An article about kim chi

Has it happened to you yet?

Were you cheerfully going about your day when some tedious enthusiast like me shoved a jar of fermented cabbage under your nose? Did you recoil in disbelief at the stench of it? Were you treated to an impromptu lecture on the wonders of kim chi? No? Well, today's your lucky day.

Coming across like leftover vegetables drowning in alien bin juice, and for most people only becoming less appetizing when they smell it, kim chi is basically a dish of Chinese leaf/Napa cabbage bathed in an eye-poppingly red "juice" that's a mix of Korean chilli powder, fish sauce, and onions. It also contains a level of garlic that's more punch-up than punchy.

And what really ups the wince factor is the fact that kim chi is fermented. It's left for days, weeks, or sometimes years to develop a buzzing, bubbly tartness that I'd be told off for describing as trampy. Almost like it's not actually supposed to be eaten.

So why eat it? Why put yourself through this zero-stakes Bushtucker Trial? Well, consider that other ubiquitous 2020s trend, sea swimming: why on earth would you start your day leaping into ice-cold water when there's toast, central heating, and Lorraine at home? Well, as the evangelists continue to evangelise: once you're in, it's amazing.

In the same way some cheese (by which I mean an unforgettably manky manchego in a 2000s Brighton tapas bar) can taste like you dropped it on the floor while mopping the bathroom - but elicits wows when grated over pasta - kim chi sometimes needs a bit of context. You need to prepare your mouth for it. Don't try it directly after a bowl of Coco Pops, for instance.

But it's doable. Remember when you first got your head around olives? Same deal. To begin with, I'd recommend a modest portion, at room temperature, atop a bowl of steaming rice, with some simply cooked meat or greens.

Or you could just dip a toe in. It can be put to gentler uses than threatening unsuspecting passers-by: try kim chi ketchup, kim chi pancakes, or even cheat and find yourself a bottle of syrupy-sweet kim chi base and pour it shamelessly over a bowl of hot brown fusilli (filthy but fabulous).

Cheap syrup notwithstanding, I think the main reason I love kim chi is that, for something so aggressively tasty, it's really bloody good for you. The fact it's basically just vegetables is my excuse to throw as much of it down my neck as I please, guilt-free, but on top of that it would appear that all sorts of exciting bacterial shenanigans are going on inside that blood red swamp.

FIY

If you're already firmly aboard the kim chi train, but you haven't yet gone the whole hog and made it at home, explain yourself. Not only is it a borderline essential in any self-respecting modern fridge, but the process is wholesome from every angle: your kim chi will be the product of natural, simple ingredients (do not use that syrup) and will cost you much, much less than the shop-bought stuff. Plus it's the kind of low-impact Saturday afternoon activity that Gyles Brandreth was invented for.

To be honest, I've always approached the world of jar-it-yourself with a frankly ridiculous level of anxiety about sterilisation (glass jars in the oven! Wax seals! DON'T TOUCH IT WITH YOUR HANDS!) but according to Maangchi, Korean cookery goddess and creator of some of the most easy-to-follow recipe videos in existence, you just put it in a decent BPA-free plastic tub and wink to camera. There's no hand wringing over temperatures (or hand-scalding pouring drama); just make sure you occasionally revisit your cabbage and dunk it back down below the waterline (with clean hands).

I'm not going to detail each step of the process: Maangchi's excellent video will tell you everything you need to know. I do hope you enjoy the soothing vegetable admin of salting individual cabbage leaves (do not forget to rinse). I hope you're as excited as I am about doing something meaningful with chives for once. And I hope you feel the unbridled triumph of getting through multiple bulbs of garlic.

By the way, from my experience, I suggest leaving your creation out at room temperature for three to four days then giving it at least a month in the fridge, for an adequate level of pong. Make a metric shitload of the stuff, and every time you've got a boring bowl of cooked rice left over, get it nice and hot, add your protein, and ladle out an enormous portion of angry cabbage all over it.

Off you go.