"The miso-maple situation," the older woman shook her head from her station. "I think we need to revisit.”
I looked up from my notebook. “Not working?”
“Too sweet for the pork belly, but you can try it."
“No. I trust your palate.” I flipped back three pages in my notebook. "What if we added more white miso and then cut the maple by half?"
She considered this and then nodded slowly. "That could work. Let me try."
“Thanks.”
She winked at me. “This is fun.”
And the kitchen kept moving.
Creating.
Transforming.
And then we continued testing.
Small batches of everything.
Miniature versions of dishes.
Sample cocktails mixed in quarter portions.
Tasting.
Adjusting.
Scribbling notes in margins.
Starting over when a dish or cocktail didn't work.
The collard green gyoza had taken three attempts before the filling was right. However, it had turned into an exquisite balance of smoked collards and bacon lardons. Plus, Chef Bunzo had created this dipping sauce that had me loudly groaning.
The mac and cheese croquettes were perfect on the first try.
Everyone had agreed.
Even the quiet man by the refrigerator had nodded approvingly, which Chef Bunzo told me later was the highest praise he ever gave to anyone.
Now we were working on mini oxtail bao buns—the dish I was most nervous about, the one that felt most personal.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the industrial range and the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.
Grandma would lose her mind over this kitchen.
I could already hear her voice:"Baby, you tell that man I need to come visit. I'll cook circles around all of y'all."
Several minutes later, Chef Bunzo got to my side and began working the bao dough.
Doing bao would be a new adventure for me. They were simple at their core.
Steamed wheat buns.
Pale white.
