Brining
- Feb 1, 2024
- 6 min read
Updated: Jul 29
A curiosity about brining that became something more
Brining had always been something I associated with curing — making bacon, controlling lacto-fermentation, killing pathogens before ageing or drying. A preservation technique. Useful, but not something that crossed over into everyday cooking in any meaningful way.
That changed when cooking over fire became a regular practice.
The question I kept being asked was always the same — how do you keep meat juicy? Not just juicy in the general sense, but juicy from a BBQ or fire, where the environment works against you. Dry heat, smoke, intense temperature. A harsh place to cook anything lean.
I'd heard more experienced fire cooks mention brining. My slightly stubborn brain dismissed it as tinkering for the sake of tinkering. There was a lot of noise around juicy meat — images of brisket oozing, steaks being squeezed to show off all that juice. White noise, mostly. Grabbing attention for the wrong reasons.
But fads and fashions always start somewhere that holds more gravity than eventually plays out. So the curiosity won.
The conventional wisdom around keeping meat moist on a fire pointed toward fat. Fatty cuts, or cuts with a higher proportion of collagen and connective tissue — the idea being that as these melt from the intensity of the heat, the meat would be basted from the inside. Fat carrying moisture, giving a juicier feel.
While largely true, this misses the point to a degree. Fat and moisture are linked but they are not the same thing. A moist piece of meat does not necessarily need a lot of fat in it.
Separating fat and moisture as two different considerations is where it gets interesting — and where brining becomes relevant.
All meat is a collection of fibres. Long strings in the case of meat, blocks in the case of fish. The concentration of minerals and salts varies throughout that structure — which means not all parts have the same starting point when it comes to moisture. As heat increases, its effects are felt in disproportionate amounts throughout. This is why certain cuts feel juicier than others even when cooked to the same temperature.
The juiciness is not always what it seems. It is a byproduct of conditions rather than a straightforward quality of the meat itself.
What brining does is introduce salt to the structure, allowing the natural movement across cell membranes to eventually even out that gradient — hydrating the meat more evenly throughout. The specifics of the biology are still debated among food scientists, but the consistent finding is this: salt relaxes bundled muscle fibres, creating gaps where water can flow in, and causes proteins to contract less during cooking, so less moisture is lost. The result, on eating, is more balanced — hence the perception of juiciness.
The concentration of salt matters. So does time. The relationship between the two is a sliding scale — higher concentration for shorter periods, lower concentration for longer. Where those sliders sit depends on how lean the meat or fish is.
As a practical guide, a brine for this application sits within the 5–10% range. Weigh the water rather than measuring volume — it makes the percentage calculation simple.
For example: 1.6kg of water needs 160g of salt for a 10% brine, or 96g for a 6% brine. 1% of 1600 is 16 — multiply by the desired percentage.
Dissolve the salt in around a sixth of the water with a little heat, then add the remainder cold. The brine must be completely cool before the meat goes in.
Time depends on size. A minimum of 4 hours for individual portions. Overnight or up to 24 hours for whole joints or birds.
Wet or dry — two approaches, one principle
Wet brining is the classic method — the meat fully submerged, salt and water working their way through the structure over time. It is particularly effective for larger joints and whole birds where the brine needs to travel a long way through dense muscle. The one consideration is surface moisture — the meat needs thorough drying before it goes on the fire, otherwise the steam created at the surface works against the colour and crust you are looking for.
Dry brining I discovered while developing ideas around venison and other wild or pasture led meats. The textural difference between an animal that has lived freely and one reared conventionally is noticeable — and increasingly the focus turns to what the cook can do to work with that texture rather than against it.
A dry brine does the same job as a wet brine, equalising moisture throughout the muscle structure. A simple 1% by weight of salt evenly coated over the surface — a bavette or backstrap fillet, for example — left overnight uncovered in the fridge.
That last detail matters. Leaving meat uncovered in the fridge exposes it to an atmosphere that is itself being dried by the heat exchanger as it cools. The moisture that beads on the surface of the meat is effectively removed, leaving a dry surface seasoned to its limit. When this goes on the BBQ, the dry surface allows the Maillard reaction to develop quickly — a deep colour, a crisp crust, while the interior remains delicate and consistent throughout.
Dry brining is simply perfect for quick cooks in hostile environments. Thin cuts where the surface area is the deciding factor. Steaks on the BBQ.
In practice
Bavette and onglet are my favourite cuts for grilling over charcoal or wood. While I love the textural chew, there is something satisfying about being able to slice through the meat without resistance — or put it into a bun without pulling at it with your teeth.
The evening before, evenly coat a whole bavette or onglet with 1% salt, lots of crushed black peppercorns and dried or fresh oregano. A quick wipe off an hour before the BBQ, leaving it to acclimatise out of the fridge. A hard sear to 54°C core temperature and a decent rest — not so long that it cools down. Keep the warmth but let the air circulate. A teepee of foil until the steak is nice and warm to the touch.
Just magic.
Beyond meat, a brine is an ideal carrier for aromatics — herbs, fresh or dried spices, sugars, or a proportion of the water replaced with vinegar, beer, cider, wine or juice. The only limitation is what you want the finished result to taste like.
What salt actually is
What draws me in is the relationship some seasonings have with their ingredients. When does a seasoning stop being about flavour and become something more? When does the seasoning become part of the cooking process itself?
A seasoning, in my mind, enhances without overpowering. It is noticeable mainly by its absence — something not quite right when it is missing, even if you cannot quite put your finger on what.
Salt sits somewhere else entirely.
Salt does of course develop flavour, enriching and deepening. But it does this by changing the relative perception of the ingredients it interacts with. It does not have a flavour profile in the strict sense of the word. Pepper has nuance — floral, citrus heat, woody notes. Salt is salty. With varying degrees, certainly, but always just salty.
Spices interact and morph their flavour and aromas depending on what they interact with and how they are used. That is a fundamental characteristic of a seasoning. Salt does not sit here.
Salt effects change rather than adapting or changing itself. It is a transporter — of moisture, of flavour, of texture. This is why it is used so extensively in curing and preservation. And this is why brining is a natural extension of that thinking — approached from the front end of seasoning rather than the back door of preservation.
Perhaps that is what salt is. Not a seasoning in the conventional sense. Something more fundamental than that.
Not a condiment for the table. Not an afterthought to be sprinkled around, or an ingredient used to suit specific tastes. Salt is a consideration — an approach to judge and value with intention. It doesn't need to carry a huge weight of responsibility. Just a thought beyond a sprinkle.
Heritage | Environment | Craft
Curated with Terroir
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