L.A. Son

by Roy Choi

  Honestly, I probably got in the way a lot. But even then I knew that people were at our restaurant, sitting in our booths, to eat and enjoy themselves. So I tried to have a great time, too. For the first time in my life, the cooking that I was so used to at home was part of everything I was doing—no start point, no end point. For two years it was a beautiful blend of all good things. The garden was in full bloom.

  THEN THOSE DAMN CLOUDS started gathering again to rain on our parade. I told you this was West Anaheim, right?

  The grass was looking greener on the other side of Brookhurst. There Koreans were turning Garden Grove into the next Koreatown, while our end of the street darkened. Drugs trickled in slowly, then flooded the area like water bursting through a dam. Our neighborhood became the seedy motel capital of the West Coast, occupied mostly by increasing numbers of hookers, transients, bikers, and gangs. Disco was out, heavy metal in. These new residents definitely weren’t looking for our brand of hot pot. Eventually, nobody really wanted to come to our part of town—not for a visit and especially not for Korean food.

  My parents became grumpier and grumpier and worked harder and longer, and I latchkeyed it like I had never latchkeyed it before. They still found time to put me in the Cub Scouts and Little League, but I knew what was up. We were losing customers, our business. Everything was COD now. Electricity bills paid in the morning to have functioning lights during the day and the night. Then paid again tomorrow morning with last night’s take.

  My parents, trying to keep Silver Garden alive, added bulgogi mixed-rice bowls and spicy mandoo stews; these didn’t really make sense for their menu, but all the newer Garden Grove restaurants offered these, so they tried to make them fit. They painted new signage on the window, brightened up the dining room, made flyers. None of these things worked.

  And my parents just couldn’t see that they were chasing their own tail. My dad was blind to the weeds in the garden, but it was more from pride than denial. He’d have scotch with his buddies in the restaurant, invite them over to share glorious plates of kalbi and soju, as if we were still ballin’. He coped by showing off the most when he had the least. My mom continued to prep as if three hundred covers were coming in each night, stuffing plastic bucket after plastic bucket with marinating meats and her fantastic kimchi. Night after night, these dishes just sat row after row, orphaned and waiting for people who never showed up. Some of the food rotted and decomposed in the back of the walk-in. Sometimes I went in there, quietly, cleaned it all out, and filled our trash cans to the brim with my mom’s amazing food. Enough there to feed a small army, if only the war wasn’t already lost.

  They started to sell Amway and jewelry out of the restaurant.

  One by one, the ajumas, the young waitresses, the dishwasher, the cooks were let go. Then it was just us three working the back and front of the house. And then there were none. It was a pink sky at dusk when Silver Garden began dinner service for the last time. My parents worked fifteen hours that day. They were beaten down, smelling of garlic, and hungover from scotch. There was pain in their eyes, but resilience too. We served our last dish to our last customer. The Humdinger whistled its bells; the birds on the wire silently flew away.

  For all the things it may not have been, it was the most beautiful time in my life. The prime time of my mom’s life. The first time I picked up on the feeling that food was important and not just a meal to fuel yourself to do something else.

  This was my family’s restaurant.

  This was Silver Garden.

  DUMPLING TIME

  * * *

  Dumplings will always be a part of my life. They represent those in-between moments when people sit down to make something together and let their real selves come out. I love dumplings panfried and cooked in boiling salted water. Dumplings are the best gift you can give yourselves or your friends on a lazy afternoon. This recipe shows you how to make both boiled and panfried dumplings.

  MAKES 50 TO 60 DUMPLINGS

  Vegetable or canola oil for frying

  FILLING

  4 ounces firm tofu, crumbled

  4 ounces ground pork

  4 ounces ground beef

  1 cup minced scallions

  ¼ cup minced peeled fresh ginger

  ¼ cup minced garlic

  2 tablespoons oyster sauce

  2 tablespoons Asian sesame oil

  2 tablespoons roasted and crushed sesame seeds

  ½ cup finely chopped green cabbage

  1 egg

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  1 tablespoon natural rice vinegar (not seasoned)

  Pinch of kochukaru

  Pinch of kosher salt

  WRAPPING

  1 cup all-purpose flour for dusting

  50 to 60 dumpling wrappers

  Egg wash (just beat an egg with a splash of water)

  DIPPING SAUCE

  Equal parts soy sauce and rice vinegar

  Pinch of kochukaru

  GARNISH FOR DIPPING SAUCE (OPTIONAL)

  1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger

  1 tablespoon thinly sliced scallion greens

  1 garlic clove, minced

  1 teaspoon sesame seeds

  In a large bowl, mix all the filling ingredients together with delicious and motherly intent, until everything is well incorporated.

