by Kyung-Ran Jo
If he comes back it might be a while until we have sex, like when we first met. But I don’t think he will come back. Because he’s finally built a new house, the house he’s wanted to build, the house he dreamed of and designed with me.
Four years ago when we looked at spaces for Won’s Kitchen, he was disappointed that he couldn’t design and build the building. He would draw, erase, and redraw a squat, small building in red brick, the cooking class on the first floor, his office on the second, and our bedroom occupying the third. Pointing at the blueprint, I playfully said the third floor was too far from the first, where I would be spending all of my days. Then we can put in a long pole. He drew a long line down the middle of the drawing. I laughed, saying, I thought those things were only in fire stations where every second counts. If you use this it’ll only take a few seconds. I always wanted something like this for my own house. He smiled brightly, earnestly, as if he would really install a fire pole if he were to build a house. I imagined him sliding down the pole from the third floor. Food would never get cold and I would never be waiting for him. I nodded shyly and pushed my hot palms into his hair. We whispered to each other, Will that day really come? Of course it will.
I still feel his hot breath near my ear, but he’s already built the house. He really did put in a pole, and under the picture of him sliding down, all smiles, a caption reads, “Every second we’re apart is unbearable.” And a close-up of Se-yeon sitting on the sofa, her long legs crossed, gazing at him proudly. He looks different in the picture. He looks like a small brown baby monkey falling from a tree, I mumble unemotionally. And now in that house lives another woman. Not me. She’s opening a cooking class. The woman who couldn’t differentiate between parsley and mugwort last fall. The U-shaped open kitchen is identical to mine, and even the counters look as though they’re made of the five-meter-wide marble that we chose after serious discussion. It would have been difficult to build a better kitchen. So it would have made sense to make it exactly the same. I nod slowly. The former model’s cooking class in a kitchen designed by her architect boyfriend would be the talk of the town for a while. If Mun-ju’s right, they’re also starring in S Company’s new refrigerator print-ad campaign featuring various celebrities. It’s not the most fabulous comeback for a top model who had to leave the industry because of a damaged tendon near her ankle, but people will talk about it. Se-yeon looks vivacious and beautiful. This is what people in love look like. I feel saliva gathering in my mouth, like when I see an unfamiliar dish that tempts the eyes and the nose.
I thought love was like an olive tree, standing strong against winds and bearing green fruit as soon as the roots took hold. I’m sad, not because I can’t tell him I love him but because love is no longer an olive tree or music or delicious food. But there are things that do not change. There is the kind of love that can’t be redirected. Yeah, I mumble, though it’s more like a moan. It’s unbelievable that all of this has happened in half a year. I think it’s time for me to do what I need to do. As I slowly walk into an underpass, I wonder if the skillet I gave her is in her kitchen. The skillet was one of my cherished items, with its thick bottom of three-ply stainless steel that delivers heat quickly and evenly, ideal for searing or pan-frying a thick piece of fish. Se-yeon said she wanted one, so I gave her that Italian Lagostina skillet last fall. No, she probably doesn’t have it anymore. It’s the skillet she used to hit Paulie. I think it’s time to fetch the ball. Isn’t that right, Paulie?
I go into a bookstore and buy a book about dissection.
JULY
A true gourmand is as insensible to suffering as is a conqueror.
—Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste
CHAPTER 30
SUMMER BEGINS as we devein shrimp. Some cookbooks instruct you to take out the bitter, black, stringy intestine that stretches down the shrimp’s back before cooking, but that’s not always right. You taste bitterness first, which is stronger when hot. It is better to take out the intestine, but cooks who understand shrimp take it out only in warmer months. We’re getting a lot of orders for the green pasta with shrimp and scallops—I came up with that recipe in February. At one end of the kitchen, Kwon, the prep cook, is humming, deveining shrimp with a toothpick. Meanwhile, sous chef Kim sifts flour to bake herb bread. In the morning the kitchen bristles with energy and life. Like cogs in a machine, we move about fluidly in the small space of rules and order.
