Waimanalo Beach, HI
“I’ve known you all my life. You gotta do your own thing.” J2 said sitting next to me as he peered into the horizon, still wet from his swim in Waimanalo Bay. “There is nothing wrong with working at a Google or Morgan. But for people like you and me, we gotta do our own thing.” I knew he was right. He had flown in from the Bay upon hearing I was getting a divorce.
J2 and I spent high school and college in Seoul watching Jordan and Ewing play hard in the paint. We loved watching Jerry Rice defy gravity and L.T. punish quarterbacks, and cheered when Bernie Williams knocked the ball out of the ballpark.
We knew the sports schedule on AFKN, the US military TV channel. All of this while binging on Domino’s, Doritos, Pringles, Whoppers, french fries, Subway, KFC with Coke or Pepsi. We would mix it up with super spicy street Tteok-bokki(떡복기), jjajangmyeon(짜장면), and Tangsuyuk(탕수육).
We continue to consume the American dream.
Loco Moco
“Let’s go eat. And none of that fancy healthy fusion tourist BS. I eat that gluten free vegan shit for business all the time in Palo Alto. Let’s get something authentic. Some messy local stuff.” J2 said from the passenger side of my Tacoma.
We got the Loco Moco Plate at the Rainbow Drive-in. Two burger patties on two scoops of Japanese white rice, topped with special gravy and two fried eggs in a Styrofoam takeout box. We sat at the outdoor seating, discarding the plastic fork and knife to eat with chopsticks, and had a great time on that 4th of July weekend until I got a call from my brother Jay in Seoul to tell me Mom had pancreatic cancer.
Musubi
“Just go and get on the next plane. I’ll take care of things here,” J2 said, trying to ease my nerves.
He looked straight into my eyes holding my shoulders with both arms stretched out. “Remember, you and I have always defied the odds. That is what we do. We outwork, outsmart, and outmaneuver. If the odds are small, you just have to give it more. That’s how we got into Ivy League and built our careers. That is how I got my father-in-law through cancer. And that is how you are gonna beat your Mom’s cancer. Don’t you dare lose focus.”
How I got to Seoul from Honolulu is a blur. All I remember is the Spam Musubi J2 got for my flight as he drove me to the airport.
“They serve crap on the plane. You need to be strong. You’re gonna need this.” he said. Holding the Musubi and eating it was the one comfort on the ten-hour flight.
Today is three years since that day. We beat stage 3B pancreatic cancer (5-15% survival) with two bouts of chemotherapy, pancreaticoduodenectomy, and brain surgery. My mom travels the world and plays golf at 79 years young. During the pandemic she FaceTimes me every day with my dad from their living room in Seoul. We talk about family, friends, art, books, and cooking.
We outworked cancer.
Katz’s
“I’m coming to NYC for Greg’s spring break and some business. Let’s eat.” J2 said over the phone on a chilly February morning this year.
After YELP-ing for restaurants, “How about a BIG-ASS NYC sandwich at Katz’s deli. It’s on Houston on the lower East Side.”
“Sounds good. I’m bringing Greg.”
His son Greg is a college senior with a sweet and gentle countenance. He was J2’s mini-me with a voracious appetite and an iron stomach. He said lunch was on him. I detected immense joy radiating from J2.
We ordered the three bestsellers. The Rueben, Corned Beef, and Pastrami on Rye. Each had a pound of towering sliced meat and came with pickles.
Things got messy quick. Deliciously messy. J2 and I shared 1-1/2 sandwiches, and Greg had the rest. Greg had the metabolism of when J2 and I were watching Charles Barkley back in Seoul.
“That was freakin awesome!” J2 said to Greg as he wipes his fingers. I could see the genuine satisfaction of finishing a huge delicious meal on both of their faces.
“You really know me, Eliot. This is exactly what I wanted to eat in NYC. So freakin’ good!” J2 exclaimed as he high-fived Greg.
There is nothing more satisfying than making someone you love happy.
“Now let’s go get some dessert. I saw a shaved ice place around the corner.” J2 said as he followed Greg to the exit.
