Are you eating the crispy rice at the bottom of the pot? 13 L.A. spots to try nurungji
After a raucous night out in my 20s, the real afterparty was always at BCD Tofu House — hunched over bubbling Korean tofu stew and a sizzling-hot stone bowl of steamed rice. After I'd scooped most of it out, a server would pour warm tea into the bowl, loosening the rice clinging stubbornly to the bottom. Scraping up those crispy-chewy bits of scorched rice, known in Korean as nurungji, quickly became my favorite part of the meal.
Long before electric rice cookers, Koreans traditionally cooked rice over an open flame in an iron cauldron called a gamasot. As it steamed, the bottom layer would crisp up against the hot metal, forming golden-brown nurungji.
'Today, nurungji simply means the crispy layer of rice that forms at the bottom of any pot or cooking appliance,' says Sarah Ahn, who co-wrote the Korean cookbook ' Umma ' with her mother, Nam Soon Ahn. 'Personally, and within Korean culture, I see nurungji as a deeply nostalgic food, especially for Koreans of my mom's generation.'
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Chef and cookbook author Debbie Lee adds, 'Sometimes it's intentional, sometimes it's from overcooking — what I call a great culinary accident.'
Korea isn't alone in its love for scorched rice. Persian tahdig is the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, flipped and served with the crispy layer on top. Chinese guoba is crispy rice paired with saucy stir-fries to soak up every bit of flavor. In West Africa, kanzo refers to the caramelized layer left behind after cooking, often found in dishes like jollof rice. Spain's socarrat forms the base of well-executed paella.
And in Korea, nurungji is endlessly versatile — enjoyed on its own, steeped in hot water or tea as sungnyung (thought to be a soothing palate cleanser and digestive aid), or transformed into nurungji-tang, where the rice becomes the crunchy base for a light broth with seafood or vegetables.
With its nutty, toasted flavor that highlights the grain's natural aroma, nurungji is comfort food born out of practicality. 'Like so much of Korean food, it represents our resourcefulness — nothing goes to waste! — and our ability to find flavor in humble things,' says Sarah. Rather than discarding it, Koreans embraced the crunchy layer as a snack or meal.
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'My parents are from Pyongyang and fled during the war,' says Lee. 'My mother told me that they'd find an abandoned house to rest in, and nine times out of 10, there was rice. They lived off porridge, steamed rice, and ultimately nurungji as a snack.'
SeongHee Jeong, chef and co-owner of Koreatown's Borit Gogae , remembers eating it sprinkled with sugar — a delicious treat when sweets were scarce. While there's no single way to make it today, Sarah and her mom swear by the traditional method. 'Nothing compares to the flavor of rice cooked in a gamasot over a wood fire,' Sarah says. 'That taste is so iconic, you'll even find packaged snacks trying to replicate it.'
In L.A., some restaurants keep it old-school by serving nurungji simply steeped in tea or hot water, while others are getting creative with it. Think: nurungji risotto at Jilli, an iced nurungji crema at Bodega Park or a fried chicken and nurungi dish at Fanny's. At her Joseon pop-up last year, Lee even spun it into a nurungji crème brûlée.
'It's truly amazing how humble ingredients born from hardship always find their way back,' says Sarah.
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Here are 13 of the best restaurants in L.A. serving nurungji in both traditional and unexpected ways.
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Los Angeles Times
18 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
Are you eating the crispy rice at the bottom of the pot? 13 L.A. spots to try nurungji
After a raucous night out in my 20s, the real afterparty was always at BCD Tofu House — hunched over bubbling Korean tofu stew and a sizzling-hot stone bowl of steamed rice. After I'd scooped most of it out, a server would pour warm tea into the bowl, loosening the rice clinging stubbornly to the bottom. Scraping up those crispy-chewy bits of scorched rice, known in Korean as nurungji, quickly became my favorite part of the meal. Long before electric rice cookers, Koreans traditionally cooked rice over an open flame in an iron cauldron called a gamasot. As it steamed, the bottom layer would crisp up against the hot metal, forming golden-brown nurungji. 'Today, nurungji simply means the crispy layer of rice that forms at the bottom of any pot or cooking appliance,' says Sarah Ahn, who co-wrote the Korean cookbook ' Umma ' with her mother, Nam Soon Ahn. 'Personally, and within Korean culture, I see nurungji as a deeply nostalgic food, especially for Koreans of my mom's generation.' Advertisement Chef and cookbook author Debbie Lee adds, 'Sometimes it's intentional, sometimes it's from overcooking — what I call a great culinary accident.' Korea isn't alone in its love for scorched rice. Persian tahdig is the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, flipped and served with the crispy layer on top. Chinese guoba is crispy rice paired with saucy stir-fries to soak up every bit of flavor. In West Africa, kanzo refers to the caramelized layer left behind after cooking, often found in dishes like jollof rice. Spain's socarrat forms the base of well-executed paella. And in Korea, nurungji is endlessly versatile — enjoyed on its own, steeped in hot water or tea as sungnyung (thought to be a soothing palate cleanser and digestive aid), or transformed into nurungji-tang, where the rice becomes the crunchy base for a light broth with seafood or vegetables. With its nutty, toasted flavor that highlights the grain's natural aroma, nurungji is comfort food born out of practicality. 'Like so much of Korean food, it represents our resourcefulness — nothing goes to waste! — and our ability to find flavor in humble things,' says Sarah. Rather than discarding it, Koreans embraced the crunchy layer as a snack or meal. Advertisement 'My parents are from Pyongyang and fled during the war,' says Lee. 'My mother told me that they'd find an abandoned house to rest in, and nine times out of 10, there was rice. They lived off porridge, steamed rice, and ultimately nurungji as a snack.' SeongHee Jeong, chef and co-owner of Koreatown's Borit Gogae , remembers eating it sprinkled with sugar — a delicious treat when sweets were scarce. While there's no single way to make it today, Sarah and her mom swear by the traditional method. 'Nothing compares to the flavor of rice cooked in a gamasot over a wood fire,' Sarah says. 'That taste is so iconic, you'll even find packaged snacks trying to replicate it.' In L.A., some restaurants keep it old-school by serving nurungji simply steeped in tea or hot water, while others are getting creative with it. Think: nurungji risotto at Jilli, an iced nurungji crema at Bodega Park or a fried chicken and nurungi dish at Fanny's. At her Joseon pop-up last year, Lee even spun it into a nurungji crème brûlée. 'It's truly amazing how humble ingredients born from hardship always find their way back,' says Sarah. Advertisement Here are 13 of the best restaurants in L.A. serving nurungji in both traditional and unexpected ways.