Every cook is attracted to a particular ingredient. Some enjoy working with duck and turkey and others prefer beef and pork, while there are cooks who like scallops and clams or asparagus and cauliflower or potato and radish. Chef likes root vegetables and flat fish—turbot, flounder, croaker. These days he’s fascinated by tea. Tea grown in the shade of tall trees in high altitude has the best flavor. During Chinese empires, virgins fourteen years and younger picked damp, soft tea leaves, wearing brand-new clothes and gloves. It’s never occurred to me to use tea as an ingredient and I never thought it possible, but if Chef takes an interest in something there’s no telling what will emerge. But I’m doubtful about the idea of cooking with tea. I’m not sure if it’s about tea as an ingredient or because I wonder if Chef is trying to suppress his desires as he reaches a certain age.
I wish I could top Chef with my innovations. I want him to tell me, You can’t make a complete dish with tea. At times I’m not sure what I want. But I know for certain that there is one thing I want. That’s enough.
At one time I liked cooking with fish and roots and asparagus, like Chef, and enjoyed making dough and hand-cut pasta and bread, like sous chef Kim. I liked feeling the tips of my fingers grow gentle, not unlike playing with dark, lustrous soil. When I make dough I take a bit off and push and stretch and pull with my fingertips and make consonants like b, c, d, or vowels like a, e, o, u, and spread them across my board to make words. The way Grandmother taught Uncle and me how to read. The letters went into boiling broth at the end. Mushy vowels and consonants floated in Grandmother’s bowls of noodles, and Uncle and I ate those first, vying to be the one to find more. Even after I learned to read I thought all words could be eaten.
These days I am drawn to meat. I pushed aside poultry. I need something bigger and alive and juicy and firm and animalistic, something I can’t handle with one hand. Sometimes cooking is a physical battle. At times blood overflows in a banquet. To be as close to pork and beef, I take on practically all the tasks of the grill station, the way I used to when I first learned how to butcher and handle meat. On days when that’s not enough, I stay in the test kitchen until dawn, roasting and frying and sauteeing and steaming and boiling and broiling. I can feel the volume and heft of the meat by sniffing the smoke filling the small kitchen. Every cook prefers a different ingredient but everyone agrees: Everything must be fresh.
I double our meat order and also order tongue. Very few people order the once-trendy steak of ox tongue anymore, so I don’t stock it as often. But when a good item comes in I boil it and top it with lemon sauce and send a few slices out to the regulars, on the house. Ox tongue is so tough and chewy that you have to boil it before doing anything with it. Boiling also shrinks it to half its size. The first day the supplier brought ox tongue, I opened the box on the spot. The red tongue, frozen solid on ice, was covered in a white membrane as fresh as a juicy oyster. It was big and sensual and it looked like a part of the shoulder. It was fresher than I thought it would be but I shook my head firmly and rejected it. Suppliers always bring something good on the first order. But you can’t show you’re pleased with it. Then, without fail, they bring something even better the next time. To obtain an even fresher, better ingredient, you need wisdom and a little bit of cunning. It’s like hunting a strong and rare animal. The next time, the supplier brought the best tongue, dripping with blood, just a day after it was slaughtered.
July is a rare red steak that melts like velvet in your mouth, with a side of green asparagus. Both the heat and the color red are sensual. A
nd if you pair it with Tignanello, the powerful jolt of a Tuscan red, it would be a great summer-evening meal. Simple dishes made with fresh ingredients, like steak, are perfect for summer, even though it’s the hardest season to handle meat properly. But a good cook has to be able to put out a delicious dish made of anything, regardless of the season. To be a good cook, you can’t be afraid of challenge and failure.
I finally complete a new recipe on the first Monday of July. An ox tongue dish. To remove the white membrane and tendons and the muscle that attaches it to the throat, I take a small, sharp knife and move it precisely in short strokes and cut out the crimson middle. The more I use my knife, the more it comes alive. My hand becomes the knife, the knife disappearing into my hand, moving freely—this is especially true when I’m holding a piece of meat in my hands. It’s completely different from holding dough or handling delicate vegetables. It’s as if I’m gripping onto a playful but ferocious dolphin and shoving a knife into its body.
