Buttermilk Graffiti

by Edward Lee

  The next day, drain off and discard the bourbon. Add the salt to the butter and knead it in thoroughly. Transfer the butter to a 2-quart glass jar and put several layers of cheesecloth over the top, then screw the lid on tight. Let age in a dark place at room temperature for at least 15 days before using, but I recommend about 20 days. If done correctly, it can last indefinitely in the jar. It will smell funky, and that’s a good thing. There is a chance the butter will spoil. You will know if it does, as it will smell like ammonia. Once you open the jar, the butter can continue to age in your fridge for months.

  Seared Beef Rib-Eye with Prunes, Almonds, and Bourbon-washed Butter

  I had never thought to pair prunes and beef before I met Amal, and now I can’t get the combination out of my head. Alone, prunes can sometimes seem too sweet; but as part of a sauce braised with vinegar and aromatics, they develop an earthiness that gives the meat an otherworldly taste. You might forget you’re eating beef.

  Serves 2 as a main course

  Two 10-ounce rib-eye steaks

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  ½ cup chopped onion

  2 garlic cloves, minced

  1 teaspoon ground coriander

  ¼ teaspoon ground ginger

  ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  2 cups chicken stock

  2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar

  1 cup pitted prunes

  4 teaspoons Bourbon-Washed Butter

  ¼ cup blanched whole almonds

  2 teaspoons chopped fresh mint, for garnish

  Trim off any excess fat from the rib-eye steaks. Season well with salt and pepper. Let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes while you make the sauce.

  Heat 1 tablespoon of the canola oil in a large saucepan over high heat. Add the onion and garlic and sauté for about 4 minutes, stirring often, until the onion gently caramelizes. Add the coriander, ginger, and cinnamon, stir, and cook for 2 minutes, or until very aromatic. Add the chicken stock and vinegar and bring to a simmer. Add the prunes, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes.

  Take the lid off the pan and simmer for another 10 minutes, or until the sauce has reduced to a light gravy-like texture. Turn off the heat, add the bourbon-washed butter, and stir to melt it into the sauce. Season with salt and pepper. Keep warm.

  In a large sauté pan, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon oil until hot. Add the steaks and cook for 3 minutes, or until they have browned nicely on the first side. Flip the steaks and cook for 3 minutes more. Scatter the almonds around the steaks and toast them for 2 minutes, until nicely browned. Remove the almonds when you remove the steaks from the pan. Drain on paper towels.

  Check the steaks. They should be medium-rare at this point. Turn the heat to low, put 2 teaspoons of the bourbon butter on top of each steak, and let it melt. Transfer the steaks to serving plates and let rest for 2 minutes.

  Spoon the prune sauce over the steaks and scatter the toasted almonds on top. Garnish with the chopped mint and serve immediately.

  Chapter 10

  Death and Aquavit

  I’ve been to Seattle only twice: once for a book tour and now again to premiere a documentary film called Fermented. The first time I landed there, I knew little about the city beyond grunge, Starbucks, and Microsoft. I was once a fan of Shawn Kemp of the Seattle SuperSonics, who, in the 1990s, was supposed to dethrone Michael Jordan but never did. I’d heard about Pike Place Market and the restaurant Canlis. I’d heard it would rain a lot. I was on tour to promote my cookbook Smoke & Pickles. I had just opened a new restaurant, and my daughter was barely three months old. I was in town for only a night. I figured I would eat a lot of salmon and drink buckets of micro-roast coffee. I never imagined I would make a connection to the city that would haunt me for years. That first trip was clouded by my dad’s death. Seattle became the place in my mind that I associated with dying. It took me four years to get back there and find an affirmation of life.

