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Sheldon Simeon
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THE
REAL
It’s 7 a.m. in Hawai’i and Sheldon Simeon has already battered and fried a few hundred chicken thighs. “We started at 4,” he says, sounding surprisingly cheery. “That’s how it goes around here.” “Here” is Tin Roof, the Maui restaurant that’s been a destination since the moment he and his wife,
Janice, opened it in 2016.
Simeon’s star has been rising since he appeared on the Bravo network’s “Top Chef” in 2012, wowing judges Tom Colicchio and
Emeril Lagasse with his Filipino-inflected,
Hawai’i-born dishes. While he didn’t win the series—nor in his next appearance on the show in 2015—his sense of modesty, warmth and humor earned him the “Fan Favorite” title both times.
That personality, combined with clear cooking talent, has earned him star power unusual for a chef based 3,600 miles off the U.S. mainland. Even if you haven’t been to Hawai’i, you have likely seen Simeon on his YouTube show, “Cooking in America,” or doing cooking demos on “IG Live.” You might have caught him making Spam musubi on “Good Morning America,” or showing Anthony Bourdain how to roast a pig Hawai’i-style on “Parts Unknown.” Along the way, he’s collected accolades for all the kitchens he’s led in the last decade, including Star Noodle, Migrant and Lineage, a James Beard Award semifinalist for Best New Restaurant in 2019. Meanwhile, Tin Roof—now his one and only—regu-
larly has a line out the door, which includes tourists and locals alike. But his proudest professional accomplishment might just be “Cook Real Hawai’i,” his first cookbook. “When I first saw the title, I thought, ‘Whoa, that’s a little strong,’” he tells me, leaving behind the clatter of the kitchen to find a quiet seat outside. “But then I realized that the ‘real’ comes from the heart and the effort. It’s about being as honest as possible,” he says. “You know, there are a lot Hawai’i of ideas of what Hawai’i is out there: There’s the fantasy of Elvis, girls in Waikiki, Mai-Tais on the beach—all that tropical lifestyle,” he continues. “In all realness, the story of Hawai’i involves a lot of turmoil and tragedy; I wanted to tell that story as well, of the people who came before us; the story of my Sheldon Simeon grandparents and others who’ve made this dishes on what place what it is today.” Simeon’s grandparents came to Hawai’i it truly means to in the 1930s as sakadas, migrant workers embrace the from the Philippines. They were part of a cuisine of his stream of labor that began in the mid-1800s, when European and American businesses home islands raced to reap as much profit as possible from sugarcane plantations. The Chinese BY TARA Q. THOMAS were the first recruits, followed by workers from Japan, Korea, Portugal, Puerto Rico, Spain and even Norway, all brought under the promise of lucrative work. The reality was, by all accounts, far different. The work was brutal and poorly paid, even well after Hawai’i became a U.S. territory in 1900. What’s more, in the process, the native Hawaiian population was decimated by European-introduced diseases—from an estimated 700,000 before Captain Cook landed in Kaua’i in 1778, there were less than 100,000 by the 1850s. Today, native Hawaiians make up less than 11 percent of the state’s population. Because of this history, Simeon is careful to make a distinction between Hawaiian cuisine and what he cooks, which he calls “Hawai’i cuisine.” “For me, Hawaiians are royalty,” Simeon says. “I will never be Hawaiian—that’s blood passed down from ancestors and generations who traveled across the Pacific by moon, stars, waves and wind.” He’s referring to the original settlers— the ones who brought the sugarcane and
“There are a lot of ideas of what Hawai’i is out there: There’s the fantasy of Elvis, girls in Waikiki, Mai-Tais on the beach—all that tropical lifestyle. In all realness, the story of Hawai’i involves a lot of turmoil and tragedy; I wanted to tell that story.”
bananas, sweet potatoes and ginger, and even the pigs and chickens, to the then-uninhabited islands around 400 CE, rowing them across 2,000 miles of the Pacific Ocean from their base in the Marquesas Islands. “We had the most amazing host culture,” Simeon says. “They set up a way of life that rotated around the idea that if you take care of the land, the land will take care of you,” he says.
