The pandemic didn’t stop the New York City-based restaurant group from opening new locations of Carbone, Sadelle’s, Parm, and more
For restaurants, 2021 has brought some degree of hope. As workers — and diners — get vaccinated, restaurant dining rooms are beginning to more closely resemble pre-pandemic scenes. But the costs of 2020 linger. Many restaurants are struggling to hire staff. Months worth of deferred rent payments now due could push more to close for good; scores of restaurants already have. And then there’s Major Food Group, the powerhouse restaurant group that’s on an expansion tear.
Over the past four months, while restaurants all over the country have slowly attempted to regain their footing, MFG has opened four restaurants and announced plans for several more. The New York City-based group, founded by Mario Carbone, Rich Torrisi, and Jeff Zalaznick, kicked off the year by opening a new location of Carbone, its Italian-American celebrity magnet, in Miami’s South Beach at the end of January. Just a few months later, in April, it opened ZZ’s Sushi Bar, a hybrid of New York’s ZZ’s Clam Bar and a sushi club with a members-only component in Miami Design District. That same month, the group debuted an outpost of its casual Italian-American restaurant Parm at Woodbury Commons, an outlet mall in Central Valley, New York. And in March, it opened a Sadelle’s inside Kith’s new Paris store.
Timed to the start of basketball season this fall, MFG will open a 7,700-square-foot lounge at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center arena; also this fall, a new version of Torrisi Italian Specialties will open a block away from the original Italian restaurant and deli that launched Rich Torrisi and Mario Carbone into the restaurant-world spotlight in 2009. Later in 2021, Carbone and Sadelle’s will open in Dallas, and by mid-June, Contessa, an all-day restaurant in Boston’s new hotel the Newbury, will be up and running.
Miami’s role as MFG’s home away from home will be secure with even more restaurants later this year: an Italian trattoria in the city’s Art’s District and an American steakhouse in the Brickell neighborhood are planned. MFG has also just nailed down locations for two Sadelle’s restaurants, one in Miami’s Coconut Grove and the other on Miami Beach. The Coconut Grove location will open this year, while the other, a bigger build-out that includes a market, will take longer. Finally (for now), MFG is also working on an “Israeli concept,” most likely for the South of Fifth neighborhood later this year.
“We’re quick on our feet. We pivot fast. We know when we want something and we go after it. We felt that way about Miami very quickly,” Zalaznick says of the rapid expansion. “I had the good fortune of finding myself here [in Miami] right at the beginning of the pandemic. As soon as I got here I realized the potential, and we started moving.” (Zalaznick himself also made the move down to Miami.)
The restaurant industry is booming in South Florida. Eater Miami editor Olee Fowler says Miami’s lower rents and the state’s looser COVID-19 restrictions (Florida restaurants have been able to open for indoor dining at 100 percent capacity since September) were a draw for New York City restaurateurs. “There’s always been an overlap between New York and Miami. We jokingly call Miami the sixth borough,” Fowler says. “Since the end of September, Florida has basically been open for business. Florida has a beautiful wintertime where everyone can be outdoors hanging out, and [New York restaurateurs] saw it as an opportunity.”
The New York-to-Miami migration is a phenomenon fueled by “a one-percenter exodus” from NYC, with Curbed noting that it’s not exclusive to restaurants: New York City art galleries have also opened up branches in Miami, following wealthy financial institutions and individual wealthy collectors. And over the past year, Miami Design District, home to ZZ’s Sushi Bar and that upcoming trattoria, has seen profits grow at surprising rates over the past several months, despite the dismal state of retail elsewhere. Compared to the year prior, sales at Design District businesses were up. “Since July, sales were up 20 to 30 percent. [They were] up 40 percent in January and February. March, we were 93 percent up,” says Craig Robins, CEO and president of DACRA, the real estate development company behind Miami Design District. “I don’t know if there’s another retail destination in the country that’s had the kind of growth we had.”
Robins says the new MFG restaurants are a “perfect addition” to the neighborhood. “The Design District restaurants, they’re fun and casual. You still feel like you can go in jeans and a T-shirt, even if the food is the highest level,” he says. MFG’s restaurants operate on this higher end of the spectrum, with dining rooms that are festive without feeling stuffy. “Everybody knows there’s so much demand,” says Robins. “You feel privileged and acknowledged just to be at a table, and then the level of service and the quality of food is outstanding.”
When Carbone Miami opened, Fowler says, the buzz was immediate. “Miami’s all about a scene and being the hot cool spot to be,” she says. “Carbone has done that exceptionally well.” Brand familiarity helped with the buzz, she says, given that New York-Miami exchange, as did Carbone’s menu of unchallenging Italian-American classics done well. The difficulty of snagging a reservation only added to Carbone’s appeal. “Miami loves that type of stuff. It’s all about the VIP scene,” Fowler says. “That’s how we are, for better or for worse.”
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Giovanny Gutierrez/Chat Chow TV
Even in New York, the U.S. city hardest hit by the coronavirus pandemic in its early months, there was demand for MFG restaurants, despite the group’s temporary inability to deliver on the ambiance. When Carbone reopened for takeout only in March 2020 after a brief closure, demand for $32 spicy rigatoni and $69 veal Parmesan drew crowds so large the police were called in to disband them.
MFG, with its newest restaurants, seems to be leaning into the air of exclusivity it’s long cultivated with a system that makes reservations scarce. At many locations, reservations can only be requested exactly one month to the day, and just for one day; now it’s adding actual private clubs to its portfolio. According to the New York Times, MFG’s Barclays Center lounge, Crown Club — which will serve popular dishes from existing MFG restaurants along with items from chefs at other NYC restaurants — will be open only to those with courtside Brooklyn Nets tickets, limiting its 250 seats to those who could already shell out at least $475 for courtside access.
Rapid expansion, according to Zalaznick, is nothing new for the group, which once opened seven New York restaurants in a single year. The newest additions are part of an already robust portfolio that includes 10 restaurant concepts in New York City (not including multiple locations of Parm, a casual ode to Italian-American comfort food), two in Las Vegas, two in Tel Aviv, and one in Hong Kong. All of them are expected to reopen. “We were really smart about the way we did our closures and the way we did delivery, and when we opened and how we opened,” Zalaznick says of how the group avoided pandemic-related slowdowns. “So far we’ve made a lot of big changes and big moves, and they’ve worked.”
These moves include MFG entering new kinds of venues. Simon Property Group, the real estate investment trust probably best known for its malls, is a minority stakeholder in MFG and the driving force behind the fast-casual Parm popping up next to the likes of Auntie Anne’s and Chipotle at Woodbury Commons, and soon, in Burlington Mall in Burlington, Massachusetts. As far as outlet malls go, Woodbury Commons is at the highest end, home to outlets for brands like Dior, Prada, and Givenchy; if Major Food Group were to open at any outlet mall, it would be this one. Earlier in the year, the group made another brand-appropriate expansion, opening a Sadelle’s, the MFG contribution to all-day dining, at Kith in Paris, the streetwear shop’s 16,000-square-foot European flagship. Here, Parisians looking for the latest sneaker drop or designer collaboration can take a break for a bagel and caviar.
If the group’s ongoing global expansion seems out of step with the overall state of the restaurant industry, it’s not necessarily incompatible with the state of the world at this point in the COVID-19 pandemic. Those disproportionately bearing the economic costs of the pandemic were those with less to begin with. The world’s wealthy, who were able to wait out the worst of the pandemic lockdowns working from their vacation homes, haven’t lost the means or desire to expand their car collections, bid on diamonds, or charter jets. And it’s this clientele that MFG seems to be banking on as it opens restaurants that meet many of these customers where they are, whether it’s the restriction-free playground of Miami, a private sports lounge, or Paris’s newest shopping destination selling $75 cropped tees.
From an operations standpoint, Zalaznick says, the pandemic may have actually benefited the group. “It made us smarter and better and gave us the opportunity to reflect on our business and how we can be better as a company and operate more efficiently,” he says. “We try to turn every negative into a positive, and this is the ultimate example of that.”