In Japan, they believe that drinking tea is a symbol of harmony and balance, like the five fingers on your hand. So five people participate in a tea ceremony. But Chef always drinks tea alone. I take a cup and go to his table and pull up a chair. He reaches out and pours me a cup. What is this tea? It’s yellow and light green and smells of arid dirt. I put my recipe on the table. He looks over the recipe silently and asks, Are you really going to use ox tongue? Skeptically. He can’t understand why it’s tongue, not rib eye or sirloin. If Chef makes a face like that from seeing a recipe, I have to start fresh. He puts it down and tells me my sauce of truffle oil, chopped garlic and onion, thyme, and arugula won’t mask the smell of the meat. The smell of tongue doesn’t disappear completely even after boiling it for six hours with vegetables and strong herbs. The sauce does have to be stronger, but I don’t want to mask the tongue’s true taste. I may have to think more about the sauce. Chef suggests I use watercress instead of arugula. Why didn’t I think of that? I pick up my recipe and give Chef a polite nod.
CHAPTER 31
ARE YOU AWAKE, Se-yeon?
I’m sure your head hurts a little but it’ll get better. I didn’t put that much clove in it, but it’s pretty strong, right? It’s an anesthetic but since it’s also a spice it shouldn’t be harmful. It’s not like precious nutmeg, which can become poisonous. Spices are usually added at the very end but it can be dangerous depending on how they’re used so you have to do it carefully. You should know this because you’re going to teach cooking classes. If you have any other questions, just ask me. I’ll tell you everything I know. Se-yeon, it’s been a while. Was it April when you came to pick up Paulie? It’s the first time since we stood in my yard that day, right? Why were you so surprised when you saw me at Costco today? I was so happy to see you.
Do you still like my kitchen?
I used to cook and read and drink tea and sit here and gaze out the window. And down a glass of cognac under candlelight with him and play with Paulie and listen to music. That feels like it was a really long time ago. It’s only been seven months. A lot of things happened to us. What do you think? You agree with me, right? But I didn’t know I would consider leaving. It’s true that you can’t always live the way you want to. But I guess that’s not the case for you, Se-yeon.
I’m going to cook in this kitchen just two more times. Once for him. And once for you. Tell me what you like. I’ll make it for you. Do you want to eat something in particular? Why are you sweating so much? Do you want some water? If you promise you won’t yell, I’ll take the towel out of your mouth.
The water’s refreshing, isn’t it? Okay, Se-yeon. If you agree with what I’m saying, just nod like that. I’m going to gag you again. Oh, don’t say anything. Don’t say you don’t want to. Don’t ask me to do things that I can’t do for you. I’ll let you drink as much water as you want. Are the knots too tight? But I can’t untie your hands. I don’t want you to get hurt. Let’s just sit here together for a bit. And listen to what I have to say. I have a lot to say to you. I’m going to leave soon so I want to say everything I didn’t say. You’re really pretty even when you’re gagged. Your skin, too, it looks so healthy and young! It makes me want to lick it, like it’s chocolate. I think being beautiful is a good thing for yourself and also for people around you. Because they feel better when they’re just looking at you. It’s like looking at a delicious dish. How old are you again? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Oh, twenty-seven! It’s a great age. Very few women in the world have everything they want at that age. You’re so lucky.
Tell me if there’s anything you want to eat.
Fruit? Vegetables? Or fish? You should be able to answer such a simple question. I guess you wouldn’t want any meat? Okay, I know. Why would I forget that you’re practically a vegetarian? Of course, this isn’t about you, but vegetarians are annoying. There are so many things to eat in the world and they give up that opportunity, voluntarily. Vegetarians make it impossible for a cook to do her best work. No, I know. I know that you’re not one of those people. But a person who cooks can’t have prejudices against food or be afraid of eating like you are. Not eating is basically a refusal of everything, including sex. And you’re already so thin and you like sleeping with him, isn’t that right? What’s taking you so long, I said I would make whatever you want. Is it because there are too many things you want to eat?
