Kyung-ran Jo - Tongue

I go into a bookstore and buy a book about dissection.

SUMMER BEGINS as we devein shrimp. Some cookbooks instruct you to take out the bitter, black, stringy intestine that stretches down the shrimp’s back before cooking, but that’s not always right. You taste bitterness first, which is stronger when hot. It is better to take out the intestine, but cooks who understand shrimp take it out only in warmer months. We’re getting a lot of orders for the green pasta with shrimp and scallops—I came up with that recipe in February. At one end of the kitchen, Kwon, the prep cook, is humming, deveining shrimp with a toothpick. Meanwhile, sous chef Kim sifts flour to bake herb bread. In the morning the kitchen bristles with energy and life. Like cogs in a machine, we move about fluidly in the small space of rules and order.

Every cook is attracted to a particular ingredient. Some enjoy working with duck and turkey and others prefer beef and pork, while there are cooks who like scallops and clams or asparagus and cauliflower or potato and radish. Chef likes root vegetables and flat fish—turbot, flounder, croaker. These days he’s fascinated by tea. Tea grown in the shade of tall trees in high altitude has the best flavor. During Chinese empires, virgins fourteen years and younger picked damp, soft tea leaves, wearing brand-new clothes and gloves. It’s never occurred to me to use tea as an ingredient and I never thought it possible, but if Chef takes an interest in something there’s no telling what will emerge. But I’m doubtful about the idea of cooking with tea. I’m not sure if it’s about tea as an ingredient or because I wonder if Chef is trying to suppress his desires as he reaches a certain age.

I wish I could top Chef with my innovations. I want him to tell me, You can’t make a complete dish with tea. At times I’m not sure what I want. But I know for certain that there is one thing I want. That’s enough.

At one time I liked cooking with fish and roots and asparagus, like Chef, and enjoyed making dough and hand-cut pasta and bread, like sous chef Kim. I liked feeling the tips of my fingers grow gentle, not unlike playing with dark, lustrous soil. When I make dough I take a bit off and push and stretch and pull with my fingertips and make consonants like b, c, d , or vowels like a , e , o , u , and spread them across my board to make words. The way Grandmother taught Uncle and me how to read. The letters went into boiling broth at the end. Mushy vowels and consonants floated in Grandmother’s bowls of noodles, and Uncle and I ate those first, vying to be the one to find more. Even after I learned to read I thought all words could be eaten.

These days I am drawn to meat. I pushed aside poultry. I need something bigger and alive and juicy and firm and animalistic, something I can’t handle with one hand. Sometimes cooking is a physical battle. At times blood overflows in a banquet. To be as close to pork and beef, I take on practically all the tasks of the grill station, the way I used to when I first learned how to butcher and handle meat. On days when that’s not enough, I stay in the test kitchen until dawn, roasting and frying and sauteeing and steaming and boiling and broiling. I can feel the volume and heft of the meat by sniffing the smoke filling the small kitchen. Every cook prefers a different ingredient but everyone agrees: Everything must be fresh.

I double our meat order and also order tongue. Very few people order the once-trendy steak of ox tongue anymore, so I don’t stock it as often. But when a good item comes in I boil it and top it with lemon sauce and send a few slices out to the regulars, on the house. Ox tongue is so tough and chewy that you have to boil it before doing anything with it. Boiling also shrinks it to half its size. The first day the supplier brought ox tongue, I opened the box on the spot. The red tongue, frozen solid on ice, was covered in a white membrane as fresh as a juicy oyster. It was big and sensual and it looked like a part of the shoulder. It was fresher than I thought it would be but I shook my head firmly and rejected it. Suppliers always bring something good on the first order. But you can’t show you’re pleased with it. Then, without fail, they bring something even better the next time. To obtain an even fresher, better ingredient, you need wisdom and a little bit of cunning. It’s like hunting a strong and rare animal. The next time, the supplier brought the best tongue, dripping with blood, just a day after it was slaughtered.

July is a rare red steak that melts like velvet in your mouth, with a side of green asparagus. Both the heat and the color red are sensual. And if you pair it with Tignanello, the powerful jolt of a Tuscan red, it would be a great summer-evening meal. Simple dishes made with fresh ingredients, like steak, are perfect for summer, even though it’s the hardest season to handle meat properly. But a good cook has to be able to put out a delicious dish made of anything, regardless of the season. To be a good cook, you can’t be afraid of challenge and failure.

I finally complete a new recipe on the first Monday of July. An ox tongue dish. To remove the white membrane and tendons and the muscle that attaches it to the throat, I take a small, sharp knife and move it precisely in short strokes and cut out the crimson middle. The more I use my knife, the more it comes alive. My hand becomes the knife, the knife disappearing into my hand, moving freely—this is especially true when I’m holding a piece of meat in my hands. It’s completely different from holding dough or handling delicate vegetables. It’s as if I’m gripping onto a playful but ferocious dolphin and shoving a knife into its body.

In Japan, they believe that drinking tea is a symbol of harmony and balance, like the five fingers on your hand. So five people participate in a tea ceremony. But Chef always drinks tea alone. I take a cup and go to his table and pull up a chair. He reaches out and pours me a cup. What is this tea? It’s yellow and light green and smells of arid dirt. I put my recipe on the table. He looks over the recipe silently and asks, Are you really going to use ox tongue? Skeptically. He can’t understand why it’s tongue, not rib eye or sirloin. If Chef makes a face like that from seeing a recipe, I have to start fresh. He puts it down and tells me my sauce of truffle oil, chopped garlic and onion, thyme, and arugula won’t mask the smell of the meat. The smell of tongue doesn’t disappear completely even after boiling it for six hours with vegetables and strong herbs. The sauce does have to be stronger, but I don’t want to mask the tongue’s true taste. I may have to think more about the sauce. Chef suggests I use watercress instead of arugula. Why didn’t I think of that? I pick up my recipe and give Chef a polite nod.

ARE YOU AWAKE , Se-yeon?

I’m sure your head hurts a little but it’ll get better. I didn’t put that much clove in it, but it’s pretty strong, right? It’s an anesthetic but since it’s also a spice it shouldn’t be harmful. It’s not like precious nutmeg, which can become poisonous. Spices are usually added at the very end but it can be dangerous depending on how they’re used so you have to do it carefully. You should know this because you’re going to teach cooking classes. If you have any other questions, just ask me. I’ll tell you everything I know. Se-yeon, it’s been a while. Was it April when you came to pick up Paulie? It’s the first time since we stood in my yard that day, right? Why were you so surprised when you saw me at Costco today? I was so happy to see you .