Dear Friends and Family,
Pavlovian conditioning works and I'm walking proof. Here in Daegu, as grey winds blast deadened leaves from the trees, I have been acutely aware that in the States “the holiday season” is in full swing and I have been tortured, tortured, by visions of tasty roasted turkey, browned in the oven, soft stuffing, steaming mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, cranberries sweetened with oranges, and pumpkin pie. I have found myself struggling to reconcile my deep desire to explore while the call to my roots, to my traditions, to my family grows stronger. They say – and I don’t know who they are – that the “holidays are the toughest time to be away.” And oh, yeah, I can confirm that. Perhaps it is my absence, perhaps it is Korea, or perhaps it is the combination, but this year I fully understood that the importance of Thanksgiving is the re-visiting one’s roots and holding hands with family. I lusted for turkey – and I cried for my loved ones.
Real, roasted turkey is an almost impossible commodity here in Korea. Believe me, I’ve looked – which has become a lesson unto itself. In the States, we take the flood of cultures for granted, especially in the food arena. Grocery stores cater to multi-ethnicity while countless restaurants peddle fast food, American “down-home” food, fusion cuisine, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, French, Italian, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, Indian, and Thai foods and so much more. In contrast, Korea is an insular, self-sufficient country that adores its own food and is convinced of its cuisine’s healthiness (and holiness) to the point of being inhospitable to other cuisines. While a smattering of Japanese and Chinese restaurants can be found in Daegu, other Asian foods, such as Thai or Indian, are rare. And I’ve so far found the Western food here crap: McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Dunkin’ Donuts are fairly common and while they are somewhat popular, I suppose that their presence only serves to enhance the Korean notion that Asian food – Korean food – is vastly superior.
Happily, I’ve learned a lot about Korean food since that first time that I peeled grapes. Although I continue hold to the Korean cultural norm of not dining alone, I have become relatively comfortable eating at Korean restaurants. A typical restaurant experience: we walk through the restaurant doors, take off our shoes and leave them in a memorable spot. Next we seat ourselves at a table that lies low to the ground and usually has a gas burner of at its center. We sit cross-legged on cushions and immediately, a tray full of small bowls is brought to the table filled with kimchi (naturally), trays of leafy greens (lettuce or sesame leaves), pickled vegetables, bean sprouts, steamed green vegetables, and perhaps tiny dried silver fish salad, an almost clear soup, Korean potato salad with pumpkin dressing, and there is the potential for countless other side dishes. Interestingly, despite the ubiquitousness of rice in Korean cuisine, one must usually request rice. Just after the bowls are placed on the table, we diners lean over each other and pluck desirable bites while for the main event, the center gas burner is next lit. Although soups can be the main event, their ingredients tipped into boiling broth and simmered to completion, the most common “entrée” appears to be “ssaaam” – my personal abbreviation for the dish’s soy bean paste called ssamjang.
A plate of raw bacon-like pork and a bowl of sliced garlic is proffered by the waitress just before she starts the cooking process by stretching the meat onto the already hot grill. The meat sizzles and spits and cooks, the garlic slices become golden and from there, one diner takes over supervising the meat – turning it over, moving it from the hot center to the warm part of the grill, using kitchen scissors to slice the meat into bite-sized pieces. When the meat is cooked, diners take a lettuce or sesame leaf in one hand, place a piece of meat into the leaf, add garlic, the bean curd sauce (ssamjang), and perhaps pickled radish, rice or any other side dish that appeals. Creativity is its own reward and when you have assembled your mouthful, you fold the edges of the leaf into a package (if you are really skilled you use your chopsticks for this) and place the delicious roll into your mouth. Variations to this “ssaaaam” dish are endless – varying the meats (i.e. using marinated meats such as beef bulgogi) or chicken is possible, as is exchanging the fresh leaves for seaweed. What remains constant is the cooking method, the wrapping, and the ssamjang sauce. Yum.
Korean food, rightly has the reputation of being spicy hot; however (knock on wood), I have yet to eat anything that has been too hot for me. This has surprised me – my history of tolerating hot food has been spotty - but have come to believe that Thailand proved a spice tolerance builder for me.
One thing that continues to touch and amuse me, is that everyone here seems to worry about what I eat. Koreans are borderline as bad as Italian matriarchs in this regard. The other morning, my alarm didn’t go off and I awoke 10 minutes before my appearance at school was required. Scrambled and frizzy, I just barely made it on time where there was gentle laughter and then concern about what I had had for breakfast (I had an apple and yogurt in my bag). And to this day, I continue to surprise students and fellow teachers alike when I place a fair portion of kimchi on my metal tray. Students will ask, “Laura, do you like kimchi?” And I smile innocently and reply: “Of course. Do you like kimchi?” To a student, they look surprised and laugh and say “Of course.” Here in Korea, I find myself constantly assuring Koreans that (a) no, their food is not too hot for me (although I’m careful not to dare them to make it hotter – they could) and (b) yes, I really like their food.