Blame the company offering you cheap rates by underpaying its workers, not the underpaid workers
*pinches bridge of nose* Look, everyone is still getting used to some new normals, one of which is the proliferation of grocery delivery services like Instacart. On the surface it seems great — someone else brings your groceries to you! But, as with any service that relies on the folly of humans, there are setbacks and mistakes. Maybe you asked for low-fat mayonnaise, and the store was out, so the person bought you Miracle Whip. Maybe there are a few bruises on your apples, or maybe they couldn’t find the apples so they swapped them out for something else, maybe even something ridiculously un-apple-like, such as onions. Annoying, yes! Maybe even ridiculous, yet still people should roll with it, understanding that mistakes happen, especially when you’re using a service that brings groceries to your door.
But sometimes people do not roll with it. On April 27, Bitch editor Evette Dionne tweeted that “Men must be banned from being Instacart shoppers,” and after receiving dozens of affirming replies, tagged Instacart, writing, “Train male shoppers better please.” Later, after receiving pushback, she said that the previous tweets were jokes, but whatever her intention, the tweets launched thousands of complaints about incompetent men who couldn’t find certain items, or made replacements the recipient considered odd, or asked too many questions about the order.
Publicly deriding your servants for their incompetence, but progressively pic.twitter.com/LkR4hsJpAF
— James Greig (@jamesdgreig) April 28, 2021
Spun into a joke about the incompetence of men in the pop feminism space of the internet, the assumption was that these mistakes were somehow connected to manhood and patriarchy, and that it is the women, as it were, who should be shoppin’. It’s true, yes, that many men are terrible. It’s also true that the gig economy is based on paying next to nothing for a service that offers cheap rates by underpaying workers of all genders.
Grocery delivery services like Instacart have seen a profit boom since the pandemic began because not everyone has the physical ability or the time to do their own grocery shopping. And yes, it is ridiculous, as one person tweeted, to order eight potatoes and receive eight bags of potatoes. But someone, maybe even some idiot guy, is being potentially exposed either way, only now it’s typically an underpaid gig worker. Over the past year, Instacart workers have gone on strike for increased pay, only to be retaliated against with a cut to their bonuses. They rely on tips to make anything close to a living wage, and Instacart has a history of penalizing workers and suspending their accounts for things that aren’t their fault, like canceling an alcohol order when it’s discovered the customer was a minor.
Shoppers are also subject to low ratings when they get orders wrong, usually because a store was out of a certain item, which in turn keep them from higher-paying orders. One Instacart shopper described the experience of receiving a low rating to Vox, after trying to communicate to a customer that several of the items were out of stock:
The way Instacart works is this: A handful of orders appear on the shopper dashboard, and shoppers choose which orders they wish to fulfill, typically by how much pay the order promises. However, shoppers with higher customer ratings get first pick — the higher-paying orders. Even though shoppers in the, let’s say, 4.9- to five-star range provide virtually the same quality service, those even slightly below a perfect five-star rating can slip to orders that pay significantly differently.
...When I received a four-star rating after dozens of five-star ratings, my average dropped to 4.96. With it, my newly limited batches shrank my average earnings from $25 per hour to much lower, likely below New York’s $15 minimum wage. I became a bottom feeder, seemingly receiving the leftover orders that, by other shoppers’ definition, paid an amount that was not worth accepting.
Twitter user Dan Sheehan also commented on customers’ expectation of a “luxury service,” and that when shoppers must take dozens of orders to make a decent day’s wages, they don’t have the time to make sure every piece of produce is perfect. Also worth noting that those who complained on the thread of dumb mistakes — like the eight bags of potatoes — were fully refunded after informing Instacart and the shopper who messed up was likely penalized with a blow to their rating. (And if they happen to be looking for a home for those free extra potatoes, try a community fridge or offering them to neighbors. We are living in a food crisis, after all.)
The fact of the matter is that none of you are paying these people nearly enough to complain about what shows up at your door. If you've got a problem with the quality of service, take it to the company. Make them pay their employees more and maybe you'll get that perfect avocado
— Dan Sheehan (@ItsDanSheehan) April 28, 2021
This is all to say we’re all human, and a man who has made it his literal job to go grocery shopping is not your shitty husband who forgot milk again. It’s a pandemic, and if you are this mad about your Instacart shopper bringing you the wrong ice cream flavor, there are other ways to focus your energy: Like, say, writing your senators about supporting legislation that classifies gig workers as employees who can earn living wages.
As the restaurant industry inches toward normalcy, many of those who launched pandemic-era pop-ups are wondering what’s next
Former Gramercy Tavern pastry cook Lauren Tran never expected her assortments of ube and coconut mousse chiffon cakes, longan macarons, and bánh bò nÆ°á»›ng — a pandan-flavored tapioca and rice flour pastry — to appeal beyond her social circle. But when the recent pastry school graduate’s bánh boxes, a mix of Vietnamese desserts and French pastries, started selling out in minutes each week on Instagram, it turned her previous life plan on its head. “I was able to lean into who I am as a Vietnamese-American woman,” she says. Now, Tran is looking to translate that success into a business, Bánh by Lauren, that honors Vietnamese desserts with the respect and regard she sees given European and Japanese baked goods.
Amid the endless stream of destruction that the pandemic blasted at the restaurant industry, pop-ups started by laid-off workers quietly shone as a tiny bright light in the grim darkness. Stuck at home, with little hope for full employment, the people who once cooked or served everywhere from fast-casual chains to Michelin-starred dining rooms turned to the best resource they had to stay busy and make some money: their own knowledge, heritage, and creativity. The rise of pop-ups — representing a low barrier to entry for culinary businesses — has pushed forward laws regarding home-based food businesses, including one recently passed in Boston allowing for the selling of low-risk foods made at home, and one in Washington that will allow people to sell meals from their home.
But a year into the pandemic, with vaccines available or soon to be available to all adults and many states lifting restrictions on business, successful pop-up proprietors have reached a crucial moment in a situation that from day one was conceptualized as temporary. Some are considering whether they want to put down roots as a permanent full-time business, leave what they built and go back to working for others, or try to balance in the middle by finding a steady job while running the pop-up as a side hustle.
“I didn’t have an idea of a shop. I just knew that I wanted one,” Tran says of her pre-pandemic dreams of someday opening a French-style patisserie. “Now I know it has to be this.” The runaway success of Bánh by Lauren attracted the type of attention — in terms of opportunities and investment — she thought would take years, leaving her suddenly facing pivotal decisions about her plans as both a pastry cook and entrepreneur. But just as the pop-up model brought her overwhelmingly fast success, working for herself gave her the time and income to consider each decision carefully.
When Lupe Flores first messaged her friends to see if they were interested in buying a few of the crunchy tacos she always made for parties, the bartender and drummer just wanted to stay busy while bars and clubs were closed. More than a year later, from a permanent location inside Seattle’s Tractor Tavern, Flores’s Situ Tacos sells the kind of tacos stuffed with hushwe, Lebanese brown butter beef, that Flores grew up eating at the table of her Lebanese-by-way-of-Mexico grandmother; Situ tacos is named for her.
Flores’s pop-ups earned a following big enough that not quite a year after she first sold her tacos, the Tractor Tavern, looking to bring people to its bar and outdoor area while live music and concerts are prohibited, invited her to put down roots. “I’d been dragging my feet, because starting your own business is terrifying,” she admits. But the way her business operates symbiotically with the bar has been encouraging. The support she’s seen — from chefs, business owners, other pop-up operators — during the pandemic gave her faith in human beings, she says, and “the chutzpah it takes to open a bricks-and-mortar business in this unsure world.”
While Flores thrives as she returns to the face-to-face interaction she loved as a bartender, Dave Hadley, who was laid off from his job as a culinary director for a hospitality group, welcomed the opportunity to try something less consumer-facing. But when an old boss offered him a kitchen job making pizza for $13 an hour, Hadley asked himself, “What the hell am I doing?”