  It’s the morning after my film premiere, and last night’s whiskey is still pulsing through my arteries. I’m up early for the pancake breakfast at the Swedish Club. I was told the line gets long after 9:00 a.m. I’m discovering Seattle’s rich history of Scandinavian roots, mostly centered in the neighborhood of Ballard, where there is a large Nordic Museum and Larsen’s Danish Bakery, which sells kringle, a pretzel-shaped flaky pastry filled with marzipan and coated with white icing. There is also Scandinavian Specialties, a small, cheerful shop where you can buy a toothpaste-type dispenser full of smoked cod roe and cream. At the Leif Erikson Lodge, you can celebrate everything from Viking traditions to Midsommarfest with a plate of traditional Swedish meatballs. Otherwise, there is little evidence today that Ballard was once a city formed and driven by Scandinavian immigrants starting in the 1860s. They were lured here mostly by the fishing industry of Salmon Bay and Puget Sound. Norwegians developed the halibut fisheries, while Icelanders fished more for cod. Finns and Swedes focused on trolling. Logging and farming were also important trades familiar to the Nordic peoples. If there was any landscape in America that fit right into the Nordic ethos, it was here in Seattle.

  My taxi pulls up to the Swedish Club. The creamy Swedish-blue façade has a calming effect on my headache. The building looks like something you’d find in an Olympic village, modern but functional. I can hear music and conversation coming from the basement. I walk down and find two hundred people already gathered around plastic folding tables. The basement looks like a community center, with drop ceiling tiles, unforgiving fluorescent lights, and a linoleum floor. I stand in line for pancakes. My head is throbbing from my hangover, and I’m craving hot coffee, but I don’t want to lose my place in the growing line.

  On a stage up front, two ladies seated on folding chairs are playing accordions, a kind of Nordic polka music. It is merry. The only people dancing are an older couple; they are shuffling across the floor in choreographed twirls and struts. The lady has on a long blue dress that rises and falls with every turn. Her silver hair matches the white knit blouse she’s wearing, and she smiles in time with the music. I’m enthralled by her movements.

  When I get to the front of the buffet line, I’m handed a plate of pancakes that are actually crepes, rolled and stacked. A fistful of lingonberry preserve is spooned over them, and a ladleful of whipped cream finishes the plate. I get a Styrofoam cup of black coffee and stand in the middle of the cavernous room. I look around for the dancing couple; they’re now sitting with friends at a table near the stage. I walk up to them and ask if I may sit with them.

  Their names are Bob and Sarah. I tell them how much I liked their waltz. Sarah corrects me and says they were also doing the hambo, the schottisch, and the springar. The entire table is part of a dance group that meets regularly. They tell me that social dancing was common in Seattle in the 1970s. The Swedish Club was a place to convene and meet new friends. Many people met and married through these social clubs. There used to be clubs for Danes and Norwegians back then, too. The Swedish Club is the only one left. But it isn’t just for Swedes; anyone can join. They just have to want to be a part of the Scandinavian tradition.

  I ask Sarah what it means to be Scandinavian.

  “We’re not a soup, we’re a stew,” she says emphatically. “Each Scandinavian country is distinct, but together, we form an identity that is generally harmonious. We swim around in the same bowl, but we’re not homogenous.”

  Her husband, Bob, gaunt and freckled, has little hair left. He is picking at his pancakes, not talking to anyone. He doesn’t care much for meeting new people, Sarah explains to me. This is a Scandinavian trait, I am told. It is an aloofness rooted in isolation, not rudeness.

  “If this was the seventies and you came up to us and asked to sit with us, no one would have looked at you,” Sarah tells me.

  I ask her why no one else is dancing.

  They a
re just getting warmed up, she tells me. She asks me if I want to dance. I respond by saying I don’t know the first thing about polka dancing.

  “It’s easy. If you know how to ride a skateboard, I can teach you a basic buzzstep.”

  She pulls me out of my chair and leads me into a dance. I must be eighty pounds heavier than she is, but she is twirling me around like a doll. First, she shows me the buzzstep, then she guides me into a simple waltz. My rhythm is off. She tells me to shut out the world and just listen to the music. She instructs me to step in time with the beat, but my hangover is preventing me from hearing the music clearly. I’m sure I look as stiff as a wooden board, but I’m having fun. My eyes are closed, and Sarah’s hands have a tight grip on my palms. I can feel my cheeks stretch into a smile. I peer over at the table. Bob is not watching us.

