“That does not look delicious,” the man/owner of the Sarang Baang restaurant says to me, all in Korean of course. “Really? Why?” I muddle through the best I can with the little vocabulary I possess. “Look how much sauce you used!” he points, “How many scoops did you put in your soup?” Looking thoroughly embarrassed, I respond, “Three,” which actually means like six when considering the sheer size of each scoop I scoop. “Ugh, it has no flavor. It must taste really bad,” he goes on and then walks away. On the verge of tears, I have no idea what to think or feel. The first time I ate Soo Jae Bi was during my lovemate’s and my first trip to the “main stay” outdoor street market of the city to which we moved. We had no idea what we were ordering, we just saw that other people at this little noodle nook seemed to be enjoying an interesting looking soupy, dumpling sort of noodle bowl. When the lady taking orders asked what we wanted, I merely pointed at a fellow customer’s bowl and said, “Give us two please.” A few minutes later, she brought us our own steaming bowls of dumpling soup, pointed at this vat full of sauce and motioned to put some in our soups. So, we did. Not entirely sure how much to scoop into our bowls, we looked around and tried to make our soups look like the soups around us.

After this one experience, Soo Jae Bi immediately became one of my new favorite Korean meals. I had never had it State-side nor did I really even know what it was. No matter, we looked it up online and it is in fact a sort of dumpling soup. Each bowl is freshly prepared in a seemingly-simple opaque broth. With each order, the cook hand tears pieces of dough off a large mound of already made dough. Then, depending on the restaurant, the dumplings are accompanied by differing ingredients. For instance, the noodle nook where we ate our first bowl consisted simply of green onions, a few zucchini slices, and grass-like greens. The restaurant, Sarang Baang, on the other hand, serves its Soo Jae Bi with slices of potato, zucchini and large green onions, dried shrimps, sesame seeds, finely sliced egg omelet and seaweed, a small mound of crushed peanut, and the grass-like greens. There are more ingredients than broth in the Sarang Baang version whereas the street market style is the opposite. Both fill my mouth with deliciousness, the street market’s version in its purity and Sarang Baang’s in its decadence.

By the time we had our first bowls of the Sarang Baang version, we had traveled to the outdoor street market two more times in order to eat Soo Jae Bi. One day, while walking to the closest grocery store to our apartment, we noticed a sign that read “Sarang Baag Soo Jae Bi.” Curious to see if the place served what we were hoping it would, we tried it. Soon, Sarang Baang’s Soo Jae Bi became Tuesday night dinner. The restaurant opens at 5 PM, Monday through Thursday and Saturday, is sometimes open for lunch on Fridays around 2 PM, closes at 8 PM, is closed all day on Sunday. Every time we eat there, the tiny room of floor-seating-only type tables fills up. The restaurant seats 32 people at full capacity, but there are only eight tables that seat four, which means if two-tops enter, then only 16 people may eat at once, unless couples welcome the sharing of their table with strangers.

Around the time of our sixth or seventh visit was when the man/owner scolded me for my excessive use of the self-directed yet totally necessary sauce. Apparently, Soo Jae Bi requires only one scoop of the self-serve sauce. At the street market, however, the lovemate and I scooped that sauce into our bowls with great enthusiasm as the sauce is a spicy, soy-sauce-based, sesame flavored explosion. Also incredibly simple in its construction, the self-directed addition of the sauce about which the noodle nook lady gestured makes Soo Jae Bi delicious, at least in our minds. The Sarang Baang man, evidently, disagrees. Less is more, I guess, is how the saying goes. As we got up to leave that fateful day, I apologized, “I’m sorry,” I said as I bowed to the Sarang Baang man. His face quickly softened, “No, it’s okay.” And his wife, the chef, appeared at the kitchen’s entrance, smiled and laughed and also reassured me that it was quite alright. Maybe he was worried that I didn’t like their soup cause I had put too much sauce in it? Maybe he felt bad for me since I didn’t know how to eat the soup properly with “the most flavor”? Maybe he just wanted to make me feel better since he could clearly see that I was upset? No matter, we were back the following Tuesday.

