The first spoonful of real Korean Kimchi Jjigae I ever had came off a portable gas burner on the deck of a tiny squid boat in Sokcho harbour, on the northeast coast of Korea. I was three hours into a slow bus ride up from Gangneung, half asleep, sea-legged before I had even gotten on the sea. The fisherman who took me out, Mr. Choi, cooked it in a battered ttukbaegi wedged between a coil of rope and a bait bucket.
He did not speak much English. I did not speak much Korean. We managed.
The Bus, the Harbour, the Bowl
I had been in Seoul for a week and wanted to see the east coast before flying home. The bus dropped me at Sokcho terminal a little before noon. Cold October wind, the kind that gets under a jacket that was fine in the city.
Mr. Choi ran a two-hour harbour trip out of the small pier near Daepohang market. His wife had packed him lunch. Or what I thought was lunch. When we anchored in the calm water past the breakwater he lit the burner, dropped in pork belly, and started chopping kimchi so old and sour I could smell the ferment from across the deck. It went in with a splash of brine straight from the jar.
Twenty-five minutes later he handed me a bowl. I ate standing up, gripping the rail. It was sour, porky, deep red, barely spicy. Not what I had expected at all.
Not Actually a Spicy Soup
Here is the thing I got wrong for years. I thought kimchi-jjigae was supposed to burn. It is not. Despite the red colour, authentic kimchi-jjigae is only mildly spicy. The dominant notes are sour, savoury, and porky. The gochugaru is there for colour and depth more than heat.
It is also not the same as kimchi-guk, which is thinner and more soup-like. Jjigae is a stew. Ingredient-dense. You spoon it, you do not slurp it. Mr. Choi kept pointing at the pot and saying “jjigae, jjigae,” as if to make sure I understood the difference.
The dish itself is not old-old. Chili peppers only arrived in Korea in the late 16th century, likely with Portuguese traders coming through Japan during the Imjin Wars. Once spicy fermented napa kimchi became the household staple during the Joseon era, cooks started simmering the sour, past-its-prime batches with a bit of pork to stretch the protein. A commoner’s dish. Resourceful. It only overtook doenjang-jjigae as Korea’s most popular everyday stew around the mid-2010s.
Bringing Korean Kimchi Jjigae Back to My Kitchen
Back home I hunted for kimchi that tasted like Mr. Choi’s. The stuff on most grocery shelves in the US skews sweet and young. Not what you want here. Fresh kimchi tastes flat in this stew. You need it aged, fizzy, almost aggressive when you open the jar.
I get mine at a Korean market off Western Avenue where the owner writes the fermentation date on the lid in marker. If it is under three weeks I put it back. Three to five weeks is the window. Older is fine too, if you are brave.
The other thing I adapted. Mr. Choi used a tiny burner and a heavy clay ttukbaegi. I have one now, a small brown one I carry home in my checked bag on the flight back from Incheon last spring. But most nights I just use my old cast iron dutch oven with the slightly warped lid. Works fine. The clay pot is nicer for serving because it stays bubbling on the table.
What I Used
- 3 cups aged sour napa kimchi, at least three weeks fermented, chopped bite-size
- Half a cup of kimchi brine straight from the jar
- 12 oz pork belly, skinless, cut into half-inch thick pieces
- 1 tbsp toasted sesame oil
- 1 tbsp gochugaru, the Korean chili flakes
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 medium yellow onion, sliced
- 1 tsp doenjang, fermented soybean paste
- 1 tsp gochujang, optional but I always add it
- 1 tsp sugar to soften the sour edge
- 3 cups anchovy-kelp stock, or water in a pinch
- 1 block firm tofu, about 14 oz, sliced into thick slabs
- 3 scallions, cut in 2-inch pieces, whites and greens separated
- A splash of fish sauce at the end, to taste
Where the Stew Punishes Impatience
This is a one-pot stew but it is not a fast one. There are three places where hurrying ruins it, and I have ruined it in all three.
First, the chili bloom. After the pork renders you add the gochugaru and garlic to the hot fat for about thirty seconds. That is it. Longer and the chili scorches and turns bitter. The first time I made kimchi stew with pork belly at home I walked to grab my phone, came back, and the whole pot smelled like burnt paprika. Started over.
Second, the caramelization step. Once the kimchi goes in you press it against the bottom of the pot for a full five or six minutes. Not stir. Press. It should darken to a deeper red, almost brick. If you rush this the broth stays thin and one-note.
Third, the simmer. Twenty minutes of steady active bubbling, uncovered. Not a lazy tremor. Not a rolling boil either. You want the surface working the whole time so the fat emulsifies into the broth and the kimchi turns tender. I set a timer and go fold laundry.
The tofu goes in last, five minutes at the end, laid on top like slabs on a raft. Spoon broth over them so they soak up colour.
How I Eat It
Rice. Short-grain, hot, in a small bowl next to the ttukbaegi. A sheet of gim on the side if I have it. Sometimes a soft-boiled egg cracked into my rice bowl, which is not traditional, but nobody is watching.
I do not add extra chili. I know that sounds wrong for a red Korean stew. The old kimchi is already doing so much heavy lifting on the flavour side, more heat just muddies it. Mr. Choi did not add any either.
The stew is better the next day. Everyone says that about stews and it is usually a little bit true. Here it is very true. Cold, straight from the fridge, standing at the kitchen counter on a Sunday morning before anyone else is up. That is my favourite way, honestly. Better than fresh.
One Last Note
If you cannot find good aged kimchi, leave a jar of the freshest you can get on the counter for a week before making this. It will not be identical to Mr. Choi’s but it will get you close. And if you ever end up in Sokcho in October, eat at the harbour. Bring cash.
Korean Kimchi Jjigae
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- If you don't have anchovy-kelp stock ready, make a quick one: bring 4 cups water to a simmer with 10 dried anchovies (guts removed) and a 4-inch piece of dried kelp. Simmer 10 minutes, remove the kelp, simmer 5 more, then strain. Measure out 3 cups.
- Squeeze the kimchi lightly over its jar to reserve the brine, then chop it into bite-size pieces. If the pieces are very long, cut across the ribs so every bite includes leaf.
- Heat the sesame oil in a heavy pot or ttukbaegi over medium heat. Add the pork belly and cook, stirring, until the pieces render some fat and turn opaque with light browning on the edges, about 4 minutes.
- Push the pork to one side and add the gochugaru and minced garlic to the fat. Stir for 30 seconds until the chili blooms and smells fragrant — do not let it scorch.
- Add the chopped kimchi and stir everything together. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes, pressing the kimchi against the bottom of the pot so it caramelizes slightly and turns a deeper red.
- Stir in the doenjang, gochujang (if using), and sugar until dissolved into the kimchi. Pour in the reserved kimchi brine and the anchovy-kelp stock. Add the sliced onion and the white parts of the scallions.
- Bring the pot to a strong simmer, then reduce the heat to maintain a steady, active bubble. Cook uncovered for 20 minutes, until the kimchi is tender, the pork is silky, and the broth has darkened and thickened slightly.
- Lay the tofu slabs on top of the stew, spooning some broth over them. Simmer gently for 5 minutes so the tofu warms through and soaks up the flavor.
- Taste the broth. Adjust with a splash of fish sauce or a pinch of salt if it needs more savor. If it tastes too sharp, add another pinch of sugar.
- Scatter the green parts of the scallions over the top. Carry the pot straight to the table while it is still bubbling volcanically, and serve with bowls of hot short-grain rice alongside.