Chapter 15
The Korean BBQ restaurant sat on a corner in Seattle's International District, sandwiched between a pho shop and a store selling porcelain figurines. Grace had written the name and address on a scrap of paper.
Samgyeopsal House - go here before the game. Trust me dood.
The place was packed at five-thirty on a Friday.
Families crowded around low tables, the air thick with smoke and sizzle and conversation in three languages.
A woman in an apron led us to a booth with a circular grill embedded in the center of the table, charcoal glowing underneath.
A fan hung over the grill, sucking up smoke.
DJ stared at the grill. He reached his hand toward it, palm out.
"Hot," he said.
Claire slid into the booth beside DJ, across from me.
Her hair was down tonight, red and loose over the shoulders of a green blouse I'd never seen her wear.
She'd put on makeup. Not much, just enough to make her even prettier than she already was.
Coral-pink gloss glistened on her full lips.
Her freckles stood out against her pale skin.
It had been a long trip to Seattle. I'd picked them up at one.
The drive and ferry ride took four and a half hours.
DJ had chattered happily about batting averages and ERAs and what a split-finger fastball did compared to a cutter.
Claire had listened with the patience of a mother who'd heard these statistics a hundred times and would hear them a hundred more without complaint.
The ferry ride over had been full of Mariners fans. DJ had laughed at the good-natured chiding of the few Angels fans on the observation deck. His eyes had widened at the Seattle skyline as we approached the city.
The waitress arrived with water and a stack of small dishes that she laid out on the table.
Kimchi in red sauce. Pickled radish, yellow and translucent.
Seasoned spinach. Bean sprouts in sesame oil.
A pancake made of scallions, sliced into wedges.
Glass noodles. Something that looked like tiny fish.
"What is all this?" Claire picked up her chopsticks.
"Side dishes. Banchan. They're free. You can ask for more."
"Free?"
"Korean restaurants do that."
She tried the kimchi first. Her eyes went wide, then watered. She grabbed her water glass.
"Good lord."
"Spicy," I said.
"You think?"
DJ tried it next. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.
"I like it."
Claire laughed. "Of course you do."
The meat arrived on metal platters. Thin slices of bulgogi, dark with marinade. Short ribs with the bone still attached. Pork belly in thick strips. The waitress used tongs to lay the meat across the grill. It hit with a hiss that made DJ jump.
"Whoa."
The smell followed, caramelizing sugar and garlic and char. My mouth watered.
The meat cooked fast. The waitress flipped it once, then used scissors to cut the pork belly into bite-sized pieces directly on the grill. She arranged lettuce leaves on a plate, added bowls of rice and sauce and sliced garlic and peppers, then left us to it.
DJ watched the meat bubble and spit over the coals.
"Can I flip them?"
"Use these." I handed him the tongs. "When the edges start to curl, turn them over."
He took the tongs with both hands and waited. The pork belly curled. He flipped it, slow and precise, the way he did everything when he was concentrating.
"Good," I said.
"Now what?"
"Now we wait for it to sear and then we eat."
Claire tried the short rib first. She picked it up with her fingers and gnawed the meat off the bone. Fat and marinade ran down her chin. She wiped it with a napkin, grinning.
"This is incredible."
"Try wrapping it." I picked up a lettuce leaf, added rice and a strip of bulgogi, dabbed sauce on top, folded it into a packet. "Like this."
I bit into it. The lettuce was crisp, the rice sticky, the beef tender and sweet. The sauce added savory bite and heat.
DJ watched me build another wrap. He mimicked my movements exactly. Lettuce, rice, beef, sauce. Folded it into a tidy bundle and took a bite.
He chewed. Swallowed. Nodded.
"The sauce is good."
"Try the red one next. That's gochujang. It's hotter."
He built another wrap. Used the red sauce this time. Took a smaller bite.
"Still good."
Claire watched him with a look that was part pride, part amusement.
"You don't have to eat it if it's too spicy, baby."
"I know."
He ate the whole thing.
For an hour, we cooked and ate and rebuilt the pile of meat on the grill as fast as we depleted it.
DJ experimented with combinations. Pork belly with pickled radish.
Bulgogi with bean sprouts. Short rib with nothing but rice and lettuce.
He reported his findings like he was recording baseball stats.
Claire tried everything. The tiny fish. The glass noodles. The scallion pancake dipped in soy sauce. She asked questions about every dish, and I answered what I could and admitted ignorance when I couldn't. Grace would have known. Grace grew up cooking this food in her parents' restaurant.
