Max Pa-chef-sky

Aubrey Barb

Breaking bread and talking college cooking with UChicago sophomore and hobby-chef Emmett Cho.

Reactionaries

Emmett Cho and I met under what would widely be considered tragic circumstances: the first of many chemistry major-requirement classes. The fact that we both love cooking would seem obvious, given that the making of food is essentially a sophisticated series of chemical reactions.

Shockingly, after enough problem sets and lab reports, the specific chemistry of food and cooking is actually not something I care to think about. While making a chocolate chip cookie, I don’t feel especially drawn to explore the molecular scaffolding of egg proteins during the baking process. When asked point-blank about the chemistry-cooking relationship, Cho also disregards any talk of bonds or functional groups. He points instead to the physical aspect—a day spent in the lab and a day spent in the kitchen will both basically consist of mixing “a bunch of stuff” together in repeated trial and error.

Our passion for cooking, then, might simply stem from the same deep-rooted diligence and masochism responsible for our “love” of chemistry. Clearly, there’s something about the process, as evident from Cho’s clear lack of any grand purpose or efficiency in his quest to make focaccia on a Sunday night.

I joined him on the third day of the process, and, after seeing his alarming techniques, what I assumed must have been the hundredth hour. When topping the proofed dough (risen, indeed) with roasted cherry tomatoes, Cho insisted on using only one hand, despite his state of evading readings, assignments, and quickly approaching deadlines. With his free hand, he pointed out the smoke stains on the originally-white ceiling. Something less visible filled the air at that moment—possibly tranquility, or stupidity.

Cho’s technique (observe as the right hand labors while the left rests in reserve)

The fact is that we, as college students, are generously freed from the need to cook. Even a fully fledged adult, with enough disposable income, can live in the 21st century totally kitchen-free. So the call to not-necessary-chef-hood, and procrastinating assignments in favor of handling (emphasis on the singular hand) cherry tomatoes, is worth investigating.

The One Hand Philosophy, and Other Wise Words

I certainly wasn’t planning to spend over two hours in Max P’s May house kitchen, owing to my considerable Sunday evening to-do list. This was what led me to comment on the pace of things, and on Cho’s one-handed technique. But Cho had a sage message for blog readers, sealed within his retort to me:

“I just [want to] remind people that, you know, bread is about the craft and love for creation, and it’s not about time. So, you know, we should just take some extra time, and be half as efficient so that we can enjoy what we’re doing.”

The fresh rosemary received the same one-handed treatment

Despite the sarcastic delivery, these words track well with Cho’s kitchen habits. He prefers baking to cooking, and has a special love for making famously-finicky macarons. He cites the appeal of complex baking recipes and of the “interesting puzzle” that is mastering a difficult baking procedure.

“You don’t have the same control over the situation,” he insists, recalling numerous past failures. “You do all this work … then you put it in the oven and an hour later it comes out wrong and it’s like, oh, how did that happen?”

Rather than deterring him, the whole, complicated baking process—failures and successes—keeps him coming back to the kitchen. “I think that baking is very therapeutic,” he says, describing the feeling of being “in-sync, and kind of, like, locked out” that arrives during an hours-long baking period, no matter what the end product looks like.

However, when asked why he never sought baking as a career, Cho has no reservations: “Running a restaurant is stressful, you know, late nights, and it really takes a toll on the people who do it.” This is an exact description of the chemistry major if I ever heard one, but though Cho isn’t escaping a punishing workload, he at least gets to keep baking in the sphere of fun and happiness. He attests to the necessity of compartmentalizing his life, which includes blocking out his schedule in order to ensure untainted kitchen time.

The finished focaccia, baked with tomato and rosemary toppings.

Cho’s unique dedication towards cooking is likely a result of his long-time relationship with the kitchen. Following a childhood trial period, he and the oven became serious around 8th grade, driven by his curiosity and a desire for self-sufficiency. Cho voices his worst fear: culinary helplessness. “What do you mean you’re a grown person and you don’t know how to, like, make pancakes, like, without a mix? That would be sad.”*

It’s worth mentioning that Cho acknowledges the increasing incompatibility between his hobby and his professional life: “I’m sure that life will eventually come and keep me from spending 24 hours on one bread.” But I would argue that, in a world so focused on deliverables, a process-centric activity like cooking may only become more important.

Accidental Baroque

Not everyone will share Cho’s personal satisfaction that comes from making food. Luckily, there’s also an aspect of cooking that extends beyond the individual: community. Cho himself loves sharing his creations with friends, house members, lab colleagues, and occasionally the Sidechat community—but beware if you find yourself on the receiving end. “When I make something for someone, I’m always insistent that they eat it,” he says.

I suspect that this is rarely a problem, as the mozzarella, pesto, and tomato-rosemary focaccia sandwich he made for me was quite delicious. One might even argue that it was world-bettering, bringing people together to savor one of the finer aspects of life on earth: gustatory pleasure.**

Beyond the actual eating, Cho also speaks of the unity that comes from a shared meal-making process, and cites a past romantic date that involved cooking together. At the end of a situation like that, he says, “you’ve created something together, and I just think that that’s really fun.” Essentially, everything boils down to the same conclusion: be it alone or with others, Cho simply recommends that all people give cooking its due respect in their daily lives.

After all of this, I’m inclined to agree. Despite its sickly yellow lighting, the May house kitchen felt healthy and alive, full as it was of unwashed dishes and inefficient technique. It is true that much of the importance of cooking lies beneath a surface-level glance. Says one Zengzi, disciple of Confucius: “Things have their roots and branches. … Only after having peaceful repose can one begin to be deliberate.”*** Cooking may be like growing roots—while not apparently contributing to any progress of the individual, it grounds and centers, strengthening the whole.

Cho, at least, thinks it might be worth your time.

Footnotes

* Note that we at Bite are accepting of all degrees and forms of cooking engagement.

** I somewhat ironically stole the phrase “gustatory pleasure” from Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace (published in Gourmet magazine, 2004).

*** The Great Learning, page 86. Princeton University Press, 1969.