Ralph Gardner Jr. helps make a batch of the Korean dish with cookbook author Danielle Chang
ENLARGE
Kimchi serves as proof that one can develop a taste for new and arguably off-putting foods well into adulthood. Or expressed another way, I suspect no self-respecting child outside South Korea, where per capita consumption is said to be 40 pounds a year, would voluntarily get within a mile of the pungent stuff.
For those unfamiliar with kimchi, it’s typically made from fermented cabbage, spiced with red chili pepper flakes and loads of garlic, and served as a side dish at Korean restaurants.
As she sat in her SoHo kitchen last week and prepared to make her own kimchi from scratch, Danielle Chang, founder of LuckyRice—culinary events that started in New York in 2010 that celebrate Asian culture—informed me that kimchi can be consumed fresh. Or you can let it sit in your refrigerator for a year and it may taste even better.
“It’s really fun to ferment it,” she said as she followed the kimchi recipe from her new cookbook, Lucky Rice (Potter), “to see how it tastes over time.”
The question is whether you want to take that risk. Because kimchi is so strong that you can sometimes even smell it through a closed container.
When I once brought home a store-bought jar my wife threw it out.
But that hasn’t cured my fascination with the fiery dish. Part of it is a macho thing. My father, who introduced me to Korean food in the 1960s at Arirang, a Korean restaurant on West 56th Street that no longer exists, would dunk kimchi in a bowl of water to dilute the taste.
I take mine straight or not at all.
ENLARGEMs. Chang, who was born in Taiwan, grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, and attended Barnard College, considers food an “appetizing lens” through which to tell stories about Asian culture. She believes most Korean restaurants make their own kimchi, both because it’s easy and cheap to do, and as a matter of pride.
“Every family has a jar in the refrigerator,” in Korea, she explained as she laid out the ingredients for hers. She does much of her shopping in Chinatown. In addition to napa cabbage, the ingredients included sweet glutinous rice flour, fish sauce, 10 garlic cloves, gochugaru red chili pepper flakes and dried baby shrimp.
“It’s almost a sign of how good a housewife you are,” Ms. Chang said. “It’s something that must be homemade.”
In her cookbook, she claims that Korean wives know whether their kimchi is properly seasoned by touch alone, the heat from the chilies soaking into their hands.
Also, Ms. Chang, who I first met when she hosted a “Ramen Slurpfest” in 2014, contends we’re in the throes of a kimchi renaissance, though I’m not sure what her proof is.
And the news of kimchi’s renaissance hasn’t yet percolated down to Ms. Chang’s 10-year-old daughter, Clarissa. She joined us briefly in the kitchen.
“Do you like kimchi?” I asked as I helped toss the mixture, using the traditional squishy-bare-hands method.
“No,” she stated flatly and left. There seemed little need to elucidate.
Her mother also made “U.S. Army Stew” from her cookbook, a main dish that seemed potentially even more problematic than kimchi. It originates from the rations of luncheon meats given to American soldiers during the Korean War.
The ingredients include instant ramen noodles, shredded mozzarella cheese, one-half can of Spam and two hot dogs.
While the stew is sold as a late-night dish or hangover cure at tented street stalls throughout South Korea, Ms. Chang said she was introduced to it at Pocha 32, a restaurant in Manhattan’s Koreatown.
“A lot of the ideas in the book are about these culinary collusions,” she explained. She also cited her recipe for kimchi tacos, the result of Asians and Hispanics “living side-by-side after the L.A. riots and coming to peace through food.”
As much as I’m a believer in intercultural harmony, I had my reservations about U.S. Army Stew. In particular, the Spam, which I’m ashamed to say I’d never had the courage to try before.
But it was actually rather tasty—cross-cultural comfort food—when included among a host of other ingredients.
I neglected to ask Ms. Chang how long she thought it might survive in my refrigerator.