food is love.

oysters and pearls

the french laundry, chef/owner thomas keller

Every holiday season, my family gets together for three weeks. It’s the one time during the year where we are all under one roof and my mom cooks up the best Korean dishes I have ever tasted. My mom preps each late December by stocking the freezer and fridge with ingredients that she knows she’ll have to utilize when the three Soh siblings enter the household. Once each of us step foot in the house, the requests start pouring out.

“Oh man, I miss that dish you make with the braised pork!”

“Can we eat some Korean BBQ?”

“This homemade kimchi is the best! Can you also make some kkakdooggi?”

“It’s cold outside, can we have jjam bbong for lunch?”

And all my mom does is nod and asks us when we’d like to have it. We are so spoiled.

Food is love.

As most of you know, I love to eat out; haute cuisine, fine dining, hole-in-the-wall, whatever. If it has good food, I’m there. But 99% of the restaurants I go to are with one person. She is my culinary partner. I make it a point to eat with her because for some reason, watching her eat makes me happy. When I eat out alone or with friends, I can focus all my attention on the execution of the food. But when I eat with her, a part of me hopes that the kitchen is putting on its best that night. I want her to enjoy the food because it makes me enjoy my food. After so many meals together, it’s kind of pointless to ask her if she enjoyed each dish. I only have to look at her lips and her eyes. If she enjoys her first bite, a small smile forms and her eyes widen and sort of twinkle. It’s a look of adoration and personally, I like to think that I made that happen.

Food is love.

My sister sometimes criticizes me for my “snobby” attitude when it comes to food. But I can’t help but point out the hypocrisy in some people’s approach to dining. So you go out to eat at Citysearch’s Top 10 Restaurants in Los Angeles? Oh, that definitely means you’re a ‘foodie’. (Side note: I hate that word) I’ve seen recent positive trends in my sister’s dining habits. She’s trying new restaurants and expanding her palate. She’s starting to develop her own approach to food and at times, I feel like she’s inherited that same “snobby” attitude, although much more subtle. On top of all this, she’s cooking so much more and sharing her culinary soul with her friends. Seeing her interest in restaurants, cooking, and food in general makes me so proud.

Food is love.

Dinner with old friends is one of the best ways to spend my down-time. Some friends and I have found a restaurant that we really enjoy. We put on bibs and the servers throw down bags of crab, shrimp, lobster boiled in Shabang! sauce, corn, and French fries. It’s a delicious feast and it’s a affirmation of how eating with your hands makes a meal so much more enjoyable. Cracking crab legs and peeling back shrimp while bits and pieces of shell and sauce ricochet off each other only makes the night more enjoyable. Coupled with old memories of our days in college, catching up with old friends over some good food is certainly one of the most underappreciated aspects of life.

Food is love.

I’ve recently been trying to cook more Korean dishes on my own. As a result, a lot of my conversations with my mom have revolved around recipes and how she cooks the dishes I’ve come to love. My mom always tells me what people in Korea used to say when she was growing up.

“Men weren’t allowed in the kitchen back then because they were told that if they stepped foot inside, their penises would fall off.”

Despite this, she still passes down recipes and advice on cooking traditional Korean dishes. I think she’s realized my passion for food and my genuine interest in learning. So far, she’s taught me how to make a handful of dishes and I still have to try a couple more recipes, with her guidance on the phone, of course. But for some reason, even though she entrusts me with all these recipes, every time I come home, she always makes the same dishes for me, packed up in tupperware, ready for me before I leave. I love my mom.

Food is love.

Part of me thinks that my affinity for fine dining comes from my dad. Since I was younger, he always took us to places that we’d never tried. To this day, every time he comes up for breakfast, he suggests a new place for us to eat at. I don’t know why, but food is something that he encourages us to try and something he doesn’t mind spending money on. I remember back in high school, I got an allowance. Part of that allowance was for my lunches at school. But I would always go over budget and my gas money would go to spicy chickens at Carl’s Jr. and chicken soft tacos at Del Taco. I’d go over budget sometimes and one time, he asked, slightly frustrated, “Where are you spending all your money?” I told him, a little sheepishly, “I spent it on food.” He said, “Oh, okay” and proceeded to give me more money. For some reason, it was okay.

Food is love.

