Two snapshots of eating poke in Hawai’i: I am on Kaua’i. A local friend has sent me to Ishihara Market in Waimea for poke, but it’s late and there’s only one kind left. It’s wasabi poke—fine by me—so I buy a quarter pound, a bag of tortilla chips, and a six-pack of beer. I go back to my bungalow and enjoy my feast while the sun drops into the Pacific Ocean.
Another trip, I’m standing next to George Kahumoku, the slack-guitar master, in the kitchen of an old plantation house in Pahala on the south end of Hawai’i Island. I’ve been at a music camp all week; Uncle George is here for the weekend luau. We’re talking about poke, and when he finds out I haven’t tried his, he whacks a kid on the arm and commands, “Eh, go get her some of that poke I made.” Soon I’m feasting on some of the freshest poke I’ve ever tasted.