Story Behind the Plate

Shrimp Macaron

“The smell of oil in the kitchen meant one thing — Mom was making Menbosha.”

I still remember those nights.
The scent of frying oil would drift down the hallway,
and I'd know: Menbosha night.

My mother would press shrimp paste between two slices of white bread, cut them into perfect squares, and fry them until they turned golden and crisp.

I'd burn my fingers grabbing one too early, but that first bite — hot, crunchy, soft in the middle — it always felt like home.

My Shrimp Macaron is a tribute to that memory. But instead of nostalgia alone, I brought refinement. The bread is now a thin sourdough crisp, the shrimp turned into mousseline. And instead of soy sauce or ketchup, I serve it with Peruvian aji amarillo — a bright, citrusy contrast that cuts the richness and wakes up the palate.

This isn't just a reimagined appetizer. It's my way of honoring a childhood flavor while letting it grow up with me. A memory turned into a bite-sized story.

— Chef Andrew Joo

Prime Bone-In Short Rib

This dish isn't just a recipe, it's a timeline of memory, culture, and years of technique layered onto one plate.

As a child, I remember my grandmother's Korean-style braised short ribs. The sweetness, the slow-cooked tenderness, the quiet ritual of sharing — it taught me early that food is a language of care.

Later in life, I fell for the deep smokiness of American BBQ. Then came French cuisine — with its structure, its patience, its reverence for time — especially in dishes like Boeuf Bourguignon.

My short rib brings all three of those worlds together. A prime bone-in short rib is gently cold-smoked, then sous-vide for 48 hours until it yields with the touch of a fork. The finished cut is set proudly back atop its own bone, resting on a bed of warm fennel-scented potato purée.

On the top of the fennel potato purée, white wine – butter – sautéed seasonal vegetables add aromatic contrast and delicate brightness to the dish.

The sauce? A personal creation: sweet soy-braised flavors inspired by Korean galbi, slowly reduced with red wine to form a glaze that bridges East and West with warmth and intensity.

It's not fusion. It's memory, technique, and comfort — built slowly and plated with purpose.

— Chef Andrew Joo

Soupy Pasta

This isn't a dish I learned. It's one I remembered — and rebuilt.

I first had this pasta when I was in middle school, at an old Italian restaurant tucked between Koreatown and Hollywood in Los Angeles. The leather booths were worn. The kitchen smelled like garlic and wine. The pasta wasn't plated neatly — it came in a bowl, soaking in broth, rich with the taste of the sea and something smoky I couldn't name at the time.

That place is long gone. The flavor faded, too — until I realized no one else was serving it. For years, I searched for that same bowl of comfort. Every time I thought I found it, I was disappointed. So I decided to stop searching — and start recreating.

I started with manila clams, littleneck clams, white wine and bacon — the pieces I now recognize as the base of that memory. Then came the broth — made not to coat the pasta, but to surround it.

The pasta itself is pici, extruded by hand using a 100-year-old Italian press. It's rustic, chewy, and unapologetically soulful.

It's not about looking back. It's about bringing something back — a taste, a memory, a feeling — and offering it, humbly, one bowl at a time.

— Chef Andrew Joo

The Wild Artichoke Garden Salad

“I have always admired the way great chefs like Michel Bras, Alain Passard, and Martín Berasategui elevate the humble salad into an art form. But my own story is different.”

Growing up in Korea, surrounded by mountains and fresh fields, I was fortunate to taste an incredible variety of vegetables — wild greens, roots, herbs — that shaped my palate long before I became a chef. Those memories never left me.

Today, at The Wild Artichoke, this salad is my way of honoring both worlds: the finesse of French culinary masters and the honest, soulful flavors of my Korean upbringing.

Every leaf and herb you see here is grown specially for us by dedicated farmers I met at local farmers' markets. They cultivate just for our restaurant, so that each guest receives something personal, fresh, and alive with flavor.

This isn't just a salad. It is a dialogue between nature and craft, memory and technique — one that invites you to slow down, savor, and discover beauty in simplicity.

— Chef Andrew