Buttermilk Graffiti Read online

  I am sipping from my plastic cup of Kentucky Gentleman bourbon. Red stands behind the bar. I’m standing next to him. He is an intimidating man with huge shoulders and a uneven beard that is spotted with gray. He has a square jaw, and he chews gum angrily. I ask him about the authenticity of the blues. He is not listening to me. Red’s Lounge is a tiny club along the water in Clarksdale where musicians come to play. It is dark, its walls lined with concert posters. Red string lights pierce through the dark. The blues musician Lucious Spiller sits alone on a plastic chair in the middle of the room, spitting out noises that a guitar shouldn’t make. Red looks forward even when he talks to me. He has been chewing the same piece of gum for an hour. His raised eyebrows look like two fists hovering above his round sunglasses.

  “You can go through yo’ life trying to explain every little thing that happens to you, or you can just shut up and listen to the music in my house,” he says.

  It’s a Wednesday night, so it is slow. Lucious is taking a Sting song, one of his sappier ones, and bending it to say things profane. He is not doing blues; he is just bending music. Lucious doesn’t live in a binary world; he pushes and pulls through everything. The song isn’t recognizable anymore.

  It reminds me of the food of Clarksdale. Italian, Lebanese, barbecue, Mexican, soul food, Chinese—some of it authentic, some not; it all bends to serve the community.

  I try to tell Red a story. From 1998 to 2002, I had a small restaurant in downtown Manhattan that I built on a budget and ran into the ground. I was young and barely knew what I was doing. After 9/11, I was tired of New York City. I was tired of partying and I was tired of cooking. Around the time I was about to close the restaurant, I had a party for Bob Gruen, who had photographed many of the rock-and-roll legends of the last generation. That evening, I peeked out from behind my kitchen curtain and saw Lou Reed, Jim Jarmusch, and a few other luminaries, but by the time I got done cooking, only a handful of people were left. As was our tradition back then, I locked the doors and hung out with the crew until we were all good and ready to go home. I remember I grabbed a woman’s hand and tried to kiss her behind the bar. “I’m with Joe,” she said. After a few minutes, I tried with another girl. “I’m with Joe,” she replied. Who is this Joe whom every girl seems to be saving herself for? “You don’t know Joe Strummer?” she asked me in shock.

  I spun around to stare at the slouching man mumbling to himself in the corner booth with a brandy and Coke. In my defense, if you remember Joe Strummer only from the Clash, this was hardly the person I saw sitting in my restaurant that night. After a few more drinks, everyone danced on tables and lit cigarettes from the stove. He piggybacked me across the restaurant, knocking over chairs and glasses. The sky was getting light by the time we got done with the place. Everyone got in a cab, but I walked to a deli to get breakfast in the chill of the autumn morning. I laughed at myself, knowing no one would ever believe that I’d partied with Joe Strummer. But, hell, Joe would remember, and for sure we would run into each other again. You don’t easily forget nights like the one we’d just had. He’d even hugged me to say thanks. A few months later, I would see on the news that he’d died while recording a new album in England. Within a few months, I would close my restaurant, and everyone I knew would soon move to Brooklyn or Queens. CBGB would host its last concert in 2006.

  I am recalling a swell of memories as I listen to Lucious and his guitar. Red is barely listening to me. I don’t know how all this is connected. I don’t know what relates the last days of CBGB to Red’s Lounge to Joe Strummer to Po’ Monkey to Agnes and Toni, but I know that for me, these events are inseparable. The only binary is life and death. Everything in between is a potluck dinner.

  Tom has a friend who owns a farmhouse nearby, and we spend the night there. I stay up until dawn sipping whiskey and watching the sky turn from pitch black to iridescent pink. I see the sky erupting with color. The weather is clear, and I can see from my window all the way until the earth drops off. I don’t take my eyes off the sky. There are infinite progressions that need to happen before night turns to day, yet I can’t say exactly when dawn happens. All of a sudden, you realize it is daylight. It’s a reminder that the world isn’t delineated by night and day. There are so many layers in between—in the same way that Lucious doesn’t play one genre or another; he melts them into something uniquely his own.

