It's a daunting bit of food. Chili paste and pickled, sometimes fermented cabbage don't necessarily emit a "come hither" aroma for most Western noses. I was cowardly in the States, and the jar my father solicited from an elderly Korean lady went uneaten until mom got fed up with the smell leaking through the lid and threw it out. More than once I took the jar out, peered inside, swished the contents, prodded them with a fork, but never got any further.
Here on the peninsula, my courage was bolstered. At the orientation meals, I dutifully chowed down on any and every "ban-chan" (the many small side-dishes presented at most meals) in sight, most of them involving some combination of cabbage, chili paste, sprouts, radish, spinach, something that seemed like long stems of broccoli without the frilly bits, and all manner of indeterminate edibles. It was hit-or-miss, with the occasional big win; cold sauteed spinach with just a little vinegar and spice to it, or shaved radish slivers glazed, almost candied in a salty, sweet coating.
But I never anticipated my feelings for kimchi would grow as they have. My first good experience with it was at a sam-gyap-sal restaurant, where it's laid strategically on a tilted griddle, downhill from sizzling pork slices so that it absorbs the trickling grease as the cabbage becomes tender and sweet and the chili paste mellows. Awakened to its potential, my respect for the nation's staple and my willingness to endure it cold grew. I'll often add it to a bowl of soup or combine it with a chopstick full of some rice dish with usually favorable results.
Kimchi aside, the cuisine here is reliably spellbinding, and I find myself spending days devoting myself to a single dish. One particularly unhealthy span included three suppers of sam-gyap-sal in as many nights. Another week was dedicated to sundubu (lit: "soft tofu"), a spicy tofu and clam soup which I tried at three different restaurants and successfully made at home.
Other remarkable meals include:
Dduk mandu guk: a chicken broth soup with dduk (rice compressed into little dumplings) and mandu (dumplings stuffed with pork, vegetables or kimchi and seasoned with that distinctive spice I associate with Thai pot stickers- ginger?). Served piping hot in a huge bowl for a little under four dollars.
Bibimbap: a rice and vegetable dish served with a fried egg on top. The yolk, when broken and mixed with the ingredients, gives the rice a cohesiveness and helps the flavor of the sesame oil linger on the tongue.
Omer rice: fried rice with vegetables and a fried egg, served with sugary ketchup.
Street toast: many food vendors will ladle a spoonful of whipped egg and slivered cabbage, onion and carrot onto a liberally buttered griddle, add Spam and American cheese on request, and spatula the fried result into a toast sandwich that I've never paid more than a dollar for. Once, the vendor added ketchup and sugar from a large shaker. Stunning.
Subway waffles: a food stand in the subway station on the way to work sells waffles already made, reheated in the iron, then folded in half with buttercream and apple syrup in the middle, for eighty cents. One of these in the morning usually ensures that I'll have a good day at work.
I'm sure I haven't scratched the surface of the heartbreakingly good meals this country will offer me during my employment. It is an exciting chapter.
THE SUNDUBU ESCAPADE:
Ingredients: small clams, green onion, enoki mushrooms, uncurdled tofu, chili powder, an egg, garlic, salt, sesame oil, soy sauce, soybean oil
Enoki mushrooms clump together at the base. They get tender in the broth, but stay a little resistant, and give a little crunch to the soup
The packet of clams- rinsed and soaked before going in, full-shell. They give the broth a good, oily foundation.
