Twice-Fried Chicken and the Engine of Han

Hello, friend.

(First a quick note: Due to some changes in my schedule, this newsletter will show up in your inbox on Saturday instead of Friday.)

It always starts with good intentions and grand plans.
Visions of beautiful, easily made food.
A calm kitchen.
A reasonable timeline.

And then reality shows up wearing a crisp white shirt and crunchy chili oil.

This week’s issue is a testament to my love of Korean food—something I credit almost entirely to Anthony Bourdain. If I had to choose right now, Korean food would beat almost anything else. (Yes, even other Asian cuisines. Sorry, P.F. Chang.)

Gochujang, Glory, and the Setup

Gochujang (Korean fermented chili paste) is a masterful creation from a culture that has existed for a very long time and has, more recently, flourished on the global stage. I love seeing that. I especially love that even in my small town there are multiple places to get Korean food.

This week, we’re doing Korean Fried Chicken and Korean-Style Radish Pickles, from Appetites (p. 165 and 251, respectively).

I truly believed this would be simple.

I even bought a deep fryer. A brand-new one. I had been waiting to use it.

I bought chicken.
I bought more chili oil (because it takes a lot to marinate four pounds of chicken).
I bought MSG, which I had mixed feelings about.
I bought Frank’s Red Hot—only because I was out.
And I bought a daikon radish, which turned into a minor quest.

Sprouts Farmers Market website insisted they had many daikon radishes. The produce section said otherwise. Just sad radishes with wilted leaves.

I asked a produce employee, and his eyes lit up. He ran into the back and returned with a large handful of daikon like he’d unearthed buried treasure.

Daikon radishes, for the record, are white, mild, tubular, and absolutely not something you should leave until the last minute if the recipe says “let it sit for 24 hours, and up to three day before servings.”

Which I did.

Because of course.

Mise en Place, or the Illusion of Control

I started the way I always do—cleaning the kitchen, clearing the counters, putting away every dirty dish so I’d have as much space as possible. I knew I’d have sheet pans lined with paper and racks for fried chicken, and oil splatter everywhere.

The fryer takes two quarts of peanut oil, so it’s not huge. I figured I could safely cook two to three pieces of chicken at a time.

The recipe calls for thighs and drumsticks. I also used chicken breasts because my husband prefers them, cutting them in half so they behaved more like thighs.

Four pounds of chicken went into a marinade of chili oil, salt, and gochugaru—a dry Korean chili flake that looks like it wants to permanently dye your clothes.

It nearly succeeded.

Fry Once, Freeze, Panic

After an hour, I heated the oil to the temperature listed in Appetites—300°F.

The marinated chicken, now speckled with chili seeds, was drained and dredged in tapioca starch. I only had granulated tapioca, so I blitzed it in the blender until it became a fine powder. This worked beautifully.

The instructions were…odd. Cook the chicken until about 75% done, cool it, wrap it tightly, freeze overnight, then fry again the next day.

I followed Tony’s directions.

The second fry revealed a problem: despite hot bubbling oil and heroic if anxiety-ridden patience, the internal temperatures were still in the 60s, 70s, and 80s.

Great decades for music. Not so much for cooking chicken.

So I sauced it and finished everything in a 350°F oven, annoyed and muttering.

I told the ghost this should not have happened.

He shrugged.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with your deep fryer.”

It’s brand new, Anthony. I glared. He shrugged again.

I'm mostly sure it's user error. These recipes have been tested after all.

But at least I didn’t flood my stove top with bubbling oil this time.

The Sauce (A Redemption Arc)

Let’s talk about the sauce—because it is flawless.

Into the blender:

• garlic

• gochujang

• maple syrup

• fish sauce

• rice wine

• soy sauce

• Frank’s Red Hot (I used half the amount for self-preservation)

• MSG (optional but recommended)

Blend everything together. Do not chop the garlic. Do not stir. Do not cook the sauce. Just blend it into a smooth, glossy, delicious, deeply dangerous and condiment.

Then immediately wash the blender or food processor.
That sauce is made of stains.

Daikon, Deadlines, and Cheating Time

The daikon radish: peeled, cut into half-inch cubes, easy.

Brine:

• ¼ cup white vinegar

• ¼ cup water

• ¼ cup sugar

• 2 teaspoons salt

The recipe says: sit 8–12 hours, refrigerate three days.

I did not have three days.

So I heated the brine and poured it hot over the daikon. The liquid multiplied as moisture was pulled from the radish—a small miracle—and after cooling, I refrigerated it.

Hot pickles are only acceptable on grilled cheese or Cubanos. This was neither.

I also bought baby bok choy—mostly for color. No one loves bok choy. It’s fine.

The Plate (and the Payoff)

Once fully cooked, the chicken went into bowls with seared-then-steamed bok choy and spoonfuls of daikon.

The flavor? Incredible.
Spicy, layered, addictive.

Which brings us back—inevitably—to Anthony Bourdain and Korea.

Korea, on Screen and in Spirit

Anthony first explored Korea in No Reservations (Season 2, Episode 6…in some places), filmed roughly a decade before his return in Parts Unknown.

In Parts Unknown Season 5, Episode 1, he comes back with longtime colleague Nari and is introduced to budae jjigae—Korean army stew —during a mukbang (see next section) by a television chef cooking in a former U.S. Army tent. This is a pivotal moment in Anthony’s life. We know this because years later he publishes this recipe in Appetites.

The episode is wild. Korean business men in suits. Endless drinking. Oysters. Barbecue beef. Karaoke. Tiny octopuses—some of them still wriggling and clinging, disturbingly, to the sides of the bowls, post-mortem.

@thomaslmanuel

Would you eat raw moving octopus? 🐙👀🇰🇷

♬ original sound - Thomas Manuel

I said this to the ghost.

He nodded slowly, as though remembering a difficult event. And he didn’t look at me. I wondered what happened that wasn’t shown in the final version of the episode.

Mukbang, Han, and Jeong

Korea also gave us mukbang—broadcast eating shows where people cook and eat on camera. It’s still very much a thing, as it was during Anthony’s visit.

But Korean food isn’t just indulgence. It carries emotional weight.

There’s han (as told by Nari to Anthony)—a deeply Korean concept that she described as sorrow and anger, endurance and yearning, regret and bitterness, held together by a grim determination to keep going. A weight shaped by history.

Anthony replied to her:

But han isn’t alone.

There’s also jeong—deep fondness, attachment, loyalty. An “Invisible hug.” Where han endures, jeong binds.

Both are equally strong.

A Sweet Coda

Unrelated to fried chicken, but still relevant — at Christmas this year, I made gochujang caramel cookies, reminiscent of snickerdoodles—wide, flat disks of sugary confection streaked with spicy deliciousness.

They were amazing. (Recipe from Eric Kim, NY Times Cooking)

Leftovers, Limits, and the Adventure

I now have slightly over three pounds of Korean fried chicken in my fridge. I’m heating some up for lunch with the daikon pickles and some pickled red onions I made to go with Slow-Cooker Chipotle-Honey Chicken Tacos.

My husband will probably want a turkey and cheese sandwich. (He’s not a fan of spicy…unless…uh, never mind.)

There are limits, of course. Adventure doesn’t require live tentacles. But it does require curiosity.

As for me?
I’ll always choose the adventure.

You should too.

Life is an adventure.
And other people’s food is delicious.

I’m still not eating the tentacles.

And, in the immortal words of Anthony Bourdain, fuck ICE.

___

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle
Your kitchen medium