Thought for food: What the family table taught me

The experience of reading a great description of food can be incredibly intimate. It can knock you so hard in the head that you feel it in your gut. And so I often wonder, how do we take that intense sensory connection that only food can make and connect an audience, not just to a restaurant we want to recommend, but to a story that touches on deeper things than deliciousness?

You see, I’m not a food writer. I eat food because I love food, and I cook food because I love food, but I’m writing about food today because I love people. I love my family, and that includes my clan of food-service employees who aren’t just professional, but care about our diners like family. All food stories are really stories about people, and that means their story is about hope and desire, and a longing for self-worth, identity, and belonging.

My mom, Sunja Lew, was the main hostess of our small Korean American community here in the tri-counties, largely through the Methodist Church she and my dad, Keunsun, founded in the 1970s. Needless to say, she made our family table a sweet one, but she also modeled a spirit of communal hospitality that sustained me over my long apprenticeship.

I will never forget the day when I was doing my 2nd grade spelling homework and my folks were scolding me for not pronouncing “mosquito” correctly (I was pronouncing it “mos’kwhy’to” — just like it looks, right?!) I was hunkered down beneath the dining table sobbing, snot dripping out my nose, because my parents held a deep-rooted Korean societal belief that success is only achieved through hard work, perseverance, and unwavering determination.

I was convinced that my future prosperity and happiness hinged on pronouncing and spelling “mosquito” correctly. Next thing I know, I pronounced it correctly! I somehow pulled it out of my magic hat, and voila, it was dinner time! Mom was making her version of Tonkatsu, a Japanese breaded pork cutlet. She even made her own breadcrumbs from Wonder Bread since panko breadcrumbs didn’t exist in the United States in the early 70’s.

It’s one of the most memorable meals I’ve ever had. Not because it was deep-fried deliciousness, but because it was my first life-identity marker that I can remember. It wasn’t merely a pork chop, but a transcending reinforcement of achievement and accomplishment.

That was over 50 years ago, and I can still remember that pork chop: the taste of it, the texture, smell, and plate presentation. I remember the look on my mom and dad’s faces. They were beaming because their expectations were (nearly) met.

When I retell this tale, what I really think back to is the silent love that my parents had anytime we did well. They were proud, they looked happy, and it made me realize that people’s food stories are deep stories… and the best ones are the ones that start with the food, not end with it.