“No, no, no. You’re doing it wrong,” shouts the lady as she removes my hand from the ladle, shakes her head and looks at me as though I am crazy. “What?” I inquire. We finally decided to try out, what we’ve been told is absolutely amazing food, Shabu Shabu. Upon a table with a built in gas stove sits a large pot of broth, a large platter of meat, another large platter of various sliced vegetables such as beets, carrots, cucumbers, napa cabbage, red cabbage, shiso leaves, mushroom varieties, etc., a stand filled with round sheets of rice paper for spring rolls, two large bowls (one for each of us) filled with warm rose water, a smaller platter of leafy greens and larger veggies such as potatoes, squash, mushrooms, onions, rice cakes, green cabbage, baby bok choy, green scallions, etc., a bowl of rice topped with sesame seeds, green onions and seaweed, one egg emptied into a tiny bowl, a plate of noodles, a long, skinny multi-sectioned dish that housed five different dipping sauces, and a stainless steel utensil holder filled with a ladle, tongs, food scissors and a large spoon. Having never eaten Shabu Shabu before, all we knew was that the meal consisted of a fondu-esque preparation of meats and vegetables along with fixings for the making of your own spring rolls.

To me, everything seemed pretty straight forward. Throw the meat and the vegetables into the steaming pot of broth that sat on the built-in burner in the middle of the table. Use the ladle to dish ourselves up the deliciousness cooking in the pot when done. Use the tongs and scissors to cut up pieces that may be too large to eat with chopsticks. Dip the rice papers into the rose water to activate, fill with whatever ingredients around the table you please, firstly including the beautifully sliced up vegetables. Poach the egg in the broth. Eat the rice at your own convenience. Add the noodles to the broth, again, at your own leisure. Use dipping sauces accordingly, to your own taste preference.

Half-way through our meal, I decided to poach that delicious looking egg. We had tried the rice and it was particularly sticky. I pulled the amazingly poached egg out of the broth and broke it into the bowl of rice, delicious. This was when she came over, aggressively yanked the ladle out of my hand and said, “No! Stop. Wait. Sit here for a minute.” So I sat, horrified, on the verge of tears. My lovemate just looked at me and shrugged, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just see what she says when she comes back.” A few minutes later, she returned with a fresh egg and another bowl of rice. She sat it down on our table, scooped everything out of our pot of broth and then refilled it with the rest of our meat and vegetables. “Wait. When the meat is done, scoop it out into this bowl and eat it. Do nothing else,” she demanded. I had also been in the midst of building a spring roll wherein I had been putting pieces of the meat inside of it. She promptly removed the pieces of meat that were sitting atop my little pile of veggies that sat atop my activated rice paper and threw them back into the pot as well. “No,” she said while wagging her finger. She wasn’t actually as mean as I feel like I might be making it seem here, but it was terrifying. Shamed and embarrassed, I just sat there staring into the pot of broth while it cooked the rest of our meat and vegetables. I wasn’t sure if I should roll up the rest of my spring roll and eat it, or if I should just sit there and stare at it. Would she return and yell at me yet again for rolling my roll improperly?

A few minutes passed and the lovemate and I decided that we’d just sit there until she returned to serve us. Soon enough, she was back to check in on our status and quickly served us up our meat and vegetables. “Eat this now,” she demanded. So we did. While we ate our meat and vegetables, she dumped the plate of noodles into the broth along with the rest of the leafy greens. As I ate my meat and vegetables, I almost started to cry. “Don’t worry about it, love,” my lovemate soothed. I felt horrible, lost my appetite. A few more minutes later, the lady returned, tossed our noodles a bit more, “Is it delicious?” she asked about the meat and vegetables. “Yes, very flavorful,” we responded, I despondent. Silent, I decided to eat the last spring roll I would eat during this shameful meal.

