelet, while water makes it fluffier and lighter. Once the eggs are in the skillet, you can continue using the fork—just hold it with the tines up and the flat side touching the pan, to minimize abrasion on the nonstick surface. 

Stick to nonstick.

If you’ve had your eyes on a new nonstick skillet, consider this a sign to take the leap. A less-weathered pan, with an intact nonstick coating, will help ensure the omelet separates cleanly from the surface and doesn’t brown at all, explains Sisca. If you’re serious about perfecting the at-home brunch, “don’t use the pan for anything else other than omelets,” he advises. 

Master the heat.

Medium-low heat helps the beaten eggs set gradually without any browning, says Charvet. The heat should be such that, once you add butter to the empty skillet, it should sizzle gently and foam. “When the foam begins to subside, then it’s time to make the omelet,” says Child on The French Chef, explaining that the eggs need to enter the pan before the butter begins to brown. If you want to test whether the pan is ready before going in with all the butter, drop in a small piece first: It should sizzle gently, then melt into a creamy mass. If it sizzles and steams right away, the pan is too hot; no sound, it’s too cold. 

Keep it moving.

Making a French omelet is an exercise in ambidexterity. Part of its trickiness “comes from needing to constantly hold and shake the pan with one arm while also stirring the mixture with the other hand to create the small curds,” says Marie-Aude Rose, who owns the New York City café La Mercerie. This two-handed process keeps the eggs constantly moving and ensures they cook evenly. “The edges start to firm up first,” notes Langhorne, so be constantly scraping the perimeter of the skillet to incorporate those bits into the runnier interior. Because it can take under 30 seconds for the eggs to coagulate and set, the chef recommends looking out for a visual cue: “If you start to see the pan through the whisking, that’s an indicator that you should stop whisking” and start rolling the mixture toward the side of the skillet opposite the handle.

Gravity is your friend.

When the omelet is ready for plating (you can gently push a spatula under it to be sure it will release cleanly), switch the skillet handle to your dominant hand and grip it with your palm facing up, then hold your plate in your other hand. With the lip of the skillet resting on the edge of the plate, tilt the pan toward the plate, letting gravity roll and invert the omelet, seam side down, onto the surface. (Child, bless her, notes helpfully, “If by any chance you find that the omelet hasn’t formed up as you like, you can just push it with the side of your hands” to form the signature rolled shape.)

Simple is sweet.

“Overloading the omelet with too many fillings can weigh it down and detract from the delicate texture,” Charvet notes. A few pinches of finely chopped herbs—chives, parsley, chervil, and tarragon—whisked into the eggs before cooking are all you need for a classic omelette aux fines herbs. For extra richness and an appealing sheen, Rose simply brushes the surface of the omelet with a bit of salted butter before serving.

…But riffs can be fun.

As Langhorne’s cheese and onion-filled version reminds us, it’s also gratifying to make a dish your own. Once you’ve mastered the basic version, consider it a canvas on which to apply a fun flourish. Rose likes to add mushrooms and a little grated Emmentaler, while Charvet offers a lobster topping for an extra luxe finish.

Recipe

French Omelet With Caramelized Onions and Goat Cheese

Get the recipe >

The post How to Make a Mean French Omelet—Straight From the Pros appeared first on Saveur.

Around the world, the celebratory dishes atop Lunar New Year feast tables are as symbolic as they are sumptuous. Long noodles signify longevity, chewy rice balls stuffed with sugary paste represent sweetness, and whole fish foreshadows abundance in the year ahead. Though often called Chinese New Year for its connection to the Chinese lunisolar calendar, Lunar New Year is a lively, joy-filled celebration across much of Asia, including Korea, Vietnam, Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia. This year, ring in the Year of the Horse with a spread of global dishes—from crackly chả giò and chewy tteokguk, to fluffy fa gao and flaky pineapple tarts—to usher in prosperity and good fortune in the year ahead.

Cha Ye Dan (Tea Eggs)

While these tea-stained eggs are enjoyed as an everyday breakfast or snack in China and Taiwan, they also make an eye-catching and delectable addition to any Lunar New Year table. The fragrant marinade of soy sauce, star anise, and cinnamon infuses the yolks with a satisfying salty-sweet flavor and gives the whites an antique, marbled appearance. Get the recipe >

Ba Bao Fan

It doesn’t get more festive than this showstopping ba bao fan, which translates to “eight treasures rice.” New York City pastry chef Natasha Pickowicz reimagines her mom’s recipe for the auspicious Chinese dessert, cooking the traditional glutinous sweet rice with dried hibiscus flowers (which tint the cake the loveliest shade of pale pink!), enriching the red bean filling with butter and five-spice powder, and lacquering the artful arrangement of dried fruits on top with a glistening syrup. Get the recipe >

Chao Niangao (Stir-Fried Rice Cakes) 

In many cultures, rice cakes are symbolic of a prosperous new year, so all shapes and sizes show up at holiday gatherings. This enticing stir-fried version—a spin on a Shanghai classic—amps up the flavor with a dollop of doubanjiang, the Chinese fermented soybean paste. Get the recipe >

Order the SAVEUR Selects Nitri-Black Carbon Steel 14-Inch Wok here.

Chả Giò (Fried Spring Rolls)

At just about any festive occasion in Vietnam, you can bet fried spring rolls will make an appearance on the feast table. Known regionally as chả giò or nem rán, the snack is best dipped into nước chấm, the sweet-sour Vietnamese condiment. Get the recipe >

Yu Sheng (Prosperity Toss Salad)

Break out those chopsticks for a generous platter of yu sheng, or yee sang, aka prosperity toss salad. Make the recipe chef Alex Au-Yeung serves at Phat Eatery in Katy, Texas, then gather friends and family around the table to mix the Malaysian and Singaporean staple together. The higher it’s tossed, the more blessings the new year will bring. (See Au-Yeung make the dish here.) Get the recipe >

Tteokguk (Korean Rice Cake Soup)

Cook thin oval-shaped tteok, or rice cakes, in a savory anchovy broth to make what Junghyun Park and Jungyoon Choi call “one of the most significant dishes in Korean tradition.” Eaten on the first day of the new year as a tribute to ancestors, the soothing soup showcases tteok at their toothsome best. Get the recipe >

Fried Sesame Balls with Sweet Red Bean Filling

Crispy sweet rice balls filled with red bean paste and rolled in sesame seeds are a mainstay at Chinese bakeries and dim-sum restaurants, but they’re particularly auspicious as a Lunar New Year treat—round foods symbolize not only the moon, but also family togetherness. Cookbook author Kristina Cho’s recipe delivers a satisfying bite that’s crisp and crackly on the outside, and tender and chewy on the inside. Get the recipe >

Lumpia (Fried Spring Rolls)

Crispy fried wrappers envelop a delectable pork filling in these Filipino spring rolls, a party favorite in the Philippines and among the diaspora. Chef Dale Talde serves his version with sawsawan, a vinegar-and-soy-sauce mixture laced with raw garlic and fiery chiles. Get the recipe >

Yuanxiao (Sweet Rice Balls with Nut and Sesame Seed Filling) 

Chewy dough encases a rich, earthy paste made from nuts and sesame seeds in this Chinese snack symbolizing family reunion. Families boil them to celebrate Yuanxiao Jie, also known as the Lantern Festival, which falls on the 15th day of the lunar month and marks the end of the two-week new-year festivities. Make this version from Buwei Yang Chao’s 1945 cookbook to enjoy while admiring the full moon. Get the recipe >

Fa Gao (Steamed Cupcakes)

Sometimes called prosperity cake, fa gao is a beloved Chinese Lunar New Year treat that’s extra pretty to boot. When steamed, the tops of the cakes blossom into a flower-like pattern. In this recipe from Kristina Cho, the cookbook author lets us in on her grandmother’s clever shortcut: Bisquick, which ensures perfectly split tops and a satisfyingly soft, fluffy texture. Get the recipe >

Pork and Chive Dumplings

Wrap, pleat, and boil a pot of dumplings—a symbol of wealth and prosperousness in China because of their resemblance to gold ingots—to invite good fortune in the year ahead. Pork and chives make a classic savory pairing, so fold a little extra to freeze and enjoy in the new year whenever a craving strikes. Get the recipe >

Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup

Invite good health and longevity with steaming bowls of red-braised beef noodle soup enriched with soy sauce, ginger, and scallions. This recipe from a Taipei noodle shop calls for simmering the protein for a few hours, yielding fall-apart-tender meat. Get the recipe >

Fish Sauce-Pickled Radishes

For special occasions like the new year, Vietnamese families often pickle radishes in nước chấm rather than the usual brine. The flavorful liquid imparts a depth of flavor that cuts through the richness of opulent celebratory dishes. Get the recipe >

Pineapple Tarts

Food blogger Yi Jun Loh’s pineapple tart recipe transforms the tropical fruit into a spiced, marmalade-esque filling, then encases the jammy mixture in rich, buttery pastry. The two-bite delights—popular in Malaysia, Singapore, and Indonesia when the Lunar New Year rolls around—are perfect for hosting, gifting, and snacking. Get the recipe >

Thit Kho (Vietnamese Braised Pork Belly with Eggs)

This hearty dish of caramelized, melt-in-your-mouth pork belly gets its irresistible savoriness from fish sauce and Coco Rico, a mild, coconut-flavored soda from Puerto Rico that’s common in Vietnamese cooking. Get the recipe >

