Whale Served with Kimchi

Jillian Moreno skillfully cuts maktak—whale skin and blubber—with an ulu, a curved knife resembling a handheld half-moon. The maktak has been in the freezer since the end of spring whaling season, and after a brief thaw, it remains slightly frozen. The blade glides through it like teeth sinking into an ice cream sandwich, its appearance reminiscent of Neapolitan flavors—black skin paired with pink fat.

Moreno slices the maktak into thin strips, about the width of her pinky, and sprinkles them with salt. “This is how I enjoyed it as a child,” she says, offering me a piece. The skin, smooth and elastic, carries the scent of the sea—the cold, kelp-laden breeze of Alaska's Arctic coast. The blubber melts on the tongue like the luxurious otoro, the fatty belly of bluefin.

“And this is how many enjoy it nowadays,” she continues, reaching for a plastic container of kimchi. She adds some to a bowl with the maktak and mixes them. I sample a red-glazed strip paired with a bit of cabbage. The kimchi is fresh, and the crisp cabbage contrasts delightfully with the melting whale. The sesame oil and spices cut through the richness. Although it’s my first experience with this pairing, my Filipino heritage makes me appreciate the balance of salt, fat, acid, and heat—similar to fried pork belly dipped in spiced vinegar or sisig combined with chiles and calamansi juice.

“I instantly enjoyed it,” Moreno recalls of her first experience with maktak and kimchi about 15 years ago. “Maktak is delicious, kimchi is delicious, and they complement each other perfectly.”

Moreno's multicultural home—she’s Iñupiaq and her husband is Filipino—is not the only place in Utqiagvik (formerly Barrow) where maktak and kimchi are enjoyed. In America’s northernmost city, this combination has become as common as sushi paired with wasabi. Many Utqiagvik households keep tubs of kimchi in their refrigerators and freezers, and gallon buckets are frequently shipped from the city to remote North Slope villages via air freight. Most of this kimchi is supplied by Sam and Lee’s Restaurant, the oldest Asian Mytoury in town, but supermarkets have also started carrying imported brands, and some locals have begun making their own.

Maktak and kimchi exemplify the many hybridized niqipiaq (Native foods) that the Iñupiat harvest from the sea and tundra surrounding Utqiagvik. This community maintains a subsistence lifestyle even as supermarkets offer imported beef, watermelons, and Pop Tarts. The dish serves as a culinary symbol of the town—an Iñupiaq community that warmly embraces people and influences from outside.

To prepare maktak and kimchi, one must first hunt a whale. The Iñupiat are among the few groups worldwide legally permitted to do so. While commercial whaling is prohibited in many regions, with Japan, Iceland, and Norway being notable exceptions, the Iñupiat’s subsistence hunting is safeguarded under the Marine Mammal Protection Act, thanks to a co-management initiative with the Alaska Eskimo Whaling Commission.

In Alaska, subsistence is a legally defined term under federal law, referring to “the customary and traditional uses by rural Alaska residents of wild, renewable resources” for purposes like food, shelter, clothing, and tools. This definition transcends the bare-minimum survival implied by a dictionary definition, especially for Alaska Natives, who apply this word to the practices that have historically allowed their communities to thrive.

During the 1970s, it seemed the Iñupiat might lose their crucial subsistence practice. In 1977, the International Whaling Commission halted the subsistence hunt due to worries about the declining bowhead whale population. In response, the AEWC formed to advocate for their community’s needs, demonstrating that the whale population was likely twice as large as estimated. The IWC eventually permitted a small quota and added acoustic monitoring tools to their census methods, confirming the AEWC's observations—scientists had been miscounting whales as they submerged beneath the ice. Today, the North Slope Borough Department of Wildlife Management conducts regular whale population censuses, utilizing methods co-developed with the AEWC, to inform NOAA and the AEWC in determining subsistence harvest levels through the IWC. The current limit for bowhead whales, established in 2018, is 67 per year.

Yet, when considering the millennia during which the Iñupiat and their ancestors have synchronized their lives with the whales’ migrations, this interruption is hardly significant. It remains a continuous tradition—sacred and ancient—now enhanced by modern technology like forklifts and snow machines.

In the fall and spring, as bowhead whales migrate to and from their summer feeding areas in the Beaufort Sea, hunters position themselves on the icy edge that skirts Utqiagvik’s shores year-round, except during the peak of summer. While Iñupiat hunters also catch belugas and other marine and land animals, none holds as much significance in the rhythms of Utqiagvik life as the agviq (bowhead).

Every successful hunt transforms into an impromptu celebration. Once the hunters have completed the demanding tasks of killing and transporting the whale, additional crew members gather to assist in processing the animal. They navigate around the carcass wielding blades attached to ax handles, their hands becoming slick and rigid with blood and cold.

