9 claypot traditions that define Asian comfort cooking
Nothing is more dramatic than lifting the lid off a claypot dish. Steam billows like stage smoke. Aromas of soy, garlic, sesame and burnt rice rise like applause. Somewhere underneath it all: crispy bits of food clinging to the pot like they’re not ready to say goodbye.
Across Asia, claypot cooking is not a gimmick. It’s heat. And ritual. It’s a slow, steady act of love that relies less on precision timing and more on instinct (not to mention very patient grandmothers). Whether cradling lap cheong in Hong Kong or sizzling catfish in Vietnam, these clay vessels do more than hold food. They hold a slowly coaxed flavour that spells caution and convenience all in one pot.
See more: From biryani to bibimbap, discover Asia’s most beloved rice dishes
Hong Kong’s bo zai fan
In Hong Kong, claypot rice, called bo zai fan, isn’t just comfort food. It’s a ceremony. For instance, at old-school eateries, the process begins with uncooked rice in a claypot set directly over flame. Chinese sausage, salted fish or marinated meats are layered on top, then doused in soy sauce and covered to steam. As the rice cooks, a golden crust forms at the bottom. That’s the fan jiu, the coveted prize. Smoky, crisp and deeply aromatic, it’s the mark of a pot well made.
Rooted in southern Chinese traditions that value contrast and char, this dish is both humble and refined. Today, modern chefs might add foie gras, eel or truffle oil, but the soul of the dish remains in the sizzle and timing. The claypot, with its heat-retaining walls, delivers flavour that metal pans can’t replicate. Pro tip? Enjoy it tableside. It teases all your senses.
Singapore’s claypot chicken rice
In Singapore, claypot rice turns up the heat, literally and figuratively. Cooked to order over charcoal flames, the dish leans spicier and more herbal than its Cantonese cousin. Dark soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic and ginger seep deep into every grain, while generous lashings of marinated chicken, Chinese sausage and salted fish add smoky, umami-rich layers.
From Geylang’s bustling lanes to the iconic stalls of Chinatown Complex, long queues are part of the ritual. Diners hover expectantly as their pots crackle and sear, waiting for the moment the lid is lifted and the aroma hits. The golden crust at the bottom? Essential. Scraping it up, mixing in chopped chillies and scallions—it’s all part of a communal performance passed down through Teochew and Hokkien migrant traditions. The claypot isn’t just cookware; it’s a memory keeper, flavour amplifier and centrepiece in a meal where every bite is both comfort and craft.
Malaysia’s claypot lou shu fun
Don’t let the name fool you. Lou shu fun, or “rat tail noodles”, is Malaysian comfort food at its richest and most satisfying. These short, stubby rice noodles have a springy bite and a knack for absorbing every drop of the savoury, soy-based gravy they’re simmered in. When cooked in claypots, they arrive still bubbling, layered with minced pork, raw egg and scallions just waiting to be stirred in.
It’s a dish born from humble roots, especially beloved in the Klang Valley, where hawkers and kopitiams treat their claypots like heirlooms. Much like cast iron, these pots are seasoned over time, lending each batch a deeper, smokier flavour. The result? A full-bodied, umami-rich noodle dish that’s as soulful as it is unpretentious.
Indonesia’s gudeg in claypots
This iconic Javanese dish, popular in Yogyakarta, simmers young jackfruit in coconut milk, palm sugar, teak leaves and a quiet arsenal of spices, all traditionally nestled in earthenware pots over a slow wood fire. The clay gently moderates the heat, allowing the sweet, earthy savours to deepen while mellowing the jackfruit’s natural sharpness. What emerges is a caramelised, almost candied stew with soft, fibrous texture and deep bronze hue.
Gudeg is typically served with rice, hard-boiled eggs, spicy sambal and coconut milk chicken, creating a sweet-spicy-umami balance that speaks of both royal banquets and street-side warungs. Cooking it in claypots is more than aesthetic—it reflects the Javanese philosophy of patience, community and quiet endurance. Every bite is steeped in history, a culinary artefact passed down from palace kitchens to everyday homes.