Chinese Lion’s Head Meatballs

Named for their impressive size, these juicy Chinese meatballs make a show-stopping addition to any festive feast. The trick to achieving their signature tender, bouncy texture? Stirring the pork mixture for at least five minutes, to thoroughly distribute fat and flavor. Get the recipe >

Spicy Beef Potstickers

Enhance ground beef with chili oil for a spicy take on a Lunar New Year classic. These pan-fried dumplings are a beaut: a flour-vinegar slurry added near the end of the frying process creates a beautifully crispy “skirt” that holds the potstickers together. Get the recipe >

Tian Tian Chao Mian (Chinese Everyday Fried Noodles)

This stir-fried recipe calls for layering ingredients like dark soy sauce and sugar to concoct a concentrated, salty-sweet sauce that clings beautifully to noodles. Fresh mix-ins like cucumber and carrot add cheery color and satisfying crunch. Get the recipe >

Hong Shao Rou (Chinese Red-Braised Pork Belly with Eggs)

Red-braised pork belly is homestyle Chinese comfort food, with two types of soy sauce and a touch of sugar giving the beloved dish its signature glossiness and deep red-brown hue. In this version from cookbook author Fuchsia Dunlop, boiled eggs make the ideal vehicle for soaking up the savory sauce. Get the recipe >

Beef Rendang

A stick-to-your-ribs Indonesian staple, this succulent number calls for slowly simmering beef in a rich coconutty sauce seasoned with aromatic lemongrass and makrut lime leaves. Serve it alongside steamed white rice to absorb the velvety gravy. Get the recipe >

Bò Kho (Vietnamese-Style Beef Stew with Lemongrass, Ginger, and Garlic)

Tender short ribs and collagen-rich oxtail form the bedrock of this beefy, herbaceous Vietnamese stew. Fistfuls of cilantro and Thai basil enhance the dish with grassy aroma and brightness, while red onions and scallions add a peppery punch. Get the recipe >

Galbi Jjim (Braised Short Ribs)

Sohui Kim, chef of Brooklyn restaurant Gage & Tollner, weaves a thread of French technique into her Korean galbi jjim recipe: she incorporates both red wine and soy sauce into the braise for extra depth of flavor and East-meets-West oomph. Get the recipe >

Sliced Pork Belly with Garlic Sauce

Dress tender poached pork belly with garlic, chili oil, and Taiwanese soy paste for a delicately salty-sweet dish straight from the island’s vibrant beer halls. Get the recipe >

Braised Winter Squash with Fermented Black Beans

Any feast full of rich fare needs some lighter options in the lineup for balance—like this flavorful, winter-friendly option from cookbook author Hannah Che. Her recipe utilizes the Chinese smother-braising technique—similar to red-braising—to soften squash to a luxuriously buttery texture. Get the recipe >

Whole Grilled Fish with Vietnamese Peanut Pesto

For a whole-fish presentation with rich, nutty flavor and smoky flair, try this grilled, Vietnamese-inspired version from Houston chef Chris Shepherd. The peanut pesto smearing the fish hits all the flavor notes: umami from the fish sauce, caramelly sweetness from the brown sugar, and brightness from the lime juice. Get the recipe >

Stir-Fried Choy Sum with Garlic Sauce

It takes just five minutes to turn choy sum (or any other leafy green, like baby bok choy) into a garlicky, show-stealing side. Slightly bitter vegetables beautifully counterbalance any heartier dishes that might be on your banquet table. Get the recipe >

Nian Gao (Chinese Sticky Rice Cake) 

Steamed sweet rice dough flavored with brown sugar and almond extract makes a luck-filled Chinese Lunar New Year treat (nian gao is a homophone for “higher every year”). A sprinkling of toasted sesame seeds and an optional smattering of red dates elevates the treat to show-stopper territory. Get the recipe >

Chinese Salt-Baked Chicken with Congee and Pickled Mustard Greens

A whole chicken represents prosperity, so make this oven-baked Hainan-style version that calls for coating a bird generously in salt—resulting in even cooking and extra-moist meat. Get the recipe >

Whole Steamed Fish with Tangerine Peel and Fennel

Bright citrus and peppery fennel enliven flaky steamed fish in this elegant banquet-table centerpiece. Follow Chinese tradition and save some leftovers for the following day as a symbol of bringing surplus into the new year. Get the recipe >

Japchae (Stir-Fried Glass Noodles)

Toss slippery sweet potato noodles with soy sauce, crunchy veg, and tender, juicy beef to make this crowd-pleasing Korean party dish. At any celebration of Seollal (as Lunar New Year is called in Korea), a heaping bowl is bound to be on the table. Get the recipe >

Lo Bak Go (Pan-Fried Turnip Cake)

Rice flour and grated daikon studded with lap cheong sausages are a perennially popular dim-sum order, and they make a welcome addition to any holiday feast. Serve the crisp-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside snack with spicy hoisin sauce for a fiery kick. Get the recipe >

The post Our Best Lunar New Year Recipes for an Auspicious Feast appeared first on Saveur.

Let’s set the record straight: Contrary to what you may have heard, there’s more to Boston than American Revolution trivia, and its restaurant scene is far from staid. In this brownstone-lined waterfront city, you’ll have to go beyond the tourist-catering seafood spots and take the less-trodden (cobblestone) path to realize there’s much more coming out of the kitchens than lobster rolls and clam chowder.

Stroll through East Boston, and you’ll find a decades-old Colombian restaurant serving enormous meat-laden bandeja paisa. Visit South End, one of the city’s buzziest dining neighborhoods, and you might chance upon the spicy-sour, tongue-tingling flavors of China’s Yunnan cuisine. And yes, as the salty ocean breeze reminds us, there’s plenty of New England’s freshest catch to enjoy—in the form of a spicy Greek-island fish stew in Back Bay, or as deep-fried seabass with housemade red curry in Brookline. 

I’ve been coming to Massachusetts regularly since college, and now that I live here, I have a front-row seat to how the restaurant scene is evolving. With this list of local restaurants to guide your eating exploits in Beantown, I hope you discover that the historic city you thought you knew is a far more vibrant mosaic than meets the eye. Though you might come for the fisherman’s platters, you’ll end up staying for the moqueca, rambutan salad, and octopus mortadella.

Spoke Wine Bar

89 Holland Street, Somerville
(617) 718-9463

The beauty of Spoke Wine Bar in Somerville is the way it meets you exactly where you are. If you’re looking for a quirky wine to impress your natty-loving friend, an enthusiastic bartender will pour a glass to remember, such as a smooth, chamomile-scented roditis from Attiki, Greece, or an herbaceous, mineral godello from Galicia, Spain. If you’re feeling a cocktail, there’s an ever-shifting, globally influenced selection—like the vodka-forward Bury the Glass, with green mango brine and star anise. Date-worthy dishes pair ingredients in unexpected ways, too: When in season, try the squash blossom cornmeal fritters with sauerkraut and sheep’s milk yogurt, or a potato salad bound with mayo enriched with crab fat and uni. You’ll notice the care and precision that goes into the food—from the dusting of powdered leeks on the sunchoke donuts to the curried crab butter that accompanies the bavette—yet there’s no trace of pretension in this intimate space. The decor may feel Scandinavian minimalist, but the food and drink go full-on maximal.

Barra

23A Bow Street, Somerville
(617) 764-1750

Is this Somerville hangout the closest a Bostonian can get to Mexico without skipping town? Mexican favorites seldom seen in these parts—spicy quesabirria tacos stuffed with melted cheese and shredded beef, creamy guacamole crowned with fried grasshoppers, and Yucatán cochinita pibil (slow-cooked, achiote-marinated pork)—are all on offer. The beverage program, too, reminds me of my favorite CDMX bars, with selections that include the Abasolo, a corn whiskey cocktail; a fruity and tannic nebbiolo from Baja, California; and a medley of enticing sotol options. (The restaurant’s name does mean “bar” in Spanish, after all.)

Sumiao Hunan Kitchen

270 Third Street, Cambridge
(617) 945-0907

Bold, spicy, and salty flavors dominate the menu at this Cambridge restaurant dedicated to the distinctive food of China’s Hunan province, where cooks make liberal use of preserved meats, pickled vegetables, and chile peppers. The menu is filled with hard-to-find regional favorites: A few bites into the thrillingly spicy crushed green peppers mixed with preserved century egg, or the pleasingly sour housemade pickled beans stir-fried with pork, and you’ll already be planning your next visit. Sumiao Hunan Kitchen might also have the city’s most extensive baijiu program, stirring the Chinese grain-distilled spirit into funky cocktails and serving beloved brands such as Wuliangye and Red Star Erguotou neat.

Sarma

249 Pearl Street, Somerville
(617) 764-4464

Like its acclaimed sibling restaurant—Turkish-inspired Oleana in Cambridge— newer Sarma in Somerville also roots its menu in Mediterranean meze. But chef Cassie Piuma plays up affinities among other global flavors, too: She laces her famous cornbread with feta, honey, and spicy peppers, while her swordfish, seasoned with black sesame and served with wasabi yogurt and yuzu-scented dolmades, marries Asian and Levantine sensibilities. Oleana may be a special occasion darling, but Sarma, with its uptempo music and walls hung with cheery painted plates, make for a more relaxed, tee-and-jeans kind of night out.

