No matter
your route,
korokke is a dish
that changes
alongside you.½ cup all-purpose fl our
2 large eggs
2 cups panko bread crumbs
Tonkatsu sauce, purchased or
homemade (optional)- Set a medium pot of water to boil. As the
water heats, wash, peel and quarter potatoes. - Set potatoes in boiling water, and cook until
they’ve softened enough to piece easily
with a fork, 20-25 minutes. Drain potatoes in
a colander. While potatoes are still warm,
return them to the pot. Mash until you’re left
with a fluffy mixture, fold in butter until melted
and set aside. - While potatoes simmer, prepare the
meat: Heat a skillet over medium, and add
1 tablespoon oil. Add onion, and cook,
stirring often, until softened, 3-4 minutes,
then add beef. Cook, breaking the meat
into bits, and add soy sauce, sugar and
pepper. Continue cooking and stirring until
the meat is cooked through, 3-4 minutes. - Add beef mixture to mashed potatoes
in pot, and stir until thoroughly mixed. Season
with salt and pepper to taste. Let the
mixture cool until it’s warm (but not cold). - With your palms, form the warm mixture
into 1-inch-thick oval-shaped patties no more
than 3 inches in length. As you form each
patty, set on a baking sheet. You should end
up with 10-12 patties. - Cover the patties loosely with plastic wrap,
and refrigerate to cool for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, organize your breading station:
Place flour in a shallow plate, beat eggs
in a shallow bowl and spread panko on
another plate. - Remove patties from fridge, and begin
the breading process: Dip one patty into flour,
covering completely. Then transfer to
the beaten egg, covering completely. Then
transfer to the panko, being sure to cover
each patty completely. As you complete each
patty, set back on the pan before continuing
with the next patty. - Fill a medium saucepan with oil to a depth
of 1½ inches and heat to 340 degrees.
Deep-fry korokke in batches of two at a time.
(If you add too many, the oil’s temperature
will drop too drastically.) Fry, turning once,
until golden brown, about 3 minutes. They’re
already cooked inside, so use their color
as your guide. Transfer to a cooling rack or
a plate lined with paper towels, and repeat
with the remaining korokke. Continually
regulate the oil’s temperature throughout — if
the heat is too high, the korokke will burn, and
if it’s too cold, then your korokke will be soggy. - Serve hot, with tonkatsu sauce, if you’d like.
Yield: 4-6 servings.Potato Korokke
Time: 2½ hours4 medium russet potatoes (2½ pounds)
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon neutral oil, such as canola,
plus more for frying
½ of 1 white onion, minced
½ pound ground beef
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
½ teaspoon ground black pepper, plus
more to taste
Saltmeaty cousin, menchi katsu. No matter
your route, korokke is a dish that changes
alongside you; whether you’re looking to
eat a little less meat, or perhaps trying to
impress a date — or even conjuring a com-
forting meal for one.
The dish likely made its way to Japan in
the late 1800s, but because the country had
very little dairy industry, cooks substituted
potato fi llings for the cream in croquettes.
The fi rst mentions of korokke appeared
as Yoshoku (Western-style dishes) entered
Japan’s culture. Such meals included kare
rice (brought to Japan by the British Royal
Navy), tonkatsu (which began as thinly
sliced pork cuts sautéed and baked in 1899)
and Napolitan (which surfaced in Yokoha-
ma’s New Grand Hotel, upon the head chef
Shigetada Irie’s attempts to emulate a meal
of spaghetti and ketchup).
In Japanese, hoku hoku is an expres-
sion for dishes that are textured, fl avor-
ful, warm and starch-laden; no matter the
variety, korokke fi t the bill. You could eat
one or two or 10 on their own. You could
pair them with shredded cabbage. And,
with the croquettes nestled between slic-
es of milk bread and lavished in kewpie
mayo, a korokke sandwich is a revelation.
But actually cooking these hand-held
marvels is a genuine act of love: It’s hardly
a dish that you just whip up on a whim.
You’re scrubbing and mashing the pota-
toes. You’re washing and chopping the
vegetables. You’re molding each cro-
quette one by one, rounding the edges
with your palms. The croquettes are
chilled afterward — they’ll come undone
in the oil if you cook them at room tem-
perature — and you’re left to fi ll the time
with everything else you’ve been putting
off , until it’s time to fi nally fry them in
batches. It’s a dish that requires many dif-
ferent skills — all of them approachable.
But it requires patience. Early attempts
left me burned by oil. I’d add too much
fi lling. I wouldn’t add enough. I’d roll
them in too little panko, or entirely too
much. The frying oil was too hot. The oil
wasn’t hot enough. Most devastating, the
korokke’s eventual shape looked nothing
like the crisp, tidy rows from the homes
of friends’ mothers, who insisted that the
only way to get better was to keep cook-
ing it (they were right).
But even if I couldn’t pull off the ideal
korokke myself, there were always bea-
cons out in the world. Like the paper-
bag-bundled korokke in the center of San
Jose’s Mitsuwa Marketplace. Or a fl ight
of kabocha croquettes at San Francisco’s
Izakaya Rintaro. And most recently, from
a strip-mall restaurant in Los Angeles
called Delish.
The building was tiny and tucked away.
I’d driven by it for months, always mean-
ing to visit. But this time, after a week
that could only be described as unbear-
able, I fi nally pulled over. Just outside
the entrance, some folks sat yelling in
Italian, while a group of guys laughed at
one another in Korean just inside. Earth,
Wind & Fire crooned from the speakers.
A Japanese woman directed two young-
er men behind the kitchen’s curtain. The
scene felt warm — very much like some-
one’s home — and when the host fi nally
sat me down, I ordered korokke and a
bowl of noodles.
What does it mean for a dish to be
done? For me, the answer keeps changing,
but there’s something enticing about the
meal that gets away from us. After each of
these korokke encounters, I took what I
learned back to my own attempts: varying
the fi lling, making my own panko, chilling
the croquettes just a little longer. I never
quite found myself reaching those ideals
— but occasionally, I’d fi nd one of my own.
It felt a little closer to where I actually was
coming from. That feels a lot like home.
On this particular evening, the chef
brought me her korokke, grinning and
waiting a beat while I took the fi rst bite.
I’m not sure what face I made, because
she immediately asked if I was all right.
Before I could answer, the Italians brought
their party inside, laughing. ‘‘After the
Love Has Gone’’ rolled into ‘‘That’s the
Way of the World.’’ The city’s chill crept
in from the open door. It all felt like a
reminder that, if we’re lucky, the many
homes we occupy can change with us.20 6.12.
Eat