  I want to be Lucious. I want to skip from one idea to the next with the speed of thought. I don’t know how to cook just one thing, and I don’t know when my food goes from one place to another. I may not have the speed and subtlety Lucious possesses, but I hope to get there. I am drawn to places like Clarksdale because in them, I see a smaller version of the world at large. Clarksdale gives me the space to contradict without repercussions. Places such as Clarksdale are not stymied by tradition. It’s just that their pace runs slower, and like the bends of the Mississippi, it flows in majestic currents of slow change, in revolutions that require a deeper appetite. Maybe it is not Clarksdale that is behind the rest of the world. Maybe it is the world that needs to slow down a little to keep pace with Clarksdale.

  Cabbage Rolls with Nasturtium Leaf Kimchi

  This recipe for Lebanese-style cabbage rolls was given to me by Toni, one of the owners of a clothing store in Clarksdale. Cabbage rolls may seem pedestrian, but these rolls, filled with seasoned ground beef, are hauntingly complex for a dish that is so easy to make. I like to pair them with nasturtium leaf kimchi because of the spice it brings to the dish. After you cook the cabbage rolls, save the delicious broth and use it as a base for chicken noodle soup.

  Serves 6 as a first course, 3 as a main course

  ½ cup long-grain rice

  1 head cabbage

  4 cups chicken stock, plus more if needed

  1½ teaspoons salt

  12 ounces ground beef

  1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons olive oil

  ½ teaspoon ground cumin

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  ¼ cup chopped fresh mint

  4 garlic cloves, 2 minced, 2 whole

  Grated zest and juice of 3 lemons

  ½ cup Nasturtium Leaf Kimchi

  1 cup labneh

  Extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling

  Pour the rice into a bowl and soak in 2 cups of very hot water for 15 minutes. Stir occasionally.

  Meanwhile, peel off 12 leaves from the head of cabbage; reserve the rest of the cabbage for another use.

  In a large pot, bring the chicken stock to a boil over high heat and add ½ teaspoon of the salt. Immerse the cabbage leaves in the broth and simmer for 8 to 10 minutes, until tender. Remove from the heat and carefully pick the leaves from the pot and let cool. Set the broth aside.

  Drain the rice in a sieve. In a medium bowl, combine the ground beef, rice, 2 teaspoons of the olive oil, cumin, cinnamon, ½ teaspoon of the salt, the pepper, mint, 2 minced garlic cloves, and half the lemon zest.

  Trim the cabbage leaves to rectangles about 6 by 3 inches. Place about 2 tablespoons of the meat mixture in the middle of one leaf, fold the sides of the leaf over, and roll up tightly around the meat. Skewer the leaf with toothpicks to secure it. Repeat with the remaining stuffing and cabbage leaves.

  Place the stuffed cabbage rolls in the pot of chicken stock, seam-side down, fitting them snugly in the pot. Make sure the broth covers the cabbage rolls; if necessary, add a little more stock or water to the pot. Add the remaining 2 whole garlic cloves and lemon zest and the lemon juice to the pot, drizzle the rolls with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, and sprinkle with the remaining ½ teaspoon salt.

  Cover the pot and bring to a gentle simmer over low heat. Cook for 30 to 40 minutes. To check for doneness, remove one of the rolls from the pot and pinch it—it should bounce back when you squeeze it, indicating that the meat is fully cooked. Let the rolls cool
in the broth for 10 minutes before removing them to a platter.

  Serve the cabbage rolls with the kimchi on the side and a small bowl of the labneh, drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil, for dipping.

  Nasturtium Leaf Kimchi | Makes about 1 pint

  40 nasturtium leaves

  2 tablespoons fish sauce

  1 tablespoon red pepper flakes

  2 tablespoons grated onion

  2 garlic cloves, minced

  1 scallion, finely chopped

  1 teaspoon sugar

  1 teaspoon toasted sesame seeds

  Wash the nasturtium leaves and drain on paper towels.