Yunnan Kitchen

1721B Washington Street, Boston
(617) 936-4123

If the spicy, sour, and all-around striking flavors of China’s Yunnan Province are new to you, you’re in for a treat at Yunnan Kitchen. Ma la—the numbing, fiery seasoning of Sichuan pepper and chiles—tantalizes the tongue in dishes such as boiled pork in chile oil. Chef Yisha Siu’s fried mushrooms make a satisfyingly crunchy showcase for Yunnan’s love of fungi, while offerings like the crispy shredded potato pancakes channel the region’s penchant for tubers. Cheese isn’t common across China, but it’s an important protein source in this southwest province; be sure to try the fried cheese, a firm goat cheese that the kitchen pan-fries and serves with honey.

Cafe Polonia

611 Dorchester Avenue, Boston
(617) 269-0110

This cozy restaurant is the crown jewel of Dorchester’s Polish Triangle—“Little Poland” between Boston Street, Dorchester Avenue, and Columbia Road. One of the only sit-down eateries serving a Polish menu in the city, this tiny spot has been cooking hearty fare like dill pickle soup, kishka (blood sausage), and sobieski (breaded chicken cutlet) since 2002 in what feels like a family dining room (the founder carved the furniture by hand). I love ordering the Polish plate, a tasting platter with bigos, a meat and cabbage stew; stuffed cabbage rolls; pierogies; and kielbasa.

Krasi

48 Gloucester Street, Boston
(617) 536-0230

I thought I was familiar with Greek food—until I dined at Krasi, a wine and meze bar where lesser-known dishes take center stage. Curate your own starter board from a selection of cheeses and cured meats you won’t find at your average grocery, like Kalathaki Limnou (a soft sheep’s milk cheese from Lemnos island) and octopus mortadella. Then, go island-hopping with regional dishes such as skioufichta, a cheesy and creamy Cretan pasta; or bourdeto, a saucy fish dish hailing from Corfu. “Krasi” means wine in Greek, so it’s no surprise that the selection of Greek wines here—from rare vintages to piney retsinas (made with actual resin)—is the second largest of any U.S. restaurant. (That’s why the seats at the marble-topped bar are some of the best in the house.)

Ba Le

1052 Dorchester Avenue, Boston
(617) 265-7171

This takeout-only restaurant and market has been slinging banh mi and selling Vietnamese pantry staples in Dorchester’s Little Saigon for more than three decades. There’s frequently a wait, which means more time to peruse the ready-to-eat cases—sticky-rice treats and pillowy steamed buns, anyone? Everybody should order what the bakery does best: banh mi. Choose from a variety of meats, like pork floss or barbecue beef, then watch a sandwich pro generously layer up your order fresh.

Muqueca

1008 Cambridge Street, Cambridge
(617) 354-3296

What to eat at this Inman Square restaurant? Moqueca, of course—a Brazilian seafood stew brimming with fish and shrimp that’s heady with the scent of tomatoes and coconut milk. Cooked on the stove in a clay pot, it’s especially popular in Espírito Santo, the southeast Brazilian city from which owner Maria de Fatima Langa hails; now, she’s introducing the dish to Bostonians in nautical-themed quarters that always feel relaxed and rarely get too noisy or crowded. Try the moqueca “Bahia-style,” enriched with palm oil and coconut milk, for a particularly rib-sticking take. 

Row 34

383 Congress Street, Boston
300 District Avenue, Burlington
314 Main Street, Cambridge

If you’re looking for fish, shellfish, and crustaceans—what Boston visitor isn’t?—Row 34 keeps things simple with all the New England classics on your to-eat list. You would be remiss not to start with sweet, plump Island Creek Oysters from Duxbury Bay (owner Skip Bennett was a founding partner of Row 34). Then try what I think is one of Boston’s best lobster rolls, either hot with melted butter or cold with creamy mayo. You won’t be disappointed with the fried oysters and griddled crab cakes, which the kitchen crisps to perfection. Pair your marine feast with a cold beer—the restaurant’s extensive list focuses on drafts from around the Northeast. (You’ll find me nursing a malty, zesty witbier from Allagash Brewing Company.)

Rino’s Place

258 Saratoga Street, Boston
(617) 567-7412

The North End may be our Little Italy—a mishmash of red-sauce joints, pizza parlors, and pastry shops—but longtime Bostonians often head in a different direction for a great Italian meal. Legendary for its huge portions and warm, sincere hospitality, this family-owned and -run East Boston restaurant makes all dishes to order (nothing gets frozen). A creamy tomato sauce spiked with brandy bathes the fan-favorite lobster ravioli, which burst with fresh crustacean meat. You can also expect deeply flavorful Italian crowd-pleasers such as linguine Bolognese and pollo Parmigiana—and to leave with a lot of leftovers to enjoy.

Tawakal Halal Café

84 Massachusetts Avenue, Stratton Student Center, Cambridge
(617) 418-5890

Somali-born chef and owner Yahya Noor opened Tawakal Halal Café, located in MIT’s Stratton Student Center, to pay homage to the East African food he grew up eating. The Tawakal plate—crispy chapati strips cooked in an herbaceous tomato sauce—is a must-order, and don’t leave without trying the saffron-scented biryani with tender chicken or flaky fish. The restaurant also bottles its mango-habanero hot sauce, which I drizzle over everything from rice dishes to pizza. 

Woods Hill Pier 4

300 Pier Four Boulevard, Boston
(617) 981-4577

Most of what comes out of the kitchen here—be it blueberries, pork belly, or lion’s mane mushrooms—is grown 150 miles north at The Farm at Woods Hill, which the same owner, Kristin Canty, operates. The thought that goes into sourcing is mirrored in chef Charlie Foster’s menu, which spotlights local raw-milk cheeses, grass-fed proteins, and seasonal local produce. The “Caesar-style” salad makes an unexpected but delightful vehicle for grilled chanterelles, and it’s impossible to eat just one of the urfa pepper-scented lamb ribs. Back in the day, this waterfront stretch of South Boston was mostly industrial, but now, the shiny, newly renovated Seaport District is one of the fastest-growing neighborhoods in the city. Be sure to ask for a window table to admire the harbor views while you eat.

Mahaniyom

236 Washington Street, Brookline
(617) 487-5986

Before Thai childhood friends Chompon Boonnak and Smuch Saikamthorn opened Mahaniyom, Bostonians had few spots to sample dishes like nang kai (deep-fried chicken skin) and plaa hed (an herbaceous grilled mushroom salad) were out of luck—but not anymore. Eschewing the choose-your-protein format and customizable spice level common in Thai American restaurants, this joint focuses instead on shareable small plates with unapologetically bold flavors. Start the night with a Deasy Lemonade—a mocktail made with butterfly pea tea—and don’t skip the steamed bread dipped in pandan custard for dessert.

Puritan & Co.

1166 Cambridge Street, Cambridge
(617) 615-6195

From the moment you sit down, this Inman Square restaurant feels like a celebration of New England, from the rotating seasonal gems grown on chef Will Gilson’s family farm in Groton to the farmhouse-chic accents like wooden liquor cabinets and slat-back chairs. It’s also a reminder that New England fare isn’t just baked beans and fried seafood—it’s always evolving. The menu echoes regional staples but comes with modern, seasonal touches: Think crab cavatelli topped with calabrian chile-seasoned breadcrumbs, a shrimp starter seasoned with black garlic and crispy pickled shallot, and a seafood tower that comes with ceviche. 

El Peñol

54 Bennington Street, Boston
(617) 569-0100

Colombian-born owner Marina Balvin came to Boston more than three decades ago, but it took her several years to open her own place in East Boston (called “Little Colombia” by some). Locals agree: It was worth the wait. A case in point is Balvin’s bandeja paisa, a combo platter piled with rice, carne asada, chicharrón, plantains, arepas, and fried eggs—so enormous it could easily feed a small family … or one ravenous Celtics player. Wash down the mega-meal with a fresh tropical juice like soursop and passionfruit. If taking the T out east isn’t in the cards, consider dropping by one of El Peñol’s newer outposts in Brookline and Revere.

Flour Bakery

Multiple locations

Every Boston dweller seems to have a key memory revolving around this beloved mini-chain. Mine is eating one of chef Joanne Chang’s famous sticky buns the first time I ever visited this city, and a decade later, its pecan-studded, caramel-topped decadence still stands up to its lofty reputation. In fact, it’s hard to go wrong with any of the sweet treats here—I’m also partial to the light-as-a-cloud coconut cream pie and the maximalist carrot cake (it’s got raisins, walnuts, and candied carrots). For a nourishing pick-me-up between strolling the Freedom Trail and catching a Red Sox game, go for a savory option like the roast beef sandwich on fluffy focaccia (Flour’s take on a Massachusetts classic), or try one of the daily specials handwritten on the chalkboard. No matter where you go in Boston, there’s a decent chance you’re just a baseball throw away from one of Flour’s several bright, airy locations.

The post Our 17 Favorite Boston Restaurants appeared first on Saveur.

Anyone who’s eaten Sichuan peppercorns knows you don’t simply taste the distinctive spice—you feel it. The ingredient’s instantly recognizable prickly sensation activates on the tongue, electrifying our experience of any dish, savory or sweet. 

Native to China and Taiwan, the Sichuan peppercorn, or huājiāo, is best known for bringing the má to málà—the flavor profile characteristic of Sichuan province’s beloved cuisine. When paired with chiles, the spice’s numbing effect acts as a calming foil to the chiles’ fiery burn. Both the earthy, potent red variety and its mild and floral green sister are foundational ingredients in Chinese five-spice, chili crisp, and myriad braises, noodle dishes, and stir-fries. 