Instead, he was drawn to the entrepreneurship of a pop-up. Like any good Jersey boy, he turned to Taylor ham for help, folding it into a pork roll, egg, and cheese version of the Indian snacks he’d grown up eating. Samosa Shop features the flavors of his Caribbean heritage and works with other companies, like a pizza restaurant and kimchi brand, to create combinations that reflect other people’s backgrounds as well. The nontraditional samosas are now available at pop-ups all over the Denver area, with events announced on Instagram.
Having seen success so far, Hadley wants to bring the idea to a wider audience. He dreams of turning Samosa Shop into a frozen-food brand, something that would compete with Hot Pockets for space in grocery-store freezers around the country. But he remains unsure about immediate next steps. “I paid so much freaking money to go to CIA and get the best education, and then work with some of the best people in the country,” he says. “But they don’t teach you how to be successful by yourself.” He doesn’t plan to let that stop him, though. “I’m excited to be on that journey of not knowing. And I think we need to be okay with that.”
But not everyone has that luxury or is in the right place in their life to do so. Depending on location, details, and local cottage food laws, some pop-ups operated in a legal gray area that comes with its own risks. Some need a regular paycheck or more certain schedule, and the constant pivots turning the industry in circles, combined with individual situations — financial, personal, or professional — sent many pop-up entrepreneurs straight back to the stability of a regular job when the opportunity arose. Some didn’t find the same rousing success as Tran or Flores. For others, it simply wasn’t the right long-term fit.
“Running a pop-up taught me a lot about my own capacity for work and how I like to treat myself when I’m the person in charge,” says Hanna Gregor. The former line cook called her time running a fermented-foods pop-up a great use of eight months, but adds, “it just got to be physically exhausting.” She tried working with a partner and shifting to a subscription model to lighten the workload on the selling side, but shopping for the pop-up by bike got increasingly hard as orders grew. The impending Chicago winter made it less likely they would be able to draw customers to outdoor events or even just make extra trips on public transportation to pick up orders as COVID-19 cases surged. In late November, the bakery where Gregor had been volunteering to bake loaves for donation offered her a part-time job, and she works there now. The fermented-food concept took a back seat, at least temporarily.
“There are a lot of connections that you gain from being the face of something, as opposed to being the third line cook in back,” Gregor says. She hopes to take advantage of the flexibility of pop-ups — as the weather warms up, she’s had people contact her about selling at farmers markets and events. But at her own early stage in the industry, she didn’t feel ready to commit to starting a business. Though she likes how pop-ups sidestep some of the more savage parts of the traditional brigade system, she feels she gets more from mentorship and colleagues. “I’m still in that phase in my life where I’m like, ‘I want to learn more,’” she says. “I would love to observe folks who have done this for a decade longer than I have.” She hesitates, raising one of the issues that gives her pause about returning to cooking: “Ideally in a place where people are treated like people and make a living wage.”
Food and travel writer Naomi Tomky is the author of The Pacific Northwest Seafood Cookbook. Carolyn Figel is a freelance artist living in Brooklyn.
The 40 cent increase comes into effect May 1
https://montreal.eater.com/2021/4/29/22408552/quebec-restaurant-lobby-arq-against-minimum-wage-increase-pandemic
Two weeks in a Korean quarantine facility took my sense of time, space, and rational thought — but never my appetite
We’ve all experienced some form of isolation over the past year due to the COVID-19 pandemic — either sanctioned by the government or by personal choice. My most potent experience of solitude was a mix of both: 14 days quarantined in South Korea, per the country’s strict travel policies, after traveling from New York to my hometown in December 2020 to visit my parents for the first time in seven years.
At a quarantine facility in Pohang, about 170 miles southeast of Seoul, I was given a room with an ocean view but no furniture other than a chair, a desk, and a small refrigerator. I slept on the floor and was not allowed to leave, even for exercise. Knowing that in two weeks I would get to hug my parents made it bearable. That, and the surprisingly incredible and abundant food, which would be dropped onto a chair outside my door three times each day. A phone call, not a knock, would let me know it had arrived.
Here is my diary of the mundane, exhausting, and weirdly delicious 14 days I spent in this Korean quarantine facility, in which I ate my feelings one bountiful dosirak at a time.
After a 13-hour flight, I am losing my sense of time a little bit, but there’s so much more travel and processing to go. There’s a temperature check and endless paperwork demanding my quarantine address and contact information. The staff calls the number of the facility to make sure the phone is working, in case they need to reach me. Everyone who lands in South Korea today has to download a quarantine app on their phone, which also allows officials to track my location, ensuring that I don’t leave my quarantine facility.
After more forms, phone calls, and interviews, I finally leave the gate, but I have to wait another hour to take a designated bus to the train station (to prevent local transmission of the coronavirus, foreign travelers are not allowed to use public transportation). I decide to have a quick dinner at the airport to fuel up for the rest of my journey. I treat myself with the Korean cockle bibimbap set, served in gorgeous copper bowls, complete with three banchan and a soup. Meaty cockles arrive perfectly seasoned with big chunks of peppers and scallions, and I get a whiff of sesame oil as I’m mixing them with a steamy bowl of rice. This is exactly what I need to feel like I’ve finally arrived in Korea. I take a picture with this gorgeous copper dinner set and send it to my parents with a trio of crying emojis.
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After the bus ride, I’m escorted to a separate holding space until I can board my train to Pohang. The city is located in the province of North Gyeongsang, about 169 miles south of Seoul. Once again, I’m reminded how far I live from my parents.
There is only one other quarantining traveler on the high-speed train to Pohang, and we are given a whole car to ourselves. A police officer, entirely covered in a protective coverall, guards us the entire time, turning away any locals who try to sit near us. I feel like a walking disease. I am grateful that everyone is taking such serious measures, but the palpable wariness I’ve sensed from every person I’ve interacted with for the last 24 hours is more exhausting than I’d expected.
Once I finally arrive at Pohang station, I’m greeted by a staff member from the local health department, also covered from head to toe in protective gear, who confirms my information. And then, finally, I catch a glimpse of my dad, who’s been waiting for me to come home for such a long time. All I want is to run toward him and give him the biggest hug, but I’m not allowed. All I can do is wave at him, a sorry alternative, from 10 feet away.
My parents and I are awkwardly smiling at one another as the staff escorts me to the car to take me to my final destination. This seemingly never-ending journey is almost over. It’s been over 30 hours since I left my apartment in New York, and I feel greasy and exhausted. Finally, at 2 a.m. — after signing one last form, which says, “You aren’t allowed to leave your room during your quarantine” — I check into my home for the next 14 days, a small square studio with a desk and a TV. I’m buzzy and wide awake till 5 a.m. thinking about what my first meal will be tomorrow.
First thing in the morning, I have to get tested. I should have been tested before checking into the quarantine facility, but had to wait for the next day, since I arrived late. My mom arranges for the local health department to pick me up. A driver arrives, which makes me feel very VIP, even if the reason for the special treatment is that I’m a potential national health hazard. I’m sent back after a slightly painful nasal swab test with a free bag of hand sanitizers and KF-94 masks. When I return to my room, there’s a gift waiting for me: my very first meal, wrapped in a white plastic bag, sitting on top of the designated meal-depositing chair in the hallway outside my room.
Early in the pandemic, the Korean government-issued comfort-food packages for quarantining individuals got global attention, full of delicious instant noodles, canned tuna, ready-to-eat soups, rice, and more. It was an appetizing alternative to the meals other quarantine individuals had — like those poor NYU kids who basically got sad salad and warm orange juice. Rather than stay at an Airbnb or a government-assigned hotel, I’d chosen to quarantine at a resort owned by POSCO, the company my dad works for. It had temporarily been transformed into a quarantine facility — equipped with a cafeteria at which I can’t eat — for employees and their families.
The food rules are simple: It comes three times a day in bento box form, called dosirak in South Korea, and is left on top of the chair outside my room. Staff will call when the food is ready, and I can open the door to pick it up — the only time I’m allowed to open the door during the quarantine.
