All-Purpose Golden Broth for Soup, Noodles, Chaoshou and More

Documenting my mother’s recipe for 炖鸡汤 (dùnjītāng), stewed chicken soup, made me wonder what you can tell about someone from how they process a whole bird.

It all starts with deducing a person’s qualities from the kind of chicken immediately at stake, a brand of kitchen table checkers I cherish. Someone who already had what they needed in the freezer is likely not just a regular cook, for example, but also a confident one—they don’t need to know the fate of every leg quarter to commit to it. People who travel for Whole Foods chicken tell, in turn, a different story from those who travel for Chinatown chickens (you know, the head-on, feet-on type). And I am not a white meat gal unless it comes attached to the rest of the chicken. Et cetera.

Yet when it comes to how folks behave under duress with a whole chicken, I can only conjecture. I want so badly for everyone’s habitual chicken-isms to mean something. But nothing about why is ever as straightforward as what. It’s no longer checkers, it’s chess.

I poach the bird, à la Hainan chicken. My best friend in college would roast it, every time. I am currently seeing someone whose love language is spatchcocking, I think. And then there is my mother, who will always—and only—make soup.

It could be fancy 三黄鸡 (sānhuángjī), three-yellow chicken (alive that morning until the Chinese farm in Pennsylvania slaughtered it for a highly anticipated WeChat group delivery across state lines), or TCM delicacy 乌鸡 (wūjī), black-boned Silkie chicken (straight from a Chinatown butcher in NYC, frozen the night before to survive my impending 3-hour grocery concierge trip home)—all suburban luxuries for Ma. Entire years go by without such chickens. And still, no matter the rarity, it’s always reserved for soup.

In fact, the more precious the chicken, the holier the dunjitang. But the holiest of all dunjitang is not that starring beautiful yellow sanhuangji or Yin-tonifying Silkie chicken. Instead, Ma’s No. 1 Dunjitang MVP is simple 老母鸡 (lǎomǔjī): old hen.

Choosing the Best Chicken for Dunjitang

Like most simple things, small qualities set the best laomuji for dunjitang apart.

• The ideal old hen is at least 2 years old, preferably 3-4 years old—more time to develop the intense chicken flavor old hen is known for. Its older, stronger bones concentrate the savoriness and stand up better to stewing. The matured fat aromatizes into something altogether more… chickeny.
• Most importantly, Chinese cooks only select local, free-range, organic hens for the best dunjitang. The oldest chicken will still be tasteless if it’s not free-range or organic. A local hen that has traveled the least distance from farm to table is your best bet. After all, many mainland cooks will still only use a chicken that was alive that same day.
• You can also find old hen sold as “stewing hen” in supermarkets. Of course, if you can’t find an old hen, try to select the highest quality organic chicken instead.

Even the deep golden hue of the broth reflects the beloved 原味 (yuánwèi) or “original flavor” quality of excellent dunjitang. Extracting original-flavor dunjitang relies on nothing but ginger, scallion and salt. It may look boring, but the plainest dunjitang is a sign of the highest quality. When you have chicken so flavorful, you don’t want anything to mask the treasured yuanwei.

Appropriate extras in a good laomuji soup include complementary players like dried jujubes, dried goji berries, dried mushrooms, dried ginseng, astragalus root, fresh seaweed and other TCM additions. At home, seaweed knots make a regular appearance in Ma’s dunjitang.

Preparing Old Hen Soup

Wash dried shiitake mushrooms of any sediment and soak them in enough cold water to cover for at least 3-4 hours (or until soft) before cooking. Or, soak them overnight in the refrigerator. Drain the rehydrated mushrooms. (Better yet, reserve the mushroom soaking water for future braises, stews and noodle soups!) Halve or slice the larger mushrooms as desired.

Clean and quarter the bird. Chances are yours won’t come with the feet (a shame, they’re so flavorful). Keep the skin on but remove the extra fat (this can also be reserved for future stir-fries). Divide chicken in half and chop thick sections into manageable 2-3 inch pieces, reserving the other half to freeze or cook another day. For the size of our 5.5 qt Dutch oven, half a chicken is more than sufficient. Wash and rinse the chopped meat until water runs clear.

Place the chicken, cooking wine, ginger and scallions into a large (~6 qts), heavy-bottom pot and fill with cold water roughly 75% full. Cover and bring to a boil. When you hear it boiling, turn the heat down low and continue simmering for 10 minutes but do not uncover during this time. The cold water step is crucial for forcing the scum to the surface.

After 10 minutes, uncover the pot and skim clean all the scum that rises to the surface. Skim some of the oil from the surface as well to keep the soup from feeling too greasy.

When all the scum is gone and no longer rising to the surface, add the rehydrated shiitake mushrooms. If you need to add more water at this point on, use hot water, never cold water. Continue simmering, covered, on the lowest possible heat for 2-4 hours depending on the maturity of the bird and desired flavor.

Keep warm until ready to serve and salt to taste. A little freshly ground fermented white pepper goes a long way too. Dunjitang is excellent whether served Cantonese-style as the first course, Sichuan-style as the last course, on its own, or as the base for wonton and noodle soups.

There are plenty of dunjitang variations besides those that use different chickens. One popular cooking style calls for stir-frying the blanched chicken in its own rendered fat before adding hot water for the soup. This concentrates the cooked fat and chicken flavor, producing a more delicious soup for when old hen is not available and you’re using regular organic chicken.

Such a dunjitang leans toward a milky white broth, however, masking two of the most impressive indicators of a well-stewed laomuji soup: its clear, vibrant golden hue and clean, thin mouthfeel. The thin layer of naturally exuded oil in this recipe for clarified soup is, by comparison, more suitable for elderly and those with cholesterol concerns. And personally, I think it tastes more harmonious when used as a base for wheaty noodles and chaoshou.

To make Kathy’s favorite 清汤抄手 (qīngtāng chāoshǒu), clear soup Sichuan wontons, use this clarified dunjitang as a soup base for the chaoshou in her Sichuan Chili Oil Wontons (Hongyou Chaoshou, 红油抄手) recipe!