What exactly is comfort food? It’s a question that leads us to ponder feelings of safety and security. Often, comfort is sought “from” something – chicken soup offers comfort from illness, a warm blanket provides comfort from the cold, and a sense of safety offers comfort from danger.
Consider a moment of intense fear in your life. Close your eyes, recall that event, and allow the fear to resonate within you. Now, open your eyes and embrace yourself, replacing that fear with the warmth of self-compassion. What food do you crave in this moment? This craving might just reveal your ultimate comfort food.
Like personal preferences, comfort foods are often rooted in our subconscious, shaped during adolescence. For me, childhood mealtimes were dominated by my father, a man whose appetite was as grand as his personality. Dinners were lavish, multi-course affairs. Linguini with white wine clam sauce might begin the feast, followed by Cuban-style steak, chicken fried and crowned with a mountain of delicate, white onions. Dessert was always ice cream, generously topped with syrup-soaked walnuts. Even the family dog dined like royalty, enjoying homemade chicken and rice or beef with potatoes.
My father cooked with a primal intensity, as if defending against unseen threats. His brow would furrow in concentration, sweat glistening like butter on a warm croissant as it dripped onto the stovetop. At the table, surrounded by these kingly spreads, we ate with a Romanesque indulgence. This was our family’s style.
In contrast, the kitchen was my mother’s avoided territory. A former bodybuilder, she had subjected her body to extremes, even inadvertently affecting my infancy. By my adolescence, her focus had shifted to self-denial. Regardless of her increasingly frail appearance, the mantra remained constant: “I just need to lose ten pounds.”
Amidst these opulent dinners, another ritual unfolded after the plates were cleared. Our home, furnished with a mismatched collection of pieces including a red California-king bed and a somewhat out-of-place knight’s crest rug, became the stage for my parents’ nightly drama. My mother would be packing, gathering toiletries or tossing shoes into a suitcase. My father, a large presence sprawled on the king-sized bed, would observe her preparations with weary annoyance.
“Jesus, Nicole,” he’d begin, his voice sharp with suppressed anger, “Can we have just one night without the dramatics?” His words carried a frustrated weight. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not going anywhere.”
Undeterred, she continued packing. This scene, I estimate, played out twice a week. I would stand frozen, silent, feeling as though my voice was constricted by unseen forces. Silence was my chosen role.
“I’m leaving. This time, I really am leaving. And I’m taking Justin with me,” she’d declare, zipping her bag and pulling me forward by my shirt collar, like a mother cat with her kitten.
He would rise from the bed, his size a stark contrast to her resolve. I would quietly slip outside with the dog. Bentley, a yellow lab and roughly my size, was my go-to companion. I’d wrestle with him in the yard, trying to playfully toss him in the air until exhaustion lulled me to sleep on the cool grass.
I’d awaken to the soft lavender hues of dawn. Opening the back door, Bentley would lead me back inside to my bed. We’d steal another ninety minutes of sleep before my father’s large figure appeared in the doorway, the morning sun just beginning to filter through the curtains. “Hey Jud, got some breakfast.”
Fried eggs, French toast, hot chocolate, Taylor ham – the morning’s luxury mirrored the gentle shift in his demeanor. The remnants of his greasy labor were piled high in the kitchen sink. Nights were filled with uncertainty, but breakfast offered a reassuring promise that my world would endure for at least another day. Nothing tasted more like pure, unadulterated safety than Pillsbury Doughboy Cinnamon Rolls. The satisfying pop of the tin against the countertop, the slight flinch as air escaped, the sugary brown speckles on the pre-made buns that would puff into soft, comforting shapes in the oven. My mother would remain asleep for most of the day. I would head to school, a confusing mix of love and dependence for my father churning in my stomach. Safety, a fleeting feeling wrested from the ever-present sense of danger.
But comfort food can be more than just a shield against fear; it can be a celebration of joy and connection. Consider another perspective.