I love dosirak, and the first meal is dreamy. I’d been expecting rice and maybe a couple of banchan, but this dosirak is premium: four banchan, two main entrees, a bowl of rice, and a soup, per set. By the time I return from my testing, they’ve already brought both my lunch and breakfast, so I combine them to have a quarantine feast of braised pollock, spicy braised chicken, seasoned spinach, rice cake-stuffed fish cakes, spicy raw squid jeotgal, egg, and dumpling soup, soy-braised potato and chicken, crispy spring rolls, seasoned dried squid, seasoned garlic stems, radish with yuzu, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup. All of it for me.
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The dosirak sets have been sitting on the chair for a few hours, so they are lukewarm by the time I dig in. But I don’t mind. I feel spoiled with so many choices. I go straight to the braised pollock for my first spoon of rice. The fish absorbs the spicy, tangy sauce and goes perfectly with rice. Without any break, I immediately reach for the spinach, one of my favorite banchan, followed by sharp, spicy kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup.
Considering the fact that most government quarantine packages consist of instant, premade food, I feel incredibly thankful to be eating something that actually tastes like home cooking. It’s only the first day, but I start getting emotional. Twelve more days feels like an eternity. I just wish my family were here.
It’s been only two days since I started my quarantine, but who’s counting? My morning starts with checking my temperature and recording it on the app. Even though I’m in Korea, thousands of miles closer to my family, it really doesn’t feel like it. I still talk to my parents via FaceTime, just like when I’m back in New York.
My parents decide to come visit me, even though it only means I can shout to them from my second-floor balcony. They ask me if I want anything from the market. I have a whole list of things I want, but instead I simply ask for “anything that looks delicious!”
Families are allowed to drop care packages at the front desk of my quarantine facility, and the staff will bring it to the room. When I get the call that my package has arrived, I open the door, expecting a few items, but these are Asian parents. Abundance is their love language. An enormous bag fit to feed a family of 10 is waiting for me.
I hear my mom screaming from outside, “James! Let me see my son’s face!” I run to the balcony and yell back, “Mom! Why did you get me so many things? How would I eat all of these?” We both know that I will have no problem eating everything she brought me, but it feels good to banter. After taking countless pictures and videos to share in our family group chat, we scream, “I miss you!” to each other. My mom shakes her head in denial of the situation. “Just 12 more days,” I yell. “You waited seven years for me to come back to Korea, so 12 more days should be fine!”
I come back in and start unboxing the care package. The first mysterious black plastic bag is kkwabaegi, a Korean twisted donut, covered in sugar. It’s warm, chewy, and a needed reminder that I am indeed in Korea. You can’t get this kind of smell and taste in New York. The next bag holds a tangerine preserve for making tea. Triple-wrapped inside another plastic bag are bundles of kkaetnip, or perilla leaves. There are at least 50 leaves of kkaetnip and lettuce, which I plan to eat along with my dosiraks, followed by a package of jokbal (Korean braised pig feet), a whole napa cabbage, a bag of Korean gyul (tangerines), eggs, crackers, and even beer.
I didn’t specifically ask for any of these things, but it’s my mom — she knows me. Then, after all that, I get the call to pick up my dosirak. It’s always exciting to see what types of banchan I get, but I end up saving it for later so I can indulge in my jokbal spread. I have collagen-heavy, chewy jokbal, accompanied with fermented salted shrimp, ssamjang, wasabi-heavy soy sauce, napa cabbage, kkaetnip, and lettuce, just like how I would eat it at a restaurant. This particular jokbal is known for its diagonal slice, so I simply dip a piece into wasabi soy sauce to enjoy its extra-chewy texture. My favorite way of enjoying jokbal is to make a big ssam, so I grab a big piece of lettuce with a few jobak pieces, followed by a dollop of ssamjang and fermented salted shrimp. I wrap them all up in a big pouch and shove it into my mouth. My butt is warm from sitting on the heated floor, and I’m downing big jokbal ssams while watching Korean TV shows. In this moment, I think, This quarantine isn’t so bad, after all.
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Let me tell you more about my quarantine room. It’s a typical Korean studio with minimum furniture, which means no bed, no couch, nothing — just a floor (which, again, is mercifully heated — it’s 28 degrees outside). There’s no separate kitchen, just a small fridge. It’s typical in Korean culture to sleep on the floor, especially for members of my parents’ generation. I later realize that the quarantine facility purposely took out the beds to make their cleaning job easier after the quarantining individual leaves. At least there’s a jaw-dropping ocean view.
Every morning, I watch the sunrise and listen to the calming sound of the ocean waves. Even though it’s freezing outside, I open the doors to the balcony wide. Seeing the ocean whenever I look out the window helps me pretend I’m in some gorgeous vacation house that I could never afford instead of a tiny room that I’m not allowed to leave. I feel incredibly grateful. Some government-managed quarantine facilities don’t even have windows.
One complaint: There’s no microwave. If I don’t eat the dosirak right away, I end up eating it cold, which was fine the first few days, but now I’m seriously starting to miss hot foods. The pleasure of heated aromas. The feeling of warmth from the steam. Even the quick tongue scald from sipping hot soup. These are the sensations that get me worked up before taking a bite — and you can’t get any of it from room-temp food.
But the banchans are delicious enough, and again I’m grateful to have anything remotely this good, so I push through. I generally don’t have a big appetite at 9 a.m. when my breakfast gets dropped, so I tend to combine my breakfast and lunch dosiraks for a massive midday quarantine feast. One dosirak combo is particularly great: soy-braised garlic scapes, seasoned salted squid, spicy chicken with rice cakes, braised tofu, sesame shiitake mushroom, dried strips of squid, spinach, spicy stir-fried squid, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup. Out of all these banchan, seasoned salted squid was the star. It’s jeotgal, a food category of salted preserved dishes made with seafood, and I can eat bowls of rice just with this. Also, with loads of the kkaetnip that my mom gave me, I make big ssam with all the banchan. I put three or four kkaetnip leaves on my palm with a spoonful of rice, spicy chicken, spinach, and kimchi. I tend to fill them up with so much that my kkaetnip ssam looks taut like a tennis ball.
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I’m keeping strange hours because I’m working remotely with my office back in New York. I fire up my computer around midnight and work until around 8 a.m. in Korea. I usually sign off to rest and eat a large lunch a few hours later, around noon. By 5:30 p.m., I have dinner, and then — if I’m lucky — I fall asleep at 6. I wake up at 11 p.m., and my bizarre day starts all over again. The routine, weird as it is, gives my days some sense of structure.
Inevitably, though, my mind and body start feeling off. When a banana, wrapped individually in plastic, arrives in my dosirak on day four, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. This is the first time I’ve received fruit with a meal, and my eyes well up with joy. I can’t figure out if I’m genuinely this excited over a banana or if I’m losing my mind. It’s probably the latter.
I begin FaceTiming my mom over lunch to help with the loneliness. We don’t have to say much to each other; just eating with her makes me feel better. She shows me her humble lunch: just rice, napa cabbage, doenjang (Korean soybean paste), and seaweed. At the facility, I’m blessed with 12 different varieties of banchan, six entrees, and three soups. My mom is happy that I’ve been eating so well, but I feel some guilt as she eats her rice with cabbage and no meat. I can’t wait to share a feast with her once I’m out of quarantine.
I’m finally more than halfway through quarantine, and I have a tower of unfinished cold rice, a couple of cold soups, loads of instant coffee, and a few other random unfinished dishes all spread on the shelf on top of the fridge that I’ve dubbed the pantry. Since I can’t go outside, there are trash cans on my balcony, where I keep a pile of clean dosirak containers. The higher the tower of dosirak containers gets, the closer I am to the end of my quarantine. I’m still desperately missing hot foods. I daydream about a bubbling pot of soondubu jjigae, a spicy silken tofu stew, and a big bowl of rice so steamy it fogs my glasses. I fantasize about the sensation of burning my mouth as I rush to eat just-cooked pork belly.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. If I can’t have a microwave, what about an air fryer? I call the staff, asking whether it would be allowed. There is slight confusion, hesitation, and a long pause over the phone, and then, just like that, the receptionist says, “Yes, you can use an air fryer.”
