But what I can tell you about is the weirdest thing I ever ate. Sea cucumber. One Mother’s Day, my mother decided to go out with our family to a Korean seafood restaurant. We started off with abalone rice porridge. Small savory-sweet bits of abalone suspended in warm soupy rice, with just a hint of salt. What came after was a steady procession of banchan, alarming in number and variety. Boiling hot pots of egg soup and dishes of various cold salads – seaweed, potato, and bean sprout. There were cold prawns, garden-variety kimchi, nondescript blocks of tofu, baked clams, small fried fish, and even better – two of every dish for our party of seven to sample. Bottles of soju were quickly dispensed and replaced. Once we made our way through one wave of dishes, the server would reappear, repopulating the table with a new array of small dishes. This was only the appetizer, the small dishes that were “complimentary” to the actual sashimi boat that my mother ordered.
The ship arrived loaded with salmon, whitefish, tuna, clams, eel, and tons more of fish I cannot even begin to name. Halfway through dining off the boat, and well beyond our appetites, my mother noticed that we left one area of the boat untouched. “These are my favorite,” she said, as she gently lifted a piece of sea cucumber from its gelatinous brethren and popped it into her mouth. Steadily moving her jaw back and forth, her mouth full, she said, “Try.”
I looked at Mr. C. At that point, we were seasoned sushi eaters. We prided ourselves on designating California rolls for amateurs only, and had spent our fair share of paychecks and Friday nights sampling the fare at our favorite sushi spot. Raw quail eggs, rainbow-colored roe, eel: all badges of our pretensions. But neither of us had ever tasted sea cucumber before.
I took my tiny shotglass of soju. filled it up halfway, and dropped a piece of sea cucumber in. Feigning courage can be an absurd affair. Sea cucumber is not the most attractive thing you can eat. At first glance, it is wet. Looking at a presentation of sea cucumber, it would not appear to be possible to actually lift up anything from the soft, shapeless mass that gleams before you. In my soju glass, it appeared to be a strange specimen preserved in formaldehyde. I mustered up my courage and knocked the glass back, drinking the soju first. The soju tasted foul, laced with the bitter juices of the sea cucumber. Then the sea cucumber landed on my tongue.
Imagine in your mind a malleable plastic, perhaps having undergone decomposition at sea long enough to give just a little on the surface while still retaining its shape. There is definitely sea goo that has accumulated on this piece of plastic. A sea goo that you cannot wash off, a goo that is inextricable from said plastic.
I finally got the cut into my mouth, and bit down. I chewed for a long time, trying to render the cut into pieces small enough to comfortably swallow. My face soured and I tried to understand why this was such a delicacy for my mother, who sat before me, amused.
It was the worst damn thing I ever ate.
This is a cautionary tale. When you are trying something new, do not, do not, do not, eat it out of context. I made the mistake here of eating something scary looking in a theatrical manner (like a frat boy swallowing a goldfish), and I did so out of sheer fear of the food itself. It probably took me a good two years to revisit sea cucumbers again. Still weird, still chewy, but far better without ruining a shot of good soju.
