Since the food writer Molly Stevens published her cookbook “All About Braising” in 2004, she’s often wondered why it still resonates. To this day, she regularly hears from readers old and new, which is a good thing, because Ms. Stevens says she never tires of talking about braising.
In a recent email, she attributed the book’s lasting appeal to “the confidence that learning to braise can build in a cook.”
“And confidence,” she said, “is a cornerstone in any cook’s journey.”
I never considered how the way I braise now is a result of confidence, built over time, but looking back, Ms. Stevens may be right.
Nearly 17 years ago, one of my first purchases as a young bachelor in New York City was a mustard-yellow Dutch oven, a proper enameled cast-iron pot with a heavy lid. It was the era of “Julie & Julia,” and French braises — cooked low and slow with just enough liquid, as the cooking encyclopedia “Larousse Gastronomique” dictated — filled my early culinary repertoire. Staying home and nursing a pot of meat felt far more fun than going out.
Those dinners were fine, but rudderless and inconsistent. At times they’d be too bland or too salty, the liquid not reduced enough or the fat not skimmed enough, the meat tough because I hadn’t given the collagen ample time to break down. But with each mistake, I got better at it, and not enough became enough.
Now, reading “All About Braising” feels like finding the instructions for a Lego set after years of trying to wing it.
Water, not stock, serves as the liquid in this braise, which becomes infused with flavor from the chicken and kimchi.Credit…Armando Rafael for The New York Times. Food Stylist: Simon Andrews.
Whenever I want my house to smell like a home, I braise, specifically chicken legs in kimchi. Here, I use water as the braising liquid to let the rest of the ingredients shine.
The use of water as a braising liquid (over stock or wine, the usual suspects) is a recent development for Ms. Stevens. Doing so, she said, can result in a more straightforward result. “When braising something fatty,” she explained, “the fat that rises to the top is clearer and rises more neatly.”
As the chicken and kimchi cook and release their moisture into the braising liquid, the water becomes a flavorful stock that not only cooks the food, but also becomes steam that rises and falls back onto the food, infusing it. (In her book, Ms. Stevens delightfully calls this process “a delicious cycle of flavor give-and-take.”)
While many braises start with a sear, this one doesn’t. But trust me: Skip the sear. Or rather, don’t apologize for cutting that step, a product of French cooking that isn’t as prevalent in the braises of other cuisines.
Instead, try blanching the chicken, then shocking it in cold water, a technique used in dishes like Chinese white-cut chicken and Hainanese chicken rice. This does two things: It removes any scum or gaminess that might obstruct the clean taste of the poultry. And the temperature shift tightens the skin, leaving the chicken intact but meltingly tender inside after just a half-hour of braising.
Additionally, the kimchi’s acid tenderizes the meat and intensifies the final gravy, an electric-red pool of umami that builds across a few quick steps. First, stir-frying fine matchsticks of ginger in a pool of butter releases an aroma for the gods and echoes the kimchi’s gingery punch. Then, two generous spoonfuls of gochugaru, the Korean red-pepper powder that’s mild in heat but deep in savory sweetness, bloom in that fat, staining it neon. In the end, this gingery chile butter fuses with the chicken fat and floats atop the braising liquid like lily pads.
Lifting the lid releases a waft of steam, a sight that would raise any cook’s confidence.
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