I call my mom, crying.
My parents have a tiny air fryer that they don’t use, and this feels like fate. They drop it off over the weekend, along with another care package of goodies to get me through the next several days.
Along with the air fryer, wrapped in a silky red cloth like a treasure, my mom includes an adorable oven mitt, worried that I might burn my hands. There are other delightful treats, such as an assortment of fried things, like shrimp, squid, and potatoes. There are also steamed buns; juicy, plump Korean strawberries; tender persimmons, called hong si; and eggs.
I reheat the fried treats in my air fryer and eat them. Yes, I burn my mouth, and I’ve never been happier about it.
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To celebrate the arrival of my air fryer, I treat myself to delivery Korean fried chicken and Korean pizza. I open the can of beer that I was saving from the last care package. Even though I’ve loved my daily dosirak, it’s such a treat to enjoy delivery foods. The moment I take the first bite of Korean fried chicken, I’m no longer exhausted by my journey and weird schedule. It’s a taste of home that no Korean fried chicken outside of the country could replicate. The chicken is so crisp, juicy with a spicy kick, and it takes me back to my childhood, getting Korean fried chicken with my brother. The so-called “Chicago deep-dish pizza” has fried shrimp, pineapple, red onions, and a sweet sauce that makes it uniquely Korean.
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Quarantining by myself hasn’t been fun; staying up for 30 hours unintentionally, drinking so much coffee so that I won’t fall asleep while working, being unable to go for a walk besides onto my narrow balcony to throw away my trash, and dealing with my loneliness and insecurities with no one to talk to or distract me have all been low points. I’ve spent hours just staring at my face and my body, criticizing. I’ve heard of some creative people doing workouts while quarantined, but I would rather watch other people’s mukbang. Why do I feel exhausted all the time, even though I don’t move at all? My mind is filled with so many random thoughts, and not all of them feel great.
But eating incredible Korean fried chicken and pizza, sipping ice-cold beer in my pajamas while looking at the ocean on a Sunday afternoon? I couldn’t be any happier. Just a few more days until I get to be with my family.
As it turns out, 14 days is truly no joke. I’ve spent almost half a month in this tiny room, spoiled by delicious dosirak three times a day. And now, because I treated myself with some fried chicken and pizza, I have four saved-up dosirak, stacked on top of one another, to enjoy as I like.
I’ve had three dosirak at once, but four? I challenge myself. (Anything for a little excitement.) I will try to eat 16 side dishes, eight different entrees, and four different soups. Nothing is labeled, so I decide to play a guessing game as well. Early on I found that filming myself eating and sharing the videos on social media took a bit of the sting out of dining alone day after day, and this meal, I figure, will be a feast worth sharing.
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Having an air fryer is great for cooking eggs and reheating leftover fried chicken, but it’s not so useful when it comes to reheating rice or soup. And there are days — like this one — when I don’t feel like eating cold dosirak, days when I wish I could slurp hot noodles rather than eat rice. I find myself complaining to myself about my situation rather than being appreciative. But then I try to remember that so many people are struggling to get food, let alone a decent meal, during this challenging time. There are ajummas, an endearing term for middle-aged Korean women, who prepare these foods for me and deliver them several times a day. Putting on a smile, I film myself devouring four dosiraks at once. I finish every bite, and I’m once again thankful — if only for my metabolism.
By the time I begin to get used to my new schedule and the routine of getting calls from the office to pick up my meals, it’s almost time to leave. Before I can officially check out, I need to get tested one more time. Just like the first time, the local health department comes to pick me up, and I’m excited to walk outside my room for the first time in weeks, even if it’s just to the car. The news gets better: Expectedly, my test came back negative, and I can finally be with my parents. The only thing standing between us is one last night at the facility, and one last dosirak feast.
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For my last quarantine feast, I open the cup noodles that I’ve been saving
There’s spicy pork bulgogi, stir-fried anchovies, kimchi, steamed cabbage, hamburger steak, radish kimchi, steamed eggs, and so much more. To make my last quarantine meal extra special, I open the instant ramen noodles I’ve been saving. I can’t even tell you how much I’ve missed slurping noodles. As I’m sipping the hot, beefy, spicy broth of the cup noodles with rice, I get emotional, thinking about this once-in-a-lifetime experience I’ve had, quarantining in my hometown, Pohang, spoiled with incredible food options and stunning the ocean views and sunrises every day for the past 13 days.
Self-quarantine can be difficult — both mentally and physically. But these Korean dosiraks were true gifts and became the highlight of my mundane days. Once I’m out, there will be so many options, but there will be nothing quite as meaningful as the lukewarm dosiraks that brought me so much joy and happiness when there was little of either to be found.
I can’t believe I’ve been quarantining in this room for the past 14 days. I get a call from the office, saying that I can leave now. Shortly after, my mom texts me that she is here. I look around the clean, empty room one more time, soaking in all the memories and feelings. Remembering those sleepless nights watching Korean food mukbang, those weekends when I felt so sluggish and started dancing around the room, peaceful mornings watching the sunrise with the sound of fishermen heading to work. Each day has been precious and memorable with different dosirak.
As I drag my luggage down to the elevator, there she is, my mom. And I give her the biggest hug one human has ever given to another. I’m sure of it. I thank the staff for all the work they’ve done, but especially for the air fryer.
My mom and I take dozens of pictures around the quarantine facility, letting everyone in my family know that I’m free after all. We head to the seafood restaurant nearby, known for serving spicy seafood stew with a whole crab on top, to celebrate our reunion.
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We sit down to a feast with crab fried rice, jjamppong (spicy seafood stew), crispy pork, and smiles. These are things I’ve been dreaming about since I arrived at the airport. I see the steamy bowls of jjamppong coming to our table, and once they’re put down, I immediately take a sip of broth. It’s spicy, tangy, and blisteringly hot. “I’m so happy to eat with my son, finally,” my mom says. I smile back at her and pass her my bowl of noodles. “Try these too, mom. They are so delicious.”
Empowering the Diner is a BIPOC-focused event series designed to help attendees flex their purchasing power at bars and restaurants
https://dc.eater.com/2021/4/29/22407573/empower-the-diner-virtual-events-wine-tasting-bipoc-customer-service-dc
Philly’s outdoor dining permits expire at the end of the year. Some advocates argue they should be a part of the city for good.
https://philly.eater.com/2021/4/29/22408167/outdoor-dining-permits-permanent-future-philly-restaurants
The spongy Italian flatbread is enjoying renewed popularity at both new and established bakeries, Italian markets, pizza shops, and upscale restaurants
https://dc.eater.com/2021/4/28/21131833/best-focaccia-dc-bakeries-restaurants-trends
Where to eat and drink in one of the most beautiful places on earth
Everything you’ve heard about Maui’s radical beauty is true: the undulation of the mountains and the lowlands, the cream-toned beaches that yield seamlessly to sea and sky, the volcanic rocks slicing through the million shades of green. Maui is larger than O‘ahu, though the forested reserves bookending its eastern and western points mean that its more populous towns are concentrated toward the island’s center — ideal for short, scenic road trips between restaurant-hopping.
Scores of dining rooms take advantage of the natural splendor, overlooking beaches or sitting along foothills or high perches ideal for watching pyrotechnic sunsets. But just as often, seeking out the most righteous meals in Maui means venturing to a plain-faced strip mall. A concise cross section of options defines this list: a handful of tourist destinations worthy of their popularity, a few locals’ hangouts for variations on traditional Hawaiian fare, and a requisite pit stop for pineapple-macadamia nut pie.
Update, Spring 2021: Maui’s post-pandemic restaurant scene is a mixed bag. During 2020’s near-complete shutdown of tourism, many favorite spots changed hands, downsized, or permanently closed their doors. Restaurants barely stayed afloat, often thanks to owners who filled every role from host to line cook to dishwasher. But a surprising number of new places opened too, some from laid-off kitchen staff who seized the opportunity to launch their own businesses. The “eat local” trend blossomed during the shutdown as well, resulting in new relationships between restaurants and island farmers, and a plethora of Maui-made products on menus and in grocery stores.
