An Ode to Garlic

Words by: Angelina Feronti / Photos by: Charlie Neuenschwander

After I moved out, my dinners at home grew few and far between. So planning one was always a battle between my parents’ respective cuisines. My mom’s go-tos were soon dubu jjigae (spicy tofu soup), budae jjigae (Korean army stew), kimchi bokkeumbap (kimchi fried rice), or simply ramen. 

My dad, on the other hand, had one simple request: rigatoni and meatballs. By this point in my life, my dad could not eat or drink through his mouth due to throat cancer, so when he asked to have Italian food, he was really asking to see and smell Italian food. The dinner battles were contentious. It had to be one or the other; there was no fusion. 

The two sides of my culinary identity seemed irreconcilable. Korean food was spicy, fermented, and bright red from chili peppers. Italian food was hearty, cheesy, and deep red from tomatoes. There was some overlap: Both cuisines had a penchant for red sauce, noodles, and seafood. They seemed parallel but askew, the same details but different categories. I needed to find an ingredient that bridged the gap.

Then I thought about garlic. It was always there, right under my nose. It plays such different roles in each cuisine that I almost missed the connection. The Italian food I know uses the essence of garlic, like flavored sparkling water. Perhaps this is why the lingering aroma of garlic frying in oil was so delectable to my father, even when he could no longer eat it. On the other hand, Korean food does not hold back on garlic — my father did not like the smell of kimchi.

In Korean food, garlic is everywhere: raw garlic, pickled garlic, black garlic, minced garlic. Pickled garlic in soy sauce is a common ban chan (side dish) at home. In this dish and others, garlic is meant to be consumed by the clove, popped in the mouth like a cashew. Depending on its preparation (aging it, for example), it can transform, even tasting like molasses. But more often than not, it is raw. Like a cigarette smoker or coffee drinker, a raw garlic eater may become blind to the potency. I am in this group. So when I break open a head of garlic and get the first whiff of that strong, twangy, horseradish-y smell, I know the forthcoming meal I’m about to embark on is going to be, at the very least, flavorful.

While a mouthful of garlic is perfectly normal to the Korean palate, my Italian side prefers to use no more than a clove. My grandmother’s homemade tomato pasta sauce recipe, which calls for two quarts of canned tomatoes and two cans of tomato paste, only calls for one clove of garlic.

In another pasta recipe, her macaroni in oil and anchovies, her written instructions say to remove the garlic clove from the pan once it's browned. All that’s left is a trace of flavor in the oil. Yet, despite being nothing more than a ghost of itself, when I return to the kitchen after stepping away, the unmistakable odor hits my nose instantly. It’s a particular homeward-bound smell that cues the appetite and brings back memories.

After my father passed away, the Italian-versus-Korean dinner wars became a thing of the past. Even if we couldn’t see it before, they had each been vying for the same thing. They hoped to pass on their food traditions, garlic and all. I can see that now.