Kimchicken

One of our employees once mentioned she used to work for Koreans, so when I spied some spectacular Napa cabbage at the market the other week, I asked if she knew how to make kimchi. “Eh,” Emily said, “I thought you’d never.”

The thing is, I’ve never been particularly interested in Korean cuisine. The reason isn’t aesthetic, although the food looks almost too good to eat. Nor can it be flavor-based, since I have not sampled much of it, and even then only from sources I could hardly call authentic or traditional. If you ask my friends, it’s because I’m too staid, too set in in my ways, too goddamn snug inside my cocoon. I remember going out to lunch with a friend a week ago. “You order,” I’d said. “I’ll have anything… except this. And this. And…” And on it went, until I realized I had reached the end of the menu.

I ended up ordering garlic bread.

As it turned out, none among my family was too enthusiastic about kimchi. Even Pa, who I thought would at least have given it a pass for its salutary effects (because high fiber content, vitamin-rich, low in calories) said it did not agree with his stomach. Everyone else complained about the aroma. “Is that… Is that kimchi stinking up my house?!?” my mother bellowed all the way from the living room. “Yiiih.”

I had to disagree. Of course it smelled foreign, but enticingly (surprisingly) so. Admittedly, my nebulous idea of fermentation had unfairly tainted my perception of kimchi. Fermentation is, in fact, a fairly controlled process by which we extend the usefulness of food by facilitating the transformation of carbohydrates into alcohol or acid. In the days before refrigeration, the Koreans fermented/preserved vegetables to prepare for winter, when supply was bound to be lean. Those in more tropical climes resorted to fermentation to extend the shelf life of fish and shrimp fry, hence ginamós and ujáp. They stink up the house real good, too, but I have yet to hear my mother carp about that. She makes her own ginamós, for crying out loud — the kind called sinábadó, with less salt (and a shorter shelf life).

Speaking of salt, Emily’s kimchi had too much. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that; after all, she had warned me it had been a long time since she last made some. Suffice it to say that the odds were really stacked against her kimchi. And that’s where the chicken came in. Like I always say, if I can not make you eat something one way, I will find some other way to accomplish the job. I took a handful of sliced kimchi and rubbed the fowl all over with it, including the cavity, where it remained, mixed with cubed potatoes (to absorb the extra salt) and sliced chorizo Macao. I dusted the exterior with extra salt, granulated garlic, and ground black pepper, then let the chicken marinate for 2 hours. To roast, 450℉ for the first 25 minutes, then 400℉ for 40 to 45 minutes more, turning halfway.

Kimchicken, anyone? Tastes as good as it looks. In fact, it was down to a carcass before my sister thought to inquire what I had flavored it with. So then my father had to comment that that explained the “off” taste. Eh? The only thing off about the dish was that the potatoes were not cooked all the way through. I tried doing the dish without potatoes a few days later and the cavity turned out very salty, but if your kimchi is properly seasoned to start with, feel free to omit that (or at least parboil them). You can also add vegetables and fruits to the pan during the last 10 to 15 minutes to sop up the flavorful juice (mine had squash and banana). Mashikeh-mogoseyo.