Note: Due to COVID-19 safety guidelines, restaurants are currently running at 50 percent capacity. Do yourself a favor and book far in advance, especially if you want that sunset-splashed table.
Prices per person, excluding alcohol:
$ = Less than $10
$$ = $10 - $20
$$$ = $20 - $40
$$$$ = More than $40
Shannon Wianecki writes about food, culture, and native ecosystems for publications including BBC, Smithsonian, and Hana Hou — the Hawaiian Airlines magazine. Growing up in Hawai’i her favorite snack was raw opihi (limpet) fresh off the rocks.
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Part of the Eater Guide to Hawai‘i
Biden’s not taking away your meat, as Republicans claimed this weekend. But partisan conflict over eating animals is just getting started.
https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2021/4/26/22403599/biden-red-meat-ban-burger-kudlow
What’s the next adult-aimed flavor going to be? Roasted brussels sprouts? Beef tartare? Existential ennui?
Like the Riverdales and Winx Clubs of the world, Goldfish crackers are getting an edgier, more adult reboot — starting with a new spicy flavor, made in collaboration with Frank’s RedHot sauce. Like the hot sauce, the crackers will carry notes of vinegar and cayenne pepper.
Hot and spicy is the most-requested flavor for Goldfish on social media, according to a press release announcing the new product. Janda Lukin, chief marketing officer for Campbell Snacks — which owns Pepperidge Farm’s Goldfish — told USA Today that the goal of the spicy cracker is to attract adult consumers.
“This flavor is for the older, mature audience, who requested and can handle the heat,” said Lukin, who also revealed that the brand is working on additional flavors aimed at adults. (Roasted brussels sprouts? Beef tartare? Existential ennui?)
As Lukin pointed out to USA Today, Goldfish were once geared more towards adults than their kids. Early on the crackers’ history, they were bar snacks, per Fast Company; even Julia Child reportedly regularly served Goldfish as her Thanksgiving appetizer alongside her favorite upside-down martini. It wasn’t until the ‘70s, when Goldfish began running TV ads, and the ‘90s, when the fish-shaped cracker acquired a smiling face, that the cheesy snack became more of a childhood staple.
While Goldfish isn’t looking to alienate its sticky-fingered, lunchbox-toting core demographic with these new, more “adult” flavors, obviously the company decided it wanted a piece of the grown-up pie, too.
The RedHot flavor will be available in stores starting in May, while supplies last. Adults, time to fucking go wild!!
The Bulgarian chushkopek (or “pepper roaster”) blackens vegetables for a smoky flavor no oven can achieve
One of my first introductions to Bulgarian cooking was lyutenitsa, the country’s ubiquitous roasted red pepper and tomato spread, which is served at all times of day with everything from toast to rice to meat. I was 19 and falling in love with a lot of things at once: the person who would become my husband, the capital city of Sofia that would become my home, the Bulgarian foods like lyutenitsa that would become my favorites. But it wasn’t until a decade later, when we made the move to Sofia, that I acquired a chushkopek (Чушкопек), the pepper roaster necessary to make lyutenitsa, among other national dishes that feature roasted red peppers.
The chushkopek is a simple, unadorned countertop device, not much taller than the peppers it roasts. But the first time I plugged it in, I was terrified by the light of embers emanating from a peephole in the lid. My fear did not subside when I burned a cloth napkin while trying to lift up the lid, as well as the countertop where I set it down. After dropping in a pepper, I listened to it hiss and pop, then used the accompanying tongs to remove the lid and pull out a completely blackened pepper, its stem slightly aflame. I strongly considered unplugging the device for fear of burning down the apartment, but carried on.
I soon learned that slipping off that blackened shell revealed a divine roasted pepper, with a smokiness that no oven can achieve. That hard-won flavor is the basis of lyutenitsa, providing a smoldering framework for tomato, salt, pepper, and sugar. By the time I reached pepper No. 4, I had perfected the blackened char without combustion — and the chushkopek had secured a permanent spot in my arsenal.
The chushkopek, literally “pepper roaster,” was invented in the ’70s in Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria’s old capital, and its design hasn’t changed much since. It is a sturdy metal cylinder with two small handles and a little lid on top that reveals an interior ceramic chamber. There are two standard sizes: the single pepper model and the triple-pepper model, called “the Mercedes” because the metal divider that keeps the peppers apart makes the roasting chamber look like the car logo.
There are no buttons, switches, or dials. It starts warming as soon as you plug it in, and takes nearly an hour to fully heat up. But once it reaches inferno-level temperatures, the chushkopek is ready to blast fresh peppers into beautiful roasted oblivion in minutes flat. I bought my roaster, a speckled deep-blue model, at a hardware store, where they’re commonly sold, for 32 leva (about $20). It came with a pair of narrow tongs, which I now know to use both for removing the hot lid and retrieving finished vegetables.
The chushkopek can be used to cook any cylindrical vegetable like corn or potatoes, eaten simply as-is, but it’s more commonly used for eggplant and peppers, which are incorporated into national dishes. Roasted peppers can be enjoyed in salads, combined with roasted eggplant in the condiment known as ajvar, or mixed with chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, a healthy crumble of sirene (white brined cheese), and parsley to make classic Bulgarian shopska salata. The chushkopek’s highest calling, though, is lyutenitsa. To embark on the full experience from scratch, the roasted peppers are coarsely ground and cooked into a homemade tomato paste with salt, pepper, and a little sugar.
Chushkopeks are used in cities and villages across Bulgaria, but are basically unheard of outside of the country.
Bulgaria has a long history of pickling and preserving. In the fall, village residents would traditionally build massive bonfires to roast peppers and make lyutenitsa to store for the winter. In the 1950s, Bulgaria’s communist leadership launched a massive industrialization and urbanization campaign, spurring villagers to move to cities, away from producing their own food and toward relying on industrially packaged items. But the state’s own food production lines couldn’t keep up. So, out of necessity, new city residents continued the late summer ritual of roasting and preserving peppers and other vegetables, recreating their communal fires in the grassy areas commonly found between prefab communist-era blocs.
The chushkopek brought the roasting from street-level fires into apartments and onto balconies. It wasn’t an immediate hit due to distrust in Bulgarian manufacturing and the communist government’s campaign to discourage home cooking, promote industrial production, and encourage women to join the workforce. But in the years after the fall of communism in Bulgaria, people came to rely on the chushkopek to make lyutenitsa and other dishes at home, and national pride grew around the roaster as an original Bulgarian product. While many folks still return to their home villages to make a day of communal roasting, the chushkopek has become a beloved appliance. A Bulgarian National Television survey ranked it the “Household Revolution of the 20th Century,” beating out electricity and cell phones. Today, some Bulgarians will disparage a restaurant by saying their peppers are baked in an oven, which doesn’t lend the same smokiness to the vegetables.
Beyond its national importance, the chushkopek is the best way to prepare vegetables, hands down. There’s a certain badassery that I feel operating it, a pride in my fiery dominion. Before the chushkopek, I rarely cooked with such high heat, but now I love watching a fresh red pepper deflate under blistering temperatures. It emerges blackened and soft, continuing to shapeshift as it sits on the counter. Its charred exterior slips off smoothly, like shedding skin.
It’s also great for entertaining. Like its smoky high-heat cousin, the grill, the chushkopek is a social tool. Every few minutes, a charred pepper comes out and a fresh one goes in. The process is straightforward without being totally passive, making it easy for people to chat as the cooking progresses. In a post-pandemic world, I can’t wait to set it up on our balcony and entertain friends over beers and fresh-roasted peppers.
The chushkopek has earned a coveted spot on our precious kitchen countertop, the only device we have besides a microwave. I’m usually not a fan of appliances and gadgets when a stovetop or oven will work just fine, but once you’ve had vegetables from the chushkopek, there’s no going back. It’s a single-use tool, but it’s so good at what it does it’s just hard to argue. I find myself using it even more than the oven, and I don’t limit myself to the seasonal harvest, either.