Now, nearly 20 years after the U.S. government listed a ban on the peculiar peppercorn, it’s springing up more and more outside of its typical uses. Brands now harness its fragrant zing to enhance the sweetness of chocolate, to bring a zippy edge to bagels, and to impart tingly floral notes to cocktails. As Sichuan’s signature spice grows beyond the confines of traditional Chinese cuisine, the question isn’t when to use it, but when not to. Here are some of our favorite products featuring this tingly spice, as well as some novel ways to make the most of it in your kitchen.

Stock Your Pantry

Shelsky’s Sichuan Peppercorn Bagels

If you thought everything bagel seasoning was already a perfect blend, this iconic Brooklyn deli does it one better. A shake of Sichuan peppercorn powder gives these savory bagels a boost.

JSC X Fly By Jing Tingly Sichuan Salt

This blend of Sichuan peppercorns, ground er jing tiao chiles, and Jacobsen sea salt makes it easy to jazz up just about anything—from meats to margaritas—with a flourish of málà.

Tony B’s Steak Chips Peppered Chips

Sichuan peppercorns contrast the savory richness of beef in this irresistible snack that’s midway between jerky and chips.

50Hertz Tingly Foods Sichuan Pepper Peanuts

Red and green Sichuan peppercorns pack a prickly punch in this crunchy snack, perfect alongside a cold, crisp beer.

Goodnow Farms Dark Chocolate

The floral green Sichuan peppercorns in this velvety treat are more aromatic than numbing, highlighting the herbaceous Peruvian cacao.

Dashfire Sichuan Peppercorn Bitters

A few drops of this tincture are all you need to infuse mixed drinks with an electric buzz. Pair the bitters with warm spices such as ginger and cinnamon for alternating ripples of heat and numbness.

More than Málà

Sichuan pepper can do more than bring a numbing edge to the málà dishes of its eponymous regional cuisine. The tingly snacks hitting our pantries these days got us thinking: How can we get even more out of this versatile spice?

Make a savory spice blend. 

Toast and grind Sichuan peppercorns, then blend with salt and other spices such as black pepper, garlic, ginger, and paprika. Shake onto eggs, or use it as a dry rub or stew enhancer. 

Infuse honey or simple syrup. 

The electric thrill of Sichuan pepper works well in sweet dishes, too. Stir it into warm honey or simple syrup and steep for 30 minutes before straining. Add the honey to granola for a tantalizing edge, and use the syrup to brush atop cakes or amp up a cocktail. 

Flavor spirits.

Imbue clear liquors such as baijiu or vodka with the spice’s subtly numbing citrus quality. Add an ounce of Sichuan peppercorns to a liter of room temperature spirit. Start with 30 minutes and taste for desired strength before straining. 

Finish with oil.

Add a bit of Sichuan pepper oil to spicy dressings or sauces, or drizzle over stir-fries, stews, and salads just before serving to balance the heat.

Recipes

Tingly Lamb Stir-Fry with Potatoes and Pine Nuts

Get the recipe >

Order the SAVEUR Selects Nitri-Black Carbon Steel Wok here.

Lemon Ginger Cookies with Sichuan Peppercorn and White Chocolate

Get the recipe >

The post 6 Sichuan Peppercorn Snacks That Pack a Tongue-Tingling Punch appeared first on Saveur.

Trivia time: What’s the most consumed spirit worldwide? If you guessed vodka, rum, or gin, give it another shot—it’s baijiu, China’s favorite liquor.

A lifetime of visiting the country of my ancestors has taught me that gatherings there often mean one thing: swigging, swirling, and spilling generous quantities of baijiu. For centuries, people have been crowding around tables and knocking back the grain-distilled alcohol at family reunions, business dinners, holiday celebrations—and average Thursday nights. “It’s so ingrained in the culture that I took it for granted,” says SAVEUR contributing editor Jessie YuChen, who grew up in Taiwan.

Yet globally, the spirit remains obscure: For most of my life, I hardly saw it outside of China and Taiwan, and even today, the vast majority of the world’s baijiu is produced and consumed in these two places.

But lately, unbeknownst to many, baijiu has sprung its borders—and is shedding its reputation as a staid beverage best enjoyed neat. Today, more and more bartenders around the United States are seeking out the spirit and turning it on its head: infusing it with botanicals, stirring it into juice, lacing it with tinctures, and shaking it with ice. By thinking outside the realm of shots, they’re turning a new generation of drinkers into baijiu devotees.

What is baijiu?

Baijiu is a clear alcohol made by fermenting grains (usually sorghum) with jiuqu (aka qu), a dried, grain-based starter culture that’s been used for millennia. Jiuqu’s microorganisms (such as yeasts and molds) convert the grains’ starches into alcohol, resulting in “more distinctive flavors than you find in many spirits,” explains Derek Sandhaus, author of Baijiu: The Essential Guide to Chinese Spirits and co-founder of baijiu brand Ming River. The end result often exceeds 110 proof.

Ernest Lesmana, bar manager at Sumiao Hunan Kitchen in Cambridge, Massachusetts, describes the beverage as “a clear alcohol that has the complexity of a dark liquor.” Much like whiskey or rum, baijiu isn’t just one thing—it’s an umbrella term for a spectrum of styles, which are divided into four primary aroma categories. Different regions produce remarkably divergent flavor profiles: One bottle may remind you of floral sake, while another might be savory with soy-sauce notes.

The four big aromas

Rice-aroma baijiu is distilled from rice grains using rice-based qu. With its clean finish and mild, floral flavor, “it’s probably the best way to jumpstart your baijiu journey,” Lesmana notes. Historic distillery Guilin Sanhua produces a popular version.

Light-aroma baijiu, made from a mash of sorghum and either pea-and-barley or wheat-bran qu, is typically fermented in stone vessels, yielding a spirit with melon and dried-fruit notes. Red Star Erguotou, Fenjiu, and Kinmen Kaoliang are a few household names that create this affordable style.

Strong-aroma baijiu, largely produced in Sichuan Province, dominates the Chinese market. Fermentation in clay pits, sometimes for decades, gives this style overripe-pineapple notes. Luzhou Laojiao, one of the oldest continuously operating distilleries in China, still maintains use of its 16th-century pits.

Sauce-aroma baijiu is pure umami, with woodsy mushroom notes. Several rounds of fermentation and distillation, coupled with aging, make bottles like Kweichow Moutai fetch thousands. “It’s like dark soy sauce coating your mouth and makes you want to eat more,” says Lesmana.

An intro to imbibing

First, make sure there’s plenty to eat—we’re talking high ABVs here. Next, keep in mind that communal baijiu-drinking is a ritual, at least in much of China and Taiwan: Traditionally, every willing adult at the table receives a shot glass not much larger than a thimble. After each pour, there’s a toast to at least one other person at the gathering, then everyone takes the shot simultaneously. “Reciprocity is expected, so watch your pace,” Sandhaus cautions, as it’s not uncommon to knock back 30 or 40 shots during a single dinner. (As kids, both YuChen and I would giggle on the sidelines while our respective, otherwise serious elders got progressively tipsier.) “If you consent to the drinking session by joining in a toast, you’re in for the long haul,” Sandhaus adds.

Because baijiu is a work-dinner staple in China, growing up I always thought of it as an old person’s beverage. Years later, living in Beijing, I grudgingly went through the motions when it came time to take shots. It wasn’t until a few years ago when I had my first baijiu cocktail that I began to see the spirit in a new light.

Recipe: Perpetual Motion

Get the recipe >

From shots to spritzes

Converging forces are propelling the baijiu revolution: immigration, tourism, innovative Chinese restaurants, and a global frenzy over all things fermented, to name a few. Nick Lappen, founder of the former Boston Baijiu Bar pop-up, says the liquor is currently where mezcal was a decade or two ago: “If you tried to tell bar managers that the fastest growing category of spirits today would be an at-the-time relatively unknown agave distillate from a few specific regions of Mexico, most wouldn’t have taken you seriously.”

My own aha moment happened in the 2010s, when I started seeing “baijiu bars” pop up in Asia and the U.S. I couldn’t believe the cocktails I was sipping—swirled with juices, syrups, and enlivening Asian herbs and spices—were built on the spirit that had made me crinkle my nose my whole life. It didn’t hurt that the drinks were often served in cozy, dimly lit digs decorated tastefully with Chinese motifs. At the New York City speakeasy Lumos, there were baijiu sesame coladas sweetened with mangosteen juice; Capital Spirits in Beijing blended baijiu and passionfruit syrup into Sichuan slings. But those early entrants were only the beginning.

Recipe: The Last Emperor

Get the recipe >

When Haoran Chen (born in China’s Guangdong Province and later raised in New York) dreamed up his Queens bar 929, he knew a baijiu creation belonged on the menu. After immigrating to the U.S. as a child, Chen “started to treasure” things that reminded him of home, he says. The Last Emperor, flavored with umeshu (Japanese plum wine) and spiked with the Taiwan-made light-aroma baijiu Kinmen Kaoliang, is YuChen’s regular order. “There’s a sense of pride in knowing this is from our home, and now we get to drink it here,” says YuChen.

Baijiu is entering the mixology mainstream, but the question remains: Why? Zoe Burgess, author of The Cocktail Cabinet: the Art, Science and Pleasure of Mixing the Perfect Drink, suspects the answer lies in the trendiness of terroir, as well as jiuqu’s ability to create highly local expressions in flavor and style. Then there’s the rise of regional Chinese restaurants and cookbooks that incorporate the spirit as an ingredient—even if it’s not always an easy sell. “Mixing baijiu into a cocktail” is the gateway, according to Tina Heath-Schuttenberg, co-founder of Kwei Fei, a Sichuan restaurant in Charleston, South Carolina that also offers baijiu flights.

