birdman eating


Posted in essay,food by birdmaneating on February 15, 2009
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In February (March some years), bundles of asparagus in fake-turf-lined bins at Safeway invaded my mother’s vegetable consciousness. Few things had the power to pull Barb from her freezer or canned food pantry, with its precise rows of Mexi-corn and LeSeur petits pois. But asparagus had something mesmerizing—the irresistible force of tradition, memories of spring lust, whatever. And at exactly the time when the subtle shift from a California winter to a California spring registers as an inner urge, a condition unaffected by weather alone.


The first Delta asparagus—one of the few foods whose lofty price Barb never questioned—left no doubt about what season it was. Peeled, boiled stalks steaming on the plate, next to a lump of Best Foods straight from the jar. For luck, my brother and I would make a wish before chomping the first spear, which bobbed lazily when you picked it up. And while I’m pretty sure first asparagus always tastes sweet, I swear a measure of sucrose accrued in the cellular structure of those stalks from anticipation, in some complex alchemy of want.   —John Birdsall


Funkbox: Kimchi fridges smelling sweet

Posted in food by birdmaneating on January 17, 2009
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a kimchi-neng-jang-go

Stink on ice: a kimchi-neng-jang-go

Even kimchi’s fiercest fans can’t deny it: The ubiquitous Korean pickle is stinky. Indeed, like Asian fish sauce or a properly ripe livarot cheese, an aggressive smell is all part of the charm. For centuries, Koreans sank their kimchi underground, muffling the gassy reek of the mostly cabbage or daikon-leaf pickles within trashcan-sized clay jars sunk in dirt. But modernization ushered the funk indoors, into refrigerators, where the pickle’s farty aura invaded just about anything in a wide proximity. That’s where the charm of the stinky ends.


            Enter the kimchi-neng-jang-go, or kimchi fridge, the hottest appliance to sweep South Korea since the electric rice cooker. It’s a refrigerator annex, like the ubiquitous wine fridge in American kitchens, designed specifically to quarantine kimchi and prevent its heady fragrance from seeping into the kitchen at large — one manufacturer, Dimchae, calls its appliances “fresh fridges.” Since 2001, South Koreans have been buying more kimchi coolers than regular refrigerators. But it isn’t just the upwardly mobile of Seoul who’ve embraced the fresh fridge. More and more, kimchi-neng-jang-gos are banishing the funk from North Oakland, too.

            On a recent afternoon, shoppers at Kitchen Plus, the housewares annex at Koreana Plaza — a bustling supermarket in the heart of Oakland’s Korean restaurant and shopping corridor along Telegraph —  browsed electric fish grills and gingko-leaf chopstick rests. Pink-smocked store clerk Okhui Lee was in full sales mode.

            “There’s a filter here,” she said, raising one of two doors on the Dimchae model 225L, one of five on display here. It’s clad in stainless steel with a sleek, semi-matte finish, and either caramel- or burgundy-colored front panels, and is about the size of two side-by-side dishwashers. “The smell can’t escape, and you can make it cold or not so cold, whatever you want.”

            All the kimchi-neng-jang-gos on display here have separate compartments for holding different types of kimchi, each with a separate temperature control. “Some people like kimchee really fresh,” says store manager Patricia Lee (no relation to Okhui), meaning they don’t want it to ferment much further in cold storage. “Other people like it stronger, so they’ll keep the temperature a little bit warmer,” essentially allowing the kimchi to go on fermenting. A control panel has buttons labeled “slow ferment” and “more ferment,” next to a drawing of one of those clay kimchi jars, the ones Koreans used to bury in the ground.

“Even second-generation Koreans love the kimchi fridge,” says Patricia Lee. “It keeps the kimchi smell from getting into their milk.” Since June, Kitchen Plus has sold five kimchi-neng-jang-gos. Not bad, considering the 225L carries a price tag of just under $2,000, the cost of a 50-inch plasma TV.

For that kind of money, even second-generation kimchi eaters just might consider putting up with cereal doused in funky-tasting two percent.   —John Birdsall