  Dust a clean table with flour. Lay out your spread: the filling mixture, the wrappers, and the egg wash. Grab some tablespoons. Place a dumpling wrapper in the palm of your hand and scoop a teaspoon of meat into the center. Brush the top edge of the wrapper with egg wash and fold over to make a half-moon, sealing the edges. Be sure to press out any air so the meat purse is intact.

  Repeat repeat repeat.

  Store your finished dumplings on a sheet pan dusted with flour and keep them covered with plastic wrap so the dumplings don’t dry out.

  Boil a big pot of salted water, just like you would for pasta. At the same time, heat a large sauté pan over medium heat and add enough vegetable oil to reach about inch up the sides.

  Drop half of the dumplings—or as many as will fit in your pot—into the boiling water and reduce the heat, keeping the water at a strong simmer. The dumplings should take about 2 minutes to cook; they will rise to the top when done.

  With a slotted spoon or a spider, transfer the dumplings to a plate.

  For the other half of the dumplings, place as many as will fit with oil in the sauté pan without overcrowding, bottom-side down. Cook on medium heat until the bottoms are a light golden brown, about 45 seconds. Add 2 tablespoons of water to the pan and cover. When the water has evaporated, the dumplings are done. Remove to a plate and repeat for the remaining dumplings.

  For the dipping sauce, mix together the soy sauce and rice vinegar, add the kochukaru, and, if you have them, add the minced ginger, sliced scallions, minced garlic, and sesame seeds. Or, if you’ve made some Splash, use that.

  GO TO FUCKING TOWN!!!

  KOREAN CARPACCIO (SORT OF)

  * * *

  Don’t be freaked out about eating raw beef. Raw meat has been consumed for thousands of years; in Korea, it can be traced back to the Mongolian invasion at the end of the Goryeo Dynasty (918–1392). For the beef, buy the best you can: grass-fed, aged, from a good farm. You don’t need a lot of it for this recipe, and it’s a delicious luxury.

  SERVES 4 TO 6

  5 ounces top round beef

  5 ounces New York (strip) steak

  ¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon soy sauce

  4 tablespoons minced scallions

  2 tablespoons minced peeled garlic

  1½ tablespoons roasted and crushed sesame seeds

  1½ teaspoons kosher salt

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  1 tablespoon Asian sesame oil

  1 Asian pear, peeled, cored, and julienned

  1 cup simple syrup

  1 or 2 quail eggs

  5 garlic cloves, sliced razor-thin

  1 tablespoon toast
ed and ground pine nuts

  TO MAKE SIMPLE SYRUP, COMBINE 1 CUP SUGAR AND 1 CUP WATER IN A SMALL POT, BRING TO A BOIL, AND STIR UNTIL THE SUGAR IS DISSOLVED. ADD A SPLASH OF LEMON JUICE, THEN CHILL THE SYRUP.

  Slice the beef into thin strips against the grain. Mince the meat just a bit.

  Mix the meat with the soy sauce, 3 tablespoons scallions, garlic, 1 tablespoon sesame seeds, salt, pepper, and sesame oil. Massage to mix. Chill the mixture for 1 to 2 hours.

  While the meat chills, soak the pear slices in the simple syrup.

  When the meat is cold, place it on a plate or in a 10-to 12-inch pan and crack the raw quail eggs over the top.

  Drain the pears. Layer the pears, garlic, and pine nuts over the top of the meat. Garnish with remaining scallions and sesame seeds.

  GRAB SOME CHIPS

  OR A SPOON AND

  ENJOY THE SUBTLE

  AND DELICIOUS

  FLAVORS.

