Ji Hye Kim brings ancient Korean flavors to the Michigan heartland

Ji Hye Kim has built a national reputation for expanding the conversation around Korean cuisine in the United States. The owner of Miss Kim and Little Kim in Ann Arbor approaches her cooking through a distinctly Midwestern perspective, highlighting seasonal Michigan ingredients while honoring the breadth and nuance of Korean culinary traditions. Named a Food & Wine Best New Chef in 2021 and a five-time James Beard semifinalist, Kim uses her platform to challenge perceptions of Korean food and tell deeper stories about migration and identity.

Kim’s path to the kitchen was anything but conventional. At 27, she left a career in hospital administration to pursue cooking, starting over in the food world at Zingerman's Delicatessen in Ann Arbor, where she developed her craft within one of Michigan’s most influential culinary institutions. That leap of faith ultimately led to the opening of her own restaurants and a career defined by curiosity.

Kim spoke to JoySauce about her culinary journey, finding ancient Korean recipes and how the Midwest shapes her cuisine.

This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

Daniel Anderson: I’d love to get started by knowing about your relationship with food or early food memories. Did you have a spark or inkling that this is what you were going to do?
Ji Hye Kim: You know how there are these chefs who go, "Oh, when I was 3 years old, I was rolling gnocchi with my nonna, and I knew that I wanted to be a chef?” I am not one of those chefs. Being in a kitchen is not really a thing that an immigrant mother would encourage their kids to do. My mom is an amazing cook—she’s still the best cook in the family—and she cooked three meals a day. But whenever I offered to help, she would shoo me out. She would say, "You have the misfortune of being born a girl, so you’re going to end up in the kitchen anyway in your own time. You don’t have to do it as a child."

So I watched my mom cook a lot, but she really never taught me. I came to the United States when I was 13, and this continued even when I was in the States. But I have these memories—growing up in Seoul in the 80s—where even then, it wasn’t that common for a housewife in Seoul to be making her own gochujang. I remember I was really young, and my mother and grandmother were holding what looked like it was as big as my bathtub, filled with chili flakes, and they were pouring that into another tub to make gochujang. That’s a striking food memory I have.

DA: When did you develop a professional interest in food?
JHK: It happened at 27. I had graduated from the University of Michigan, worked in hospital administration to sponsor my green card, and finally reached a point where I could ask, "What is it that I want to do?"

I didn't have a plan, but I knew I was always happy whenever there was good food. On a whim, I applied to Zingerman’s Delicatessen. Most people know it as a Jewish deli, but they have this incredible specialty food section. I decided to give myself three years to "f*ck around and find out." I told everyone I was leaving my office job to cut cheese for a living. It was a blessing in disguise; I learned to develop my palate and understand ingredients before I ever learned the professional techniques of a cook. I’d learn about which olive oil I prefer, the ones from Arbequina or ones from Coratina? Here is a three-month-old Comté, a six-month-old, or a three-year-old—can I tell the difference?

DA: Can you speak about developing your ethos or leadership style if you didn't have this traditional restaurant upbringing?
JHK: Running a restaurant is incredibly stressful, and coming from a family of "loud people" with tempers, I had to learn that isn't professional. I decided to systemize everything. We use a common language. We use "I" statements instead of "you" to avoid being accusatory. We also avoid the word "attitude"—even in a positive context, it feels like you're talking to a child. Instead of saying, "You aren't pulling your weight," we say, "Your energy level seems low. What can we do together to bring that up?" Giving everyone clear expectations and a shared vocabulary was my big lesson in becoming a leader.

DA: You’ve spent a lot of time researching ancient Korean manuscripts. What did you find that changed your culinary point of view?
JHK: I remember finding an 18th Century recipe for fetal pig. There was a blurb at the bottom that said, "It’s not good karma to kill a mother pig for this; only cook it if she had an accident." Suddenly, the recipe became a story of resilience—about ancestors using every available resource.

I learned that kimchi didn’t always have chili flakes because chilies aren't native to Korea. They didn't arrive until the 17th or 18th Century. Before that, it was a preserved vegetable seasoned with things like Sancho peppers rather than black pepper. I found out that a lot of recipes use honey or cooked down rice syrup rather than sugar. Even tteokbokki didn't look like the spicy version we see today until the 1960s.

This history gave me a guardrail. Many Asian American chefs agonize over reviews claiming their food isn't "authentic." But traditional Korean food is about seasonality and locality—cooking for the "here and now." Understanding the evolution of these dishes made me feel like I wasn't betraying tradition. I was just adding my own page to the story.

DA: One thing that really struck me about your restaurant websites was the section listing all of your purveyors and farmers. It’s rare to see them all listed out with links like that. Can you speak to the community you’ve built in Ann Arbor and how that influences your cooking?
JHK: Miss Kim is in its tenth year, but I ran a food cart for four years before that. Some of these farmers, we’ve been going to for close to 15 years. We know each other really well. Michigan winters are long and can be a little sad, but if you visit Ann Arbor in late August or early September, it is one of the most bountiful and beautiful farmers' markets in the country.

I’m seeing a growing diversity among the farmers themselves—we have Korean American farmers, Japanese American farmers, and Amish farmers. It’s a vibrant mix that influences almost every decision I make. During the winter, the menu stays a little more static. In Michigan, you don’t really see vegetables growing out of the ground until mid-to-late May. From that point until Thanksgiving, our menu explodes with vegetable dishes. Our salad selection goes from one to four. The farmers certainly dictate our specials.

In the beginning, it felt lonely here. Ann Arbor is diverse, but it’s often transient because of the university. My family was in New Jersey, my friends were scattered, and I had just gotten divorced. But now, I’m deeply engaged in the community. I actually opened my second restaurant, Little Kim, which is vegetarian, partly so I could support even more farmers. I had my set of regulars I’d been going to for a decade, but there were so many new farmers I wanted to buy from that I just didn't have the demand for at Miss Kim. Now, being only a block away from the market, I have the output to explore different dishes with even more local partners. I even had a farmer who got heirloom seeds from Korea and grew specific crops just for me. It’s a wonderful community to be in; food really does bring people together.