By: Jen Kim
I grew up in the United States as a daughter of immigrants. My sister and I grew up eating Korean food that our mother cooked for us, but I didn't understand how special her cooking is until much later in life. My mother’s cooking is deeply rooted in traditions and seasonality; the techniques she learned were passed down to her from her mother and grandmother. I, too, learned the culinary traditions of Korea from my mother, but in a completely different context—in El Paso, Texas. El Paso is a gem of a city—located on the border of the United States and Mexico, right in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert. El Paso has scorching hot summers, cold-ish winters, and does not subscribe to the four seasons that I learned about, later in life. One of the dishes that my mom made for us growing up was sam gye tang—a Korean chicken soup stuffed with glutinous rice (the super sticky rice used to make rice cakes/mochi), jujube (a dried Korean date), ginseng, and boiled until the broth is rich and milky beige, the chicken tender, and the rice perfumed with the herbs. I loved (and still do) the drama of it all. A whole tiny chicken stuffed with rice, steaming, hot and eagerly awaiting my mother's hands. She would pull apart the meat for me and my sister, and serve us the tastiest morsels. I adored this dish, yet I ate this dish without fully understanding the context of when, how, and why this dish is eaten in my culture.
In July 2011, I was 24 years old and visiting South Korea with my mom. This trip was important because it was my first time in the country since I was in middle school. During the Seoul leg of the trip, my cousin’s friend Sang Woo took us around for the day, and for lunch, he took us to a restaurant called To Sok Chon Sam Gye Tang. We arrived when the sun was at its strongest; it was hot, muggy, and sticky. I remember being appalled that we were headed to eat chicken soup in such oppressive heat. Even worse, the line was out the door and wrapped around the building. While we waited, I learned that sam gye tang is eaten during Sambok (삼복) or Boknal (복날) period which includes the three hottest days of summer according to Korean tradition. During this time, the tradition is to combat the heat by eating something hot, and this practice is believed to be good for your health by some. This year, the three dates are: Chobok (초복) July 16, 2020, Jungbok (중복) July 26, 2020, and Malbok (말복) and August 15, 2020.
When we finally got to the front of the line, we walked into a traditional Korean style building with a courtyard surrounded by multiple rooms for the diners. We were led to a room, instructed to take off our shoes and leave them at the entrance, and take a seat. We sat on the floor at a low table already equipped with silverware (spoons and chopsticks) and a large container of kimchi. Around us, there were Korean diners eating steaming bowls of sam gye tang, and without looking at the menu, we each ordered a bowl of sam gye tang. The soup arrived moments later in a large dark brown earthenware bowl still bubbling from the heat. We each received a personal small chicken stuffed with glutinous rice, ginseng, and jujube that had been boiled in this incredibly rich broth with lots of garlic and herbs until tender. I remember the smells, the steam, the heat radiating from the dish, and wrapping around my already uncomfortably hot self, the drama of it all. I took a spoonful and knew it was my mother’s soup, but better (sorry mom), the experience was amplified by the heat of the summer and the heat of the bowl. I was hot, sweating, and tucking right into the chicken. The flavors of the broth were distinct, familiar, and incredibly elegant—sweet jujube, mellow stewed garlic, medicinal ginseng, and a bright pop of fresh allium from the scallions. I was struck by how something so seemingly simple felt so opulent, so magnificent. I looked around and saw how happily people were eating the same soup and chickens. As we left, I peered into the large kitchen and saw four or five huge vats of bubbling soup and the hard-working women running this streamlined operation. I realized that this dish, like many Korean dishes, is a labor of love full of stories and traditions.
It’s now summer, and nearly a decade later, I live in Paris and have pursued a once impossible dream of going to culinary school in France. I wanted to reimagine sam gye tang and incorporate skills that I learned during my time at culinary school and my stage. Just to be clear, I believe that sam gye tang is perfect as is. For my version of this dish, I want the diner to feel the love of a mother taking the meat off the bones for her child. I also want to make the broth the star of the dish, and so I created a consommé with the chicken broth that I boiled for hours with jujube, ginseng, garlic, and so many other herbs. Served alongside the chicken you will find glutinous rice that was boiled inside the carcass of the chicken and the crispy skin on top for textural contrast. The consommé is poured tableside, and the dish is finished with buchu (Korean chive) oil. You can watch me make this dish here. While this dish's origins and herbs are Korean, the chickens, produce, and techniques are French, and my story is distinctly American in that it encompasses a plurality of voices, cultures, and histories. I'm excited to share this dish with you because it represents how I like to cook and nourish those whom I feed: with simplicity, seasonal ingredients, traditions, and beautiful products.
