The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [136]
“What is this?” my mom asked nonchalantly, poking her chopsticks at some pickled turnips. They crunched loudly as she bit into one, and nodded to indicate that whatever it was, it was good. Jo-Jo went for some seaweed first. I got my satisfying taste of kimchee—a little crunchy, a little wilted, and completely saturated in a spicy, acrid brine. We nibbled through the rest of the offerings. Our favorite was the salty preserved whitefish, with tiny bones that one needed to be wary of. Jo-Jo left my mom and me to decide what to order for lunch. First, a seafood pancake was in order. Korean pancakes are an appetizer that no one can resist ordering again and again. Crispy, savory, and often the size of a dinner plate, the pancakes are grilled in a pan with big strips of vegetables and meat in the batter. My mom chose a spicy tofu and seafood casserole next, and clear mung bean noodles stir-fried with beef and vegetables.
“We have too much food. As usual,” Jo-Jo said.
“It’s okay,” my mom said. I remained silent, salivating at the thought of eating everything we had just ordered. I’d skipped breakfast that day, so my stomach was gurgling. I refilled my cup of tea for the third time since sitting down a few minutes before, even though it was sweltering hot outside. The restaurant’s air-conditioning didn’t seem to be keeping up, and the place was filled to the brim with customers.
“So warm,” Jo-Jo said, fanning himself with a folded napkin.
Our pancakes came to the table first. They were as hot as the smoking griddle they must have just been flipped from. Chopped tentacles of tender octopus and scallions studded each one in about equal parts to the batter. We dipped our slices into a thin soy-and-vinegar-based sauce.
“So this movie, Jo-Jo says is supposed to be very good,” my mom said in between bites.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This English movie, from a novel by this English woman writer,” she said.
“Oh, Jane Austen?”
“No, not that one. Evelyn something,” she said.
“Wor,” my uncle filled in.
“Oh, Evelyn Waugh. That’s a man, actually,” I said.
“No. Ev-el-yn,” my mother said, sounding out the syllables.
“Yeah, it used to be a man’s name, too,” I said.
“Evelyn is a man?” my mother asked, incredulous.
“Can be.” I shrugged.
“That’s weird,” she proclaimed. My uncle heaved with laughter behind his napkin.
The rest of our food came shortly after the pancakes. We were each given a bowl of short-grain rice, cooked with small dark-purple pebbles of black beans throughout. I helped myself to the soupy tofu casserole first. There was always something different to be found in a ladle of its red, chili-based broth. A clam or whole shrimp came up with every other scoop. I spooned a knife-scored piece of squid into my mother’s rice bowl since I knew it was her favorite. I picked up a piece of shrimp and a hearty wedge of tofu. The tofu was the best part of the meal—it was silky smooth but held its shape. It also held up its mild, nutty flavor against the soaked-in chili broth.
“We did pick the right one,” my mom said, pointing to the casserole. “This is so good.” Jo-Jo nodded, scooping up some more tofu. So far, everything I’d eaten was completely unlike anything I’d had in the last two years. Tofu stew—now, that was an idea I could find time to play around with, I thought. But it would never taste as good as this plentiful seafood-studded version. That is, unless I went through the laborious task of collecting all these various small amounts of seafood to add to it myself. No, this dish, and especially its broth, was made with an abundance of ingredients, like fish heads and other scraps found in the restaurant kitchen. I didn’t have any seafood hanging around that I’d need to do that with very often, like a restaurant’s kitchen might.
The glass noodle stir-fry was less impressive than the other dishes, but I still ate more than my share of it. It came to our