Love can be shown through food, but food is most definitely love. There is no way around it. Food is the love for the ingredients you use, for the people you share with, and in the pieces of your soul that you part with.

a day in the life, part 3

definition of finesse, main kitchen exit

per se, chef/owner thomas keller

That morning, I strolled into the kitchen wearing my 100% cotton signature Kirkland t-shirt, some old khakis, and a dingy pair of shoes. I was ready to tackle whatever I was told to do. When I entered the kitchen, line cooks were already firing up the stoves and many were busy prepping their stations. Just to give you an idea of how a basic restaurant kitchen runs, here’s a quick breakdown:

After a customer orders their food, the server inputs everything into the system. The system feeds into two separate ticket machines, one on the ‘hot line’ and one at the dessert station. The ‘hot line’ is where all hot appetizers, entrees, and salads are made. The executive chef or chef de cuisine is usually at the end of the line where the orders come in. Moving down the line, you will find the sous chef and one or two additional line cooks, manning either the grills, stovetops, deep fryers, ovens, or sometimes all of the above. If one line cook is handling more than three of the previously mentioned, your staff is definitely ‘in the weeds’. That pretty much means you’re fucked. Orders are backed up, customers are not happy, and chances are you’ll be looking for another job soon. Anyway, the hardware (i.e. grills, stove, etc) is on one side of the hot line.

On the other side are the stations; each line cook’s ‘meez’, short for ‘mis en place’. This is essentially your home for the entire shift you are working. Within your ‘meez’, you have to be able to reach for anything you’re assigned to plate or make within a moment’s notice. Kosher salt, sauces, garnishes, accompaniments; basically everything you can think of has to be within arm’s distance. Cause if you do end up ‘in the weeds’ or even the least bit backed up, the last thing you want to do is look for that sauce you knew you prepped hours before. Chances are its still in the walk-in and you can’t serve cold sauce. You’ll have to run to the walk in, transfer that to a sixth hotel pan, and warm it up. During that time, two or three more orders probably came in and the chef will probably rip you a new one for stepping off the line.

When orders come in, it’s the chef’s responsibility to expedite them. He/she will yell out what needs to be prepped, dunked in a deep fryer, popped into the oven, or thrown onto the grill. Of course, the chef won’t be there to look over your shoulder to make sure you’re doing it right but once you hear, “One fry!”, then you know that you take the fries out of the freezer, put them in the frying basket, dunk them in, and set the timer. Once you see the entrée get plated, which should coincide with your timer going off, you pull the fries out, season them, and plate. Despite the cramped working space and people twisting and turning, bending down, hopping between stations, and leaning over each other, nobody gets in each others’ way. Believe you me, when everything is smooth, the hot line looks like a ballet performance; the epitome of grace and focus.

I thought I had a pretty good idea of how a kitchen ran (thanks to Anthony Bourdain) but seeing it for the first time in person was just short of life-altering. Words really do not do it any justice. I put on a chef’s jacket, an apron, and walked onto the hot line with the sous chef. At first, she had me doing basic prep work; hulling strawberries, washing vegetables, chopping salad ingredients, the basics. To say the least, my first day was a day of learning. I essentially got schooled on every aspect of kitchen work including how to hold a knife properly, the importance of speed and quality in the kitchen, kitchen lingo, how to get out of the way; Cooking in a Restaurant 101. That whole day was an observation and test of my abilities. I got called out by the executive chef numerous times about how things should be done and line cooks probably began wondering why I was so incompetent. Apparently, chopping romaine lettuce and frisee should not take more than five minutes and ‘taking your time’ was unheard of at the back of the house. It was overwhelming but I learned so much. I probably learned more that day than the rest of the year I worked in that kitchen. After trailing other line cooks, helping out where I could, and getting re-educated on how it’s done, the brunch shift finally ended.

I was soaked in sweat and I was dead tired. I had probably run up and down the stairs to the dry room at least twenty times. I had never been so scared in a walk-in looking for ingredients I had never heard of. Oh, you want some arugula? And frisee? I didn’t even know what they looked like. A loaf of pan de mie? Sure, no problem. Just give me five minutes while I ask around. I came out of that walk-in many times with more than what was asked for, just so I covered all my bases. When asked for brioche, I would walk out with six different loaves of bread and offer them to the sous chef. When asked for mesclun, I came out with enough greens to make my own salad. I was an epic FAIL that day. But I walked out of that kitchen, on my feet. After saying thank you to all the line cooks for not murdering me, the chef wanted to talk to me. I prepared myself for rejection.

The chef asked me how my day went. I told him it was an amazing experience and I was hooked. There was so much more that I could see myself learning and the adrenaline rush was incomparable. (In my experience, nothing has given me more of an adrenaline rush that juggling multiple orders, running around the kitchen, scrambling for hot plates, and perfectly timing different foods in the oven, fryer, and freezer to create a beautifully crafted dish) He summarized his thoughts and observations of my performance in the kitchen. Apparently, it’s not safe to run around a kitchen, holding a knife horizontally, through a maze of people holding hot sheet pans and carrying loads of deli containers. He said he’d be willing to work with me. The ball was in my court and his offer was plain and simple.

If you want to learn to cook, you can come in anytime you’d like. My kitchen is open to you and I will teach you as much as I can. But I cannot pay you. This will be an externship of sorts, just like in culinary school, but instead of course credit, you get to learn to cook. Once it looks like you’re getting the hang of things, we can talk about compensation.