Not only were they expert farmers, they also introduced the concepts of pono, “fairness and righteousness,” and aloha, “unconditional love and compassion,” that are still in full force today. These sensibilities informed the systems that would ensure that the islands would remain a natural paradise for generations to come, Simeon believes. “Because of this we have an incredibly rich base to work from.”
He includes this history in “Cook Real Hawai’i,” along with recipes that speak to these earliest influencers. Some are direct in their lineage, like laulau, a celebratory dish of pork and cured fish wrapped in taro and ti leaves and cooked in hot coals; others are rooted in Hawaiian traditions but have come a long way, like the pupus that fill an entire chapter. Pupu, he explains, is a Hawaiian word that originally referred to LEFT: PORTRAIT OF CHEF SHELDON seashells, but came to SIMEON; RIGHT: mean the sort of snacks that might fit in a shell, SIMEON COOKING WITH HIS FATHER. but served with such generosity that they could easily comprise a meal—which they did in the Hawaiian tradition of communal meals, and still do today. (In Hawaii, he says, “you can have pupus without a party, but you can’t have a party without pupus.”)
Mostly, the focus of the book is on what people eat every day, at home and in casual eateries like Tin Roof, or even the Japanese restaurant that preceded it. That means there are no recipes for pizzas topped with pineapple, or macadamia-crusted anything. “Don’t get me wrong—macadamia-crusted mahi mahi is delicious, and my kids love Hawaiian pizza,” Simeon says. “But they aren’t dishes that came about in a home. They didn’t happen because of something brought to Hawai’i from somewhere else; they were made up in a restaurant.” (Hawaiian pizza, for the record, has nothing to do with Hawaii; it was created by a Greek restaurateur in Ontario, Canada.)
Instead, he offers recipes for the dishes of his childhood, like boiled peanuts or the Huli-Huli rotisserie chicken his dad would make for his volleyball team. He covers saimin, a quick noodle soup he ate for breakfast daily growing up, and the Portuguese bean soup his dad would make to warm up a rainy day.
Many of the dishes are the sort that might be included on a plate lunch, a Hawai’i phenomenon offered at casual spots across the islands. Based on rice and mac salad, its main feature is the wide variety of mains offered, from garlic shrimp to Filipino adobo, Japanese fried chicken and Korean beef ribs—all of which he includes in the book, along with much more. Simeon revels in this diversity: “There’s no other place in the world that you get this array of cuisines on one place and have it feel so natural,” he enthuses. He likens Hawai’i to a salad bowl instead of a melting pot, and illustrates the idea in dishes like pipikaula, a beef jerky that dates to the 1830s, when King Kamehameha enlisted Mexican cowboys to teach the locals how to care for cattle, as well as Chinese ginger chicken, Portuguese sausage and Okinawan pigs’ feet—all recipes imported from other places that have taken root in Hawai’i.
It took him a while, however, to appreciate the complexity and value of everyday Hawai’i cuisine. “Always, when I was a young exec chef,” he says, thinking back to his early days at Star Noodle, Mala Wailea and Migrant, “I was creating my own dishes, but watching what was going on in the big cities and mimicking them,” he says. “It took a lesson on national TV to humble me.” He’s referring to his final round of “Top Chef,” where he presented a high-concept menu that left the judges scratching their heads. “It made me realize that I should be proud of my roots, and proud to serve Hawai’i food in its entirety—it doesn’t need to be masked or manipulated.”
“Now I’m cooking recipes from my childhood,” he says. He was lucky to have grown up in a family of amazing cooks, he says, from his parents to the aunts and uncles who helped make Simeon family parties legendary. Cooking was ingrained in him at a young age, so much so that when his brother came home from culinary school and told him they’d spent the
first day chopping onions, he laughed. “I was like, what? We’ve chopped thousands of onions!” Simeon, who attended Hawaii’s Leeward Community College and later the Maui Culinary Academy, jokes that he followed his brother into culinary school because it looked so easy.