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I went to Shanghai for the first time in 1987. My grandma had died, and the family plan was to spend a month in China. It was my Chinese father's first trip back since he'd immigrated to the US in the late 1960s. Sleeping in my father's family's home, meeting relatives for the first time, sharing meals, hearing Mandarin all around me, and navigating the maze of their neighborhood marked the beginning of my connection to Shanghai. My Shanghainese father met my Mexican mother near Los Angeles in the 1970s, and I grew up speaking English and Spanish. I even chose Spanish as my minor in college. But I didn't speak Mandarin. Growing up, my father didn't talk about his past or his Chinese roots. Instead, it was through food that I learned about my dad. Our trips to Chinatown provided me with a peek into his world. Before the days of international food aisles in grocery stores, trips to LA's Chinatown were necessary for Chinese ingredients — my dad did a lot of cooking. Chinatown was also where we went to celebrate special occasions. As a kid, I remember the excitement of catching glimpses of the Lunar New Year dragon parade from a restaurant. For birthdays, we would stop by Phoenix Bakery to pick up a strawberry whipped cream cake with sliced almonds. Looking after my dad My parents divorced when I was in college, and it put a real strain on my relationship with my dad. But in my late 20s, we slowly began to reconnect. I remember him hosting a Chinese Thanksgiving. One of my cousins cooked crab with green onion, egg, and ginger. After my dad had a stroke that left him paralysed on the left side of his body, he was unable to speak. I helped as a caretaker during the last two years of his life. I scheduled appointments, managed transportation, went with him to doctor's appointments, prodded medical staff to do as much as possible, and cheered on his physical therapy progress. Our Chinese connection My dad died in 2017. Two years later, I traveled back to China. I walked the streets of Shanghai, after what would've been his 83rd birthday, and I felt that at any moment, I would turn a corner and bump into him. I'd think about him — almost as if I could hear his voice — whenever I smelled dumplings frying and tried to decide which variety to choose. I reveled in the hum of people walking, cycling, or rushing to their destinations. I loved watching early morning deliveries — boxes of fresh vegetables dropped off at restaurant doors. Struggling to pronounce words in Mandarin added to the vibrancy. Shanghai felt electric, and as the city revealed itself to me, I knew my father was watching over me, welcoming me back to his hometown or laughing at my attempts to speak Mandarin. The majority of that trip was spent in Shanghai, but I also visited Hong Kong to see my grandfather's grave and spent three days in Beijing. Shanghai felt like home I was drawn to Shanghai and wanted to move there. At the time, I was in graduate school, switching careers from journalism to urban planning. I came across an English teaching position in Shanghai. I had yet to make peace with my father's passing, and in addition to the high cost of living in LA, I felt I needed a change. I arrived in Shanghai with two suitcases and from January 2023 to earlier this year, I called China home. I worked as an English teacher and corporate language instructor. In Shanghai, the ease and options for getting around, the low cost of living, incredible food, and widespread use of digital wallets made life feel incredibly convenient. I also loved exploring the city. Across from the hotel we stayed at in 1987 — which is walking distance from where my dad's family home once stood — I often found comfort. When the weather was good, I'd sit on a bench, munching on a shao bing, a Chinese flatbread a little larger than a corn tortilla, which became one of my favorite snacks. And I fell in love with walking — to get a latte, pick up steamed pork buns, to meet friends, or just take in the city. Something I had rarely done in LA. I wandered Shanghai's wide streets and its small, tucked-away alleys lined with old homes. In those quiet lanes, far from the boulevards and busy pedestrian promenades, Old Shanghai still lingers — patiently waiting to tell its stories. I was happy about the life I was creating. The old parts of the city made me think back to that treasured first visit with my father. In many ways, Shanghai will always feel like home. When my employment contract ended and the job offers I received were insufficient to keep me in Shanghai, I moved back to the US. But I didn't feel ready to leave.