The thought of Grace made me feel warm. I was glad she'd sent us here, glad she'd shared this piece of herself.
"Grace recommended this place?" Claire asked.
"By name."
"Remind me to thank her. This is the best restaurant meal I've had in years."
"Better than Charley's?"
"Don't tell Stella."
DJ added more meat to the grill. He was getting confident with the tongs now, flipping and turning and cutting. The smoke rose around his face, and he squinted through it, focused as he used the scissors to cut the meat.
I thought about the farmhouse kitchen where Claire and DJ ate most of their meals.
I thought about the budget that kept them eating simply, thought about DJ working alongside his mother in the fields and Bessie in the house and how little time or money was left over for restaurants or trips or baseball games.
Tonight wasn't much, just dinner and a ballgame. But it was something DJ would enjoy, a memory shared with his mother.
Claire caught me looking at her. She smiled and I smiled back.
DJ stacked another wrap. "Can we get more meat?"
"Absolutely."
We walked to the stadium through streets that smelled like roasted nuts and car exhaust and dusty concrete. The sidewalks were packed with people in Mariners caps and jerseys, all moving in the same direction, a current we joined and let carry us forward.
DJ bounced on his toes as he walked. "What time does Chen warm up?"
"Probably around six thirty. We'll get there in time."
"We have to watch the whole warmup."
"We will."
"He throws a two-seam fastball that hits triple digits. And his slider is unhittable."
Claire walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed with every step. Occasionally our hands brushed. The urge to take her hand in mine was strong. I thought Claire might be feeling the same way.
Street vendors lined the route to the stadium. Caps and pennants and foam fingers and knockoff jerseys hanging from racks. DJ stopped at one to examine a jersey.
"Look. It's Chen's number."
"You want it?"
He hesitated. "How much is it?"
I checked the tag. Thirty bucks. Probably made in a factory for three dollars and sold here for ten times that.
DJ knew it was too much. I could see him doing the math, calculating what thirty dollars meant at home.
I remembered that feeling from my childhood, a kid weighing what he wanted versus what he knew his family could afford.
"Chen is pitching tonight. You gotta have it, DJ." I took out my wallet. "My treat."
"You already paid for dinner," Claire protested.
"And now I'm paying for this. C'mon. Let an old guy feel like a kid again, Claire."
DJ looked at Claire. She nodded. DJ took the jersey off the rack and held it against his chest. It was too big, the sleeves hanging past his elbows.
"You'll grow into it," I said.
He grinned.
The vendor bagged it, and we kept walking. The stadium rose ahead of us, massive against the evening sky. DJ walked faster. We passed buskers playing guitars, a man selling roasted peanuts from a cart, a woman handing out flyers for a sports bar.
Then we were in front of the Ichiro statue. Bronze, life-sized, with Ichiro in his famous batting stance. DJ stopped and stared.
"Can I take a picture, Mom?"
"Of course."
Claire pulled out her phone. DJ posed beside the statue, raising his fist and tugging his sleeve like he'd seen Ichiro do in countless YouTube clips. The boy's grin was wide and bright and uncontainable.
Claire took three photos. Showed them to DJ. He nodded his approval.
"Send me those," I said. "I want to remember today."
She looked at me for a second, then nodded. "Okay."
We joined the crowd funneling toward the gates.
The noise grew louder. Voices and laughter and the distant sound of a PA system announcing something we couldn't make out yet.
The air smelled like hot dogs and grilled sausage and beer and popcorn, all of it mixing into a scent I hadn't smelled in years but recognized instantly.
This was a ballpark. This was baseball in summer.
An usher handed DJ a cap as we entered. Blue with the Mariners trident logo, a snapback with a flat brim.
"Kidz Cap giveaway tonight," the usher said. "First five thousand kids."
DJ took it eagerly, then handed it to me. I adjusted the strap to fit his head. Settled it on him, tugged the brim down slightly off-center, the way Chen wore his cap.
"There. Now you look like a Major Leaguer."
He touched the brim and adjusted it himself. He was grinning so wide I thought his face might split.
Claire watched us. She caught my eye and smiled again, that same warm, private smile. I felt something lurch in my chest.
She's so goddamn beautiful.
The concourse was chaos. People everywhere, moving in every direction. Vendors calling out. Lines at the food stands. Kids running. The smell of garlic fries hit me first, then grilled onions, then the yeasty smell of spilled beer.
We walked past the team store, the memorabilia shop, the craft beer stand. DJ's head swiveled, taking it all in.