  I don’t remember the flavor of the pancakes. They were cold, and the lingonberry jam was overly sweet. That’s all that stood out. But the people are not here for the food. On a Sunday morning, a day with humid-free sunny weather, there are three hundred people packed into a basement listening to Nordic polka music. Many of them are not Swedish. I can’t say for certain why they commune here, but they are sharing an experience. Sarah cannot finds the words to explain what a Scandinavian identity is, but she tells me it is something that is felt, not described. I am glad I came here. Even though the pancakes were forgettable, I got to dance with Sarah.

  Bob reminds me of my father. He is old and taciturn. He doesn’t smile for anyone. I suspect he has a million great stories to tell, but he is not about to waste any of them on me. He takes Sarah back out to the dance floor, and as he spins her about, her dress swings out like a blooming Nordic flower in a cold, gray room.

  Four years ago, Seattle was the last city on a leg of book tour that started with a few cities in California. By the time I reached Seattle, I was looking forward to going home. When I arrived, it was raining, but it was not like any rain I was accustomed to. It was a downward mist that never stopped. The city smelled like moss and sounded like Gore-Tex. No one used umbrellas. They accepted the rain not as weather but as terroir.

  I was not prepared to deal with my dad dying while I was there. Seattle is about as far as one can be from the modest New Jersey suburb of Leonia, where my parents lived. I was enjoying a late lunch with a local food writer and Gina, who, along with her father, Armandino, operates Salumi Artisan Cured Meats, the city’s best spot for Italian salami. My phone rang, and I saw my sister’s name pop up. I already knew why she was calling. In the few seconds it took me to excuse myself from the table and walk outside, I went from fear to anxiety to relief to resentment to acceptance. I was exhausted as I stepped out into the gentle rain.

  “Hello?”

  My dad wouldn’t make it through the night. It was different this time. I had to come, now. I said yes. I let my sister cry on the phone as if it were my shoulder, and then I hung up. I went back inside. There’s no way to politely tell two people you’ve just met that your father is dying, so I just blurted it out. They understood, they said, if I had to go. I didn’t, though. I wanted to finish my platter. I was hungry. I found comfort in the tangy meat flecked with salted fats, chewy and wrinkled around the edges. I ate the brined olives and the pickles. I consumed every slice of the coppa, culatello, finocchiona, and mole salami. I savored every last bite—unrushed.

  When I left, Gina gave me a link of the mole salami, and I gave her a copy of my book. The flight to Newark would be long and lonely, crowded and private. I calculated that my dad would pass away while I was cresting over Minnesota or Wisconsin or any other place we’d never been together.

  He never wanted me to be a chef. He came from an old Korea where chefs were cooks and cooks were servants. For immigrant parents, the notion of being a cook was a huge step in the wrong direction. When I was a kid, my dad would drive me to West Point, hoping I’d one day wear the gray-and-black cadet uniform. I’m named after Ted Kennedy. My father’s dream for me was to become an American diplomat.

  It was not a fun day when I told him I wanted to cook for a living. I was still in college. I had dropped out for a year, to travel. I was finishing my last semester, but more for my parents than for me. We didn’t fight about my career decision, and he never disowned me. We just rarely spoke much after that day.

  I couldn’t sleep on the flight to Newark. I ate everything offered to me by the flight attendant: the sterile turkey sandwich with yellow mustard, the salted peanuts, the murky coffee, even the rancid pretzels that tasted like burnt sand. My breath aged a week overnight. I had to chew a pack of wintergreen gum before I entered the hospital. The rest of the family had been there through the night. Miraculously, my dad was still clinging to life.

  There’s a good Korean restaurant not far from the hospital, with a fake waterfall and toad sculptures around the entrance. Mom told me to take my niece and nephew there for lunch. My dad was weak, his body swollen from painkillers. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes were asking for mercy. The nurse came in to adjust his IV, and the heart monitor went blank for a moment. To the horror of the nurse, my mom asked with inappropriate eagerness, “He finished?”

