Weeknight Beef Bulgogi

October. The leaves turning. The rain committed now, not tentative, the full Seattle autumn that makes you wonder why you live here and then the mountains appear between clouds and you remember. James and I are packing — combining two households, which means deciding what stays and what goes. His Taiwanese tea set stays. My onggi pots stay. His wok stays. My Korean grandmother's knife stays. Everything stays. Two Asian kitchens merging into one Asian-American kitchen, the shelves doubling, the drawer space halving, the compromise of cohabitation played out in spatula allocation and pantry organization.

I packed the Capitol Hill apartment this week — the condo where I became Korean. The condo where the first scrambled eggs happened, where the first kimchi was made, where the first jjigae simmered, where Dr. Yoon's number lived on the fridge, where the takeout menus were replaced by H Mart receipts. The packing is an excavation: every layer revealed is a year of growth. The Zojirushi goes last. The Zojirushi started everything and it will christen the new kitchen the way it christened this one: by making rice, perfectly, the foundation, the constant.

I told Dr. Yoon about leaving Capitol Hill. She said, "You are leaving the kitchen where you built your identity." I said, "The identity travels. The kitchen was the container. The contents go with me." She smiled — smile number five in four years of therapy. The contents go. The onggi and the knife and the gochugaru and the skill and the Korean and the American and the both. The contents go wherever I go.

Saturday: Bellevue. Last Saturday from Capitol Hill. Karen made her pot roast. I brought kimchi jjigae. The eternal pairing. The first and the constant. The pot roast where it started. The jjigae where it continues. Both travel. Both hold.

The jjigae I brought to Karen’s that last Saturday was the ceremonial dish—the one that marks the occasion—but it’s the bulgogi that I make on a Tuesday when nothing is ceremonial, when the boxes are still half-unpacked and the Zojirushi is the only thing I’ve deliberately placed. This is the recipe that doesn’t require a reason. The Korean grandmother’s knife goes to work on the beef, the marinade comes together fast, and the kitchen smells like a kitchen again no matter which city you’re in. The contents travel. This one especially.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 25 min (plus 30 min marinating) | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs beef ribeye or sirloin, thinly sliced
1/4 cup soy sauce
2 tablespoons sesame oil
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 tablespoon rice wine (mirin or sake)
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
2 green onions, thinly sliced, plus more for serving
1/2 Asian pear or 1/4 cup pear juice (for tenderizing)
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
1 tablespoon neutral oil (for cooking)
Cooked short-grain white rice, for serving

Instructions

Make the marinade. In a medium bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, sesame oil, brown sugar, rice wine, garlic, ginger, and grated or juiced pear until the sugar dissolves.
Marinate the beef. Add the thinly sliced beef and sliced green onions to the marinade. Toss to coat evenly, cover, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes and up to 8 hours. The longer it sits, the more tender and flavorful it becomes.
Heat the pan. Place a large cast-iron skillet or heavy pan over high heat. Add the neutral oil and let it get very hot—you want a good sear, not a steam.
Cook the beef. Working in batches to avoid crowding, cook the marinated beef slices for 2–3 minutes per side until caramelized and slightly charred at the edges. Do not stir constantly; let each side develop color.
Rest and finish. Remove from heat. Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds and additional sliced green onions.
Serve. Plate over steamed short-grain rice. Serve alongside kimchi, steamed spinach, or whatever banchan you have on hand.

Nutrition (per serving)

Weeknight Beef Bulgogi — The Contents That Travel With You