  INSTANT PICKLED CUCUMBERS

  * * *

  I love to snack, but sometimes chips just bore me the fuck out. Then I try the store-bought pickles, and I’m like, really? So what to do when you want a little kick? Make these damn pickles, that’s what you do! These are the best snack.

  MAKES ENOUGH FOR 2 TO SNACK

  4 Persian cucumbers

  2 teaspoons sea salt

  2 star anise

  2 teaspoons Asian sesame oil

  2 teaspoons natural rice vinegar (not seasoned)

  Pinch of sugar

  1 tablespoon roasted and crushed sesame seeds

  Pinch of kochukaru

  Freshly cracked black pepper

  Rinse your cukes, then dry them well. Slice them into thin rings on a slicer like a Japanese benriner or a mandoline, sprinkle with the salt, and place in a bowl.

  Heat a pan over medium heat for 1 minute, then add the star anise, shaking the pan just until you smell the aroma of the spice. Add the cucumbers to the pan.

  While the cucumbers are cooking, mix the sesame oil, vinegar, sugar, sesame seeds, and kochukaru in a small bowl, then add the mixture to the cucumbers in the pan.

  Crack some black pepper from a pepper mill over the cucumbers and mix again. Cook for 1 minute more. Remove the cukes and sauce from the heat and scoop into a bowl.

  Chill the bowl for 30 minutes, then snack.

  I BET YOU WILL EAT

  THE WHOLE THING

  IN ONE FELL SWOOP!

  POTATO PANCAKES

  * * *

  When you say pancakes, you instantly think of sweet. But what if it had nothing to do with sweet? What if it was something savory with potatoes and mung beans in a tempura batter? That might fuck your morning up, wouldn’t it? Welcome to my life, and now it can be a part of yours. Keep the syrup in the fridge.

  MAKES FOUR TO SIX 5-INCH PANCAKES OR 1 HUGE ONE

  ½ cup dry mung beans

  ½ white or yellow onion, roughly chopped

  ½ cup prepared tempura batter, from store-bought mix

  Fat pinch of kosher salt

  1 Idaho potato, peeled and grated

  ½ cup minced scallions or fresh chives

  Vegetable oil for frying

  Splash or equal parts soy sauce and natural rice vinegar plus a pinch of kochukaru

  Soak the dry mung beans in water for at least an hour, then drain.

  Combine the chopped onion, tempura batter, mung beans, salt, and a splash of water in a blender and puree. Fold the grated potatoes into the batter and mix in the minced scallions.

  Add 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil to a griddle or medium-size pan over medium heat. When the oil starts to smoke, ladle about a fifth of the mixture into the hot pan and let it cook, adjusting the heat as necessary. You want crispy and not burned.

  After 1 minute, flip the pancake over and cook on the other side for 1 minute. The pancake should plump up just a bit and be nice and crispy on both sides. Remove and drain on paper towels. Repeat for the rest of the batter.

  To serve, bring out the Splash if you have it or mix together the soy sauce, rice vinegar, and kochukaru, and your dipping sauce is good to go.

  DIP, BABY, DIP …

  NOW SLIDE.

  KIMCHI STEW

  * * *

  I grew up on kimchi jjigae, or kimchi stew, and, to this day it’s what gives me strength. It’s my real answer to that tired question “If you had only twenty-four hours to live, what would you eat?” because even though I often change my answer depending on how I imagine my death, at the end of the day, it really is kimchi jjigae stew that I would want to eat. I hope it gives you strength, too.

  If you made Kimchi, feel free to use that here; if not, just pick up a jar from the supermarket.

  SERVES 4

  8 ounces pork baby back ribs

  8 ounces pork belly

  2 tablespoons Asian sesame oil

  2 cups kimchi, chopped

  2 teaspoons minced garlic

  ½ cup thinly sliced scallions

  3 cups pork stock, beef stock, or water

  1 cup water

  Half of an 8-ounce package firm tofu, cut into medium-size cubes

  1 cup shiitake mushrooms, stems removed and discarded

  Kosher salt

  CARAMELIZATION SOUNDS DELICIOUS, AND IT IS: YOU DO IT TO INTENSIFY THE FLAVORS OF THE FOOD YOU’RE COOKING AND TO DRAW OUT A LITTLE BIT OF SWEETNESS. TO CARAMELIZE KIMCHI, MEAT, ONIONS, BOK CHOY, WHATEVER, YOU’RE JUST GOING TO COOK IT NICE AND SLOW UNTIL IT STARTS TO BROWN. IT’LL BE STICKY SWEET.

