They say that the way to man’s heart is through his stomach.
They, whoever “they” are, have clearly never taken an anatomy class because there is no connection between the stomach and heart whatsoever. None. I should know. I set the curve in IB 131 – General Human Anatomy (that’s “IB” for “Integrative Biology” and not just plain Biology because that’s how painfully-politically-correct Berkeley Liberace-als roll). In fact, I didn’t set the curve, kittenz, I smashed it. I stomped the little lovebump of the bell curve all the way down to the y-axis so that the only pure perfection on the distribution was bio-brilliant little moi. I may have been rejected from every medical school to which I applied, but I know that the stomach is not connected to the heart. They are wrong. They probably went to that “Junior” college in Palo Alto.
Hm. *blink blink*
Did I miss something here?
Yes. Yes, I did. Stanfurd gets my panties in a bunch like you wouldn’t believe.
The point is that food is to men what jewelry is to women. However, just like it’s not just any sparkling cz on a stainless steel wire; it’s not just any bowl of Cheerios with a splash of non-fat soy milk. I am not sure why, but there are two things, especially when they are combined, that get men whipped into a hotter frenzy than a sale on purple dinosaurs in the Barker Hangar does for women.
Okay, so fire and meat could get women pretty hot, too, but this is not that kind of blog (yet) (er, usually) (ok fine, today).
Fire and meat together are like a screeching sirens’s love song that rips through every man’s flat-front Dockers and periwinkle pique polo, beckons the caveman that’s been domesticated under thousands of years of Schick Quattro and quiche, and releases the inner primordial pyromaniac. Must hunt meat. Must set on fire. Must eat meat. Never before was the powerful effect of fire and meat over men more neanderthalically obvious than at a Dude Party. Watching football. Drinking beer. Shooting (tequila). Circling around the grill outside in their loincloths made of cheetah pelts during the commercials. I don’t think there was a vegetable within a reasonable punting distance of the place. Except, of course, potato chips. Potatoes are vegetables.
I made bulgogi.
But he didn’t ask me to marry him.
“They” were wrong.
Bulgogi Recipe (Korean marinated, grilled rib-eye)
Have the butcher make paper-thin cross-cut slices of ribeye; or partially freeze it and slice it yourself; or go to a Korean grocery store, where they sell “bulgogi meat” already sliced.
Toss 2 lbs. of beef with 2 T. each of sugar and rice vinegar and set aside while you make the marinade.
In a small bowl, combine 6 T. soy sauce, 2 T sugar, 2 T rice wine, 1-2 super finely minced garlic cloves, ½ t. super finely minced fresh ginger, 1 finely chopped green onion (including white parts), 1 T. sesame oil, a dash of pepper and 2-3 T. water.
Pour the seasoning marinade over sliced meat and 1 regular onion sliced into medium-thickness rings. Let the beef and onions marinate for at least 1 hour. Overnight in the refrigerator is even better.
Grill marinated bulgogi over medium high flame until brown on both sides, or put in single layer under broiler until brown. The onions will char and wilt and caramelize into fucking fantastic-ness.
Korean people serve bulgogi with steamed white rice and an array of bahn-chan (all the marinated, fermented, and otherwise fabulously flavorful small side dishes like kimchee) as a meal. However, I also know of people who have stuffed bulgogi between the halves of a French roll in a deliciously obscene fusion of East and West.
** this post originally published on 12.11.2006 **
** a year ago today, i slept in his bed first, then had dinner at la terza **