  In a small bowl, whisk together the fish sauce, red pepper flakes, onion, garlic, scallion, sugar, and sesame seeds.

  In a small jar, start layering the nasturtium leaves, with a small spoonful of the marinade between each layer. Spoon any remaining marinade over the top when you’ve used all the leaves.

  Wrap the jar tightly in plastic wrap, then poke a few holes in the top. Let stand at room temperature for 24 hours, then put in the refrigerator with a tight-fitting lid. The kimchi will be ready to eat in a week and will keep in the fridge for up to 1 month.

  Beef Tartare–stuffed Deviled Eggs with Caviar

  The ground beef mixture in the kibbeh Tom and I had at the Rest Haven got me to thinking about a recipe for deviled eggs stuffed with beef tartare. These look like ordinary deviled eggs, but when you bite into one, you get the surprise of the spiced beef. They make a great canapé for parties. The salty punch from the spoonbill caviar, also known as paddlefish caviar or roe, is a great accompaniment to the earthiness of the raw beef. It’s an inexpensive roe made from sustainable farmed paddlefish that is delicious.

  Makes 24 small bites

  beef tartare

  ¼ cup bulgur wheat

  One 8-ounce boneless New York strip steak

  1 cup cold water

  2 teaspoons mayonnaise

  1½ teaspoons grated lemon zest

  1 teaspoon minced garlic

  1 teaspoon grated fresh horseradish

  1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

  1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  ⅛ teaspoon ground cumin

  1½ teaspoons salt

  ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  ½ teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil

  deviled eggs

  12 large eggs

  ¼ cup mayonnaise, preferably Duke’s

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  2 tablespoons water

  1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

  1 garlic clove, minced

  Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  1 ounce paddlefish caviar or other black caviar

  3 or 4 leaves Nasturtium Leaf Kimchi (opposite), finely chopped (optional)

  To make the tartare: Put the bulgur in a small bowl, add cold water to cover, and soak for 30 minutes.

  Meanwhile, put the beef in the freezer for 15 minutes to firm it up. This will make it easier to cut.

  Using a sharp chef’s knife, mince the beef as fine as you can get it. Think of ground beef, but it is important to cut it with a knife so you don’t “smear” the meat and fat, which would happen if you used a food processor. Transfer to a bowl and refrigerate until ready to use.

  Drain the bulgur in a cheesecloth-lined sieve, then squeeze out the excess water.

  In a large bowl, combine the beef, bulgur, water, mayonnaise, lemon zest, garlic, horseradish, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, cumin, salt, pepper, and olive oil. Mix gently but thoroughly. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.

  To make the deviled eggs: Heat a large pot of water over low heat until the water is just warm to the touch. Gently lower the eggs into the water, turn up the heat to medium-high, and bring to a simmer. Set a timer for 6 minutes. When the timer goes off, turn off the heat under the eggs and set the timer for 4 minutes.

  Meanwhile, set up an ice bath. When the timer goes off, carefully remove the eggs from the hot water and plunge them into the ice bath to stop the cooking.

  When the eggs have cooled, drain them, peel, and cut each egg lengthwise in half. Transfer the yolks to a blender and set the whites aside on a platter.

  Add the mayonnaise, olive oil, water, mustard, garlic, lemon zest and juice, salt, and pepper to the yolks and blend until smooth. Transfer the mixture into a piping bag fitted with a small round tip.

  Stuff the reserved egg whites with the beef tartare, about a tablespoon per egg. Pipe the yolk mixture over the beef tartare, covering the tartare completely. Top each egg with small dollop of paddlefish roe and some of the kimchi, if using. Serve immediately.

