When I was growing up, my family would eat pizza on Sundays after church. A few minutes after we’d received the body of Christ shrunk to the size of a coin, we’d drive to our favorite pizzeria and get a hot pie with extra tomato sauce.
My brother and I loved the chewy crust, the bubbly cheese, the slices of pepperoni. It was greasy, salty heaven, and the cheese was hot enough to burn the roof of my mouth. I didn’t want to think about what it was doing to the little bit of Jesus that was inside of me.
As we were gorging ourselves and falling into food coma, inevitably, my mother would stop and say, “Hmm, wish I had a little kimchi.” My brother and I’d look at each other and roll our eyes. Our mother was such a FOB. Such an incurable FOB. She had to have kimchi with everything. Spaghetti? Kimchi goes with that. A grilled cheese sandwich? Put kimchi in the middle. Pancakes? With kimchi on top, pretty please; hold the maple syrup.
Years later, I would see people flocking to fusion restaurants, where they’d pay up to a day’s wages for a tiny dinner. The restaurants are often celebrated with four-star reviews. Many of these places are run by Asian chefs who’ve combined their European training with their mama’s cooking. Or by Caucasian chefs who recognize the fact that Asians are not a “minority.”
You know what the key ingredient is in many of these places? Kimchi! At one restaurant in Seattle, you can get a mac and cheese with a side of pickled radish. In New York, you can have kimchi with your foie gras.
The coolest innovator of all, of course, is Roy Choi, the taco truck guy in L.A. who serves kimchi with quesadillas and Twittered his way to fame. And only charges seven bucks. (We thrifty Asian American princesses like that.) The Korean taco seems to be a growing phenomenon, as evidenced by Koi Fusion, which started in Portland a few months ago. The guy behind Koi Fusion realizes that the demographics of Portland isn’t exactly that of L.A., still he’s determined to bring the taste of Korea—and kimchi—to the masses. Who would have guessed that my fobby mother had been a trendsetter all along?
food
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Asian-American princess, FOB, Joule, Kimchee, Kimchi, Kogi, Koifusion, Korean fusion, Korean Tacos, Korean-American, Momofuku
One day, I was near Uwajimaya, a large Asian supermarket in Seattle’s Chinatown. A good-looking guy walked in the opposite direction. I mean, a really good-looking guy, the kind of guy you imagine when you read about a hero in a novel. As we walked past each other, he stopped in his tracks, smiled a big smile and said, “Bonjour.”
Wow. I couldn’t believe the perfection of this moment. The sun was shining, the guy was French, and out of all the people walking on the street, he had chosen to say hello to me.
Then he asked, “Do you know where I can get zee opium?”
I was so stunned that I couldn’t talk for a few seconds. He kept smiling his Frenchie smile, waiting for me to answer.
I finally said, “Hong Kong? 1848?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “Ah… OK. Zank you.” He had apparently traveled very far in search of opium. And now he’d have to travel back in time.
Image credit: www.opiummuseum.com
Image credit: http://www.collect.at
At some point in every woman’s life, she realizes that she’s a magnet for jerks. For an Asian American princess, the jerks tend to be SADs (serial Asian daters). She might like the attention for a while, until she realizes that SADs are PAT (pathetic).
Perhaps there’s a guy at school or work who’s pursuing you. How do you find out if he’s for real or if he’s just into your wontons?
Signs of the Serial Asian Dater:
* Steven Seagal is actually not an SAD, according to Who’s Dated Who. But he still looks like a douche in the Chinese jacket.
Recently, my fobby mother gave me a pack of underwear from Korea. They came in assorted pastel colors and had appliquéd flowers on the front. They were something that only a six-year-old girl would find charming. “Don’t you think I can buy my own underwear?” I asked.
“Korean underwear so much better, so soft,” my mother said. “Wear it so you pretty on the inside.”
This was not the first time we had a discussion about underwear and men. One year in college, I lived in a house with three other students. One of them happened to be male. His name was Jason and he was a fifth-year senior. In his room hung a giant poster of the Mona Lisa smoking a joint. Luckily, the college was a several hours’ plane ride away from home, so my mother never saw that poster. But she was shocked that I was sharing a house with a man who was not my father or brother. “Make sure you lock your door!” she shouted over the phone.
“There’s no lock. None of the bedroom doors have one,” I said.
Then she had another brilliant idea. “Make sure you wear underwear when you go sleep! And wear pajamas with legs, not nightgown, in case he try something.”
***
As luck would have it, underwear became a running theme in my relationship with my mother. A few years ago, we were in Korea together visiting relatives and friends. We had a great time touring palaces, temples and markets. One of the most memorable sights for me, however, was a pair of mannequins at a subway station in Seoul. They were sporting underwear—sexy underwear. If this wasn’t freaky enough, the mannequins had oversized heads, with enormous, cartoonish eyes. It was as if they’d been constructed anime-style, except they had none of the cuteness of anime. The male mannequin had a goatee. It reminded me a little of Ethan Hawke.
***
What strange gifts have you gotten from your mother?
Leave a comment here, or email me at soyon_im@hotmail.com.
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