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My harabeoji had many secrets and techniques, and certainly one of them was tucked inside his BLT.
He stored many issues hidden—grief, regret, fear—in an abyss of cussed silence. He left Korea for San Diego in 1978 after enduring greater than half a century of instability and loss. It was then, at 67, that he began anew, to not retire to manicured golf programs and poolside card video games like different sexagenarians, however to work in a nook deli. He had been a widower, briefly, and now, in his new metropolis, he was a newlywed with a brand new enterprise.
His new spouse—additionally a widow—was a Korean immigrant by means of Bolivia earlier than she discovered her option to California. Collectively, they opened a nook deli the place my harabeoji, who left behind an import enterprise and building firm in Asia, realized the best way to make “All-American” sandwiches. His life financial savings have been simply sufficient to safe a lease for a small storefront that hugged a stuccoed nook of Hillcrest, a refuge for the LGBQT+ neighborhood close to Downtown San Diego. Lease was nonetheless low-cost within the Eighties and Nineties, and his neighbors have been pleasant. He’d nod to the Portuguese barbers, who would warmly wave again as they sipped their morning espresso. Together with his newsboy cap crowning his head, he labored full days on his toes, slicing deli meats and stocking cabinets. On the finish of his day, my harabeoji would throw on his Members Solely jacket and take a solo stroll to drop off additional sandwiches to the unhoused.
I additionally spent many lengthy hours on the deli, which served as a back-up daycare for my mother and father, who have been juggling two companies—a liquor retailer and Chinese language take-out restaurant—with out regular childcare. Perched on a stool behind the counter, sucking on Now and Laters whereas flipping by stacks of image books borrowed from the library, I by no means dared to interrupt the stream of sandwich-making.
“Order,” my harabeojii would command, standing like a conductor in entrance of an orchestra.
Photograph by Christine Byun
His clients stored it easy. The orders have been staccato notes with no frills, no allergic reactions, no extras. Egg salad on rye. Turkey, cheddar, wheat. Ham and swiss on white.
Regardless of the sandwich, my halmuhnee began by ripping a sheet of deli wrap. Two slices of bread—deftly swiped with simply sufficient mustard and mayo to make them glisten—served as the bottom. Then, freshly sliced meat or scoops of creamy salads, a bathe of shredded iceberg lettuce, and a pair sturdy tomato slices have been plunked on high. The 2 sides have been briskly married and sealed tightly with out a second thought. My harabeoji halved the sandwich with precision and wrapped it once more, compressing it so not a single shred of lettuce might escape. Every taut bundle was marked with a letter to decode its insides: H for ham, Tk for turkey, Tu for tuna. The clank of the register drawer signaled his return to the counter. Slice, fold, repeat.
Photograph by Christine Byun
My favourite sandwich was my harabeoji’s BLT. Whether or not the client requested it or not, the wheat bread got here toasted, primarily for structural functions: the slices have been sturdy, impartial bookends to microwaved bacon, tomato slices, iceberg lettuce, and—shock!—slices of velvety avocado.
I don’t understand how, or why, my harabeoji—who grew up consuming rice for lunch—determined so as to add avocado to his BLT. Whereas right this moment’s BLTs are sometimes dressed up with extras and upcharges from fried eggs to flavored mayos, the ‘80s and ‘90s have been less complicated occasions for the standard sandwich—except it got here from my harabeoji’s deli. Avocados had but to start their stratospheric climb to viral toastmaker and world way of life trendsetter.
Possibly my harabeoji picked it up as a sizzling tip from one other Korean deli proprietor, or maybe he was impressed by the plush guacamole within the carne asada tacos he devoured in his new hometown. He had a stressed urge for food for brand new flavors and located pleasure in sharing them. He typically navigated his option to immigrant enclaves and stripmalls round Southern California in his silver Toyota Camry, slurping down aromatic bowls of pho, swallowing uncooked and chewy sea creatures, and shopping for tropical fruits that regarded unpeelable however yielded explosions of brilliant sweetness. He by no means revealed how he discovered these locations, however he’d carry us to those tiny eating places the place we’d be welcomed like previous buddies. Whether or not his sandwich secret was impressed by certainly one of his gastronomic subject journeys, he by no means advised me. However nevertheless it got here to be, the avocado’s unstated contribution to his BLT created an ideal alchemy of salty, smoky creaminess that made my mouth water after every chew.
Photograph by Christine Byun
My harabeoji retired from making sandwiches when he was 80 years previous. Since then, his BLT, with its secret addition, has grow to be an edible talisman for me. After I’m misplaced in a swirl of restlessness and self-doubt, his BLT helps me discover my manner house. There’s nothing Korean about it. There’s no daring swirl of gochujang blended into the mayo, not a brash blare of kimchi to be discovered, but it reminds of my harabeoji, a taciturn man who restarted his life as a sandwich maker in his sixties. I smile after I consider him including slices of avocado to the sandwich, as in the event that they at all times belonged with the bacon, lettuce and tomato. It’s true: the nutty fattiness provides weight and steadiness. It’s a easy counterpart to the confetti of iceberg lettuce, a delicate base for the tang of a ripe tomato, and a mushy foil to the crunch and crisp of the bacon. After ending one, I really feel myself restored, prepared to choose myself up once more, similar to my harabeoji did so way back.
What dish did you like as a baby? Inform us about it within the feedback.
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