Doria (ドリア, rice gratin)

A doria tells you what it is when the spoon goes in: dark freckles of cheese on top, cream and rice yielding underneath. It looks like a casserole that wants a committee. It doesn't. This is yōshoku, Japan's Western-style cooking, and it is 本物 (honmono, the real thing) because the Japanese kitchen did more than borrow it. It made a table of it.

The one detail that decides it is the white sauce. Make it thick enough to coat a spoon, but loose enough to slip between the grains at the edge. Too stiff and it sits like paste. Too thin and the rice drowns. Cook the flour in butter until it smells warm and sweet, then add warm milk in small pours so the sauce comes smooth. The rule is only there to protect the softness.

Use short-grain rice, not because a label says so, but because it keeps a little cling and comfort after baking. The rice is seasoned before it meets the sauce, the shrimp is barely cooked before it goes under the cheese, and the oven only brings together what you've already done. On the Japanese table this is not a side dish hiding beside something grand. It is the main, spooned from a heatproof dish with pickles or a small salad alongside.

Freshness still matters. Choose shrimp that smell clean and sweet, with firm flesh and a clear sheen. If they smell sharp after a rinse and a little sake, change the dish: mushrooms alone make a better doria than tired seafood hidden under cream. Nothing hidden. The top should blister dark, but what matters is the soft beneath.