Everyone likes different food. Did you know that Hemingway loved oysters? I think I mentioned it in class once. Kant liked to slather mustard on everything he ate, so he always had a bottle with him. Heraclitus liked greens and vegetables, like you, but he was lonely and quick-tempered. Plato liked olives and dried figs and Heidegger enjoyed potato salad and Diogenes loved wine and Toulouse-Lautrec liked drinking port sprinkled with nutmeg and Cleopatra was partial to the hoof of a baby camel. Just imagine the ecstasy they would have experienced after eating their favorite foods. Don’t you think it would have been beautiful to witness? You know how to make that expression, too, right? I want to see it again. You were really beautiful then. When you were lying together, your thighs on top of each other. Oh, sorry. I happened to catch you back then. That was the most erotic sex I’ve ever seen. Because you were both so immersed in it. I almost fell in love with you then. When your tongues were in each other’s mouths it looked like you were breathing, singing into each other. That amazing feeling, I felt it too. Sex is good, no? Every food is the result of a sexual act of an animal or plant.
You see that basket of fruit on the table? Once I was going to eat an apple but there was this black-bean-like fleck on it. On the surface of the red Jonathan apple. I rubbed it with my finger and it happened to be a piece of black nail polish. This is a little while after you came to my cooking class. Remember? You were the only person who came to learn how to cook with nail polish on. And black, at that. That week we didn’t even have class. Se-yeon, did you come here often when I wasn’t here? Did you sit here with him and eat fruit while I wasn’t home? Even so, you shouldn’t have left behind that fleck of nail polish. Black stands out. Se-yeon, you look like perfect pottery but you have an unexpected carelessness to you. No, I guess it could be all my fault. No matter how tasty and useful a potato is, when it starts to sprout you have to cut it out.
Still not hungry? Then should we make something simple? What about caviar on toast? I wanted to make something special for you. I still have so much to say; it’s a waste to be in the kitchen by myself. But this caviar is excellent, so don’t be disappointed. Should I open the fridge? What do you think? Caviar is so shiny and minuscule, isn’t it? I’m drooling already. I’ll open a bottle of white, too. Oh, but do you like caviar? If you do, you can nod. Oh, not really? Why not? It’s so good. You don’t like it because it looks like ovaries? Or because it’s creepy to see all the little black eggs clustered together? I don’t think you understood what I said. You can’t be so picky when you’re a cook. Don’t you want to be the best cook you can be? In such a perfect kitchen, too. Too bad, even if you don’t like it.
We’ll eat this tonight.
Se-yeon, did you know that a female sturgeon with eggs is as valuable as gold? When you harvest eggs from a sturgeon you hit the softest part of its head to stun it. And then quickly with a flat sharp knife you pull out the egg sac from the body. Then an expert wearing a white coat and white gloves receives the large egg sac covered in membrane as if it’s a baby. Because it’s so expensive. The stunned sturgeon dies without knowing any better and the eggs are harvested in a perfect state. If the sturgeon is injured or scared or stressed the caviar doesn’t taste good. Adrenalin pumps through so the eggs die or smell bad. So the perfect caviar has to be taken from a happy living sturgeon. This here is the most expensive caviar, which was harvested correctly. What do you think now? You’re hungry, right? You want to eat it, right? I’m cutting this bread into thin slices like this and I’m going to toast it lightly with butter. And then I’m going to top it with a teaspoon of caviar and eat it. Se-yeon, you know you have to eat caviar by putting it in your mouth and popping it lightly with your tongue?
Water? Do you want more? Oh, you must be so thirsty. I’ll give you warm water this time. Cold water is so fleeting. You know what’ll happen if you yell, right? I always keep a promise. You keep the promise you made with me, okay? What is it? Is the water too hot? Don’t worry. Once it goes past the tongue there won’t be any damage to your throat or stomach. The tongue is the most heat-sensitive place on the body. So just drink it. If you shake your head like that the water keeps spilling. Just drink it all up. Instead of bothering me again for more water. Let me see, open your mouth. I guess it really was hot, your tongue is all red. But it’s still healthy pink like a flamingo’s tongue, and your taste buds are standing at attention too. Everything about you is so pretty! You must be so happy that you’re beautiful and can get whatever you want. But looking at you drooling like that is kind of disgusting and sad. I hope he’s never seen you make that expression. Do you know why Hemingway ate oysters at every meal? It’s because he was feeling so empty. So empty, so he would slurp down oysters. That never happens to you, right?