Real-Deal Chicken Teriyaki

I’ve never passed up a serving of chicken teriyaki, whether it was neatly arranged in a gleaming bento box at a Japanese American restaurant, charred on a backyard grill, or piled atop a disposable plate at a shopping mall food court. Because even when it’s not stellar, the salty-sweet, umami-packed chicken manages to hit most of the pleasure centers in my brain. But these versions aren’t much like the teriyaki that’s made in Japan.

“Teri” means “glaze,” and “yaki” means “seared.” Due to prohibitions on eating meat, the method was used on fish, not chicken, for most of the dish’s history. Japanese cooks would briefly sear yellowtail and then glaze it with a mixture of soy sauce, sake and/or mirin, and sugar. But when the emperor lifted those prohibitions in the second half of the 19th century, chicken teriyaki became an option, at least for those wealthy enough to buy or raise poultry. 

During a call from her home in Tokyo, award-winning cookbook author and culinary instructor Elizabeth Andoh explained that cooks in Japan make chicken teriyaki with boneless, skin-on thighs because, unlike the skinless cuts that are often used stateside, they can withstand a thorough sear without drying out or toughening. Sizzling small, chopstick-friendly pieces in a skillet is the norm, whereas in the United States, it’s common to cut the chicken into pieces after cooking. Finally, Andoh pointed out that “the method of yaki is all about layers of flavor.” That means that the interior of the meat should be savory and juicy—pure chicken—while the exterior should be well seasoned but only slightly sweet. Armed with this knowledge, I set about devising a recipe that was reflective of the Japanese approach. 

Cutting the thighs into bite-size pieces prior to cooking made sense: It would create more surface area for flavorful browning and for holding glaze. Boneless, skin-on thighs aren’t available in most supermarkets, but they can easily be prepared at home. I removed the bone from 1½ pounds of skin-on thighs and cut the meat into 1½-inch pieces, leaving as much skin attached as possible. I seared the chicken in a nonstick skillet until the pieces were browned on the skin side and then flipped them and cooked them a bit more. Next, I added a placeholder teriyaki sauce—¼ cup of soy sauce, 3 tablespoons of mirin, and just a touch of sugar—and spooned the mixture over the meat until it thickened into a glaze. Andoh was right: The skin-on meat was tender, juicy, and ultra-chicken-y.

Any lingering doubts that I had about using skin‑on meat were put to rest when I did a quick test using skinless thighs. The results weren’t even close: The chicken was tough and fibrous on the exterior and not nearly as savory. 

That said, skin-on thighs did lead to a glaze that was so greasy it didn’t cling as well. I’d stick with skin-on chicken, but going forward I’d swab up any excess grease in the skillet before adding the sauce. 

I had set aside any recipes that called for marinating the chicken in the soy sauce–mirin mixture because I worried that the sugary mirin would scorch. But I was intrigued when Andoh mentioned that she tosses her chicken in a thick mixture of potato starch and sake shortly before searing it. 

Curious to try this myself, I prepared a batch with sake and cornstarch, which is a more common starch stateside. The cornstarch formed a barely there coating around the pieces of meat, protecting them from the heat of the skillet and making them especially supple. The coating also helped the reduced glaze cling, and some of the coating sloughed off into it, thickening the glaze a bit more. Finally, the chicken tasted more savory than before, as the sake provided a synergistic boost to its umami. Cornstarch and sake were in. Now I just had to dial in the glaze. 

My glaze was mostly soy sauce and mirin, with a little bit of sugar. That’s not a lot of ingredients, but since I was already using sake to coat the chicken, I wondered if I could swap out the mirin in the glaze for sake. After all, sake is a rice wine like mirin. So I tried a common 3:2:1 ratio (3 tablespoons of soy sauce, 2 tablespoons of sake, and 1 tablespoon of sugar) and microwaved the mixture briefly to dissolve the sugar.

This was very close. With both sake and soy sauce, the glaze had a lot of depth, but it lacked lighter notes. Andoh had mentioned that she sometimes likes to add a small amount of ginger juice, so while my last batch of chicken seared in the skillet, I grated 2 tablespoons of ginger, placed it in a fine-mesh strainer over my glaze mixture, and pressed to release the juice. 

When the chicken was cooked through, I transferred it to a plate so that I could degrease the skillet. Then back in went the chicken, followed by the soy sauce mixture. The glaze bubbled and thickened as I stirred the chicken, and after a couple minutes it coated each piece lightly. I transferred the chicken to a serving bowl using a slotted spoon and, since the strainer was nearby, I passed the glaze through it for a little extra clarity before drizzling it over the chicken.

I stand by my assertion that all chicken teriyaki is good chicken teriyaki. But this one? It’s my new favorite.