Although I have become fairly comfortable with Korean food, every meal continues to have an element of surprise to it. I love the constant surprise and I love the food; however, a few weeks ago, I discovered that I'm also getting sick of Korean food. Never in my life have I had so many continual meals of the same ethnicity. I thrive on a variety of cuisines and my craving for non-Korean food has resulted in my making conscious ventures to western restaurants (although I still have yet to break down and eat at McDee’s or the like) and buying a membership to the place with the most western goods in the city: Costco. I cannot tell you how badly I miss decent pasta sauce (am even having a hard time making it myself due to inferior cans of tomatoes), fresh motzerella, sweet basil, turkey, good sandwiches, the ability to buy “foreign” foods in grocery stores, and the ability to bake at home. Even more than all of this, I miss the ability to go to restaurant for whatever kind of cuisine I’m in the mood for. That said, I have much more exploration to do – and I am optimistic that I’ll find a few acceptable non-Korean alternatives.
Getting back to Korean food, I am developing favorites. I adore kimchi – especially when fried on the ssaaam grill. But I have developed two favorite meals. My rumored favorite is bibimbap: a bowl of vegetables, topped with rice and red chili sauce and mixed. As a girl who does not even deign to mar her salads with salad dressing, I was surprised to find myself scooping warm rice onto a perfectly nice raw salad – but one bite was all it took to convince regarding the brilliance of this dish. And when I’m that dreadful combination of hungry + lazy, I walk myself 5 blocks to the local food market. I order myself some variation of diibuki (rice-cakes in an alarmingly bright red chili sauce with tofu and vegetables), pajon (green onion pancakes), another jon (pancake – with variations like cabbage or shredded pumpkin), noodles in sausage casings, kimbap (resembles sushi rolls), and sweet rice cakes. I’m beginning to have low, low level conversations with vendors as they place each dish in a clear plastic to go bag and then double bag my order in a black bag with handles. I drag my purchases home, spill the diibuki into a bowl, grab a metal pair of chopsticks, pour myself some barley water (this replaces water in my little home as I still haven’t found a Korean water that I like). I place my own low table on the bed, arrange the food on top of it and turn on the Daily Show. I end up full and perfectly happy to be dining in Korea.
Bon Appetite!
Laura
Pavlovian conditioning works and I'm walking proof. Here in Daegu, as grey winds blast deadened leaves from the trees, I have been acutely aware that in the States “the holiday season” is in full swing and I have been tortured, tortured, by visions of tasty roasted turkey, browned in the oven, soft stuffing, steaming mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, cranberries sweetened with oranges, and pumpkin pie. I have found myself struggling to reconcile my deep desire to explore while the call to my roots, to my traditions, to my family grows stronger. They say – and I don’t know who they are – that the “holidays are the toughest time to be away.” And oh, yeah, I can confirm that. Perhaps it is my absence, perhaps it is Korea, or perhaps it is the combination, but this year I fully understood that the importance of Thanksgiving is the re-visiting one’s roots and holding hands with family. I lusted for turkey – and I cried for my loved ones.
Real, roasted turkey is an almost impossible commodity here in Korea. Believe me, I’ve looked – which has become a lesson unto itself. In the States, we take the flood of cultures for granted, especially in the food arena. Grocery stores cater to multi-ethnicity while countless restaurants peddle fast food, American “down-home” food, fusion cuisine, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, French, Italian, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, Indian, and Thai foods and so much more. In contrast, Korea is an insular, self-sufficient country that adores its own food and is convinced of its cuisine’s healthiness (and holiness) to the point of being inhospitable to other cuisines. While a smattering of Japanese and Chinese restaurants can be found in Daegu, other Asian foods, such as Thai or Indian, are rare. And I’ve so far found the Western food here crap: McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Dunkin’ Donuts are fairly common and while they are somewhat popular, I suppose that their presence only serves to enhance the Korean notion that Asian food – Korean food – is vastly superior.
Happily, I’ve learned a lot about Korean food since that first time that I peeled grapes. Although I continue hold to the Korean cultural norm of not dining alone, I have become relatively comfortable eating at Korean restaurants. A typical restaurant experience: we walk through the restaurant doors, take off our shoes and leave them in a memorable spot. Next we seat ourselves at a table that lies low to the ground and usually has a gas burner of at its center. We sit cross-legged on cushions and immediately, a tray full of small bowls is brought to the table filled with kimchi (naturally), trays of leafy greens (lettuce or sesame leaves), pickled vegetables, bean sprouts, steamed green vegetables, and perhaps tiny dried silver fish salad, an almost clear soup, Korean potato salad with pumpkin dressing, and there is the potential for countless other side dishes. Interestingly, despite the ubiquitousness of rice in Korean cuisine, one must usually request rice. Just after the bowls are placed on the table, we diners lean over each other and pluck desirable bites while for the main event, the center gas burner is next lit. Although soups can be the main event, their ingredients tipped into boiling broth and simmered to completion, the most common “entrée” appears to be “ssaaam” – my personal abbreviation for the dish’s soy bean paste called ssamjang.