Shake and swirl your own

If you find yourself with a bottle of baijiu that has slightly sweet undertones (like a rice-aroma variety), Lappen recommends reaching for rich, rounded flavors such as coconut, hazelnut, or chocolate. On the other hand, stone fruits and aromatic herbs can amplify the overripe-fruit notes of strong-aroma style baijiu. For those deeply funky bottles, try working in dark, earthy notes like coffee or soy sauce.

The mixer is your friend. A water-based beverage such as seltzer or tea helps temper the high ABV, Burgess notes. According to YuChen, earthy pu’er and floral Taiwanese high-mountain oolong are two teas that pair especially well with baijiu.

Recipe: Baijiu Chuhai

Get the recipe >

But of all the flavor pairings, citrus is perhaps the most unbeatable, says Lily Wang, co-owner of Chicago cocktail joint Nine Bar. “You need acid to balance out the bold flavor,” she explains. Her Baijiu Chuhai, inspired by Japanese shochu highballs, blends lemon juice and Calpico, a yogurty Japanese soft drink.

Many bartenders in the U.S. work with the widely available Ming River, a sub-brand of the historic Chinese distillery Luzhou Laojiao meant for mixing. But any baijiu can bring a compelling depth of flavor to a cocktail. The bottom line: Experiment. “People shouldn’t be afraid to try a few different bottles,” says YuChen, “because each one tastes different.”

With additional reporting by Jessie YuChen.

More Baijiu Recipes

9 Baijiu Cocktail Recipes You’ll Want to Make on Repeat

Get the recipes >

Stir-Fried Shacha Lamb Noodles

Get the recipe >

The post Baijiu, the World’s Most Popular Spirit, Is Coming for Your Cocktail appeared first on Saveur.

Considering how long people have been drinking baijiu (millennia!), it’s remarkable that the grain-distilled spirit is only just now becoming a mainstream cocktail ingredient in the U.S. The most consumed liquor on the planet, baijiu had long been relegated to room-temperature shots until recent years, when mixologists across the country began to reimagine the liquor’s potential.

Depending on the style and provenance, one bottle of baijiu might be crisp and floral, while another can be woodsy and umami, so there’s vast room for experimentation. From a fruit-forward twist on a whiskey sour to a savory creation with XO sauce and basil, here are some of our favorite ways to sip baijiu.

The Last Emperor

This twist on a whiskey sour swaps out bourbon for oolong-infused light-aroma baijiu. Umeshu (Japanese plum wine) and pineapple juice serve as a sweet foil for the earthy fragrance of the tea leaves. Get the recipe >

Perpetual Motion

In this refreshing smash cocktail, blood orange purée contributes a pleasantly bitter base note while strong-aroma baijiu lends tropical-fruit undertones and a hint of umami. Get the recipe >

Baijiu Chuhai

This light, zingy cocktail takes its cues from two beloved Japanese drinks: chuhai (shochu highballs) and melon cream soda. Barley shochu’s mild nuttiness and Midori melon liqueur’s honey notes soften the pungent edge of strong-aroma baijiu while accenting its pineapple undertones. Get the recipe >

Green Goblin

Homemade Thai basil syrup gives this light-aroma baijiu- and rye whiskey-based cocktail its bright, peppery flavor and striking jade hue. Get the recipe >

Little Radish

Amplify baijiu’s umami with rich seafood-based XO sauce, juicy cherry tomatoes, and fragrant fresh basil in this sensational savory cocktail. Get the recipe >

Baijiu Martini

A delightful twist on the classic, this spirit-forward drink blends gin with the Chinese spirit baijiu and a few drops of Sichuan chile oil. If you’re a dirty martini fan, this recipe is also just as alluring made filthy with olive brine and an olive garnish. Get the recipe >

VB&T

Vermouth, baijiu, and tonic are the winning trifecta behind this cocktail’s acronym. More specifically, sweet Italian vermouth and strong-aroma baijiu are stirred together with fresh lemon juice, simple syrup, and Angostura and orange bitters, and finished with a splash of tonic water and an orange peel. Get the recipe >

Start of Summer

Rhum agricole offers an earthy, herbaceous contrast to fruity strong-aroma baijiu in this boozy slushie, while maraschino liqueur adds sweetness and a splash of fresh orange and lime juice balances everything out. Get the recipe >

Red Sorghum

This riff on the Jungle Bird, a classic tiki drink, swaps out the traditional Campari and rum with Aperol and baijiu, but keeps the fresh pineapple and lime juices, which enhance the tropical fruit undertones in strong-aroma baijiu, and adds a delicate osmanthus honey syrup. Get the recipe > 

The post 9 Baijiu Cocktail Recipes You’ll Want to Make on Repeat appeared first on Saveur.

I can smell the narazuke fermentation room before I see it. The malty scent of vegetables mingling with bacteria is a signpost pointing toward the facility where Soshin Nishida and his family age pickled white melon. I inhale deeply, taking in the aromas, and Nishida beams. “It smells good, doesn’t it?”

Tourists flock to Nara to pose for selfies with the Japanese city’s famous free-roaming deer, but the historic prefecture is otherwise largely overlooked as a destination, eclipsed by Kyoto’s famed temples and Osaka’s glitz. Yet in the 8th century, Nara was Japan’s first permanent capital, among the easternmost stops on the ancient Silk Road, and a key entry point for edible imports. From tea drinking to persimmon cultivation, the city became a fountainhead of Japanese food culture.

Today, many of Japan’s culinary crafts are fading, replaced by machine-made shortcuts or abandoned entirely. Yet in Nara, where many of these skills have their earliest roots in the country, a handful of artisans are devoted to preserving these ancient techniques—and reimagining them for the future.

The Pickle Maker: Soshin Nishida

Brewing sake leaves behind a precious byproduct: sake lees, a white, paste-like residue with a mildly sweet and fruity taste. Not to be wasted, the ingredient is a base for countless foods in Japanese cuisine: amazake (a sweet fermented rice drink), marinades, and pickles, including a centuries-old Nara specialty, narazuke.

Soshin Nishida, who is part of the 11th generation in his family to produce the pickled white melon, often spends much of the day with his hands deep in tubs of narazuke. (He jokes that the peptide-rich sake lees, used as a cosmetic ingredient in Japan, is his secret to youthful-looking hands.) He shows me around his family-owned brand Ashibiyahonpo’s aging facility, explaining how they use sake lees and salt to season and preserve the melon, which turns savory as it ferments for at least three years, or up to five. The crunchy pickles are tangy and umami—an ideal accompaniment to porridge or sushi.

Before refrigeration, narazuke was a means of preservation. In 2018, to reimagine its potential, Nishida’s family opened the pizzeria Cervo Bianco, which offers a narazuke-topped four-cheese pizza and pickle-flavored gelato. “Narazuke can be more than just a pairing,” Nishida insists. “I don’t want future generations to forget its nutritional legacy.”

The Tea Cultivator: Junichi Uekubo

To roll his tea by hand, Junichi Uekubo spends up to eight hours a day hunched over a washi paper-lined table laden with leaves. A heater beneath the table helps dry the delicate greens, so he must keep them in constant motion, rapidly sliding his palms back and forth across the surface to prevent the tea from burning.

The resulting needles of temomicha, or hand-rolled tea, Uekubo says, are worth every bit of effort. Only a tiny fraction of the green tea produced in Japan is still hand-rolled, a process that breaks down the cells and releases the leaves’ fragrance and flavor. Uekubo’s tastes unlike any tea I’ve had before—savory, with undertones of dashi. “I use crab, herring, and oysters as fertilizer, to heighten that umami flavor,” he tells me.

As a child, Uekubo, a seventh-generation tea cultivator, was unsure whether he wanted to take over the family business, Tea Uekubo. But one whiff of its prized temomicha convinced him: “I’m the first one who gets to taste it,” he says. “That’s the best moment. I want to share those special emotions that tea can arouse.”

The Soybean Grower and The Miso Maker: Masahiro Kondo and Hiroyuki Katagami

Soybeans play a critical role in Japanese cuisine—in soy sauce, tofu, miso, and beyond—but more than 90 percent of them used in Japan are grown elsewhere. In recent decades, the nation’s soybean cultivation has been steadily declining, due to limited land, unfavorable weather, aging farmers, and the comparative reliability of imported North American-grown beans.

The O-deppo variety, once prominent in Nara, is now nearly extinct. When tofu maker and Nara native Masahiro Kondo heard that the breed once grew taller than the average soybean plant, with double the yield and a greater depth of flavor from its unusually high sucrose content, he decided to hunt down the heirloom seeds and revive the crop.

At first, Hiroyuki Katagami, owner of Katagami Shoyu, was one of the few local soy sauce makers willing to take a chance on the unfamiliar bean. But the resurrected legumes stood up to their long-forgotten reputation. I sample a taste of Katagami’s miso, and it is smooth and creamy, the ingredient’s characteristic salty, funky flavor punctuated by a distinct sweetness. “Soybeans used to be a pride of Nara,” says Kondo, who also uses the beans at his company Miki Tofu. “We’re slowly bringing back the concept of farm-to-table soybeans.”

