My birthday was this past weekend. To celebrate, my mother offered to take me out to dinner at… our family’s restaurant. Some history is in order. (WARNING: This is long.)
My mom works/I was raised in a Korean food catering place called Mae Il Jahnchee Jeep. I don’t really know what Mae Il stands for, but “jahnchee” seems to be a relatively new word to the Korean lexicon, meaning “lunchbox” — not the collectible Mork & Mindy kind, but more like the bento kind. “Jeep” translates to house, which you’ll find in the names of many Korean restaurants that offer traditional home cooking. (Sometimes my mom and her associates drop the “jeep” when referring to the store.) On a final confusing note, according to some English signage, the place is also called Party Well Buffet.
My father’s side of the family seems to be a lot wealthier than my mom’s side. With the financial backing of my better-off uncle, my parents opened a Korean joint called Mae Il Jahnchee in the early ’80s. This was actually the first business of its kind to appear in the states (or at least in New York City), which begs the question of whether or not my family coined the term “jahnchee.” Perhaps “jahnchee” had already existed as the Korean word for lunchbox, but I’ve heard that my parents were the first to use it to refer to a restaurant. (Take that, DJ Conner!)
The first incarnation of Mae Il Jahnchee was a no-frills catering operation in Flushing, Queens. It was a one-story building with a picture window that gave passersby a glimpse into a chaotic kitchen. There was some sort of rudimentary counter behind which my mom and dad took orders, but for most of the day all hands were on deck in the back, and no one really manned the front of the house.
In the late ’80s, my uncle decided to invest in expanding Mae Il Jahnchee. He purchased a large building that was catty-corner from the business and set about renovating it into a catering hall. No one in my family seems to know what this building was used for before my uncle bought it. I’d imagine it was for some kind of entertainment. I remember seeing red vinyl columns but that’s about it.
The renovation took several years. My family moved into a house right next to the new store. My sister and I played in the construction rubble.
My mom and dad dealt with a lot of stress for this long stretch of time: signing a lease on a house; raising two dirty, accident-prone little girls and one teenage boy who had taken to good old American rebelliousness a little too much; overseeing the construction of a new business while still operating the old one. And during all of this my father’s health was declining.
I remember one late-night argument my parents had during this time. My family must have just recently moved into our house, because we were all sleeping together on the living room floor in a mess of blankets. I pretended to sleep as my mom and dad raged over their kids’ prone bodies.
My father passed away in 1990. He never saw the finished, new Mae Il Jahnchee Jeep.
The grand opening was a huge event; pretty much the entire Korean community in Queens was there. Mae Il Jahnchee continued to be the happenin’ spot for weddings, babies’ one-hundredth day celebrations, decade birthdays, and other significant events in the lives of local Korean Americans.
In addition to the main hall on the ground floor, there were two ancillary party spaces that I’m sure were more affordable. One was in the basement, past the bathrooms and sharing a wall with the kitchen. The room itself had low ceilings, terrible lighting and a tacky linoleum floor.
The other party space was on the second/top floor, and though it was airy and spacious, it was also obviously just part of a cleared-out apartment. The room was flanked on either side by bedrooms that came to be occupied by my brother, my cousin (rich uncle’s son), and my grandmother, as well as a couple of bathrooms, complete with bathtubs and toiletries that shouted, “Someone lives here!”
Strangely enough, business moved so briskly that it was a common occurence for each party room to be booked on weekend nights. When karaoke mania hit the US in the mid-early ’90s, I usually fell asleep to the cacophony of not one, not two, but three drunken revelers belting out K-pop ballads.
Meanwhile, Mae Il Jahnchee still did out-of-house catering. My brother and the aforementioned cousin (who deserves his very own essay) earned their keep as delivery boys, driving aluminum trays of food out to Korean businesses, churches and households all over the tri-state area.
Though the store had assumed a more presentable reception area, there wasn’t a lot of walk-in business. Most transactions were conducted over the phone, and the drivers received cash on delivery. The kitchen produced a handful of small styrofoam trays of snacks – jahnchees! – everyday, and what didn’t get sold was usually forced onto me and my sister.
Over the years, as more Korean establishments popped up in the area, Mae Il Jahnchee didn’t change much about its business model. There are still no computers; all numbers are crunched on laypersons’ calculators and documented by hand in composition books. Though I’m sure they’ve started taking credit cards, I don’t recall ever seeing any sort of card reading device.
Thus, business slowed down at Mae Il Jahnchee. As the glamour of the party halls deteriorated, they booked fewer and fewer in-house events. The bedrooms upstairs emptied out as my brother quit his delivery job and moved into another apartment, my grandmother passed away, and my cousin took on a new house and some sort of managerial role at his dad’s newer, grander party hall in Astoria. (That is, until his drug use landed him in a rehab program in Hawaii, where he seems to have been for the past decade or so. Hm, maybe he doesn’t need his own essay after all.)