See more: Heirloom grains of Asia: how these ancient staples made their way to modern tables
Vietnam’s ca kho to
In southern Vietnam, especially across the fertile reaches of the Mekong Delta, ca kho to, or catfish caramelised in a claypot, is a dish of quiet mastery. Chunks of catfish are slowly braised in a mix of palm sugar, fish sauce, black pepper and sometimes coconut water until the sauce reduces to a dark, glistening glaze. The result is a balance of sweet, salty and deep umami, with the fish becoming fall-apart tender yet remarkably rich. The claypot, known as to, gently radiates heat, ensuring even cooking and allowing the taste to concentrate without burning.
Even after it leaves the stove, the to continues to work its magic. The thick pot holds warmth long after the fire’s out, letting the sauce bubble and intensify tableside, perfuming the air with caramel and spice.
Japan’s donabe claypot traditions
While Japan’s donabe or claypot dishes may not boast the charred bravado of their Southeast Asian counterparts, they are quietly profound. Like most anything Japanese, it is anchored in ritual, seasonality and centuries of craftsmanship. Donabe is the beating heart of communal Japanese cooking, used for everything from the soul-soothing nabe or hotpot in winter to kamameshi, a rustic rice dish topped with seasonal vegetables, seafood or mountain fare like burdock and mushrooms.
What makes donabe extraordinary isn’t just its utility; it’s the clay itself. Many of the finest donabe are made in Iga, a storied region in Mie Prefecture known for its volcanic soil and ancient kilns. This Iga-yaki pottery is prized for its durability and heat retention, but also for its quiet poetry: it’s said that samurai families once relied on these same pots to cook over open hearths, their textures absorbing not just heat but memory.
A well-used donabe becomes a household heirloom, darkened with years of dashi and devotion. It requires care, including gentle heating and respectful washing, but in return, it rewards you with warmth that feels ancestral.
Korea’s dolsot bibimbap
Bibimbap is already a classic, but dolsot or stone pot bibimbap is a sensory upgrade: the crackle when rice hits hot stone, the hiss as gochujang sizzles into caramelised edges, the visual drama of egg yolk sliding down julienned vegetables. Is your mouth not watering? Dolsot bibimbap is part-meal, part ASMR. The stone bowl, often granite or earthenware, stays blisteringly hot, creating a crisp crust known as nurungji. Originating from Jeonju and popularised through temple and royal cuisine, dolsot bibimbap has become Korea’s most elegant comfort food. It is served just as often in hanok guesthouses as in food courts. It’s a dish that rewards patience: don’t stir too early or you’ll miss the magic.
India’s dum biryani in clay handis
You can trace biryani’s ancestry back to Persia. However, India perfected this dish’s most regal expression: the Indians cook it dum style in a traditional handi or clay pot. The process is a masterclass in culinary engineering: layers of spiced, yoghurt-marinated meat, saffron-laced basmati rice, crisp fried onions and ghee are arranged like edible strata, then sealed with dough to lock in every wisp of steam. The handi is left to slow-cook over smouldering heat, letting flavours bloom in isolation.
The result? Fluffy, fragrant rice that gently collapses under the weight of its aroma, meat so tender it could be mistaken for silk and a delicate smokiness courtesy of the clay. In historic royal kitchens, handis were buried in embers like time capsules of indulgence. Even now, in Hyderabad or Lucknow, you’ll spot biryani vendors wrapping claypots in jute and string, as if swaddling treasure. Because truly, that’s what this is: slow-cooked opulence, sealed with intention.
The Philippines’s bulalo sa palayok
Bulalo is a beloved Filipino beef shank and bone marrow soup. It can come in any container, but it transforms into something almost ceremonial when served in a palayok, the Philippines’s traditional earthenware pot. Already prized for its unctuous marrow and slow-simmered broth, bulalo in a claypot amplifies its rustic soul. The vessel’s porous walls breathe life into the stew, enhancing its depth and preserving its blistering heat long after it leaves the flame. Corn on the cob, pechay, cabbage and potatoes soak up the flavour, while the gelatinous marrow begs to be scooped, slathered on rice or shared among friends.
In Tagaytay, a cool holiday city south of Metro Manila, where the mist rolls in and the temperatures dip, bulalo sa palayok is a staple. You can find it at roadside eateries and family-run restaurants that proudly bring the claypot straight to your table, still bubbling. It’s the kind of dish best enjoyed with your friends, a karaoke machine in the background and hours of gossip ahead.
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