Almost every part of the whale serves a purpose. Blood is gathered in bags to make mikigaq, a zesty ferment filled with bits of meat and fat; the liver's membrane is kept for making drum skins. Maktak constitutes a significant portion of the harvest, cut from the sides in thick, curling slabs resembling rolls of sod. The flippers and tail are also choice cuts. Some crews store the maktak at the bottom of an ice cellar, layering the deep red meat on top so the flavor of the blood seeps into the fat.

While selling whale meat is prohibited in most of the United States, Iñupiat people and other Alaska Natives can sell it within Native towns for Native use (with the exception of Cook Inlet beluga, which cannot be sold at all). Generally, however, maktak is shared freely, and anyone fortunate enough to receive it can legally enjoy it.

By the end of each season, the crews distribute the majority of their catch. They divide the whales into shares: one might consist of a hearty piece of maktak, some body meat, a tail section, along with a cup of boiled fruit cocktail and a fresh roll. Often, some maktak is boiled and referred to as uunaalik. Some shares are given out shortly after the hunt, while others are reserved for end-of-season festivities like Nalukataq in June.

For many years, the town’s churches were responsible for distributing the shares and organizing communal feasts to celebrate the harvest. Christianity, particularly Presbyterianism, became deeply woven into the fabric of Utqiagvik’s traditions following a period of assimilationist missionary influence that began in the 1890s. Although Sunday attendance has declined, the churches still function as community hubs, with some hosting prayer services for the whalers, acknowledging the cultural paternalism that early missionaries introduced to the community.

The pandemic led the town to implement a drive-thru format. Last Thanksgiving, cars lined up in the snow at Simmons Field downtown to collect their shares from the 16 whales harvested that season, stacked in bags on frost-covered plastic tables. Every family in town, whether Iñupiat or not, can claim a share, with larger portions allotted to those who assisted the crews during the season.

Share days coincide with a spike in kimchi sales at Sam and Lee’s Restaurant, the primary source of kimchi consumed with maktak in and around Utqiagvik. “It sells out quickly when people come to pick up their servings,” Moreno notes. “You need to call ahead if you want it.”

Sam and Lee’s is a Chinese restaurant located at the heart of Utqiagvik, where three main roads intersect. A street sign hangs on the barn-red exterior reading “Sam N Lee’s Pl.”, a gesture of gratitude from the community.

A plastic table blocks the entrance to the dining area, which is closed due to the pandemic. (I visited last July, and as of July 2022, dine-in remains unavailable.) Owner Louise Kim stands behind it to take orders. Framed photos of her four children, some in graduation caps and others in sports uniforms, adorn the wall behind her. “Only kimchi isn't good for your stomach,” she says when I ask for it, insisting on offering me cabbage soup and rice for free. Then she notices I’m only wearing a denim jacket in the 40-degree summer weather. “Come to my house, and I’ll give you some warm clothes,” she insists.

I politely turn down the latter offer, but a few days later, I find myself in Sam and Lee’s dining room as Louise and her husband Hyung Kim set a table laden with plate after plate of food. Louise brings me more cabbage soup and rice, while Hyung heads to the kitchen to prepare Mongolian beef topped with chiles. They then surprise me with a platter of kimchi and uunaalik from the last share. “It’s inevitable,” their 23-year-old daughter Cynthia says with a smile when I protest. “They’re not going to stop feeding you.”

For over 50 years, Sam and Lee’s has been serving Utqiagvik classic dishes like Mongolian beef, kung pao chicken, and other American Chinese favorites. In line with many small-town Chinese restaurants, it also offers steaks, burgers, and diner-style breakfasts featuring eggs and hash browns. You can even order pizza or indulge in $40 king crab platters. The sole Korean dish on the menu is kimchi, categorized under salads, although the restaurant has been Korean-owned for as long as anyone remembers.

Prior to the Kims taking ownership, the restaurant belonged to one of Louise’s cousins, Chong Park. Park’s mother operated another restaurant in Anchorage, where Hyung found work after immigrating to the U.S. due to some challenges in Korea, as Cynthia puts it. In the late 1970s, during a trip to Hawaii, the two men struck up a friendship so strong that Park decided to offer Hyung a position at his restaurant. “They also arranged a marriage for my mom and dad,” Cynthia adds with a smile.

Hyung relocated to Utqiagvik, then known as Barrow, in 1979 to wash dishes at the restaurant. Although his English was limited, he had no trouble making friends, partly because he was always ready to share food and eager to try new offerings. He quickly embraced Iñupiaq foods like maktak and proudly claims to have been the first to pair it with kimchi. “Kimchi has the best flavor,” he explains, noting how its acidity and spice mask the whale's slight fishy aroma. This technique is similar to Korean dishes such as hoe-muchim, a raw fish and vegetable salad dressed with gochujang and sesame oil. “I encouraged people to try it, and now it’s a popular choice,” he remarks.