The Persimmon Preserver: Kazuhiro Ishii

In Japan, if you throw away something that could still be useful, you might hear the term “mottainai.” Loosely translating to “what a waste,” it’s often uttered as a reminder to reuse and recycle.

“We are nature worshippers,” says Kazuhiro Ishii, the quiet and cerebral third-generation owner of Ishii Co., who attributes Japanese people’s deep respect for the environment to the country’s indigenous Shinto religion. That ethos of conservation was what motivated his grandfather, Isao Ishii, to develop the family brand’s first persimmon-based product in 1981. Scuffed or otherwise imperfect persimmons couldn’t be sold (“Japanese people are perfectionists,” Kazuhiro says), but they could be transformed into treats like hoshigaki (dried Hachiya persimmons) and kyoshu no kaki (dried Horenbo persimmons filled with sweet chestnut paste). The family created other products as well: a sweet-tart vinegar made from the fruit’s syrupy flesh, and a wheaty brewed tea and matcha-like powder from the dried leaves.

Persimmons, or kaki in Japanese, have been cultivated in Nara for centuries. There’s an ancient custom of writing a love note on a persimmon leaf, then releasing it into a body of water. One of the city’s famed delicacies is kakinoha-zushi, a pressed sushi made by wrapping marinated fish in the fruit’s leaves—when I unwrap one in a local shop, I feel like I’m opening a gift.

Today, Kazuhiro continues to research new ways to make the most of persimmons, like turning the skin into natural food coloring and the juice into sweetener. “I want to continue making farmers happy by buying their damaged fruit,” he tells me, “so we can keep passing on Nara’s kaki culture.”

The Soy Sauce Brewer: Osamu Yoshikawa

Balancing on a plank atop a six-foot-tall wooden barrel, sixth-generation soy sauce producer Osamu Yoshikawa churns a thick mixture of soybeans, wheat, koji mold, and saltwater. He invites me to give it a try, and I learn just how labor-intensive this job truly is. But Yoshikawa knows it’s worthwhile. The finished condiment will be full-bodied, complex, and a tad sweet: liquid umami.

Today, less than 1 percent of the soy sauce made in Japan is produced this way, aging from six months to three years in bamboo and cedar barrels called kioke. The liquid darkens and the flavor intensifies as the brew matures; microorganisms, flourishing in the wood’s crevices, create a distinct flavor exclusive to the maker. It can take two weeks to fashion a new kioke; Yoshikawa estimates only around 3,500 of the vessels still exist, most replaced by steel vats. But built with care, the barrels can last as long as 200 years; many of the ones at Inoue Honten, his bean-to-bottle soy sauce company, have been in continuous use for decades.

“Barrel-aging soy sauce is a fast-fading art,” says Yoshikawa, flanked by his two sons and daughter-in-law who will eventually take over the business. “But the taste of making it this way is unparalleled.” His younger son, Ryo Yoshikawa, grins broadly and flexes his biceps, as if to say, “We won’t let our father down.”

Recipes

Leftover Green Tea Leaf Salad

Get the recipe >

Inarizushi (Rice-Filled Tofu Pockets)

Get the recipe >

Miso Clam Chowder

Get the recipe >

Amazake, Apple, and Pineapple Smoothie

Get the recipe >

The post Meet the Makers Preserving the Past in Nara appeared first on Saveur.

For years, Jing Gao dreamed of opening a grab-and-go market that serves prepared meals she would actually crave. Not hard-boiled eggs and cold sandwiches, but creamy sesame noodles, fiery mapo tofu, and crunchy wood-ear mushroom salad that channel the peppery, piquant flavors of her native Chengdu, capital of China’s Sichuan Province. Today, that vision no longer lives in her head, but on a high-trafficked shopping street in the heart of Los Angeles.

After dabbling in the fast-casual arena with her now-closed restaurant Baoism in Shanghai, Gao left food service and went on to launch a chili-crisp empire with Fly By Jing, her fast-growing direct-to-consumer brand of made-in-Sichuan sauces. She wasn’t eager to re-enter the hospitality realm, unless the right partner came along. Enter Stephanie Liu Hjelmeseth, a lifestyle blogger whose family previously owned the beloved Orange County restaurant Chong Qing Mei Wei. Both Gao and Liu grew up eating Sichuan dishes, and they both liked the casual convenience and accessibility of the grab-and-go framework, implemented profitably by brands like Pret a Manger. “How great would it be to apply modern Chinese flavors to that model?” Gao recalls thinking.

Suá Superette, which debuted last November, does just that by packaging familiar Sichuan flavors into conveniently portable meals, often yielding surprising combinations. At the new market, lazi ji, a fried-chicken specialty of Chongqing, has evolved into crispy tenders dipped in a spicy vinaigrette; cumin-scented beef is swaddled in a wrap for on-the-go enjoyment; zingy mala seasoning jazzes up fried lotus-root chips. “We wanted to combine the Sichuan flavors that we love with the context that we live in,” says Gao of meeting her customers—active, on-the-move Angelenos—where they are. Positioned as a one-stop shop, the brick-and-mortar also stocks a selection of Asian-inflected pantry staples like condiments from Cabi Foods, flower teas from The Qi, and instant packs of plant-based Immi Ramen. By demonstrating how Asian food can fit seamlessly into their clientele’s lives, the two entrepreneurs convey that the flavors of their heritage “are adaptable and versatile, and can be applied to so many canvases,” says Gao. (The message echoes that of Gao’s recent cookbook, The Book of Sichuan Chili Crisp, which shares both traditional and newfangled ways to use the region’s signature flavor profiles.)

Call them superettes, mini-marts, or corner stores: small independent grocers that acknowledge and speak to today’s Asian American (particularly East and Southeast Asian) experience are popping up around the country. These modern businesses are smaller, sleeker, and more specialized than their big-box chain counterparts like 99 Ranch, H-Mart, or Seafood City, and place a notable emphasis on craft, curation, and customer experience. And often, they’re founded by millennials who want to bring visibility to their communities, and bridge customers to those cultures through food.

At the Taiwanese market Yun Hai, which opened its Brooklyn brick-and-mortar in 2022, Tatung rice cookers and Kuai Kuai corn crisps sit alongside artisanal seasonings, condiments, and ceramics sourced directly from brewers, farmers, and craftspeople in Taiwan. Taiwanese-style terrazzo tiles line the floor, while wood paneling and warm colors evoke the feel of a traditional bodega one might find on the island. “We want you to feel like you’re transported to a different place,” says Yun Hai co-owner Lillian Lin. “There are people who don’t know what Taiwan is, and we want to change that. But also, there are people who are familiar with Taiwan and don’t have a way to access that culture. ‘My grandma used to cook this, but I don’t know where to get it.’ Or they might not speak Mandarin.” Yun Hai provides bilingual labels as part of their effort to guide shoppers of all backgrounds.

When first-generation immigrants in the U.S. opened some of the country’s earliest Asian supermarkets in the late-20th century, “they needed to make a living, and were trying to do something for their community,” says Vietnamese American author and cooking teacher Andrea Nguyen. Not only were those stores a lifeline for many immigrants, they also paved the way for greater availability and acceptance of Asian ingredients in the country. “Foods often have strong emotional and nostalgic ties,” explains Jane Matsumoto, director of culinary arts at the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center, which recently opened a mini-shop of its own called MISE. “Access to familiar foods facilitates social integration and helps create a sense of home and belonging in a new environment.” Like many Chinese Americans who grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I remember trailing my parents around Lion Market, a gateway to our heritage because it carried a seemingly comprehensive array of Chinese products—with affordable pricing to boot, though often without clear English translations—that Safeway and Albertsons didn’t: Chinkiang black vinegar, Sichuan peppercorns, precisely fileted cuts of meat for hot pot, and beyond. 

One might consider Suá Superette and Yun Hai the descendants of those supermarkets, Nguyen observes. Building upon the foundation of cultural awareness and accessibility that big-box grocers fostered, modern mini-marts and bodegas represent the next generation of Asian ingredient purveyance in the U.S. More than an avenue for mere survival and support, these newer shops are outlets for owners to celebrate their heritage through carefully chosen products that not only tell the story of a community, but also uplift small makers from those backgrounds.

While Suá and Yun Hai respectively champion the flavors of Sichuan and Taiwanese cuisine, Yoboseyo! Superette, a micro-grocer and café in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo, shines its spotlight on small-batch specialty goods from across the Asian American spectrum, with an emphasis on Korean-inspired products created by Korean American entrepreneurs. While waiting for a honey oat latte, on-the-go commuters and busy professionals can pick up gochujang-flavored party mixes from Chingoo Snacks, quinoa-based kimbap from GANCHIC, spiced nuts from Mommylas, and even dog treats from Little Ganshik. “The industry makes it so hard to get your product out there, to get it on the shelves,” says the mini-market’s co-owner Cindy Choi, who opened the shop in 2022 to “be a launchpad for them.” 

Not far away in the city’s historic Chinatown, Sesame LA concentrates on pantry essentials and gourmet treats from small AAPI-owned brands with aesthetically crafted, giftable packaging. Chinese-inspired black sesame butter from Rooted Fare, seaweed snacks from Korean-owned brand Geem, and Vietnamese coffee blends from Little Green Cyclo “pay homage to their cultures by taking [something] classic and making it new, fun, and eye-catching,” says owner Linda Sivrican, who opened the shop in 2021, naming it after an ingredient she felt signified the common threads many Asian cultures share. “I spent a lot of my childhood visiting Chinatown every week with my parents,” she adds. “It was very nostalgic for me to come back and have this little space, 30 years later.” 

