Drunken Chicken, Jiu Ji

Drunken chicken, jiu ji in Mandarin, describes several distinctly different ways of preparing chicken using alcohol, typically Shao Xing wine. The average recipe calls for just-cooked chicken to be either macerated or steamed in a Shao Xing wine-rich liquid; the former is ideal should you like an upfront alcoholic bite. I don't, so I usually go with the latter method, which lets the gentle perfume of Shao Xing rather than its alcoholic content dominate the flavour.

I've recently come across another method which produces an even subtler effect - poaching the chicken (raw, not just-cooked) directly in Shao Xing wine, from Teage Ezard's Lotus: Asian Flavours - if you're familiar with and love his earlier title, Ezard: Contemporary Australian Food, you'll thoroughly enjoy this beautifully designed new book, a wonderful collection of traditional Chinese and Thai recipes given the signature Ezard twist.

I've adapted the recipe's cooking technique, using instead the poaching-in-residual-heat method that's key to the succulence so prized by Chinese cooks - a young meaty bird is plunged into a quantity of boiling liquid (stock, or in this case, Shao Xing wine), the liquid is brought back to a simmer, a lid clamped on, and the heat switched off. The chicken is left to poach gently in the residual heat as the liquid cools down. When the liquid reaches room temperature, the flesh should be just-cooked, but still remarkably juicy and delicate.

Drunken chicken, which is served well-chilled, needs to be prepared a day in advance. After cooling to room temperature, the chicken sits in its vinous bath overnight in the fridge to ensure it absorbs as much flavour and stays as plump as possible. Meanwhile, the delicious juices trapped under the skin set to a delicate jelly - definitely worth the wait. For the sake of not just presentation but taste, it's important to keep the skin intact as you're cooking and carving the chicken. The glistening slices, a gorgeous skin-jelly-flesh mosaic, are served slightly moistened with a splash of the poaching liquor and a dash of fragrant toasted sesame oil.

The soup chapter of the book was what really blew me away - I saw the homey comforts of dumpling soup (of which quite a few feature in the book), an everyday staple in most Chinese households, in a brand new light.

In particular, there was a recipe for chicken dumplings in broth that I was intrigued by - as far as I know, the inclusion of lup cheong (dried Chinese pork sausage) in the stuffing is not conventional. It's however a brilliant and inspired addition, playing the same role cured pork or bacon does in farce or forcemeat by adding fat, moisture and deeply savoury soul to meat mince. The generous addition of finely chopped garlic chives (I prefer Japanese nira) lends further nuance and flavour.