The basement party room now houses teetering piles of dry goods – napkins, Sterno cups, to-go containers – and, in recent years, the occasional cat. Every now and then the staff will welcome a new cat into the kitchen for mousing purposes. They always name it Nabi, which is Korean for butterfly.
And then – this past Christmas – my brother mentioned that there is now a restaurant on the main floor. Somehow I’d missed this development in preceding months, during which I guess I managed to entirely avoid this area. Anyway, this is when my already weak grasp of the family business reached new, hypoglycemic levels of weakness. My mother sort of just shrugged off our questions, apparently not understanding why this was such a big effing deal.
“Is it ours?” “Did rich-uncle finance this?” “Does the downstairs kitchen make the food?” “Will there be a grand opening?” “If there is a grand opening, can we come?”
Over the course of last night’s very tasty dinner I learned two things from my mother. First, they did not – and will not – have a grand opening. Second, this place is called Mae Il Garden.
I also observed some things which may mean different things about this restaurant and my family’s relationship to it. There is a small, separate kitchen from the dining hall, which I guess means the restaurant’s food prep is under some other jurisdiction. (Although my mom said the kimchi we ate was ours.) We were given a check, which means the place is not ours, though the check had a significant “working staff” discount applied to it. Serving as hostess was a cousin of mine – one of my father’s sister’s daughters – indicating that my father’s sister has some money in this venture (and/or which may also explain the “working staff” hookup).
After the barbequed fatty pork and assorted VIP freebies including shrimp tempura and sizzling stir-fried mushrooms, we were unable to eat a lot of other items on our table. Worried that it would get wasted, my mother picked up a bowl of spicy seafood stew (one of the bahnchan, or non-VIP freebies one typically gets in a Korean restaurant) and carried it into the staff’s plating area, asking them to put it somewhere safe so she could eat it at work the next day. Though they were nice about it, I could tell that her actions were somewhat out of bounds.
All told, I am still pretty confused by this place. I eagerly await someone’s Yelp review to help fill me in.
I’m a terribly unreliable blogger as it is, but I’ve recently been approached with an exciting new project that will unfortunately eat up most of my time for at least the next few months. BUT I’ve recently started using Twitter less for stalking and more for its intended use (microblogging, right?) so you can find me updating more frequently there, under the ill-conceived name PantsForDogs.
The holidays, of course, are also keeping me really busy these days. My sister Alice came to town from DC as she does every year for Christmas. This time – in her ongoing attempt to engage our mom in language-neutral board game family fun times – she brought Jenga.
My mom got pretty into it!
Drunk on Jenga fun, sometimes she’d start her move as Alice was still finishing hers. That’s her hand creeping into the shot.
Near the end of 2011 I declared 2012 to be the year of the class act, which at the time meant that I’d be discrete and sensitive about my impending breakup, try to keep my big mouth shut in general, and maybe not throw up from alcohol. I think I nailed the first goal and not so much the others, so I’ll try to keep it going in 2013.
I hope all of you have a great new year. Keep it classy.
My mom is some kind of wizard when it comes to cultivating plantlife. Last Saturday she was very anxious to not only show me, but also have me photograph her newest arrival.
(Sorry for the poor resolution; I didn’t have my camera with me so my mom demanded that I use my crappy phone.)
This charming little fuzzy thing is referred to in Korean as a “halmony” (grandmother) “goot” (flower). My mom explained, a bit sheepishly, that the height of this particular specimen was stunted by the recent cold snap. I like it, though. It’s the appropriate size for pretty much any Asian grandma.
I’ve moved past some things, but in my deepest point of embarrassment over, um, “seeing,” guys with yellow fever, I made this thing:
I wasn’t intending for this to ever see the light of day but I got drunk the other night and showed it to my gay bestie, who asked, in all earnestness,
“Do you people really have sideways vaginas?”
This past Sunday I went to see my mom for the first time since she returned from her two week visit to Korea. I had some talking points to cover, the first few of which I brought up two posts ago:
ON HER BROTHER
He’s old, but otherwise doing okay.
ON INDOOR PLUMBING
Yes, they’ve had a toilet for a few years now.
ON GANGNAM STYLE
Me: “[In Korea, did you hear Gangnam Style?]“
Mom: “[I did not go to Gangnam.]“
Me: “[No, Gangnam Style.]“
Mom: “[Ohhh that dance? Yes. How do you know about it?]“
Me: “[Everyone knows about it; it's huge here. On the news they said that Gangnam is a very expensive city.]“
Mom: “[Yes, that's where all the fancy stores are.]“
Me: “[Have you seen the video?]“
Mom: “[There's a video?]“
At this point I remedy this, performing (at her request) the little pony-riding part of the dance I know.
ON DID YOU BRING ME SOMETHING
Whenever someone you know is going on a trip, ask them to bring you something – anything. It’s a numbers game. Sometimes they’ll do it! And then you’ll have an exciting new snack or toy or other doodad to blog about. Such as:
Sidenote: After laughing at it for a solid minute, I accepted this shirt, asking why she bought such a childish-looking thing. She said, “[Well I know you like dogs.]” “[Mom... you know Mickey Mouse is a mouse, not a dog.]” “[What.]“
Oh, what’s that? That’s a strawberry, not a shopping bag, you say?
