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헬렌의 전화영어 2008. 11. 25. 01:29

Art, Commerce and Kimchi

Published: August 6, 2008

THE stages of grieving are largely mirrored in the stages of paying a Manhattan dinner check, which has a way of rising much higher and faster than expected, like the Dubai skyline or Miley Cyrus.

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Robert Presutti for The New York Times

PASS THE PORRIDGE, PLEASE The 24-seat Persimmon serves “neo-Korean” fare in the East Village.

Denial, depression, acceptance: they’re all there at the denouement of a meal, interlaced with, or followed by, such additional stages as bloating, loss of hearing (from the noise), loss of voice (from trying to be heard above said noise) and serious credit-card debt.

But not at Persimmon. This new, tiny, relatively un-frenzied restaurant in the East Village flouts any number of conventions, chief among them an obvious, all-out effort to turn a handsome profit.

When the check is delivered, the first stage you’ll experience is puzzlement, followed by relief, giving way to a grateful transportation epiphany: you may well be able to afford a taxi instead of the subway home.

For a “neo-Korean” meal spanning four or five courses (depending on how you count), Persimmon charges all of $37 a person. And since it currently lacks not only a liquor license but also much of a beverage list, the check won’t swell in incremental, incidental ways.

I doubt the price will stay at precisely this level for too long, and a liquor license is expected in four to five months. (In the meantime, you can bring your own booze.)

But what’s already been established is that the restaurant’s chef and owner, Youngsun Lee, is interested first and foremost in making his cooking — which veers from daringly creative in one dish to steadfastly authentic in the next — as accessible as possible. He wants to ease you into a meal that won’t be all that familiar, even if you’re versed in Korean cuisine.

His thinking is more artistic than commercial, a mindset evident in the way the deep, slender space Persimmon occupies has been divided.

The whole back half of it has been reserved for the kitchen, which is about as large as the 24-seat dining room. That’s a kitchen-to-dining-room ratio more closely resembling Per Se’s than Prune’s. Persimmon could accurately advertise free-range cooks.

The dining room itself is essentially one long communal table of polished wood with squat stools and some well-chosen grace notes — fabric placemats in light red, light green and yellow; gleaming metal chopsticks at each place setting — that give it exactly as much visual adornment as it needs.

The wood, the stools: the Momofuku mini-empire will come to mind, but maybe that’s primarily because Mr. Lee worked at Momofuku Noodle Bar, an association noted in just about every initial news-media squib about his restaurant and responsible for its presence on many diners’ radar.

But Persimmon Kimchi House (that’s its fuller, longer name) is more challenging and more particular than any Momofuku. It’s also more uneven: at least a third of the dishes I tried prompted yawns or head-scratching.

But at least another third riveted me, and all in all I enjoyed what struck me as the polar opposite of a cookie-cutter, fashion-driven meal, the Momofuku invocations notwithstanding.

Persimmon is an adventure, and the bumpiness of the trip — including spasmodic and sometimes confused service — is in large part redeemed by the price.

The menu changes every two weeks, and gives you about three or four choices for each of three savory courses, followed by a pre-dessert soup of cold rice and tea, then a modest plate of Korean cookies. These last two courses are by far the least exciting; if you’re in a rush, you can skip them, and still feel that you’re getting more than your money’s worth.

But they’re illuminating, especially the lulling rice-in-tea porridge, which underscores the wild swings in Korean cooking from pointedly spicy — as in kimchi itself, which is fermented cabbage or other vegetables — to subtle, even soporific. These swings are deliberate, a matter of rhythm and pacing.

Mr. Lee takes the kimchi tradition in some surprising directions, for example making strawberry kimchi and using it, along with mint and carrot, to jazz up grilled scallops. There’s a sweet-tart interplay in the dish that’s transfixing.

Another unconventional winner involves spectacularly juicy little rectangles of Asian eggplant stacked like Lincoln Logs and surrounded by a silky, milky dressing of soy sauce, tofu, black sesame and minuscule rice cakes with the texture of gumdrops.

 

 

 

last time you used brine-packed green peppercorns?'' I changed the subject. But while trying unsuccessfully to wedge a quart of milk in there, I had to admit he had a point.

Nonetheless, the idea of just throwing out a carefully built inventory (certain to keep us in jalapeño-kiwi jelly and salted sardines for the better part of a nuclear winter) was devastating.

For someone who cooks a lot, an arsenal of strongly flavored condiments is a powerful secret weapon. Even when there is nothing in the house to eat, I can whip up a meal from the contents of many jars mixed with pasta, or meat excavated from the freezer. Some of my best culinary feats have come out of such condiment alchemy.

''Fine, don't throw anything out,'' my husband said. ''But how about using things up?''

It was during this campaign that I rediscovered the kimchi. It's a potent, mouth-searing Korean condiment made from fermented cabbage, garlic and chilies that I originally bought to garnish grilled steaks. Grilling season is long over, and the kimchi had migrated to the back of the fridge, where it languished behind the lime pickle.

It was high time to put it back in our dinner rotation, but how?

At Korean restaurants, kimchi is most often served in little bowls to accompany a meal. But I wanted it to be integrated into the main dish, imbuing the whole thing with its peppery pungency, a little like spreading preserved black bean sauce on a piece of chicken before cooking it.

So what if I simply rubbed the kimchi all over the pork chops that were defrosting on the counter, then pan-fried them?