While Hyung may have created the maktak and kimchi combination, it's likely that Louise played a key role in its popularity. She arrived in Alaska in the early 1980s after marrying Hyung during one of his trips to Korea. They acquired the restaurant following her cousin's relocation to Anchorage. Before moving, Louise lived in a quaint mountain village in South Korea, rich with clean water, fresh vegetables, and a close-knit community. 'Whenever I made something special, I would share it with everyone in the village,' she recalls. 'In a small village, everyone helps one another.' She aimed to replicate that spirit in her new community.

In her early days in Alaska, Louise attended every local wedding, funeral, or birth, bringing containers filled with food. One container always held kimchi—though not the tangy, fermented mugeun-kimchi she prepares for herself; instead, it was a milder version tailored to local preferences. 'I made it not too spicy, a touch sweet, with a bit of vinegar and sesame oil,' she explains. She suggested pairing this kimchi with maktak, a staple at Iñupiat family gatherings. Over time, families began to associate her dish with some of their most meaningful celebrations.

Louise still delivers food to funerals—'Everyone knows, when someone passes, Sam and Lee’s brings food,' she notes—but for celebratory occasions, locals now order kimchi on their own. It has become a favorite among pregnant women. Loyal fans often bring large quantities of kimchi with them when they travel, whether heading to Hawaii or just visiting Anchorage. A two-week trip might require an order of a gallon. 'Anchorage has a lot of Korean cuisine,' Louise remarks, 'but no one makes kimchi like we do at Sam and Lee’s.'

Not everyone in Utqiagvik is a fan of the kimchi trend. Miranda Rexford-Brown, Ruling Elder of the Utqiagvik Presbyterian Church, reflects on the IWC ban and the close call her community faced regarding their hunting rights. She believes whale meat should be enjoyed with moderation and respect, honoring the effort that goes into harvesting it—without additional ingredients.

'My son is 25 years old,' she shares after my visit to the church, the oldest in town, characterized by its white-and-green exterior and a bowhead whale scapula marking its name. 'He told me he visited a friend’s house here, where they served kimchi from Sam and Lee’s alongside frozen maktak. I said, ‘That’s not how you should eat it! I don’t approve, take that away from me!’'

Jerica Niayuq Leavitt, an assistant professor of Iñupiaq Studies at Ilisagvik College in Utqiagvik—the only tribally controlled college in Alaska—believes that it’s possible to prepare niqipiaq in contemporary ways while honoring its roots. For five years, she has taught a course titled Traditional and Contemporary Native Foods Preparation, encouraging students to embrace this philosophy. 'Native food offers a unique kind of fulfillment,' she explains. 'It nourishes your body and your spirit.'

Local hunters, fishers, and foragers supply the ingredients for the class, which includes whale, fish, wildfowl, and edible plants like berries and beach greens. When Ilisagvik shifted to remote learning due to the pandemic two years ago, Leavitt began providing boxes of ingredients—similar to Blue Apron for niqipiaq—delivered to students' homes. This new setup allows her to include students from far-off places like Anchorage and Nome, who receive their ingredient boxes via air freight. Although in-person classes have resumed, distance learning remains an option for students.

For every ingredient, students create both a traditional and a modern dish. With tuttu (caribou), they've made aluuttagaaq, a rich traditional stew, and spicy jerky with hot red chile. When Jillian Moreno took the course, she transformed her piece of tuttu into udon soup. 'Exploring new ideas with niqipiaq is thrilling,' Leavitt says. 'It’s like blending both of our worlds together.'

Kimchi is just one of the new accompaniments that Iñupiat families have embraced alongside whale. Several home cooks whip up a salad with maktak or uunaalik that includes jalapenos, pickles, onion, and pepperoni—balancing the same salt, acid, and heat elements found in Sam and Lee’s kimchi. Stir-fried uunaalik with vegetables and pickled maktak with carrots and peppers are also popular. Many recommend using Kunniak’s Spices, a local seasoning brand by entrepreneur Kunniak Hopson, instead of the traditional salt.

For the people of Utqiagvik, maktak is more than just food. 'Whaling isn't a one-day affair that leaves you with just a block of maktak,' Leavitt explains. 'It's a year-long journey, from the hunters preparing for the hunt, to the effort of whaling crews meticulously cutting various edible parts. It’s about family bonding, community gathering, and serving one another.'

The Kims and their kimchi have been part of the Utqiagvik community for over 40 years. 'Barrow is truly magical. People care for one another,' Louise reflects. 'My hometown is far away, so these are my people, my village, my family.'

Jennifer Fergesen is an accomplished writer and editor, and the author of The Global Carinderia, a deep dive into the Filipino diaspora through the lens of food. Ash Adams is a photojournalist and editor, working across Alaska, California, and New York. Edited by Paola Banchero.