Again she returned, ladled the noodles from the pot of broth along with, “Eat.” As we began to dig into our noodles, she tossed the bowl of rice into the remainder of the broth. After a bit of time stirring, she cracked the egg into the rice and mixed furiously. “See,” she pointed, “This is what you do. This is very delicious,” she explained as she continued to mix the rice and egg mixture. A few minutes later, as we awkwardly sat eating our noodles, she killed the heat and while patting me on the back smiled, “This is how you do it, okay? It is very delicious this way, yes?” “Yes,” I agreed with a faint smile and a nod. “When you’re done with your noodles, scoop out all of this rice and eat it last, okay?” “Yes.” We did, and it was indeed, quite delicious. Upon leaving, completely stuffed, I bowed and apologized, “I’m sorry.” “No, no, no,” she smiled, “It’s okay. Was it full of flavor?” “Yes, it was very full of flavor,” I admitted, “My belly is very full. Thank you.” “Ah, good, very good. Goodbye!” she along with the other ladies serving the restaurant that day waved as the lovemate and I waved, “Good bye!”

After these two not-so-pleasant experiences, terror began to fill me with every new eating experience we embarked upon. Eating Korean barbeque is pretty straightforward. Order which type of meat you’d like to eat; cook it up on the built-in stove top, eat with accompanying panchan. We even tried Jjim-Dalk, a large platter filled with broiled chicken and vegetables and Galbi Jjim, a large bowl filled with broiled, spicy red meat (pork or beef) with no trouble. Most Korean food is pretty straightforward. After a few months with no embarrassment or mishaps, I began to feel quite comfortable eating whatever we decided to eat that day. Then, we finally found a Saam Gae Taang place, a dish we had been wanting to eat since we first moved here.

We had both eaten Saam Gae Taang before, during separate trips we had each taken to Korea years ago, and we were quite excited to have found a place to get it. Timidly we entered the floor-seating only restaurant. A larger older woman greeted us enthusiastically and quickly beckoned us to, “Come this way please. Two?” As we removed our shoes, she prepared our table in a little private room for eating. It was awesome. “What am I going to bring you?” she asked. “Uh, Saam Gae Taang, give us two please,” the lovemate responded, in Korean like the rest of the quoted text here that’s being roughly translated. To our surprise, she returned seconds later, not with our order but rather with a steel pot full of something that looked delicious and a small vase of ginseng wine. “Serbeesu,” or service, she smiled, meaning that these two items were complementary. Having learned my lessons, since I didn’t know what the meat dish inside the steel pot was, I asked, “What is this?” “Spicy chicken bits,” she said as she pulled out a pair of chopsticks from the chopstick/spoon holder that sits upon every Korean restaurant table. “See, just stir,” as she stirred the meaty pieces in the pot. As instructed, I continued to stir the meat with the chopsticks she handed me. A few minutes later, a large young male carrying a small wooden heat protector, entered our little room, killed the heat, placed the steel pot on the wooden tray, and removed the portable stove from our table. “This will be very delicious,” he informed. Feeling happy and mildly special, we furiously ate and casually sipped our complementary goods.

Then the main event arrived, Saam Gae Taang. Saam Gae Taang consists of a whole, stuffed, small chicken, boiled and bathed in a hot stone pot filled with a ginseng root broth. The small chicken is stuffed with rice and other various flavors. Traditional panchan accompany the dish. Once all of the dozen bowls were strewn about our table, I noticed trouble. The large young male had left a stack of shallow bowl, deeper bowl and a ladle for each of us. The last time I had Saam Gae Taang, this sort of dishware was not part of the experience. “Uh oh,” I looked at my lovemate, “I don’t know what these things are for,” I worried aloud. Unknowingly, we just dug into our bowl of chicken ecstasy.