A plate of raw bacon-like pork and a bowl of sliced garlic is proffered by the waitress just before she starts the cooking process by stretching the meat onto the already hot grill. The meat sizzles and spits and cooks, the garlic slices become golden and from there, one diner takes over supervising the meat – turning it over, moving it from the hot center to the warm part of the grill, using kitchen scissors to slice the meat into bite-sized pieces. When the meat is cooked, diners take a lettuce or sesame leaf in one hand, place a piece of meat into the leaf, add garlic, the bean curd sauce (ssamjang), and perhaps pickled radish, rice or any other side dish that appeals. Creativity is its own reward and when you have assembled your mouthful, you fold the edges of the leaf into a package (if you are really skilled you use your chopsticks for this) and place the delicious roll into your mouth. Variations to this “ssaaaam” dish are endless – varying the meats (i.e. using marinated meats such as beef bulgogi) or chicken is possible, as is exchanging the fresh leaves for seaweed. What remains constant is the cooking method, the wrapping, and the ssamjang sauce. Yum.
Korean food, rightly has the reputation of being spicy hot; however (knock on wood), I have yet to eat anything that has been too hot for me. This has surprised me – my history of tolerating hot food has been spotty - but have come to believe that Thailand proved a spice tolerance builder for me.
One thing that continues to touch and amuse me, is that everyone here seems to worry about what I eat. Koreans are borderline as bad as Italian matriarchs in this regard. The other morning, my alarm didn’t go off and I awoke 10 minutes before my appearance at school was required. Scrambled and frizzy, I just barely made it on time where there was gentle laughter and then concern about what I had had for breakfast (I had an apple and yogurt in my bag). And to this day, I continue to surprise students and fellow teachers alike when I place a fair portion of kimchi on my metal tray. Students will ask, “Laura, do you like kimchi?” And I smile innocently and reply: “Of course. Do you like kimchi?” To a student, they look surprised and laugh and say “Of course.” Here in Korea, I find myself constantly assuring Koreans that (a) no, their food is not too hot for me (although I’m careful not to dare them to make it hotter – they could) and (b) yes, I really like their food.
Although I have become fairly comfortable with Korean food, every meal continues to have an element of surprise to it. I love the constant surprise and I love the food; however, a few weeks ago, I discovered that I'm also getting sick of Korean food. Never in my life have I had so many continual meals of the same ethnicity. I thrive on a variety of cuisines and my craving for non-Korean food has resulted in my making conscious ventures to western restaurants (although I still have yet to break down and eat at McDee’s or the like) and buying a membership to the place with the most western goods in the city: Costco. I cannot tell you how badly I miss decent pasta sauce (am even having a hard time making it myself due to inferior cans of tomatoes), fresh motzerella, sweet basil, turkey, good sandwiches, the ability to buy “foreign” foods in grocery stores, and the ability to bake at home. Even more than all of this, I miss the ability to go to restaurant for whatever kind of cuisine I’m in the mood for. That said, I have much more exploration to do – and I am optimistic that I’ll find a few acceptable non-Korean alternatives.
Getting back to Korean food, I am developing favorites. I adore kimchi – especially when fried on the ssaaam grill. But I have developed two favorite meals. My rumored favorite is bibimbap: a bowl of vegetables, topped with rice and red chili sauce and mixed. As a girl who does not even deign to mar her salads with salad dressing, I was surprised to find myself scooping warm rice onto a perfectly nice raw salad – but one bite was all it took to convince regarding the brilliance of this dish. And when I’m that dreadful combination of hungry + lazy, I walk myself 5 blocks to the local food market. I order myself some variation of diibuki (rice-cakes in an alarmingly bright red chili sauce with tofu and vegetables), pajon (green onion pancakes), another jon (pancake – with variations like cabbage or shredded pumpkin), noodles in sausage casings, kimbap (resembles sushi rolls), and sweet rice cakes. I’m beginning to have low, low level conversations with vendors as they place each dish in a clear plastic to go bag and then double bag my order in a black bag with handles. I drag my purchases home, spill the diibuki into a bowl, grab a metal pair of chopsticks, pour myself some barley water (this replaces water in my little home as I still haven’t found a Korean water that I like). I place my own low table on the bed, arrange the food on top of it and turn on the Daily Show. I end up full and perfectly happy to be dining in Korea.
Bon Appetite!
Laura
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