  Slice the mushroom caps in half and set aside.

  Score the ribs with a knife and cut the pork belly into small cubes.

  Heat a large pot over high heat and add the sesame oil. Toss in the kimchi, the pork ribs, and the pork belly and caramelize them just a touch, about 3 minutes. Then add the garlic and scallions and stir just until they start to release their aroma, about 1 minute.

  Add the stock and water. Bring everything to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer for 20 minutes. Add the tofu and shiitake mushrooms and simmer for about 10 minutes more.

  Season with salt to taste.

  Eat with rice immediately.

  IT SHOULD BE VISCOUS

  AND DREAMY.

  CHAPTER 3

  NECK FROZE

  It was the first day. A Monday morning right around the summer between elementary school and junior high. The hallway of the eighth floor of an early-twentieth-century building at 6th and Hill in Downtown Los Angeles, kitty-corner from the wind tunnels of Pershing Square.

  The plan on this first day was to start at 6th and Hill, walk up to Olive, then down to Broadway, across to 5th, then back down toward 7th. But first we had to take care of something.

  It was quiet in the hall. My parents looked around, all suspicious-like. The coast was clear. “Roy. Put these in your pockets.”

  White paper rectangles with baby blue paper film on the inside, carefully folded and packaged. They’d open up like origami or an eight ball of coke to reveal a select few diamonds, loose. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth. We’re talking D-flawless, VVS 1–level rocks. Stuffed deep, deep into my pockets.

  Now we were ready to roll.

  LESS THAN A YEAR after Silver Garden folded, my parents found themselves back in the jewelry business. It was my uncle Edward—Edward Swoboda—who reintroduced them to the industry. He was born in Oakland and raised in L.A.—Eagle Rock, in fact—in 1917, but he didn’t stick around too long. No, he was a debonair Sean Connery type with a hunger for adventure and treasure. He traveled the world in the thirties, forties, fifties searching for gems and minerals. Emeralds in Brazil. Tourmaline in Mexico. Dioptase in Africa. It all paid off: his jewelry line sold at all the high-end stores, from Saks to Dillard’s to Neiman Marcus. Hollywood stars in the Golden Age blinged out in his gear.

  My mom’s older sister worked at a jewelry shop in West Hollywood that sold Edward Swoboda gems. They met, married, and settled down. He became part of our extended family, and it
really was just like having Indiana Jones for an uncle. He told me tales of fighting piranhas, meeting Amazonian tribes, digging deep, cramped tunnels hundreds of feet underground somewhere in Mexico. He did it all.

  So it was only natural that after Silver Garden closed my dad dusted off his GIA certificate and my mom tapped into the family network. Uncle Edward introduced them to two guys deep in his food chain, Rajiv and Deecan. Rajiv sourced the stones; Deecan set them. Both men trusted my parents because they trusted Edward. They agreed to let my parents have the jewels on consignment, believing in the power of the Korean community to bring home the gold. Game, set, match.

  YOU COULD WALK through the doors of almost any of the shops in the Jewelry District of Downtown L.A. and island-hop from one vendor’s station to another, browsing jewelry, watches, diamonds in the rough. But pretty as they may look from the top down, put them under a microscope and it’s only their flaws that shine. The best-quality gems were stories and stories above street level, behind exclusive double- and triple-buzzer doors.

  Thanks to Uncle Edward, we had the golden ticket to get behind those doors. With that access, my parents hatched their plan: rather than trying to make a profit by selling in volume, they would target the “whales”—the trophy wives of the Korean community all over SoCal. And to go after Moby Dick, they knew they had to use the best bait. Only the best of the best for the best. They, meanwhile, would buy the first-class bait at economy prices. Nothing personal, just business. Great business. And the first stop on the way to building this great business was Rajiv’s.