My ego took a small hit but an offer like this was something I could not pass up. I told him I’d be back for more.

a day in the life, part 2

outdoor dining room

bastide (closed), chef paul shoemaker

It was the day of our meeting. I had dressed up in a fancy dress shirt, slacks, and black dress shoes, hoping to impress the chef with my intentionality and serious approach to the opportunity. The hostess had me wait at one of the tables while he and his team wrapped up lunch service. My mind scrambled through hypothetical questions that he could ask me: Why do you want to cook at a restaurant? What can you bring to the table? Do you plan to pursue a career in the industry? At the most, I could half-ass my way through one of the questions. Finally, the chef walked out from the kitchen. He was unbuttoning his chef’s jacket as he briskly walked to my table. His undershirt and jacket were smeared with sauces and assorted food particles that had stained his clothing during service. He sat down across from me and quickly read over the application I had been filling out while I had been waiting. He looked up at me and asked me the million dollar question.

Why do you want to work at a restaurant?

Before I could reply, he added, “You know, this profession is not glamorous. Its long hours and low pay.” I quickly assessed how I could best impress him after his attempt to dissuade me. I told him about my passion for food and the market-driven approach that he brought to the kitchen. I told him that one day I wanted to be able to cook more than just hot dogs and spaghetti for my kids. I told him that the culinary knowledge and experience I would gain from this opportunity would help me grow as a person. He seemed to buy it. He was nodding his head as if he understood where I was coming from. After what seemed like an hour of silence, he said, “Well, let me show you around the restaurant.” He took me through my first time in a restaurant kitchen, introduced me to his line cooks and the sous chef, the different stations, and a brief summary of how the food gets from the hot line to the customer’s table. I was in love. The hot and muggy atmosphere of the kitchen coupled with the smells that emanated from the kitchen confirmed what I had read and heard so much about.

We sat back down after the tour and he looked over my application again. I could see him reading over my educational and work experience probably questioning why the hell I was applying for this job. He asked me questions about UCLA and what I did in my free time. Finally, he looked at me and said, “We could probably rotate you through salad, pastry, and desserts. You have to work really fast. Orders come in, one after another, and you really have to be on top of your game.” After that first sentence, I stopped listening. My mind had wandered off to fantasy land imagining myself in a pristine white chef’s jacket, plating exquisite sauces, ordering fresh culinary grads to wash spinach, and chuckling with 3-star Michelin chefs while Mozart played in the background. My mind finally came to and he asked if I was available that weekend for a test run. He said, “Be here by 7:30am. Service starts at 11:00am.” I told him I’d be there. We got up and I thanked him for the opportunity.

We parted ways but before I walked out, he called back to me, looked me over, smiled, and said, “By the way, you might not want to wear something that nice.”

a day in the life, part 1

empty yuzu juice glasses, post-omakase

sushi zo, keizo-san

The restaurant industry has been glamorized by the media, especially with shows such as Top Chef and Hell’s Kitchen. To be honest, that’s a small part of the reason why I became so interested in food. At first, it was the flavor profiles. I never imagined the impact a plate of perfectly crafted food had on one’s palate and soul. That’s what started the addiction. And immediately, I yearned for more. I began reading into restaurants and chefs to get an idea of how ingredients came to life. It became my obsession. Besides checking my e-mail, food blogs became my sole reason to surf the Web. I spent countless hours reading and imagining what it was like to be a chef, to someday perhaps possess the talent and imagination to manipulate ingredients into works of art. On a whim, I looked through Craigslist early in 2007 for opportunities to get my feet wet. I had had enough. I was going to make this pipe dream a reality, if anything, for at least a year while I had the time and energy to stay on my feet for 8+ hours. In addition, I felt I was at an age where my mind receptively soaked in knowledge without that sense of pride; the pride that blocks opportunities to grow and change, for the better (I personally believe that as you grow older, you are less susceptible to change, good or bad).

I was in luck. There was a call for line cooks at a local restaurant that I had fallen in love with. The last time I had eaten there, I had declared to my girlfriend that this was the type of place I wanted to frequent to a point where I would be recognized and treated as a regular. The type of place where I could simply walk in and servers would know exactly where I wanted to sit and what I wanted to order. It gave off that homey vibe, inviting you in to not only eat, but stay and chat for awhile over a hot cup of tea with your closest friends. The concept flirted with the idea of fine dining but the portions were too hearty and the plating too simple to be associated with any type of haughtiness. The food was amazing and the service, attentive. The essence of the restaurant was understated, in every aspect of the word.

I had read up on the executive chef and the idea of working with him was enticing, yet very far-fetched. A fresh UCLA grad with no culinary experience working in the kitchen of a former James Beard award winning chef? Yeah, right, but I had to give it a try. I sent him my resume and a short cover letter, desperately trying to mask any sign of inexperience with my passion and love for good food. I got a call back within 48 hours. He wanted to talk.