Excerpted from Eric Huang’s novel-in-progress
In the morning, I send off Candace. We stand by Jack, who is going through a full reorg. He grunts in approval, ties the bag handles together like shoelaces. One of us will message the other midweek, as early as Tuesday.
The departing train reminds me of our brunch reservation, 1400hr for three at Neighborhood Hot Pot and KBBQ. I pat my pants pocket in case my phone is there while looking over Jack’s shoulder for the time. 1348hr. It is not morning. I take a seat. Seven people wait cross-platform, disappear behind the departing uptown train. Never before had I done this on purpose. I did not know if Otto or Jacster were running late, if there was a last-minute venue change, when the next train would be. I found myself delighted by the uncertainty, the implicitness of the reservation, the unspoken sanctity, a chivalrous aspect like the offline arrangements in square, technicolor films. I move from this seat to one on board, pat my pockets, then watch the whirring dark of the opposite window, the downcast faces of the half-filled car. All of them, consumed by what scrolls or plays. The flicking thumb, the small images and lines of text, the slight panning nod of the head. I do not borrow equity from their mild enjoyments. The nonmotion is terribly unprovocative, too passive to be stimulating.
I can smell star anise and peppercorn and grilling meat halfway up the station stairs. My hands feel moist when I pull the door. Jacster talks to Otto in the waiting area. Without reminder, here we all are, at a single location at this hour in this vast city. They greet me with open arms. We could have been anywhere. Jacster takes our photo. We all remembered.
“Sorry I’m late guys. Forgot my phone.”
“S’all good. Table’s ready. They’s just waiting for the full party.”
“I’m famished.”
Otto nods.
“Me too. Yes miss, we’re all here. Booth please, if you have.”
The chivalrous foreplay makes it all the more worthwhile. There is already productivity in our successful meeting. No contingency plan needing activation. It casts the afternoon in an invincible mood.
“The ayce grill package for all three of us,” I tell our server.
I told them to peruse the menu if they’d like, but not to worry. I call the server over, who hunches to my cupped whispers, Jacster and Otto silent across the table.
Our waters came. Cutlery next, metal chopsticks and one long spoon and a round rectangular plate for each of us. Our sauces arrive next, ssamjang and salt pepper sesame oil and sour soy in a triptych of adjoined square dishes. A server unstacked the cold banchan dishes into a ring around the grill another server set a clean grill plate on and lit. It was circular and chain-linked and polished and gold tinted, almost godly, like a polished diving suit cover. Kimchi, dressed bean sprouts, dressed spinach, radish kimchi cubes, cucumber kimchi, japchae. All the dishes round a smooth white ceramic. I gestured at it all with an open hand, then whispered more at neither server in particular. More cupped whispers, another open hand gesture to refill the banchan before it depleted. They were absorbed by what arrived, ate eagerly, with clinks and clacks. I did not want them to worry. Whispers carried all the way to the kitchen. I did not want them to worry.
Frozen brisket arrived. I assured them not to worry, requested the tongs from the server, began fanning the frozen red curls of meat onto the grill. Chadol sizzled and deflated slightly and curled at the edges and aerated a wondrous primal aroma. A small circular dish of potato salad arrived, same as the banchan. They set corn cheese to an edge of the grill to heat, become bubbly. They brought kimchi jjigae and steamed egg in stone pots, unpacked more accompanying square dishes, sheets of translucent ssam, pink daikon slices, perilla leaf, a basket of butter lettuce. Each slice stuck tenderly then parted when flipped, revealing grates clean and shiny from beef fat. It was a satisfying, cleansing sensation, like removing plastic from new screens. Jacster and Otto watched the charred side wobble as the fresh raw side gave up moisture and beef fat, transient flamelets appearing where tallow caught fire. Raw garlic slices, jalapeno. I scattered raw garlic slices and jalapeno with my hands onto the grill, tucked them between rendering beef and the oiled grates. Smoke and steam came off in oscillating waves into the hood above, the table’s lights embedded within. Two large brown bottles of beer arrived. I unclasped the tongs and drew an entire quadrant off the grill and onto Otto’s plate in one motion, a technique I had seen thrice on video. I could tell they were impressed. My eyes motioned at Jacster, then the beer. He set into motion pouring them. I slid the plate to Otto and reached for Jacster’s dish. No brisket stuck to the exposed golden grates, now shimmering with beef fat. Servers brought sliced enoki, rounds of onions, slices of bell pepper, squash. Long thick slabs of pork belly arrived, rolled into medallions. I helped myself to brisket with the same casual/elegant efficiency. I grew more daring, more bold, attempted something I had seen once in thumbnail preview only, stacked onions and squash and oyster mushroom on one grill end, then fanned them in one motion across the glistening surface. Small orange flames quelled beneath. I whispered for thirds of fish cake and kimchi in forecast of current consumption rates. They did not appear to be slowing, had already picked the unassigned quadrant of brisket off the grates and made lettuce wraps from them. More of the pickled radish wrap and ssam and bib lettuce too sir? the hunchback asked. I nodded gravely. I unrolled the samgyupsal across the grill. Five discs of marbled beef came on a dark plate in the shape of a fish. I gestured at it and held up one finger, and he departed to make it a clean six. Scallops in shell with small pats of butter came on a fish plate too. I worried the first round was not impressive enough. My spirits dampened.
