Paradise Regained

Literally speaking, poke means “dice” or “cubes” in Hawaiian. But it also refers to a sort of sashimi salad, Hawaiian style. There are a number of variations, but the most common ingredients are fresh fish--usually ahi--cubed and tossed with sesame oil, soy sauce, peppers and other pungent accents. I love sashimi, but I’ve come to prefer poke, with its chile kick and nutty undertones.

Part of my fondness for this traditional Hawaiian pupu, or appetizer, probably stems from the ravenous circumstances under which I first encountered it. Several years ago, Ed, my oldest childhood friend, had moved to Hawaii, into a cozy oceanfront house on the north shore of Oahu. The setting was gorgeous, and on the flight over I had anticipated the fresh fish we’d grill, the Maui onions we’d roast and the cold beer we’d drink.

Unfortunately, something about paradise disagreed with Ed, and he’d gone into an entrenched funk. I was fairly immune to his sulks, but this time around he’d acquired an apparent phobia toward fresh food, refusing to eat anything that didn’t come out of a can. I suggested a grocery run; Ed claimed the nearest store was 17 miles away. On the second night, when Ed dished up the leftover Spam, eggs and rice he’d let compost in the rice cooker for 24 hours, I rebelled, and we started screaming at each other as only childhood friends can. “You’re trying to punish me for that crack I made in seventh grade about your mother’s lousy chili,” I yelled, which I still believe to be true.

The next day, the mailman told me there was a grocery a mile away. Ed, a Navy JAG officer at Pearl Harbor, was busy prosecuting somebody for “conspiracy to commit adultery.” (The defendant hadn’t committed adultery; he’d just offered a condom to someone who wanted to, so no wonder Ed was depressed.) Anyway, I lit out for the market.

There I loaded up on fresh mahi-mahi and orange roughy. Then I noticed, amid the kimchi, dried cuttlefish and other poly-Asian treats, small containers of what turned out to be poke. I took some with me and was immediately hooked.

What I bought in that small grocery store was a bit humdrum in comparison to more evolved incarnations that can be found locally in such venues as downtown’s Water Grill, where variations may incorporate shallots, chives or black truffles. Another area poke purveyor is Sam Choy’s in San Diego, which serves a seared version in a light soy marinade. However, I still like this basic recipe, which was given to me by an acquaintance in Hawaii. Poke, it turns out, originated with ancient Hawaiians, who’d mix chunks of fresh fish with seaweed and dried sea salt scraped from rocks by the shore. The very nature of poke invites experimentation. You can add tomato, mango or anything else that suits your fancy.

Aside from the fact that it tastes great, I have evidence that poke is good for depression. That night when Ed came home from a hard day of prosecuting adulterers, I noticed him glancing furtively at my poke. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he took a bite. Later he ate a leftover piece of grilled fish. The next time I visited, I saw he’d bought a new gas grill and good sashimi knife, and Spam was no longer anywhere to be found.

Dave’s Poke

Serves 4

1 pound sashimi-grade ahi, diced into 1/2-inch cubes

1 cucumber, peeled, seeded and diced into 1/4-inch cubes

1 large onion, diced into 1/4-inch cubes

1 tablespoon ginger, minced

1/4 cup soy sauce

11/2 tablespoons sesame oil

Kosher salt to taste

1/2 habanero chile, minced

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In a large bowl, mix all ingredients well. Place bowl in refrigerator to chill for 1/2 hour. Serve with beer.