At home, he and his brother were often roped into helping out, whether foraging for pohole—the fiddlehead ferns his mom would turn into a bright, crunchy salad—or playing wingman to his dad, the grill master and expert at turning cheap cuts of beef into hearty soups and juicy steaks. He got to know the Philippines through dishes his parents brought with them, like his mother’s pinakbet, a carefully constructed vegetable braise flavored with ginger and bagoóng isda (a fermented fish paste) or pancit, a stir-fried noodle dish that’s a Filipino staple.
“My palate is always true Filipino,” Simeon says. “I could be cooking Japanese, but the garlic will be very forward; and the fish sauce you’ll know. Always, there’s a lot of acidity—a pop from vinegar or citrus. It’s about layers of bold and umami.”
You can see this clearly in recipes like his beef shank soup, which takes on extra depth with shiitakes and fish sauce, star anise and chilies, or okra salad, where the still-crunchy pods are kept bright and fresh-tasting in a dressing of ginger, garlic and lemon-infused olive oil (one of his favorite tricks to maximize flavor in nearly any dish).
But what comes forward most in “Cook Real Hawai’i” is his omnivorous hunger and appreciation for all the variety that’s been preserved in the island’s cuisine. “A lot of these recipes came from family who wanted to reminisce about food they ate back home, and they didn’t have much; they had to use what was available to them,” he says. “Most of it is simple ingredients you can find at grocery stores anywhere.”
What makes them special, he says, is the stories they carry. “A lot of people, if they were given the opportunities I have had, could tell the same stories, share the same recipes,” he says. Most of them haven’t, however. And so, Simeon has begun the recording.
“The mentality is now about the community,” Simeon says of himself and his current generation of chefs. “We celebrate each other in the culture and the different ethnicities that make up the culture,” he says. “We call it pono—do the right things.” n
MOCHIKO FRIED CHICKEN
Fried Garlic
MAKES ABOUT 1½ CUPS
1. Preheat the oven to 250°F. Line a baking sheet with paper towels. 2. In a food processor, pulse 8 ounces peeled garlic (about 1½ cups or 25 cloves) until finely minced. 3. Fill a medium-width, deep-sided pot halfway with water and bring to a boil, then turn off the heat. Fill a large bowl with ice water. Transfer the garlic to a sieve and submerge in the hot water, blanching for about 2 minutes. Remove and dunk the garlic in the ice water until cooled, then drain well and spread evenly onto the lined baking sheet. Bake until the garlic is dry to the touch, 12 to 15 minutes. 4. While the garlic is drying, empty out the pot and dry well. Fill the pot with at least 2 inches of neutral oil, for frying, making sure to leave a few inches of clearance from the top of the pot. Heat the oil over medium high until it reaches 350°F (use a thermometer). 5. Have the baking sheet lined with paper towels at the ready. Add the garlic and fry until the bubbles begin to subside and the garlic turns golden and rises to the surface, 3 to 4 minutes. 6. Transfer the fried garlic back to the paper towels and let cool completely. Season generously with kosher salt, then transfer to a sealable container and store in a cool, dry place for up to 3 weeks. Reserve the garlic-flavored frying oil for future use.
Gochujang Aioli
MAKES ABOUT ½ CUP
In a small bowl, whisk together 1 tablespoon gochujang (Korean chili paste), 1 teaspoon sugar, 1 clove grated garlic, and ½ cup mayonnaise with 1 teaspoon water until incorporated.
Mochiko Fried Chicken
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
Mochiko chicken is Hawai‘i’s own style of fried chicken, distinct for its use of mochiko (sweet rice flour) in the batter, which lends a pleasant bouncy chew in addition to that classic fried chicken crunch. Depending on who’s cooking (and what recipe they’re using), local mochiko chicken can draw influence from Japanese karaage, Korean dak kang jung, and even a little from Southern fried chicken.