I asked for the menu in the back pocket of the departing server. The unctuous aroma of pork radiated out. I pored over the menu. The lighting downcast from two overhead lights seemed to overlap over the grill and give it an even more lustrous sheen. I whispered and was heard. Pork cheek arrived as I set the scallop shell side onto the grill. Short rib arrived. Perhaps my peevishness was due to hunger, I thought as I flipped the pork belly. I had not touched a single item on my plate. The brisket’s gleam now dull, charred vegetables beginning to wrinkle as they cooled, shrank. I took the paper cover off my spoon. I put a piece of brisket in my mouth. Added a tear of lettuce, a slice of pickled daikon, kimchi I swiped across all three sauces. I held the cooked pork belly over Jacster’s plate with the tongs and cut pieces from the bottom with scissors onto Jacster’s plate. He consumed it at the rate it fell, an incredible rate, once pulling the falling piece from the air. Otto held out his triptych of sauce, caught his samgyupsal there. I gestured for a new grate. Dishes arrived as we waited, sirloin, beef tongue, bulgogi. Raw meat existed in heavy imbalance to the edible quantities. The server was coming with more meat. We formed an assembly line. Otto dealt with the surplus, set arriving dishes to the grill, partitioned it by animal and cooking time, discs of meat at the center, slices surrounding them. Jacster ordered as soon as the plate was cleared. I was in charge of serving, skimming the top, pressing the button, general operations. The responsibilities were tremendous. We barked orders at each other, let one another know about ready food, depleting raw goods-supplies, imbalances in stock. Even Otto spoke, quietly, hush like the steam we saw each other across the table through. That’s done. This needs more time. We need a new grate. It lent an even greater urgency to the affair, a clairvoyance to our operation to bankrupt them within ninety minutes. My spirits lifted. I ordered quail eggs, more pork jowl, chadol. I imagined our server some Buddhistic anti-Christ, delivering animal parts with a thousand arms. They replaced our blackened grill. I perused sections of the menu I had no interest in, admired their selection of offal, tripe, large intestine, marinated egg, and ordered them anyway. They replaced our blackened grill. The food ceased to sear and caramelize, began to cauterize. We swabbed our sauce clean with crispy intestine. Squeeze bottles were left at our table, for self-replenishment. We ate on, no matter what was set to cook. We were part of a greater machine. I could just make out the peak of my plate’s unconsumed items at the bottom of my vision. They cared not that I ate. Traditional correlations dissolved in the steam from the grill. I began to feel full for others. To feel their fullness in turn. I felt filled out. Chivalry had taken new forms. They are what they cared not for, perhaps in this new chivalry, perhaps caught in the momentum of the course, in deference to it, or out of a day’s hunger. In the ashes coating the blackened grate, which speckled it unevenly in some seeming pattern, I saw the night ahead, ablaze in endless pleasure, and what I wanted to order for dessert.
When the check came, I set my card down, told them not to worry; I would charge them later.
Eric Huang is Canada born and New Jersey raised. He’s currently working on a novel while pursuing an MFA at The New School.
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