  My sister yelled at our mother in Korean. I smirked. Mom had nursed my dad through his illnesses for years, so death was not unexpected. In that distracted moment, it was probably a relief.

  When the heart monitor kicked back online, Mom insisted I take the kids out for Korean barbecue and bring her back some. Dad seemed very close to dying now, and she didn’t want the kids to see it. I wanted to stay, though. I wanted to hear him apologize to me for ignoring me all those years, for never allowing himself to become the father I needed.

  I approached the bed. The only parts of him that looked the same were his hands. They were always big and strong. Even in his weakened state, they still looked masculine. I lifted one of his limp hands and put mine underneath it, not palm to palm; I just let his palm rest on my knuckles. He was too weak to clench my fingers. I got to kiss my dad on the forehead and tell him it was okay for him to leave us, that we’d be all right.

  Then I took the kids out for lunch.

  My dad didn’t needlessly hang on to life. He passed away before we got our first round of grilled meat. Mom didn’t call us to let us know. She wanted us to enjoy our lunch.

  Over the next few days, I helped Mom sort through my dad’s things. My sister was the only one who cried. I think she did it because no one else did. We went through his closet of possessions. My sister wanted to keep a pair of his golf shoes. We found some old black-and-white photos that went to the “keep” pile, but most of what we found was junk. Old magazines, English-to-Korean dictionaries, and an abacus he had never used. I found no letter telling me how secretly proud he was of me, no box where he kept all my old report cards. He was not sentimental. Much of his life had been marred by drinking, and he had few friends left in his older years.

  We did, however, find a large box of dollar coins and a stack of two-dollar bills he’d collected over the years, probably a few hundred dollars’ worth. Before my mom could take them to the bank, I swiped one of the bills. It lives in my wallet now. I’m not sure why, because I, too, am not all that sentimental.

  The Swedish pancakes remind me of the foods my father ate. I ask the people sitting around the table at the Swedish Club why they like the pancakes so much, and they tell me they remind them of their childhoods. They ate the same thing when they were young. I don’t think anyone here actually believes these pancakes are delicious, but they trigger memories. Even for me, someone who has no relation to Seattle or Swedish culture, eating these pancakes feels like a link to a generation my father lived through.

  My dad was never much of a gourmand. His food was always very utilitarian. You ate just enough to make you feel full, but you didn’t overindulge and you certainly didn’t use the dinner table for pleasure. He never talked about food as anything more th
an something he needed to consume to survive. Most nights, eating seemed like more of a chore than anything else.

  Still, there was one dish he’d ask for on occasion. It was an army stew called budae jjigae. It was invented during the Korean War, when ingredients were scarce and many families improvised meals based on the food rations handed out by the American army. My dad spent a few years in the Korean army, though he never talked about it, and I was always instructed never to ask.

  When Mom made him this stew, he would eat it quietly, slurping up every last drop. No one else wanted it. Mom’s versions included everything from Spam to hot dogs to processed American cheese. For many Koreans, budae jjigae represents an impoverished time in Korea, something not to be celebrated. We don’t eat these kinds of frugal dishes anymore. Some old-school Korean restaurants serve a modern version of it, but for the most part, the dish was forgotten as Koreans became upwardly mobile.

  I grew up believing that it was only my dad who had such lousy taste in food, but a lot of my parents’ generation ate poorly regardless of nationality or wealth. Much has been written about the ills of the commercial food industry and the rise of fast food that dominated the 1960s and ’70s in America. My dad was a part of that generation, and for him, eating at McDonald’s was what you did if you wanted to assimilate into American culture. It was a borderline act of patriotism, as were canned soup, TV dinners, and Coca-Cola. His was also a generation where immigrants could lift themselves out of poverty if they worked hard. My parents worked seven days a week. They worked late into the evenings. The joys of the dinner table were not a priority. I ask the older people at the Swedish Club what they ate when they were younger. Meatballs, salmon, and Jell-O are the popular answers.