by Roy Choi
Scoop and serve the shaved ice in a bowl with the lychees, the mint, and a little more condensed milk drizzled over top.
AHHHH.
SPAM BÁNH ME
* * *
The first time I ate a bánh mì sandwich was in Orange County’s Little Saigon back in high school, on my way to the Asian Garden Mall to pick up some Euro disco CDs. I went across the street from the mall to a little sandwich shop that was filled with people and a line out the door. I didn’t really know what I was getting into, but it seemed simple enough. Cheap, line, sandwich, wrapped in paper. How could I go wrong? My version pays respects to the traditional sandwich, pickled veggies and all, but with some Spam thrown in for something a little different.
MAKES 4 SANDWICHES
PICKLES
1 cup julienned daikon
1 cup julienned carrots
½ cup natural rice vinegar (not seasoned)
1½ teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup water
SANDWICHES
4 demibaguettes
½ cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon Maggi seasoning
1 tablespoon Sriracha
Butter, softened
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
1 can Spam, cut into 8 thin steaks
Fresh cilantro sprigs
Fresh Thai basil or opal basil leaves
Fried shallots (store-bought)
Limes
Place the daikon and carrots in small bowl. Combine the vinegar, salt, sugar, and water in a small pot. Bring the mixture to a boil, then turn off the heat and let it cool until it’s warm. Pour over the daikon and carrots and let it sit for at least 30 minutes and up to 2 hours.
Cut the baguettes in half but keep them intact. In a small bowl, mix the mayonnaise with the Maggi seasoning and the Sriracha. Set aside.
Slather the cut sides of the baguettes with softened butter and toast them in your toaster oven or in a pan over low heat until they’re nice and crispy. Set aside.
Heat the oil in a skillet, add the Spam, and cook over medium heat until it’s golden brown in color. Transfer to paper towels and reserve.
Slather the buttered sides of the baguettes with the spicy mayonnaise. To build the sandwiches, place the Spam on the bottom half of each baguette, then top with the pickled daikon and carrots and add a layer of cilantro and basil. Top with the fried shallots and a squeeze of lime and close up the baguette.
CRUNCH!
HAINAN CHICKEN, KIND OF
* * *
Hainan chicken is a treasure in Southeast Asia, and people can get real territorial over the “right” way to make the dish. I’ll be first to tell you, though, that my version is more of a riff on the dish rather than the real thing. I think I got it right, kind of . . .
SERVES 4 TO 6
One 5-pound chicken
3 tablespoons kosher salt
1 cup chopped peeled fresh ginger
1 cup roughly chopped scallions
1 cup garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
1 cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro
1 lime, quartered
2 kaffir lime leaves
One 3-inch cinnamon stick
Splash of Maggi seasoning
Splash of dark soy sauce
GARNISH
Handful of chopped cilantro
Jar of chili garlic sauce for the table
Rinse and dry dry dry the chicken. Coat it with the salt all over and let it sit for a few minutes as you bring enough water to cover the chicken to a boil in a big pot.
Once boiling, add everything but the chicken to the pot. Bring it to a boil again, then add the chicken and reduce the heat to produce a low simmer.
Cook the chicken, uncovered, low and slow, until tender, about 1 hour.
Remove the chicken and soak it immediately in an ice-water bath. Chill the chicken until the meat is still warm but the skin is cold, then remove it (it’s okay if the chicken is a little wet from the ice bath). Strain the broth (you can use it to make rice if you wish).
Serve the chicken by itself or over rice with the cilantro and the chili garlic sauce.
CRÈME BRÛLÉE
* * *
The crackle of the burned sugar, the creamy inside, vanilla beans speckled throughout, the feeling when scraping the inside of the ramekin after finishing most of it, the idea of sharing with friends at the table. I love crème brûlée, and the pandan leaf gives it an extra layer of sweet flavor. I hope this recipe makes you love again, too.
You’ll need a kitchen blowtorch to burn the sugar.