It takes time and confidence to get the hang of using a chushkopek. It might blow a fuse. It might leave a lingering burning smell in your kitchen. It’s just super intense, okay? But all that power, heat, and effort yields a pepper with flavor and texture that’s otherwise impossible to achieve without a raging bonfire. It delivers the experience of the communal Bulgarian vegetable roast in a small, apartment-friendly package.
The chushkopek has become a bit of a touchstone for my life in Bulgaria, and when we’re in Sofia, I roast away to my heart’s content. As a foreigner, my love of the roaster is a way to connect with my adopted country, its culture, and its people. Nearly everyone has a fond memory of a late summer day spent making lyutenitsa from scratch — usually following a mother’s or grandmother’s recipe they’ll swear is infinitely superior to the supermarket jars. After plenty of practice with the chushkopek, I now have fond memories of my own to share, too.
It is basically impossible to buy a chushkopek in the U.S., not even at Bulgarian food stores. There was an Indiegogo campaign in 2014 to bring the chushkopek to the world, but the effort went unfunded. Like Bulgaria’s doorless elevators, the device probably wouldn’t pass an American safety inspection.
The most surefire way to get a chushkopek is to take a trip to Bulgaria with some room in your suitcase. Enjoy yourself, eat some lyutenitsa, and lug your own roaster home.
Ashira Morris is a freelance writer, editor, and art director based between Tallahassee and Sofia, Bulgaria.
The handmade noodles get their vibrant colors from fresh seasonal produce
“It’s not like there was anyone to teach us or anywhere we could ask,” says Grand Noodle owner Kim Hyun-Kyu. “We just try. We know because we tried everything. Our mouths are our labs.”
Hyun-Kyu has been making long, colorful, vegetable-packed noodles, for over 40 years, but his operation wasn’t always as popular as it is today. When he first started out, he used machines to produce 200 bags of flour a day to create noodles. “However, it didn’t work,” he says of the overly produced quality of that product, and he closed down his business. At home in Geochang, South Korea, he ended up making what he calls “these unique, functional noodles” that his friends started to order from him. “They complimented the crap out of [them],” he says, which led him to where he is today, making weekly batches of Grand noodles by hand.
The process, which takes about five days, begins with managing the produce. He chops and grinds down garlic scallions, boils beets, and grinds rice flower, which all eventually get mixed with wheat flour to make the different noodles. On the second day, he adds the doughs to a rolling machine that smooths it out into sheets, squeezes out moisture, and cuts them into long strands. The noodles dry slowly at low temperatures for two days, hanging from tall racks in a sun-drenched room, cooled with fans. From there, bundles of noodles are cut into 10-inch strands with a giant stainless steel knife on an axis, reminiscent of a giant paper cutter.
What makes Kim Hyun-Kyu’s operation so special is that he makes his Grand noodles in accordances with “Obang,” or the five cardinal colors in Korean culture: black, yellow, blue, white, and red. “The five colors are said to bring luck and get rid of misfortune,” he says. “So I created this to keep that culture alive.”
Kim Hyun-Kyu makes gift sets of the noodles that include all five colors, and recommends they be enjoyed by boiling them and serving them with perilla oil and salt to taste. “On a special day, they eat this food and live a long life,” he says of his customers. “That’s the hope I have when I make these noodles.”
It includes a new “basic” plan that starts at a cut of 15 percent
https://sf.eater.com/2021/4/27/22405920/doordash-caviar-pricing-tiers-restaurant-delivery
Unvaccinated people should still wear masks, as should everyone if eating indoors
The Centers for Disease Control updated its guidance on socializing and safely engaging in other activities during the pandemic, including new information on best practices at restaurants. Now, if you’ve been fully vaccinated, the CDC has deemed it safe for you to “dine at an outdoor restaurant with friends from multiple households” without wearing a mask.
“Scientifically the vaccines are good enough that it’s highly unlikely that someone who’s vaccinated is going to be exposed to enough virus outdoors to have a breakthrough infection,” Linsey Marr, an aerosol scientist at Virginia Tech, told the New York Times.
Recent best practices recommended that even those fully vaccinated wear masks at outdoor tables, and “pull the mask(s) back over your mouth and nose in between bites.” Which anecdotally, most people seem to be ignoring. Many restaurants have instead advised that you can be unmasked at your table, but you should put on a mask when moving through the restaurant. But if you were already vaccinated and doing outdoor dining, this guidance just solidifies what was common behavior anyway.
If you’re not vaccinated yet, the CDC says outdoor dining is a “less safe” activity, and recommends staying masked. Masks are still suggested for indoor dining, though for vaccinated people it’s considered a “safest” activity, while if you’re unvaccinated it’s “least safe.” However, they have also deemed it safe for everyone, vaccinated or unvaccinated, to “walk, run, or bike outdoors with members of your household” without a mask.
While the idea of no longer putting on lipstick only for it to be horribly smudged by the time you get to the restaurant may be welcome news, going maskless comes with risks. First off, what constitutes “outdoor” dining varies wildly, so you’ll have to account for whether you’ll be eating in an open backyard, or a sidewalk enclosures with 3 1⁄2 walls. Secondly, it’s unclear if the CDC is accounting for potential risk to restaurant employees, who face higher risk of infection if unvaccinated.
And lastly, this new advice still applies only to a portion of the U.S. population. While the country has kept up a high pace of vaccinations and made them available to everyone over the age of 16, vaccine rates have slowed recently, and only 29 percent of Americans have been fully vaccinated. People are still advised to wear masks in most situations, as well as stay six feet apart from others when possible.
The CDC also clarifies that it “cannot provide the specific risk level for every activity in every community. It is important to consider your own personal situation and the risk to you, your family, and your community before venturing out.”
Unvaccinated people should still wear masks, as should everyone if eating indoors
The Centers for Disease Control updated its guidance on socializing and safely engaging in other activities during the pandemic, including new information on best practices at restaurants. Now, if you’ve been fully vaccinated, the CDC has deemed it safe for you to “dine at an outdoor restaurant with friends from multiple households” without wearing a mask.
“Scientifically the vaccines are good enough that it’s highly unlikely that someone who’s vaccinated is going to be exposed to enough virus outdoors to have a breakthrough infection,” Linsey Marr, an aerosol scientist at Virginia Tech, told the New York Times.
Recent best practices recommended that even those fully vaccinated wear masks at outdoor tables, and “pull the mask(s) back over your mouth and nose in between bites.” Which anecdotally, most people seem to be ignoring. Many restaurants have instead advised that you can be unmasked at your table, but you should put on a mask when moving through the restaurant. But if you were already vaccinated and doing outdoor dining, this guidance just solidifies what was common behavior anyway.
If you’re not vaccinated yet, the CDC says outdoor dining is a “less safe” activity, and recommends staying masked. Masks are still suggested for indoor dining, though for vaccinated people it’s considered a “safest” activity, while if you’re unvaccinated it’s “least safe.” However, they have also deemed it safe for everyone, vaccinated or unvaccinated, to “walk, run, or bike outdoors with members of your household” without a mask.
While the idea of no longer putting on lipstick only for it to be horribly smudged by the time you get to the restaurant may be welcome news, going maskless comes with risks. First off, what constitutes “outdoor” dining varies wildly, so you’ll have to account for whether you’ll be eating in an open backyard, or a sidewalk enclosures with 3 1⁄2 walls. Secondly, it’s unclear if the CDC is accounting for potential risk to restaurant employees, who face higher risk of infection if unvaccinated.
And lastly, this new advice still applies only to a portion of the U.S. population. While the country has kept up a high pace of vaccinations and made them available to everyone over the age of 16, vaccine rates have slowed recently, and only 29 percent of Americans have been fully vaccinated. People are still advised to wear masks in most situations, as well as stay six feet apart from others when possible.
The CDC also clarifies that it “cannot provide the specific risk level for every activity in every community. It is important to consider your own personal situation and the risk to you, your family, and your community before venturing out.”