My friend Conor grew up in Bayside, Queens, the lone Irish family amidst a street of Korean households. By the time we met, I was living with my grandmother and commuting to our Upper East Side prep school from New Jersey. Our acquaintance was brief before Conor invited me to join his evening plans. “I’ve been emailing with Equinox,” he announced.
“Let me see that,” I replied, intrigued.
His introductory email was a masterclass in confident entitlement: “I’ve just moved into a new dwelling near the Equinox location on 85th street. I was previously a member of a very selective fitness club in La Jolla, California [left unnamed to ensure fair market competition]. I have become accustomed to an institution that will challenge my body and mind in all aspects. I would like to confirm that the resources at 85th Street rise to the standards of physiological excellence that I have come to expect. I will plan to bring a colleague to have a few hours with the equipment tomorrow. Say, 3:15?”
Our Equinox visit involved two hours of admiring eucalyptus-scented towels and another hour playing with medicine balls. Our post-workout meal led us to BCD Tofu House. Located on West 32nd Street in New York City, this restaurant became a cornerstone of our friendship. Using birthday money, we indulged in the spicy-sweet sauces, a culinary adventure as novel and exciting as the idea of romance. Soft tofu in a fiery anchovy broth, caramelized galbi, and crispy deep-fried fish arrived at our table. Bowls of unlimited banchan, those delightful Korean side dishes, solidified my feeling that I had found a kindred spirit in Conor, a patron saint of boundless enthusiasm. He possessed an aura of limitlessness, someone who didn’t question what he deserved. His world of abundance suddenly became mine, too.
Our pursuit of the “good life” centered on pleasures that engaged the senses. Korean food, especially at places like BCD Tofu House on 32nd Street, became a recurring theme. We’d venture to Koreatown, negotiating with waitresses with youthful charm, “We’re high schoolers, you see. We can’t afford the luxury ribeye. We really just want the banchan. But we’re already here, sitting down, can we work something out?”
Our paths led us from elite high school scholarships to equally prestigious colleges – Stanford for me, USC for Conor. We had become the very embodiment of the elite we were supposed to disdain. Instead, we embraced it. The day my first corporate internship bonus hit my bank account – a glorious $1,000 – I booked a flight to Los Angeles to celebrate with Conor. Predictably, every penny was spent in Koreatown.
Our night began with soju bombs at an empty bar in a deserted mall. We attempted to buy the bartender a shot, but instead, the entire staff joined our booth, sharing drinks and teaching us the proper soju-bomb swirling technique. Then, Korean BBQ beckoned. Champagne accompanied mountains of red meat as we ate until our stomachs protested. “More eomuk!” we’d call out like royalty, “more kimchi!” Later, after midnight, we found ourselves at a Korean spa, shedding our clothes and immersing ourselves in hot tubs and saunas for medically questionable lengths of time. At the spa’s restaurant, wrapped in cotton robes, we channeled Studio Ghibli characters as we slurped seaweed clam soup, the fishy broth dribbling down our chins.
This is what I mean when I declare, often to raised eyebrows, that my comfort food is sundubu-jjigae. Specifically, I crave the sundubu-jjigae from BCD Tofu House on West 32nd Street in New York City. It represents not comfort from something, but the comfort to have anything. It’s the feeling of being surrounded by good company – Conor, myself, and a pile of delicious, sticky beef. A beer, and then a few more.
There’s a beautiful duality inherent in the sweet and spicy flavors of Korean cuisine. Sweetness is a nostalgic pleasure, a longing to return to the moment of pure enjoyment. It’s fleeting, present and then gone. But the joy of spice emerges after the initial heat fades. Spice is a pleasure that looks forward, a promise of warmth and lingering satisfaction. While cinnamon buns evoke childhood safety, it’s the spicy kick of sundubu-jjigae that embodies the expansive comfort of adulthood, a comfort found not just in safety, but in the freedom to savor life’s rich and varied flavors, especially at places like Bcd Tofu House West 32nd Street New York Ny. I haven’t craved a cinnamon bun since North Carolina, but the call of sundubu-jjigae is a constant, joyful craving.