Minutes later, as expected, the large older woman magically appeared in our room with a little giggle and a smile. She came over to my side of the table, “No,” she said as she told me to put down my chopsticks, grabbed the provided ladle, scooped out half my chicken from the stone pot, placed the chicken in the big bowl stacked inside the shallow bowl, ladled in some broth, pulled a little bone out of the chicken which was then placed in the shallow bowl. “Eat,” she suggested while gesturing to spoon some of the salt that was sitting in a tiny dish into the big bowl she just scooped some chicken into, “It will be very delicious.” “Thank you,” I said, not as embarrassed as the other times since she was so nice about the whole situation. “Oh no, no, just eat!” she giggled as she left the room.

As a Korean raised by white Americans who now lives in Korea, I feel the way my cat must feel having been raised by humans. I remember when my lovemate would try to get our little feline, Tuna, to eat some chicken scraps off a chicken leg or wing. Tuna would just look at the thing, sniff it a little, then look at us as if to say, “How the hell am I supposed to eat this?” Sometimes he would lick the bone a bit or he would just grab it with his mouth and fling the thing across the kitchen. Most of the time, though, he just walked away and meowed at the cabinet that stored his dry food. I often times felt sad that I couldn’t teach Tuna how to be the cat that he was. Without a cat mommy, Tuna has no idea how to do the majority of the things he would need in order to survive all alone as a cat. Sure, being the cat that he is, he would figure out how to survive if he were ever left to his own devices, but it would not be a fun journey, he would probably be hungrier than he’s ever been before. This is how I feel sometimes, now that I live in the country of my birth.

My white American parents taught me how to be a white American, since that is what they know. Granted, I was very fortunate to have parents who embraced my cultural heritage with frequent trips to the nearest city with a Korean market and Korean restaurants. They tried. They actually tried really hard to help me be a Korean. But without their actually being Korean, they could only do so much. Since neither of my parents knew how to make Korean food, we ate at Korean restaurants, which fifteen years ago, consisted mainly of bibimbap and barbeque. My mom did try to make bibimbap at home one time, and it was pretty good. And my brother (also Korean but not biologically related) and I made sushi, often (not Korean but you get the gist). Once a free adult who could easily explore the realm of her Korean heritage, I began to learn how to cook a few Korean dishes and ate Korean food, often. But without the direct guidance of a Korean person, I was still at a loss in America.

Every year during my childhood, the whole family would attend Korean Heritage Camp at a beautiful YMCA location in the mountains. There we would hear Korean music, learn Korean traditions, see Korean people, wear traditional Korean clothes, and eat Korean food. When I look back on my life, I feel incredibly lucky to have such involved parents, parents who cared a lot about where I came from. Despite this extreme gratitude and thankfulness, I can’t help but feel a little sad about all of the things I still don’t know about being Korean. Culturally, I lack the vast majority of the basics to being Korean, the little things like how to eat the most prominent types of food, carrying culture, familial respect, the language. The weird part, however, is that so many things that I thought used to be my own weird quirks are actually telling of my innate Korean-ness, like my lifelong affinity for removing one’s shoes at the door, sitting on the floor while everyone else preferred the couch or sitting cross legged on chairs as if I were on the floor, my organizational skills, my love of notebooks and pens, and my general appreciation for clean feet.

Even though I was brought up in a white American household, there are aspects of me that are so obviously Korean. I used to think that these were the things that made me unique, but what I realize now is that these sorts of things are the things that make me Korean, thusly, unique in American white culture but very normal in Korean culture. Still not fully knowing how I feel about my lack of Korean cultural knowledge in so many areas in one hand while in the other recognizing the behaviors within myself that are so apparently Korean, I too often times feel extremely embarrassed when my lack of knowledge reveals me as an American in a Korean’s skin, and yet feel so at home because I appear to fit right in, here, in Korea.

[View the corresponding depiction, “Hyphenated Nationality”]

Experience the rest of Metric.Skeptic Issue [00.03.00]

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