The Quiet Work of Lotus Root

At Miss Kim in Ann Arbor, there’s a lotus root dish on the menu that made me pause.

Blanched lotus root, still crisp. Toasted cashews. A sauce made from doenjang (fermented soy paste), plum syrup, ginger, and hot green peppers. The toasted nuts are folded into the sauce and spooned gently over each slice.

It’s the kind of dish that doesn’t beg for attention—but rewards it.

Crunchy. Earthy. A little heat. A little funk. Every flavor purposeful. Every texture doing its part. It’s simple, but it stays with you. And that’s something Ji Hye Kim, the chef behind Miss Kim, does exceptionally well. Her cooking draws from Korean temple food traditions—ingredient-led, deeply intentional, and free of excess.

Miss Kim dish called "Buddhist Lotus Roots" 

The lotus root itself is a symbol of that ethos. It grows in the mud, but when sliced, reveals an intricate lacework inside. Structural, beautiful, and quietly resilient.

This dish reminded me that restraint is a form of care. That not everything needs a garnish. That some of the most resonant choices are the ones made with precision and humility.

The best food doesn’t just taste good. It makes you think.

And this one did—about clarity, intention, and what can happen when you trust the ingredients to speak for themselves.