Both Choi and Sivrican chose to open their superettes in enclaves that have historically been havens for Asian communities. “In Little Tokyo, when you walk down the street, you see so many legacy businesses that have been there for 20, 30 years that are closing,” says Choi, pointing out that gentrification, rising real estate costs, and other challenges are displacing longtime establishments like Shabu-Shabu House and Suehiro Cafe. After Chinatown lost its last full-service Asian grocery store with the 2022 closure of Ai Hoa, Sivrican stocked fresh produce for a period of time so that local Asian growers could sell their harvests. By launching Sesame LA and Yoboseyo! in Chinatown and Little Tokyo (one of only three Japantowns left in the U.S.) respectively, the founders are waving a flag for the legacy of these communities as Asian hubs, while attracting a more diverse customer base to reinvigorate the neighborhoods. “There’s a palpable sense of pride in these spaces,” remarks Los Angeles native and chef Tara Monsod, who helms the Filipino-inspired San Diego steakhouse ANIMAE. “Showcasing Asian culture becomes a unifying, connecting force.”

It’s clear community pride is a driving force behind the growing availability of artisanal Asian products—and the more tailored inventory at the shops that stock them. This new wave could help not only establish a premium for Asian foods, but also evolve how they are perceived. “One of the biggest barriers facing Chinese cuisine was this hierarchy of tastes—the fact that it’s on the bottom rungs of that ladder of value that we ascribe to cuisines and different cultures, and their people,” Gao points out. Thoughtfully designed and aesthetically pleasing high-quality goods—with appropriate pricing to match—from what Gao calls “a rising tide of Asian-owned brands” are pushing back against the connotations of cheapness often associated with Asian food. “We are not a monolith, and we aren’t just mass-produced cheap products,” emphasizes Ji Hye Kim, the chef behind the restaurant Miss Kim in Ann Arbor, Michigan. “We are also local and crafted with care.” As disruptive entrepreneurs and discerning customers alike assign greater economic value to foods that spring from and represent their heritage, they’re sending a message: “We need to pay fairly for the labor, the ingredients, and the creativity that go into producing this food,” says Nguyen. 

Suá Superette is, notably, not located in a particularly affordable L.A. neighborhood, nor one historically associated with Asian immigrants. Gao and Hjelmeseth decided to unveil their new venture in the walkable, boutique-lined Larchmont Village “to invite more people into the fold—because Asian flavors shouldn’t be relegated only to Chinatowns or 99 Ranches,” says Gao. Grab-and-go fare made with locally sourced ingredients echoes the priorities of busy, progressive urbanites, regardless of their heritage. “We’re seeing [Asian food] become part of cross-cultural intersectional living,” Nguyen tells me. “It’s not something that’s exotic that needs to be saved for a weekend trip. It can be everyday food as long as you love it, and anybody can love it.”

Interest in Asian cuisines is on the rise, as immigration, culinary television shows, social media, and tourism increasingly open portals to the continent’s foodways. “Whenever you go to a new country, food is always going to be the first gateway into that culture,” notes Arnold Byun, who co-founded MAUM Market, a pop-up showcasing food and crafts from Asian makers. “You might have a conversation about where the food came from, how it got there, what the country is known for. It just opens up so many conversations.”  

A compact store can be a more approachable entry point to having those conversations than a sprawling supermarket. For starters, “the smaller selection eliminates some of the overwhelm and decision paralysis you might feel in a big grocer,” notes food blogger and cookbook author Maggie Zhu. Moreover, attentive guidance from a trusted storekeeper can help customers navigate the nuances of cooking a cuisine that’s new to them. Fort Worth, Texas-based high-school culinary instructor Hao Tran streamlines the shopping experience at her mini-marketplace, Hao’s Grocery & Cafe, by assembling ready-to-cook kits—Maesri curry paste and locally grown vegetables for a cozy Thai green curry, or basmati rice and a medley of spices for a Southeast Indian biryani—that forge a bridge to different cuisines. “There are just very few Asian restaurants,” says Tran of the Fort Worth area. “It’s ingrained in me that the community I live in is short of these food experiences.” To fill in those gaps, she’s approached local farmers and asked them for help growing ingredients like daikon, Napa cabbage, and bittermelon. The benefit of a small, intimate store, she explains, is that she can actively engage with shoppers and teach them how to use these ingredients if they’re unfamiliar. “For customers, it’s not as intimidating if you know you can ask, ‘what do I do with this?’ or ‘how do I do this?’” notes Tran, who often fields follow-up queries from patrons over the phone. “That personal connection is more important than ever.”

Though superettes are a fast-growing sector, they’re only part of a larger, ever-expanding network of Asian ingredient supply and distribution in the U.S. Online retailers like Sarap Now, Weee!, and Umamicart are further broadening the reach of Asian flavors by bringing them to people’s doorsteps. Mass-market grocers like Nijiya Market, Mitsuwa Marketplace, and H-Mart continue to expand. As demand for the continent’s ingredients rises, and as supply-chain advances reduce barriers to importing from overseas artisans, says Matsumoto, the availability and footprint of Asian food products in the U.S. will only continue to grow. The more diverse the shopping avenues, the better, she adds. Big-box retailers, with their cooking appliances, live seafood, and wide selection of fresh produce and meat, “cater to a broader customer base with diverse needs,” Matsumoto notes. On the other hand, “niche markets can excel in providing a deeply immersive experience that highlights the cultural nuances of specific Asian regions.”

Where curated mini-marts arguably excel most is how they unapologetically magnify the nuanced, culturally blended Asian American experience of today, which is characterized by both Asian tradition and American lifestyle. Recalling his childhood, Byun says that he “didn’t know if I was Korean enough, or if I was American enough.” Most of these new superettes were dreamed up by first- and second-generation Asian Americans who felt similarly: they wanted to see themselves represented, their tastes catered to, and their flavors amplified.

“These stores are neither this nor that,” he says. “They celebrate the in-between.”

Recipes

Lazi Chicken Wings

Get the recipe >

Strange-Flavor Mixed Nuts

Get the recipe >

Smashed Cucumber Salad with Yuba

Get the recipe >

The post A New Kind of Asian Grocer Has Arrived appeared first on Saveur.

Christmas songs tell us that the morning of December 25th is the absolute peak of the winter holiday season. Families rock around the tree while tiny tots open presents with their eyes all aglow. But truth be told, I think what comes after the early-morning rowdiness is more special: gathering around a table with loved ones to share a mouthwatering feast. It’s the denouement, if you will, that follows the climax—the moment the energy and anticipation surrounding the season gives way to a comfortable, more relaxed pace.

Holidays call for something extra special, yet also simple enough so as not to pull you away from the revelry. Keep the prep work to a minimum by using up Christmas Eve leftovers in a savory one-pan hash. Or, make eggs the star of the show with an easy and elegant quiche, or a hearty shakshuka. For a sweeter option, treat loved ones to a croissant bread pudding or pecan-chocolate sticky buns that double as desserts. As SAVEUR’s resident breakfast correspondent, I’ve rounded up some festive recipes that not only fuel the day’s activities, but also evoke the spirit of the season.

Custardy French Toast

Grilled on the stovetop and finished in the oven, this take on French toast is more like a decadent souffle—as crisp on the outside as it is pillowy on the inside. Get the recipe >

Orange Butter Coffee Cake

The only thing that can improve upon a winter’s-morning cup of coffee is a slice of coffee cake to go with it. This version, smothered in a tangy orange glaze and chopped pecans, is an especially sunny, craveable take. Get the recipe >

Kaiserschmarrn (Austrian Scrambled Pancakes)

A coffeehouse staple in Vienna, this dish of torn-up pancake is all fluffiness and no fuss—which makes it the perfect choice for a busy holiday morning. Add a berry compote and a dusting of powdered sugar for a downright festive presentation. Get the recipe >

Rice Pudding with Raspberry Coulis

Lighter than most rice puddings, and not quite as sweet, this Swedish specialty is a Christmastime tradition. Short-grain rice, such as arborio, lends itself beautifully to a deliciously creamy consistency—and a comforting, satisfying breakfast. Get the recipe >

Spinach, Beef, and Egg Hash

On a busy holiday morning, you need a recipe that comes together swiftly. This savory one-pan dish might only call for a handful of ingredients, but it’s guaranteed to be the star of the table. In place of the beef chuck, try tossing in any breakfast meats you might have hanging around in the fridge. Get the recipe >

Country Ham & Red Eye Gravy Danish

Brew a little extra coffee on Christmas morning (or use up any left over from the night before) to make a classic Southern gravy for these glorious savory pastries studded with ham and pecorino. Get the recipe >

Shakshuka

This simple dish of poached eggs and tomatoes spiked with spices and aromatics may be a brunch classic, but it also makes a gorgeous and filling main course any time of day. Get the recipe >

Roasted Apples and Bacon with Onions and Thyme

This classic Danish treatment proves apples belong as much in the savory realm as the sweet. Roast them with onions, caramelize them in bacon fat, and serve them under thick steaks of smoked belly bacon for a brunch dish that hits all the flavor notes. Get the recipe >

Sourdough Whole Wheat Waffles

Have sourdough starter left over from holiday baking sitting in your fridge? Mix some of it into classic waffle batter to give it airiness and tang that non-yeasted versions simply can’t match. Get the recipe >