The idea of kimchi-slathered pork sounded mighty appealing, so I gave it a go, chopping up the kimchi to release the maximum amount of flavor before coating the chops.

But the thing about kimchi, as opposed to a thicker and more clingy condiment like ketchup, is that after it has been patted onto a piece of meat, it can easily fall off. This meant that once I took my golden brown chops out of the skillet, most of the kimchi -- along with its vibrant flavor -- stayed behind.

I suppose I could have mounded it back on top of the pork for serving. But without any pan liquid, the kimchi would be a distinct accompaniment rather than suffusing every porky bite.

The easiest solution was to make a little kimchi pan sauce.

My preferred pan-sauce method is beyond minimal: just deglaze with wine and simmer until thick. But the wine we had already opened for dinner was red, and the notion of red wine and kimchi was not at all harmonious.

I did, however, have some dry vermouth on hand, and added a splash to the skillet. When it all but evaporated, I dipped in a spoon to taste. Somehow, the alcohol had intensified the kimchi, making it even more assertive and biting than before -- maybe a little too biting, I thought as I squinted through the sourness.

Thinking that butter would smooth out the rough edges, I tossed in a big lump. But the sauce remained stubbornly sharp.

In desperate need of a quick fix, I scavenged my condiment stash for some magical dash to make everything better. Umeboshi plum paste? Pomegranate molasses? Quince marmalade?

I was about to give up when I spotted my teacup and the honey bear sitting next to it.

Indeed, a squirt of honey tamed the aggressive flavors, mellowing the harshness while allowing the racy, garlic-and-chili notes to enliven the richly fatty chop. Meaty, caramelized and tender, with its vibrant and buttery pan sauce, the pork was so good that my husband told me later he was ready to suggest we stock up on kimchi.

 

 

Exploring the World of Kimchi, the Spicy Korean Staple

Published: April 10, 1996

INCREASINGLY, I have found myself eating kimchi, the super-spicy Korean pickle dish that is served before and with meals in every Korean restaurant and many Korean homes.

Wanting to serve it at home, I bought some in jars. But it bore little resemblance to the fresh-tasting kimchi I was finding in restaurants. Restaurant kimchi can be mild or almost too hot to take, but it always sparkles with the flavors of raw garlic, ginger, scallions and chilies.

The kimchi in jars is muddier. If it isn't already fermented, a little bubbly and beginning to sour, it usually becomes so within a couple of days of opening the jar.

Despite consulting dozens of books, I was unable to find a recipe that gave me the fresh results I wanted. Most recipes were overly complicated, requiring layered ingredients, sealed crocks and days of waiting.

It turns out there are two traditional methods of making kimchi. The long, layered method outlined by many cookbooks is the one used each fall when Koreans traditionally stock up on cabbages and other vegetables for the winter ahead. It is the equivalent of pickling cucumbers in vinegar or making sauerkraut, and it produces what is called winter kimchi.

The fresh version of kimchi I was looking for -- seasonal kimchi -- is more like lightly salted, kosher pickles, something you can make and eat the same day. This is the type most frequently served in restaurants.

For direction, I turned to Lee Young Hee, once the kimchi maker at Korea Palace, a restaurant on East 54th Street. She began with a head of Napa cabbage that had been salted for two hours and was quite wilted. After rinsing it, she mixed together fine strips of daikon, the long white Asian radish; an astonishing amount of ground red Korean chilies; more moderate amounts of garlic, ginger, sugar and scallions, and a few tablespoons each of fish sauce (the fermented anchovy juice used in many Asian cuisines) and salted fish. This mixture was then tucked among the leaves of the cabbage, and the kimchi was done -- and delicious.

On West 32d Street, between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas, where Korean stores abound, I bought a supply of ground red Korean chiles, some salted shrimp (you can use almost any salted fish or omit it altogether) and a few other staples.

That evening, I made my first batch of fresh kimchi -- reducing the amount of ground red chilies by about 80 percent, to levels my family and I find more tolerable -- and I have been making it ever since.

Of course, I'm not alone among non-Koreans who have been exploring the world of kimchi. Steve Johnson, the chef at the Mercury Bar in Boston, said: "I've been making it for a few months, and it gets better and better with every batch. I love it with a good steak, because it cuts right through the richness."

And Carole Peck, the chef and owner of the Good News Cafe in Woodbury, Conn., has been making a fresh kimchi for years. "I make a purely vegetarian version with pickling cucumbers that I like, and a cabbage kimchi with fermented oysters that I serve with pan-seared red snapper."

One caveat: Even the fans of kimchi recognize that it has its downside. Any dish that contains several tablespoons of minced raw garlic, ginger and scallions is bound to have a negative effect on the breath.

"I think kimchi is fabulous," said Anne Rosenzweig, the chef and an owner of Arcadia and Lobster Club, who makes a long-keeping winter-style kimchi. "I make it, I eat it, and I love it -- we eat it with steamed rice and grilled ribs -- but it's strictly for the staff. And I can't let my front-of-the-house staff eat it before they wait on customers."

Carole Peck's Fresh Cucumber Kimchi Total time: about 3 1/2 hours

3 pounds pickling cucumbers, well scrubbed 2 tablespoons coarse salt 2 cups peeled and julienne daikon radish 1 1/2 tablespoons or more of ground red Korean chilies 3 large cloves garlic, peeled and smashed 2 tablespoons peeled and minced or grated ginger 6 scallions, thinly sliced 1/4 cup sesame oil 1 1/2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds.

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