  Chapter 8

  Matriarchs of Montgomery

  Everything I know about food, I learned from a woman. Everything I know about competition, I learned from a man. It started with my grandmother’s hands, which touched everything I ate as a child. They were frail, wrinkled, and clenched with the muscle memory of a lifetime of cooking. I remember the times when she touched my face with those same hands. As I got older, there were other women, women such as Clementine, who taught me the delicacy of salt, sometimes on a ripe tomato, sometimes a saline kiss on a bare shoulder in summer. She taught me that dinner wasn’t something to scarf down with a cold beer, but rather a slow meandering of discoveries as the wine in my glass warmed and released layers of molecules, each with a different perfume.

  Every chef I ever worked under was a man, and from them, I learned structure, technique, urgency, and how to make people cringe, but none of them ever pointed out the precise moment to cut into a tomato bursting with juice under its skin. Clementine taught me that. I never really ate tomatoes until I lived with Clementine. They had always smelled like the inside of a refrigerator and tasted of water and astringency. It was Clementine who taught me to ripen them in a wooden bowl on the counter next to a vase of fresh-picked herbs. She taught me the profane joy of biting into one as you would an apple. I was already a cook when I met her, but she took the lessons I’d learned in the restaurant kitchen and made them real for me. She taught me the nuance of French butter left out by an open window, so it would pick up the scent of the blossoming trees on West Thirteenth Street. She taught me how much better pasta tasted when we ate it in large bowls standing up in the kitchen instead of sitting at the dinner table. That last summer before we broke up, we fought a lot, and I remember the musty smell of overripe tomatoes wafting into my face every time she slammed a door or walked by me without saying a word. In one summer, Clementine taught me more about the pains of love and the joy of tomatoes than all the rest of my years combined. I could fill a book with the things she taught me, but this story is not about her. I still have a hard time eating a ripe, raw tomato.

  On this trip, I am meeting Sarah Reynolds in Montgomery, Alabama. She is a respected producer and journalist. She writes about poverty, immigrants, and everyday people who have meaningful stories to tell. She is working on a podcast for the Southern Foodways Alliance about Korean food in Montgomery and how the Korean immigrant population has blossomed in this small Southern city where she spent some of her youth. Nearly a decade ago, the Korean automotive manufacturer Hyundai opened its first plant in the United States, employing about eight thousand people and basically making Montgomery a second home. Koreans have been coming here ever since. In a city of about four hundred thousand people, there are roughly fifteen Korean-owned restaurants. Per capita, that’s more than in Manhattan.

  Sarah suggests we meet at Davis Café, an established soul food restaurant minutes from downtown. The outside of the restaurant is painted an unappealing shade of army green. A rusty sign is all that signifies its location. It is 2:00 p.m. when I arrive, and Sarah is already at a table fiddl
ing with her recording device. Like her stories, she is lean and sparse in her mannerisms, but with a youthful intensity that flows from the gray-blue eyes behind the square frame of her glasses. We are the last table to order. They are out of okra, potatoes, liver, and sweet potato pie. We order what’s left on the menu with “Wednesday” printed across the top.

  I’ve met many talented folks through the Southern Foodways Alliance, so when I heard about the story Sarah was working on about Korean food in Montgomery, I volunteered to help out as an interpreter. I may have let on that I know more Korean than I actually do.

  The food at Davis tastes like home cooking. That may sound like a cliché, but the flavor of home cooking is actually a difficult impression to achieve in a restaurant: fried chicken that is freshly salted; toothsome pork chops smothered in a rich, sweet gravy; long-cooked turnip greens that disintegrate in your mouth; and a bean salad that is both chewy and forgiving at the same time. I can tell this food was cooked by a woman. It has a flavor that announces itself proudly. It is food made out of patience and intimacy, without shortcuts. Still, I am careful to keep my prejudices to myself. I don’t want Sarah to think I’m a man who sees gender in food.

  Like any good journalist, Sarah has an easiness to her that makes me want to talk. We skip the awkward process of getting to know each other, and our conversation finds a rhythm right away. Maybe it’s because we share the language of food, or maybe it’s because I feel a kindred spirit in her. Or maybe I’m part of her story, and she’s guiding me to a safe place so I may ramble on about my childhood growing up as a child of Korean immigrants.