Blueberry Quinoa Pancakes with Lemon Crema

Granola and quinoa lend lovely crunch and earthy flavor to these substantial, fluffy pancakes. The zesty lemon crema dolloped on top will brighten up any cold winter morning. Get the recipe >

Swedish Cinnamon-and-Cardamom Bread

In Swedish, fika means “to have coffee,” but it also refers to the country’s tradition of taking a break, chatting with friends, and enjoying a pastry, like this yeasty spiced bread from cookbook authors Anna Brones and Johanna Kindvall. It’s just the thing to munch while sipping a mug of joe on Christmas morning.  Get the recipe >

Baked French Toast with Cream and Eggs

This savory French toast is deceptively simple (and scalable), yet lavish enough for a festive occasion. As the dish bakes, the cream soaks into the bread and thickens into a rich sauce right on the platter, resulting in an impressive breakfast you’ll make again and again. Get the recipe >

Danish Rye Bread Porridge (Øllebrød)

Got some stale rye bread (preferably rich, nutty rugbrød) on hand? Soak cubes of your leftover loaf in a dark, malty beer on Christmas Eve, and you’ll be ready to make this tangy, earthy  breakfast treat the next morning. Get the recipe >

Espresso Waffles with Mocha Drizzle

Espresso powder and almond flour give a bittersweet edge to these waffles, which are glossed with a decadent sauce of coffee, condensed milk, and dark chocolate. Get the recipe >

Baked Egg Danish with Kimchi and Bacon

These savory Danishes swaddle kimchi, bacon, and baked eggs in rich, chewy laminated dough. If you have leftover ingredients from Christmas Eve hosting—think cooked mushrooms and greens, or grated cheese and herbs—go ahead and swap those in. (For the best texture, be sure to drain the extra liquid from cooked vegetables before adding.) Get the recipe >

Eggplant and Walnut Frittata (Badimjan Kükü)

This hearty Azeri egg dish—which can be served in small pieces as an appetizer or side or cut into larger wedges as a main—is loaded with ground walnuts, onions, and eggplant, giving the meal a nutty, meaty consistency. Get the recipe >

Pecan-Chocolate Sticky Buns

Baker and cookbook author Bryan Ford cooks these over-the-top sticky buns in a large cast-iron skillet—which not only makes for a rustic presentation but also guarantees gorgeously golden-brown edges. Get the recipe >

Gluten-Free Ham and Cheddar Scones

The sugar in these buttery, wheat-free scones offsets the smoky ham, cheddar cheese, and fresh chives, yielding the perfect example of how sweet and savory can go hand in hand. Get the recipe >

Perfect Blue Cheese Quiche With Whole Grain Crust

The blue cheese in this velvety quiche makes the dish satisfyingly creamy—balanced perfectly by a nutty, buttery spelt-and-whole-wheat crust. Get the recipe >

Grilled Banana-Pear Pancake

Francis Mallmann’s thick, fluffy flapjacks, topped generously with cool crème fraîche, creatively use grilled bananas as a pancake ring. The caramelized pear pressed into the batter as it’s cooking makes for a sweet surprise. Get the recipe >

Croissant Bread Pudding with Bourbon Sauce

Got a bunch of viennoiseries to finish before they go stale? This extravagant, boozy bread pudding makes the most of past-its-prime pastries by turning them into a decadent and boozy breakfast. Get the recipe >

Blackberry-Mint Scones

Agatha Kulaga and Erin Patinkin, of Ovenly bakery, call for frozen berries in their blackberry-mint scones, so you can make them even when berries aren’t in season—ideal for Christmas breakfast when fresh is harder to come by. Get the recipe >

The post 22 Joyful and Triumphant Breakfast Recipes for Christmas Morning appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a SAVEUR column by Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

Israel Rivera tasted his first New Mexico chile pepper when he was a high school freshman growing up in Albuquerque. He thought he knew chiles—his Mexican parents made all kinds of salsas at home—but the ones wrapped inside this five-dollar strip-mall breakfast burrito were different. Roasted, earthy, and a tad sweet, these green chiles had a depth of flavor unlike anything his 14-year-old self had ever experienced. “From then on, it was green chile on everything all the time,” he recalls. “To say it was life-changing sounds kind of dramatic, but it was.”

People in New Mexico have been rolling breakfast burritos for decades—at least since the 1970s, when it’s believed Santa Fe restaurant Tia Sophia’s first coined the term on its menu. Every eatery makes the dish a little differently, but certain ingredients, like a flour tortilla and fluffy scrambled eggs, are standard. Potatoes might be shredded or cubed. Cheese is often cheddar or a cheddar-Jack blend, but some cooks swap in cotija or queso fresco. Bacon is typical, though meats like sausage and carne adovada (pork stewed with chiles) are also popular. But the absolute non-negotiable—without which a burrito can’t be considered New Mexican, says Rivera, who now serves the item at his Albuquerque restaurant The Shop Breakfast & Lunch—is New Mexico chiles, roasted to charred perfection.

Skinny, long, and a little wrinkly, the state’s chiles are a prized cornerstone of the New Mexican kitchen. “Pueblo Native Americans are at the heart of the story of these chiles,” says Santa Fe-based chef and food columnist Marianne Sundquist, explaining that Indigenous communities have been cultivating peppers in the Southwest for centuries. The ingredient thrives in New Mexico, where the crop has adapted to the arid Southwest environment’s abundant sunshine and cool nights, explains Danise Coon, a senior research specialist at New Mexico State University’s Agricultural Experiment Station. In the early 1900s, university horticulturist Fabián Garciá pioneered a new hybrid cultivar with milder heat, improved resistance to disease and drought, and skins that were easier to peel when roasted. Dubbed the “New Mexico No. 9,” it was a commercial success, embedding the hybrid into the state’s culture—and into its burritos.

Compared to most spicy peppers, New Mexican chiles are bigger and fleshier, so they stand up well to roasting—which is the fate that awaits the majority of the crop. When harvest season rolls around, usually in late August or September, the air across the state is thick with the sweet, smoky smell of roasting chiles. “I always joke that if someone were to bottle that scent into a perfume, I would wear it every day,” Sundquist says with a laugh. The cooking process not only intensifies the acidity and heat of the peppers, but it also gives them a nutty quality and mildly bitter edge. “We find roasted green chiles necessary in most of our foods,” Rivera notes. New Mexicans purée them into soups, smother enchiladas with them, tuck them into burgers, and fry them into chiles rellenos. “It’s our way of adding umaminess to any dish,” he tells me. “We’re just so in love with that flavor.” 

This devotion to New Mexico chiles, coupled with their short harvest window, means locals are willing to go to great lengths to stock up. Just ask Eric See, the New Mexico native behind the Brooklyn breakfast-burrito joint Ursula. As farmers pluck the year’s first crop, See flies into Albuquerque, rents a minivan, and drives down to the family farm Homegrown Market in Deming with his dad to load up the car with chiles. Then, he leans on the accelerator the whole drive back to Brooklyn, blasting the AC to keep each bushel as cold and fresh as possible.

During harvest season, people selling peppers—whether on farms, in grocery stores, or from burlap bags on the side of the road—often roast them for buyers at the source. “My mom would go to the farms and bring back giant trash bags full of roasted chiles,” See recalls. But now that he’s rolling burritos all the way out in Brooklyn, he opts to do the job himself once a year, to immerse his customers in what he calls a “transportive culinary and cultural experience.” This means setting up metal barrel roasters and propane tanks that need to be supervised constantly and rotated by hand. The end result, he insists, is worth all the extra effort: “One bite, and it’s like I’m back home.” 

After all, it’s New Mexico that gives the famous chiles their unique flavor. There’s even a law, the New Mexico Chile Advertising Act, that forbids labeling or selling products as New Mexico chiles unless they were grown in the state—a move that Coon says “protects the identity and preserves the uniqueness” of the chiles. “Plant the seeds anywhere else, and they won’t have the same climate or environment, so they’re going to taste different,” adds Lois Ellen Frank, a New Mexico-based culinary anthropologist and author of the cookbook Seed to Plate, Soil to Sky. Even within the state, different regions have varying elevations and soil compositions, which lead to divergence in flavor. “It’s similar to the way we think about terroir for grapes,” adds See, noting that many would consider Hatch—a village in southern New Mexico that’s become synonymous with the peppers grown there—to be “the Napa of chiles.” 

Growing up in California, I devoured many breakfast burritos, not realizing that New Mexico’s were something else entirely. Several years ago, while passing through Albuquerque on a road trip, I ordered one at the restaurant Papa Frank’s and received the question, “Red or green?” Seeing my blank stare, the server explained that they could smother my burrito in either red or green chile sauce (the query is the official state question). The two types, I learned later, are in fact made from the same chile: “Green is the immature fruit, and it turns red when it’s left to ripen on the vine,” Frank explains. Green has more tart, citrusy notes, she adds, while red has earthy, even chocolatey, cherry-like undertones. There’s also a third answer to the state question: “Christmas style,” a best-of-both-worlds burrito half-drenched in green, half in red.

To Rivera, New Mexico’s iconic breakfast burrito embodies the unique culture of the state. Flour arrived with the Spanish, he points out, while tortillas and chiles have roots in Native American and Mexican cooking, both of which have deeply shaped the Land of Enchantment’s food traditions.

“Yeah, it’s just a burrito,” says Rivera. “But when you break it down into its parts, it’s this beautiful coming together of all the things that make us so special here.”

Recipe

New Mexico Breakfast Burrito

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