donkkaseu shared by two

a memoir

My dad embellishes ramen by adding kimchi, scallions and tteok (Korean rice cake). He heats jeepo (dried filefish) over the stovetop, and despite the high heat, he uses nothing but his hands to tear the snack into edible pieces. There is nothing low fat, light, nor gluten-free about my dad’s recipes. Most of the items are browned, battered, and fried to the touch. But that is his specialty. He cooks what he considers is good tasting, and this usually falls under the category of fried meat. He does not cook healthy, and for sure, he does not cook au courant. Despite my efforts to eat healthier over the years, I am always lured into the kitchen by the smell of spicy ramen and the crackling sound of jeepo roasting over the fire. And almost instinctively, I grab a fork and sit down next to my dad, asking if I can have “just one bite”, as my hand reaches for his bowl. 

His body echoes the mantra “you are what you eat”, and over the years, he has not only put on more weight but also higher cholesterol. Carefree diet and poor genetics, the perfect storm. He’s wearing the Boston Red Sox shirt I had gifted the previous year, and I notice that the shirt is snug, especially around the midriff region, despite the label that claims “relaxed fit”. 

Tonight, he plods around the kitchen as the sweat beads form heavily on his forehead and runs down his back. Ingredients are not mise en place; he grabs the ingredients as he goes, and his units of measurement are his own two eyes. Even though my mom does most of the cooking in the house, my dad prepares dinner on Thursday nights. Tonight’s menu is one of my favorite dishes: donkkaseu. (This dish is an adaptation of Japanese Tonkatsu and it resembles Viennese Wiener schnitzel.)  

Using a meat tenderizer, my dad flattens the cutlets until they reach a quarter inch thickness. He mashes and pounds on our granite countertop, loud as a battle cry, signaling that the process has begun. After one big dunk into a bowl of beaten eggs, quickly and generously coated in breadcrumbs, these flattened pork chops are carefully dipped into a deep, rounded pool of bubbling, hot canola oil. The coated cutlets begin to sizzle, and he waits for just the right color: golden brown. While he’s waiting, the fridge door opens and shuts repeatedly, revealing a purple cabbage, Kraft singles, and a can of coke. While washing the cabbage, my dad unwraps the plastic off a slice of Kraft singles and rolls it up, devouring it whole. Next, he cuts the stem off the cabbage and slices it into quarters. He then slices each wedge into thin strips and transfers the cabbage into each plate, forming a small pile. And to pull it all together, my dad mixes one part ketchup and one part mayonnaise to create the dipping sauce, pastel orange in color. During the mixing process, he decides that eating one Kraft single slice is not enough and opens the fridge yet again, revealing two more slices of butterscotch yellow to soothe his insatiable hunger. 

As this elaborate process takes place, I’m sitting on a tall stool in the middle of the kitchen with my feet hanging, absent-mindedly leafing through a Pottery Barn catalog. I am lost in my own thoughts. Although my dad and I are in proximity, we barely exchange a few words. We don’t talk often, and I would hesitate to say that it’s because our relationship is strained. It’s more due to fact that my dad is a man of few words, and he is preoccupied with tasks on hand, or so I tell myself. 

When the color of the breaded cutlet turns golden brown, Donkkaseu is ready to be served. Using chopsticks, he pulls the cutlets out of the pan, one by one. These bronzed bodies lay on a large bamboo plate covered with paper towels that soak up the excess oil. I think my dad lays them on paper towels to be somewhat health conscious. He transfers each cutlet onto plates, positioning them next to the heap of shredded cabbage. 

We finally sit down for dinner. I cut the Donkkaseu into long horizontal strips, and then cut the strips again, in half, into bite-sized pieces. The process is automatic at this point and requires little force as the cutlets have been tenderized and thinned. After a quick glance at my dad, I slowly drift into thought. Maybe if I got to spend formative years of my childhood with him other than seeing him for a month or two out of the year, maybe if I tried a bit harder to communicate with him when I'm away at college, maybe if he simply talked more, we would have a stronger relationship. I dip the Donkkaseu into the ketchup and mayonnaise mixture, and take my first bite. The crispy tenderness of the cutlets, enveloped by the savory sauce, takes my mind away from the series of hypothetical questions. I fork some of the shredded cabbage that’s been piled onto a small heap on the side, and open my mouth wide. The food is simply good and the amalgamation of different textures stops me from spiraling down in my own thoughts. As an automatic response, I look up at my dad and smile gently, my mouth full of fried pork and shredded cabbage. He cracks open the can of Coke and takes a big gulp, smiling back at me, mirroring the same emotions. And I decide, in that moment, that this is more than enough. There aren't cookie cutter templates and guidelines to what a close father daughter relationship looks like, and my dad and I may not communicate extensively, but sharing Donkkaseu tonight brings us a sense of intimacy that transcends words.