The arguably classist, casually sexist Fat Boots Trailer Park Bar will open next week in the Heights
https://houston.eater.com/2021/4/27/22405204/fat-boots-trailer-park-bar-houston-opening-heights-pink-elephant-room-sucks
How and why we talk about it, though, needs to change
The modern nation of Lebanon might be only 100 years old, but the wine trade here has been around for more than 5,000 years, thanks to a longitudinal coastline that runs the entire length of the country. Ancient Phoenicians shared amphorae with bustling port cities across the Mediterranean and shipped wine and other goods to the rest of the stops on their route, from Alexandria, Egypt, to Cádiz, Spain.
Today’s Lebanese wine industry is small — its total production would barely match the output of one boutique winery in Italy — but mighty. Its growth really hit its stride in the early 2000s after the end of the 15-year civil war, and the country’s numerous vineyards now produce grapes for close to 80 official and unofficial local wineries. With Syria to the east and Israel/Palestine to the south, Lebanon’s limited square footage for wine production is often split into four or five distinct appellations and further segmented into varying microclimates clustered across the Bekaa Valley, where the majority of grapes are harvested.
Contrary to the grainy, yellow filter deployed by Hollywood, Lebanon is not made up of sand dunes. What it does have are mountain ranges cresting at nearly 10,000 feet above sea level, a valley floor at 3,000 feet, a natural water table, predominantly limestone soils, and 300 days of sunshine each year. The overall weather and topography are ideal for the kind of diverse, low-intervention grape-growing that makes for truly great wine. The irony in this overview is the enduring need for it to be included here in the first place — or in any piece of writing on the subject of Lebanese wine.
But there is more to the story than just the natural blessings granted to Lebanon’s winemakers. They are counterbalanced by the country’s curses. From the steel tanks that store the juice to the glass bottles that hug it, so much of what goes into creating Lebanese wine depends on managing costly imports and dodging fastballs. Aside from the country’s recent fiscal collapse, decades of corruption and theft within Lebanon’s mismanaged ministries means that basic utilities are not guaranteed. Backup generators and alternative water sources are a must. Land is expensive, and infrastructure is poorly maintained or still in disrepair from the 34-day war between Israel and Lebanon in 2006. Manual labor is often left to underpaid refugees escaping human rights catastrophes in neighboring Syria and Palestine. Winemakers are forced to push through the rot on their own dime to invent a style that’s distinctly Lebanese.
As a Lebanese-American wine writer, podcaster, and researcher, I am hyperaware of Lebanon’s depiction in international wine media today. Despite having been around for millennia, Lebanon as a wine-producing country is still a revelation for most readers. This is in part because of a huge gap in wine education, which remains Eurocentric and generally dismissive of the ancient world’s contributions. All things wine typically begin and end in France and Italy, while the burgeoning comeback of lands whose winemaking histories date back millennia is reduced to a paragraph, if mentioned at all.
Lebanon has for decades had to battle an outdated narrative. It goes like this: Lebanon is first and foremost a land of war where the people’s resilience, despite it all, makes their beauty — in this case, their wine — worthy of your attention. The legendary Serge Hochar of Lebanon’s Chateau Musar was the driving force behind this narrative in the 1970s. After 400 years of Ottoman rule pushed it into dormancy, Lebanon’s wine scene was revived during the French Mandate of the 1920s, but it still comprised less than half a dozen players when the civil war broke out in 1975. Hochar made it his mission to show the world what Lebanon could do, even while foreign and internal forces split the country into pieces. His vines grew on through the chaos as he went abroad and charismatically pitched his funky Bordeaux-style blends to British drinkers. In the midst of intermittent invasions and raids, the duality in this story made sense. It was, at the time, reality. But here we are, 45 years later, still waxing poetic about this juxtaposition. While Lebanon’s politics remain stuck in the ’70s, so do its stories and the people who write and read them.
There is no chance for new generations to shake the aftershocks of instability if the media consistently portrays the country in extremes alone. We Lebanese shouldn’t shy away from what we have been through, either; it’s just one bitter note in an otherwise complex bottle that has a lot more to say.
Many of Lebanon’s family-run micro-wineries that were born after 2000 are now on their second or even third generation. Château Cana, a winery overlooking the Lamartine Valley, was established by Fadi Gerges but is now run by his daughter, Joanna. After taking over, Joanna revamped the brand identity, positioned the winery as a wedding venue, and opened a small guesthouse on the premises. The winery is known for its use of possibly native grapes like the inky sabbaghieh and green apple-tinged meksassi.
The trend of leaning into indigenous varieties began about two decades ago when Bekaa Valley’s Château St. Thomas confirmed the white obaideh grape as 100 percent Lebanese via a DNA test in Montpellier, France. Other supposed natives await further testing to confirm their origins, work that must be privately funded by the individual wineries. Like so much in Lebanon, winemakers are left to figure everything out among themselves without any official state referee.
Chateau Rayak is named in honor of another Bekaa village, Rayak, which was once a hub for travelers passing through the town’s massive train station on the Beirut-Damascus track. Rayak’s winemaker, Elias Maalouf, used to run Train/Train Lebanon, an organization dedicated to the preservation of the now-defunct railway’s legacy. Each of his bottles commemorates a different chapter of Lebanon’s history, like Rayak 43, the first aircraft built and designed for the valley skies. He also produces a lightly perfumed, short-lived red with the native grape maryameh, which visitors themselves can bottle straight from the tank.
New stories like these are absolutely worth telling, but paradoxically it’s the older one that continues to lure writers and readers and, most importantly, compel people to purchase a bottle of Lebanese wine. But the industry’s need for support should not be the sole reason for writing about it. Lebanon’s wine producers need spotlights and profiles, but not only when their vineyards are on fire or their offices have caved in on them. The country isn’t the easiest to find on a map, but it should not be used only as a token location on a restaurant’s vast wine list featuring bottles from far, far away.
To make matters more complicated, the country finds itself once again inching toward collapse even as I type. Our wretched version of 2020, which featured a pandemic, an economic implosion, and a devastating chemical explosion, has left the Lebanese struggling to keep any industry alive, much less one that produces a so-called nonessential product. Obstacles like these continue to make the idea of winemaking in the Middle East seem impressive. And it is. I want to be proud of what Lebanon has accomplished, but applause doesn’t solve anything. As we wear our tenacity like a badge of honor, those responsible for the mess are clapping for us, too. Our undying spirit makes the news and it becomes our trademark, but I don’t want to wow or be wowed by our ability to overcome trauma anymore.
I’m not attempting to proselytize others so they pen dithyrambs about the glorious land of milk and honey. Minimizing the challenges we face would be normalizing the delusion. The media can be fair to the stories and the wines and to those who consume them if it walks the tightrope using nuance and depth as counterweights.
So, to editors and content producers: It’s time to tell stories with fresh angles that unpack the subtleties of this ancient and renewed culture. Continuing to introduce readers to Lebanon’s wine scene via photos of fermentation tanks alongside military ones only further cements this trope of the dangerous yet exotic home of contradictions. Go deeper.
Sommeliers and wine directors: Keep stocking Lebanese wines and revisit the story you’ve been telling as the reason for their inclusion. Get to know your producers beyond the summary on the tech sheet. Ask more questions.
And to all you enthusiastic wine drinkers: It’s time to try more Lebanese wines and talk more about them. Talk about how the pinot noir of Lebanon tastes different from that of Champagne because it’s reflecting the terroir of the Eastern Mediterranean, not inland France. Talk about the experimental skin-contact merwah and the spicy old-vine cinsault. Talk about how all this great wine comes to be, even as the morally and financially bankrupt people in power pass the buck. Talk about it so we can continue to outgrow this reductive synopsis. There is new blood here, not just spilled blood; and there is good wine here, not just wine from the turbulent Middle East.
Don’t pity the nation: Drink our wine and talk about it.
Talk about Lebanon.
Farrah Berrou is contributing editor of the Wine Zine and creator of the B for Bacchus platform and podcast. Cynthia Bifani is a Lebanese illustrator, exploring and questioning meaning, justice and freedom.
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