SERVES 4 TO 6
5 cups heavy cream
Seeds scraped from ½ vanilla bean
One 12-inch strip pandan leaf
1 cup sugar
14 egg yolks, beaten
Superfine sugar for sprinkling
Preheat the oven to 325°F.
Combine the cream, vanilla seeds, pandan leaf, and half the sugar in a pot. Bring the mixture to a slight boil, then lower the heat to simmer.
Combine the egg yolks and the other half of the sugar in a large bowl and beat thoroughly, for about 2 minutes.
Ladle by ladle, add the cream to the egg yolks, whisking constantly so the hot cream doesn’t cook the yolks (this process is tempering the cream). When everything is combined, add the mixture back to the pot and cook it over very low heat until it’s slightly thick and coats the back of a spoon. Make sure to keep it at low heat so as not to scramble the eggs.
Fill 4 to 6 ramekins with this mixture—crème anglaise—and place them in a large roasting pan filled with an inch or so of water. Place the pan in the oven and bake for 45 minutes.
When the ramekins are ready, remove them from the oven and from the water bath. Let them cool, then refrigerate for 2 hours.
Sprinkle the tops of the ramekins with sugar, then use the blowtorch to melt and burn the sugar until golden brown. Cool and allow the surface to harden.
ENJOY YOUR DESSERT.
CHAPTER 12
WINDSHIELD
Back when I was losing my mind and my soul at the Bike, my mom went to see a fortune-teller. She was losing her son, and she needed answers about the beast she had borne. Later, she would tell me what the fortune-teller had said to her:
“Don’t worry about your son, because he is going to be surrounded by people in a parking lot, in a party, always. Surrounded by smiling faces and warm laughter. He will be there in the party and at the center somewhere. Don’t worry if he is not smart. Don’t worry about making him what you think he needs to be. Just feed him. Feed him food and knowledge. Just love him.”
IT COULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED any sooner.
“Yo, I heard you lost your job. Who gives a fuck?!”
The voice on the line was so carefree, so fearless, so nonchalant. It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Still, I was surprised to hear from Mark after a couple years; at the Beverly Hilton, we had always been on the same wavelength, always able to bust on each other in a second, but mostly it had been a work friendship. Outside the hotel, we didn’t really hang.
“Fuck it, man, it’s just a job,” he continued. “Come meet me for some coffee in K-Town. We’ll chill and look at some honeys. And I got something to ask you.”
A promise of freedom, a little humor. A cup of coffee would be a nice escape, even if only for a few hours. Going to Hollywood to check out the tour buses could wait. We met up at a café in my old stomping grounds, Koreatown. As we sat on the patio sipping caramel lattes and squishing cigarettes into an ashtray full of coffee grinds, Mark told me about an idea. I sat and listened. And listened.
And chalked it all up to ridiculousness and went home. The idea didn’t really have any substance; it was a pencil sketch at best. It seemed so trivial, in fact; the kind of thing you listen to and forget, mindlessly nodding along to a guy trying to sell you on a time-share because you’re bored and just trying to be pol
ite.
But I couldn’t sleep. The idea gnawed at the edges of my dreams. Maybe it wasn’t so trivial after all. The next morning, I saw it. As if it had always existed. Because it always had.
In a heartbeat, Mark and I were at Kaju Market in Koreatown. Up and down the aisles, it was as if my fingers knew all the ingredients to a recipe my mind hadn’t yet written. Vinegars and chile pastes. Scallions, onions, cilantro, ginger, garlic, masa, manteca de cerdo, short ribs, soy sauce, oranges, limes, romaine, cabbage, sesame seeds, kochujang, kochukaru.
The idea, as Mark presented it over lattes and cigarettes, was to put Korean BBQ in a taco. “Wouldn’t it be delicious?” he said. And that was all he proposed, a basic outline in black and white. But it was enough. Enough to lead me back to the box of crayons that I had tucked away for the last ten years while I was busy climbing the ladder, enough for me to know exactly what colors to use to fill in that outline.
