Land of Milk and Honey

by C Pam Zhang

I’d once worked under a terrifying Ukrainian chef who modeled his kitchen after careers in the military and the circus. You are not the lion, he bellowed in the face of each young trainee.

I used to frequent a grubby takeout joint, Raj or Sultan’s something, where the Malayali cooks stubbornly made, in addition to chicken tikkas and garlic naans, their own region’s lacy, rice-flour bread. I waited for the conversation to come around to appam, but it never did.

You can’t tell me you don’t want to eat jian bing in Beijing. Bossam, just imagine it, in Seoul.