All things considered, not a bad haul for a non-Gangnam shopping trip.
As part of the healing process for breaking up with a boyfriend of almost five years, I went on some OkCupid dates with a boy who was funny and charming enough but distant. The meaningless sex got depressing quickly (for me, anyway) and we pretty much stopped texting each other, no hard feelings. About two months after our last hookup, he came up in a conversation with my roommates about OkCupid, because ohmygod we love talking about that shit.
It turns out one of my roommates’ girlfriend works with that guy. This tickled my roommate to no end, so he mentioned this connection to other people he knew from this workplace through his girlfriend. Through his gossiping, my roommate gleaned that this guy is apparently a big womanizer. And not just any kind of womanizer:
“You know a girl who dated him?!” – Mutual Friend, Also From This Workplace
“Yeah, my roommate.” – Gossipy Roommate Of Mine
“Is she Asian?” – MF,AFTW
Wow! So that was my first time confronting the actual fact that someone I’d done had a confirmed Asian thing. Maybe it’s not so surprising for others, but this realization was like a bucket of ice water to my face. “Me? Being a ‘fix’ for some white guy with an Asian thing?” I wondered. “But… I’m not… a typical Asian. Fuck Margaret Cho! I went to Bennington! Look at my fucking hair!” (My hair is thick, coarse and curly for some reason.)
See, for a good part of my life I’d operated under this assumption that I was a special kind of Asian girl. Part of it was my coping mechanism for those strange sadolescent feelings kicked up for not being as effortlessly skinny and straight-haired as my Korean peers. Physical appearance aside, I was quirky! I spoke no Korean! I didn’t care for math! I did stupid man-on-the-street performance art with white friends! It didn’t take much time after graduating from my tiny liberal arts college and moving to Brooklyn for me to grasp the idea of other cool Asian girls who don’t aspire to be a pharmacist or a banker or a pharmacist or banker’s wife. And with some pain, I came to terms with the fact that this growing crop of cool Asian girls was getting younger, fresher, skinnier, more in touch with music, and the outfits they wear are just awesome, or at least just so revealing of their great bodies that they just qualify the whole thing as unfathomably awesome. (I’m looking at you, Greenpoint Asian cool girls of the summer, in your loose flowing tunics with your cool bra showing! YOUR BRA IS SHOWING! But, God bless you, mine would be, too, if I had both your figure and fashion vision.)
Anyway, this incredulousness over the Asian thing evolved into anger over the player thing. (Guys, if you want to stick your dick all over the place, go ahead. Please just leave the smart, funny girls out of this, because when they feel shitty about themselves it’s a lot more devastating than when a shitty stupid girl gets fucked.) Then it finally mellowed down into indifference. Like I said, this guy was funny and I thought (and still think) we could be friends. While I joked about the whole situation with my roommates, taking to referring to my Asian-ness as my “meal ticket,” I still felt that my guard was officially up and on alert for sufferers of yellow fever.
That is, until I found myself willingly bedding a boy from out of town, who I would say has an Asian thing. As in, spent-the-last-5-years-teaching-English-in-Japan Asian thing. As in, the-last-time-I-saw-him,-at-this-party-before-he-left-for-Japan,-I-asked,-with-a-wicked-glint-in-my-eye,-”So-you-have-the-yellow-fever?”-and-he-said-yes-and-I-proceeded-to-try-to-set-him-up-with-this-hot-half-Japanese-friend-of-mine-and-he-was-totally-feelin’-it-and-they’re-actually-Facebook-friends-now Asian thing.
I wasn’t expecting it; I was just being a good host and seriously it’d been like over four months and shut up. I did what any girl in my position would do. (That position being, on my back and having things done to me that felt great.) I broke the dry spell and had sex with with a white guy with an Asian thing. Said guy is now back to his life in Japan and things are cool.
I’d like to think I can go back to being on the lookout, ready to swiftly and soundly eschew the next boy I meet (okay FINE probably from the internet again) who is looking for a kimchi fix. But the reality is I might find myself in a situation with the same or a similar guy, antsy to break another dry spell, or maybe it’ll be another guy I meet and kind of like so far but he secretly has yellow fever and I don’t know it yet.
I guess, without explicitly going through someone’s ethnic sexual history, it’s hard to really know. And even if I did, is it any more deplorable than my preference for, say, boys with facial hair? I’ve never hooked up with an Asian boy, or any other color really; just white boys — What if I have a white thing?
I’m curious to hear how other Asian girls feel about this. Do you not even care? How about you skinny hipster Asian girls with your bra showing all cool? Does it ever bother you, or are the guys you date equal opportunity studs who like you because you’re you, and that’s funny and stylish and you really just have it all?