I did a beta test of the salsa roja on my own, then hit the market again to tweak it and pick up more ingredients. I got everything I needed for the improved salsa, plus everything for the taco itself—marinated short ribs, tortillas, onions, cilantro, limes, cabbage, lettuce, scallions, sesame seeds—and made my way to Mark’s kitchen in his tiny Koreatown apartment. Spread all the groceries out and started to color in our outline of a taco. I didn’t know exactly what the picture would look like when I was done, but the technical details didn’t matter right then. As I chopped and layered ingredients, visions of Silver Garden, Pershing Square, my childhood refrigerator, cruising in Whittier, Grove Street, transient life, the desert bubbled up and started flowing through me like a tidal wave. I was possessed. Sohn-maash.
I had it.
It was about four inches in diameter. One and a half bites at most. Oily but crispy. Made of fresh corn, but never grainy. Filled with meat that felt like it had been chopped all day by the same cleaver over and over again on a worn wooden block, then thrown on a plancha and sizzled to a crusty sticky juicy niblet of life. Showered with chopped onions and more handfuls of chopped cilantro than you can imagine. Lime juice everywhere. And salsa roja, smoky and pungent.
There it was. Los Angeles on a plate. Maybe it wasn’t everyone’s L.A., but it was mine. It was Koreatown to Melrose to Alvarado to Venice to Crenshaw crumpled into one flavor and bundled up like a gift. The elements looked like city blocks. The flavor tasted like the streets. And the look said home.
AFTER A FEW WEEKS of scoping out purveyors and cutting cash-only deals directly with sources all over Downtown L.A. for the best-quality produce and meat, we were ready to roll. On a cold night just before Thanksgiving in 2008, I got behind the wheel of a beat-up 1980s Grumman catering truck with a decal of the number 69 on the windshield.
My hands wrapped around the steering wheel like Arthur’s on the sword in the stone. I gunned the engine. With the crew riding in the back, we set out to Silver Lake and East Hollywood, the energy of the city showing us the way.
We drove and parked, drove and parked, drove and drove. Those first nights were slow. But I was mad determined. I knew in my bones that our style would find a home with the people of L.A., from the cholos in white tees and Dodger-blue caps to a crew of gangsters at a picnic, guns down for a hot minute, to everyone at your grandma’s birthday party. So, no matter whether those youngsters threw up gang signs at us near Rampart, no matter whether young Korean girls mocked us in front of Hodori, no matter whether club kids cracked jokes at our square wheels, no matter whether the wanderers in Hollywood would even look at us, no matter what anyone thought about a couple of random guys rolling up in this creaky-ass Grumman—no matter all that. In my mind’s eye, I could see the empty corners filled with people. People with their guard down, ready to relax, ready to smile. They would be strangers, but excited to be friends. I knew people would love what we had.
And sure enough, one by one, the youngsters pulled back their gang signs. The Korean girls came over to check us out. The club kids needed to satisfy their munchies. As the corners filled up and people came out to eat together on the curb, the food slowly and steadily took on a life of its own. It began to taste Indonesian, look Mexican, feel Korean. It spoke to hipsters, comforted families, filled eager bellies. It breathed L.A. All the way.
As for me, I was finally in full bloom. I was finally home. I didn’t feel the need to defend or define myself, didn’t have to be anyone in particular anymore. Not a success. Not a career climber. Just me. A fucked-up, restless kid from L.A. who had morphed into a thug who had become a chef who had cooked his way up a ladder, only to fall into the arms of the streets. Through that windshield during that first week, I saw a city that didn’t know it was hungry and a reflection of a guy who was free.
The fortune-teller was right, you know. Because here I am.
Standing in a parking lot. Surrounded by friends.
Smiling.