¾ cup mochiko (sweet rice flour) ¼ cup plus ¾ cup cornstarch, divided ½ teaspoon Diamond Crystal (or a good pinch of Morton) kosher salt 2 tablespoons sugar 2 large eggs 2 tablespoons shoyu (soy sauce) 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger 2 tablespoons sake 2 tablespoons gochujang (Korean chili paste) 2 pounds boneless, skin-on chicken thighs neutral oil, for deep-frying ¾ cup all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons garlic salt FOR SERVING
Cooked rice
Gochujang Aioli (recipe below)
Su-Miso Sauce (recipe below) ¼ cup furikake (Japanese seasoning, see Editor’s Notes) ½ cup arare (rice crackers), crushed into bite-size pieces 2 tablespoons Fried Garlic (recipe below) chopped scallions
Salt-Pickled Cabbage (recipe below)
1. In a medium bowl, whisk together the mochiko, ¼ cup of the cornstarch, the salt and sugar. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, shoyu, ginger, sake, gochujang, and 2 tablespoons water. Stir this into the dry ingredients until mixed, then add the chicken and toss thoroughly with your hands to coat. Cover and marinate for at least 4 hours (overnight is best). 2. When you’re ready to fry, remove the marinated chicken from the fridge. Prepare a wire rack or line a baking sheet with paper towels. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed pot or deep skillet with at least 2 inches of oil, making sure to leave a few inches of clearance from the pot’s rim. Heat over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F (use a thermometer), adjusting the heat as needed to maintain temperature. 3. While the oil is heating, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, garlic salt and remaining ¾ cup cornstarch. Remove the chicken from the marinade, letting any excess batter drip off, and dredge thoroughly in the flour mixture, taking your time and making sure every wet spot is coated and absorbed. Shake off any excess flour and transfer the chicken to a plate. 4. Working in batches so as not to crowd the pot, fry the thighs until deep golden brown, 5 to 6 minutes, turning halfway through. Remove and let cool on the wire rack or paper towels. 5. When ready to serve, cut the chicken lengthwise and then crosswise into bitesize pieces. Place the chicken over a bed of rice and drizzle with the Gochujang Aioli and Su-Miso Sauce. In a small bowl, toss the furikake, rice crackers, and fried garlic together and sprinkle over the chicken. Top with scallions. Serve immediately with salt-pickled cabbage on the side.
Su-Mi So Sauce
MAKES ABOUT ½ CUP
In a small saucepan, stir together 1 tablespoon sake, ¼ cup mirin and ¼ cup sugar. Bring to a boil, cooking until the smell of alcohol goes away and the sauce starts to thicken, 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from the heat and whisk in 1 tablespoon white (shiro) miso until dissolved. Let cool before using.
Salt-Pickled Cabbage
MAKES ABOUT 3 CUPS
1. Core 1 pound green or napa cabbage and cut into 2-inch squares, breaking the layers apart. Place the cabbage in a large bowl and sprinkle with 1 tablespoon Diamond Crystal (or 2 teaspoons Morton) kosher salt, using a spatula or your hands to distribute the salt evenly and massage it into the leaves. 2. Use an inverted plate to cover and press the cabbage and place a heavy object on top, like a tin can or large stone. Let sit at room temperature for 1 hour. Remove the weight and toss the cabbage. If there are parts of cabbage that haven’t turned slightly translucent, sprinkle them with a little more salt, if desired, and toss again. Replace the weight and let sit for another 30 minutes. 3. Remove the cabbage from the bowl and place in a colander over the sink. Use your hands to squeeze out as much moisture as possible. Don’t rinse it! Once the cabbage has been squeezed, sprinkle on ¼ teaspoon instant dashi powder (such as HonDashi, optional) and toss to coat. Chill until ready to serve. Keeps for about 1 week in the fridge.
Editor’s Notes:
n If furikake seasoning is not available, you could use nori and sesame seeds to provide crunch and an umami note. n To make your own furikake, McCormick spice brand has this suggestion: Toast ¼ cup sesame seeds in dry skillet on medium heat about 2 minutes or until lightly toasted, stirring occasionally. Transfer to a bowl and cool completely. Then, place toasted sesame seeds, 2 tablespoons bonito (dried fish) flakes, 3 sheets unseasoned nori (dried seaweed), 2 teaspoons sugar and 2 teaspoons sea salt in food processor. Pulse about 12 times or until mixture is well blended. Store in a tightly covered jar in a cool, dry place up to 1 month. This makes 96 (¼-teaspoon) servings.
