Hate the regime, love the food

Man, I wish that Kim Jong-il wasn't such an a-hole. His crazy motherfucker antics would be mildly amusing if he wasn't pointing an a-bomb at Honolulu. And, for obvious reasons, watching a thousand goose-stepping soldiers march through the town square doesn't exactly make me feel all calm inside, either.

But, boy, do I love Korean food. I first got a taste at Steve's Lunch in Ann Arbor during college. Ann Arbor is pretty much the epicenter of Korean food in the U.S., or so it seems. There are more Korean restaurants than Chinese restaurants in Ann Arbor, which I could chalk up to who's going to school there. But it also made me wonder: is Kim Jong-il infiltrating American college campuses with the very convincing method of plying unwitting, hungry students with Korean barbecue to get them to join the cause?

Until you've tried bul go gi (Korean for "this is fucking awesome"), you can't understand how possible that is. Paper thin slices of ribeye are marinated in one of those transformative marinades made sweet with kiwis, salty with soy sauce, and tangy with rice vinegar. The pieces of meat are cooked quickly over a smokey fire, and then wrapped in lettuce leaves and devoured.

This is the stuff from which addictions are made. And borne from that are citizens in drab gray garb, wearing solidarity arm bands and worshipping their "Dear Leader," with goose-stepping soldiers not far behind. That is the power of bul go gi.

So eat with caution. And just know that Vietnamese barbecue is similar, and as far as I know, they're not enriching plutonium as we speak.

Steve's Lunch

It isn't often you find a holy temple of cuisine. But I found one in Ann Arbor, Michigan. And I'm going to try not to go all M Go Blue on you, even though I just happen to be one of those obsessive Michigan fans.

Because this is really about alarmingly hot pickled cabbage. Kim Chi. Eating it is an act of bravery, because frankly it smells like a trip to the loo.  It has been described as a "feisty old crone" by one of my favorite cookbook authors, the late Barbara Tropp. And boy, is it good. But I digress.

At this point, you're probably wondering, who's Steve and what's he having for lunch? I have no idea who Steve is, but Steve's Lunch was a cultural icon in Ann Arbor when I was in school.  It was a tiny lunch counter that served pretty standard short order fare. Omelettes and fried eggs for breakfast, burgers and grilled cheese for lunch. But on the back wall was a tiny menu written in both Korean and English and that's where the riches lay. That's where you could find the Bi Bim Bop. 

It's a fairly common Korean dish that Steve's has raised to an art form. First, you chose your rice. Brown was the politically correct choice in a liberal college town. I always ordered white and was considered a Republican for doing so. Minutes later, a steaming stainless steel bowl would arrive with rice, greens, assorted vegetables, grilled Korean beef and a fried egg on top. Chopsticks were handed over, along with 2 squeeze bottles: one with sesame oil, the other with hot sauce. These bottles came without instructions, so it took experience and trial-and-error to get it right. Veterans applied their seasonings with caution and confidence, knowing that too much hot sauce meant certain death to the taste buds, but just the right amount meant an experience bordering on mystical. You would then mix the whole thing together with your chopsticks and dig in. 

And then there was the question of kim chi, which came as an accompaniment in a little white bowl. A 'yes' to kim chi was like embracing a life of unbridled passion and adventure. A 'no' meant life as an accountant. 

Unfortunately, Steve's Lunch is no longer. But the bi bim bop lives on at little korean joints everywhere.