BEEF CHEEK TACOS
* * *
Cabeza—or beef cheek—tacos are some of the best things this planet has to offer as food. I ate so many of these and other tacos growing up in both L.A. and Orange County that they became part of me and, in a way, prepared me to cook my own tacos. Splash some salsa verde on there, and that’s it: SoCal, and especially L.A., on a plate.
MAKES 8 TO 10 TACOS
BRINE
2 tablespoons kosher salt
Juice of ½ lemon
Juice of ½ orange
Juice of 1 lime
½ cup sugar
3 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
½ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup whole dried chiles de árbol
1½ whole dried guajillo chiles
1 cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro
2 quarts water
1 pound beef cheeks, cleaned (ask your butcher to do this for you)
SALSA VERDE
1½ tomatillos, charred
1½ cups roughly chopped fresh cilantro
1½ serrano chiles, with seeds
1½ jalapeños peppers with seeds, charred
Juice of 1 lime
2½ garlic cloves, peeled
½ cup roughly chopped scallions, charred
½ cup natural rice vinegar (not seasoned)
¼ cup vegetable oil
8 to 10 corn tortillas
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
GARNISH
Chopped white onions
Chopped cilantro
In a large pot, combine all the brine ingredients. Bring the brine to a boil, then remove from the heat and let it cool. Add the beef cheeks to the cooled brine (if you add the meat to the hot brine, the meat will cook instead of marinate). Place the pot in your fridge and marinate the beef cheeks, uncovered, in the brine overnight.
The next morning, set the beef cheeks (still in the brine) over high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook, uncovered, until the beef cheeks are tender, about 1 hour.
Remove the beef cheeks from the pot, discarding the brine, and let them cool. Once the cheeks have cooled, roughly chop them into small pieces.
Combine all of the ingredients for the salsa in a blender or food processor and puree.
Heat the oil on a griddle or in a skillet and cook the tortillas over medium heat for 30 seconds to crisp up, then flip. Remove the tortillas and add the beef cheeks to the griddle or skillet, cooking for about 2 minutes, until the meat is caramelized. Season with salt and pepper.
To bring everything together, stack 2 tortillas on a plate and top with beef cheeks. Spoon salsa all over the beef. Garnish with onions and cilantro.
EAT MANY.
ROY’S BURGER
* * *
Long before our truck started, my dream was to have a small burger stand with stools around a horseshoe counter, patties sizzling on a well-seasoned griddle, a machine that served Orange Bang, the Los Angeles Times scattered everywhere, Vin Scully calling the Dodgers game on the radio. That was my dream; that is my dream. I
t’s just that the lines got long for this truck, and here I am today. Although I may never get that dream of having a lazy greasy spoon, I do have this burger that would have been in that dream. So here you go. My burger from my imaginary burger stand.
THIS RECIPE IS FOR ONE PERFECT BURGER. MAKE AS MANY AS YOU WISH.
1 burger bun
1 tablespoon soft butter
One or two 4-ounce burger patties, depending on your appetite
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 slices sharp cheddar cheese
1 teaspoon yellow mustard
1 tablespoon mayonnaise
1 thin slice red onion
2 thin slices tomato
1 large shiso leaf
1 leaf butter lettuce
Handful of roasted and crushed sesame seeds
Tapatío hot sauce
Slather the inside of the bun with butter and set aside.
Heat a grill or griddle. Brush the burger patties with a bit of oil and season with salt and pepper. Cook them for just a couple minutes on each side for medium-rare, then, with the patties still on the grill, place the cheese slices on each to melt.
Meanwhile, in a dry pan over medium-low heat, toast the bun butter side down until the butter becomes golden brown and crispy, then slather the inside of the bun with mayo and mustard.
Place the patty or patties on the bun and on top of the melted cheese, layer, in this order, the onion, tomato, shiso leaf, and lettuce. Top it all off with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and hot sauce.
IF YOU WANT TO BE FANCY AND MAKE YOUR OWN, THIS IS MY FAVORITE BURGER BLEND: