This Beautiful Cook’s Tour
Chapter Three: The Heat of the Heart
Recipe(s): Korean Fried Chicken and Korean-Style Radish Pickles (Daikon)
Date: January 21st, 2019
Before I knew what my future looked like, I spent a lot of time in Queens. My father was originally from Jackson Heights. Often we’d park under the 7 train and take the subway into midtown to see a show, or we’d drive across the Brooklyn Bridge and spend the day walking around SoHo and Canal Street.
We would always come back to Queens for dinner. On 82nd Street, there used to be Chinese-Cuban restaurant. The seats were a faded yellow, and there were aging lobsters in a tank near the window. Let me be clear when I say this was not a fusion restaurant: it had two menus. All the waiters spoke Spanish. My father would order us plates of steak with onions, rotisserie chicken with yellow rice, and — my favorite — ropa vieja, which was shredded flank steak cooked in tomato sauce with onions and peppers.
As a teenager, I became obsessed with all things Otaku-subculture. My jaw would drop at Toy Tokyo. I’d sit spend my allowance on cutesy cell phone charms from street vendors. My father, as much as he loved Chinatown, let me in on one thing: Flushing, which was much closer to us, had all the same things and more.
I’ve been living in Queens for almost a decade. When I began at Queens College, I’d take the bus into Flushing to catch the 7. It was the one way I knew how to get across the river. Looking back on those times as a teenager — walking through Flushing Mall, which has since been closed, or guffawing at the three candy aisles at the H-Mart in New World Mall — it’s odd I spent so much time there. Flushing feels like the rest of Queens, which is aptly titled “the borough of the world”. At any time, you can hear six different languages, see fruits you’re unfamiliar with, or walk into a restaurant that feels like home.
One evening as an undergraduate, a friend who grew up there took me to a place they loved. This is where I had Korean Fried Chicken for the first time.
Unlike American fried chicken, which is often greasy, Korean Fried Chicken has found the balance of juicy and crunchy. No flavor is sacrificed.
We ordered a bucket of soy garlic chicken. The meat was tender, fresh. We threw the bones onto a plate they gave us, and between bites took handfuls of the garlic popcorn on the table.
Two weeks later, I brought my partner there. Since then, we try to make a trip there once every couple of months — or once a year, if the timing isn’t right — and eat our weight in wings, popcorn, and kimchi.
Fuck. I love kimchi.
Bourdain’s Korean Fried Chicken recipe is easily the most complicated I’ve ever done. So of course, I pick it second.
I went to a lot of grocery stores to get these ingredients. It was important to me to stay true to the recipe. This isn’t just out of respect for Bourdain — it’s out of respect for a food that isn’t mine. I got the last daikon at one supermarket in Manhattan. Carried bottles of peanut oil and rice wine on the train, hoping they wouldn’t break.
From one grocery store, I bought the chicken. I got two kinds: drumsticks and thighs to make boneless wings.
Some people argue that you shouldn’t wash your chicken. I grew up with a mother who was very concerned about E.Coli. I took food safety courses when I worked as a barista. I always wash my chicken.
However, the drumsticks I bought weren’t skinless. Have you ever taken a shower while peeling from a sunburn? That’s sort of what rinsing chicken with the skin on is like.
The recipe calls for two days of prep: a few hours of letting the chicken marinate in a closed container, then blanching the chicken in peanut oil. This seems to be the trick to getting the texture right — flash frying once, and then really frying a second time.
Luckily, as an undergraduate, I taught myself how to make beignets for an ex-boyfriend. I learned how the oil should sound when it’s hot enough and you drop in the dough. How it rises to the top when it’s done. And watching Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat recently, I knew using chopsticks would help prevent me from burning myself like I’d done in the past.
However, I never used peanut oil.
Arguably, it’s safer. Peanut oil has a higher burning point, meaning — in the case of frying without a deep fryer — that the oil won’t “pop” at lower temperatures, like vegetable or olive oil. Peanut oil is free of trans-fat and cholesterol. This doesn’t mean frying with it is better for you — it’s still fried food — but isn’t won’t have the same impact on the body. Peanut oil also has a nuttier flavor, which works really nicely for savory dishes.
Don’t try this if you have a peanut allergy.
I don’t own a candy thermometer. This is what Bourdain recommends to keep an eye on the heat. I’m an arrogant asshole — instead, I used the browning of the meat, the sizzle of the pan, and smell of the food — as my guide.
It was late when I started — I’d been working in another state earlier that day. I cut the daikon into strips, shook them in a mason jar with equal parts sugar, water, and white vinegar with salt, and put it on the counter.
I went to shower while the chicken steeped in roasted chili oil, gochugaru (ground Korean red pepper), and kosher salt.
Once the peanut oil was sizzling on the stove, I emptied potato starch into a shallow dish. One by one, I coated the boneless wings in the starch and dropped them into the pot. The meat hissed. I knew it was cooking and dropped in five or six at a time. They bobbed in the oil. I quietly turned them with the chopsticks until they turned gold.
When each batch was done, I placed the pieces on a wire cooling rack. I finished the drumsticks and let the oil drip onto parchment paper below. Once cool, I put the larger pieces into a clean glassware. The boneless? I wrap them in saran wrap. The plastic is my sworn enemy — never agreeing to move across the baking sheet, twisting and sticking to itself — but today, it gives in. Like me, it’s too tired to fight anymore. Everything sits in the freezer overnight.
I’ve always been open to new foods. Part of that comes from my parents being eager to put any dish in front of me. It’s also because I grew up around food that wasn’t just chicken nuggets and pizza. As much as I loved both, I got excited about picadillo, a dish of ground beef cooked with tomato sauce and paste, green olives, and raisins. I’d devour my grandfather’s ribs with rice and beans. My grandmother knows I have a soft spot for ropa vieja. It takes hours to boil the meat until it can be shredded with a fork.
What I loved about Parts Unknown was Bourdain’s deep respect for places that weren’t his own. He’s fascinated by the extended Christmas in the Philippines, devouring dishes in homes and Jollibee. In one season, he visits Israel and Palestine, and shares with us danger and beauty. He meets The Masai in Tanzania and kills a goat — an honor. He says:
“I try and be a good guest. I eat what my hosts put in front of me. I try to take responsibility if something dies for my dinner. So when the chief asks if I’d care to do the honors, and tells me how it has to be done, I’m not happy. In fact, as I close up its air passages, I’m struggling not to throw up on myself.”
And yet he eats the congealed blood. Notices how sweet it is as he shares it with a community he’s been invited to for the afternoon. He admires their strength.
When I decided to take up this project, I knew I had to be true to the recipe. This isn’t out of some selfish idea of me “missing out” on pivotal ingredients — it’s out of respect. For the chef. For the culture the recipe comes from.
I don’t eat a lot of meat. I gave up pork fifteen year’s ago. But I know better than to tell my grandmother I won’t eat her Christmas ham. I know better than to deny myself pernil on a special occasion. I know better than to say no to a soup that’s too spicy, too fishy, or too hot because it’s goddamn summer.
Food is the best way I can communicate with family. My grandmother is eighty years-old. She is bold, funny, proud of being Cuban. When I ask her how she makes something, she explains it as “a little lime” or “a splash of white wine”. When I ask if she’s cooking wine, she says, “no, real wine. The cheaper the better.”
I know that it hurts that most of her grandchildren don’t speak Spanish. But if she can show me her heart in food? I think that means something to her. I’m the only one that cooks.
When I showed her a picture of my own ropa vieja, she smiles. All she says is: “Wow. Mija.”
The next day, I got home from work. I pulled the chicken to thaw. I mixed together the sauce — tons of garlic, gochujang (a fermented Korean pepper paste), maple syrup, soy sauce, fish sauce, rice wine, and Frank’s RedHot sauce.
If MSG wasn’t sold in huge bags, I would have added it as well. Instead, I add a little more kosher salt to make up for the flavor. Everything goes in the food processor. It splashes out a little. I take a taste. Good heat, the way I like it — right in the chest.
Once the oil was hot enough again, I started dropping in the chicken. Same routine as before, but I let each piece sit a little longer. The second layer darkened — giving it that extra layer of crunch. In batches, I pinched each piece between the chopsticks and brought it to a now-clean cooling rack.
The drumsticks took a long time. When I sliced one section with a knife, it was still pink. I let it sit in the oil for a while, then placed the pieces on a tray. I could bake it so it would cook the rest of the way.
I picked up the pastry brush. From a ceramic bowl, I dip and douse each wing with two layers of sauce. They turned that caramel color — a barbecued brown — and the scent of spicy sweet overtook the room. I poured the leftover sauce into the chili oil jar from the night before. Maybe later I could use it for stir fry, or to have over rice.
While the sauce thickened, I boiled sweet potatoes on the stove. Once soft, I mashed them together with garlic and butter — a sweeter side dish, to cut the heat.
The recipe says to “serve with cold beer”. I took two Blue Moon’s from the fridge. When I bit into the boneless wings and took a sip, the flavors all came together. The beer brought out the citrus-like flavor of the chili oil. The spice makes the beer more refreshing. On a cold, January night, this is the meal that soothes your soul. Finds balance. Brings peace.
We toasted the two-day recipe. At the end of a journey, there’s leftovers for days.
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Illustrations by Chris Swierczek