Pastrami on Rye
J2 has high standards for meat, from the thickest dry-aged tomahawk steaks to pineapple infused, spicy Mexican Food truck al pastor. With so many choices in Manhattan, why did this simple sandwich make him so happy?
It only had three ingredients plus a pickle on the side:
Pastrami ….. 1 lb
Rye ….. 2 slices
Mustard ….. plenty
Plus pickles ….. full sour and half sour. Also, what the hell is pastrami?
Cheap Meat
Think of a perfectly marbled steak, perhaps a Wagyu from Japan, and how the meat melts in your mouth. The “brisket” and “navel end” are the exact opposite. No marbling and a lot of tough grain.
Pastrami is cheap brisket and navel end made to taste good and preserve longer through a whole lot of effort. It is what immigrants in the late 19th century NYC could afford. They used what they had and worked it hard to make it taste good.
What if J2 Made Pastrami?
I imagine J2 as an immigrant in 1888, trying to feed his kids in the tenements of NYC. He can only afford the navel end with a big chunk of fat attached to it. How could he make it delicious for the ones he loves? Pure effort and hard work.
When you have nothing and want to create something you have to work ten times harder. If you are a minority in America, you get it. Because that is what you do.
10 times harder
J2 does nothing half heartedly. He would make the greatest tasting pastrami out of the cheapest piece of meat, each step performed with enormous attention and care.
Salt the Meat
J2 would brine the meat in salt water for 2-4 weeks, an environment where “good microbes” tenderize and release flavor.
When you have nothing, you are open to help from unexpected sources such as microbes. We have done so throughout human history.
Rub the Meat
Since cheap meat has less flavor, he’d use what’s around: onions, garlic, coriander, pepper, and bay leaves. This changes with the seasons. J2 would hand rub a whole lot of love and flavor onto the meat.
Smoke the Meat
The meat would spend a couple of days in a low temperature smoking room. J2 would know that wood chips are an ingenious way to add flavor when you have nothing.
Boil the Meat
He would cook the meat in a large pot of boiling water until done. He would have to pay attention. A real pastrami whisperer can tell when the meat is done by touch alone - meat that's cooked but still soft and jiggly.
Steam the Meat
After half an hour of steaming the meat would be ready to slice. Steaming loosens up and tenderizes the meat so it melts in your mouth.
Slice the Meat
J2 would remove the pastrami's inedible membrane of fascia and slice the meat thinly against the grain. He knows how you slice will determine the texture of the cheap meat.
Stack the Meat
He would stack it as high as gravity would allow.
Mustard
J2 would get mustard seeds and put them in vinegar and water to let the microbes work, creating flavor.
Rye Bread
To celebrate the meat, one has to hold it. Feel the thickness. The weight. Two simple slices of bread, but not white bread. Rye bread with a taste of the humble will do.
Sour Pickles
A sour pickle adds not only to the acidity but elevates the sandwich with a uniquely layered, complex taste.
J2 would make a sour pickle with salt brine. In a few days he’d have a half sour pickle. In a week, the full sour pickle. The sour pickle makes all the difference.
The tell
Only I notice J2’s pause with every first bite of a dish. Eyes squint behind his thick glasses scanning his memory banks. Within a nano second he shifts back into reality with a big loud thud to mask his indulgence. On rare occasions the ends of his lips curl ever slightly upward for a fraction of a second.
I saw his tell eating Tteok-bokki as we watched Jordan fly too many years ago. I saw it again at the Rainbow Drive-in eating loco moco, and on the way to the airport with Musubi in hand. And right before the pandemic on the Lower East Side eating Pastrami on Rye.
Flavors of inspiration
Michelin star restaurants are enjoyable. Farm to table restaurants are seasonally delicious. But simple foods elevated with extraordinary effort have flavors of inspiration.
“Remember, you and I have always defied the odds. That is what we do. We outwork, outsmart, and outmaneuver. If the odds are small, you just have to give it more. And that is how you are gonna beat your Mom’s cancer.
… and that is how you make cheap meat into the best sandwich in NYC.
Don’t you dare lose focus.”
I'd love a Reuben right now.
You need to make the title lower case. All your other titles aren’t capitalized :-)