Dat Barbeque Tho

Crispy pork belly is the best!

  

Long before we found out we were moving to the ROK, we fell in love with Korean barbeque. My husband and I were invited to the Honey Pig in Annandale, Virginia, for dinner with a friend. I loved that she introduced us to this cuisine, because barbeque became a touchstone for me. It was one of the constants I could revisit when I wanted something familiar or comforting, but without resorting to the usual American fast food suspects. Among our preparations for the move, we took classes to acquaint ourselves with the language and culture. I was convinced that my little arsenal of food words and child-level conversation skills would get me through the hefty language barrier. Of course, I was wrong. 

For those of you who have never had it, Korean barbeque is closer to art than science. First, you determine the meat: pork, beef, or chicken. Pork belly is the best, followed closely by bulgogi, which is marinated beef sirloin. Then, a hibachi-sized bucket of charcoal is deposited in a designated hole in the table. A platter or two of uncooked meat is delivered to your table, along with tongs and a pair of scissors. That’s right, you grill the meat on grate over the charcoal in the table. The tongs are for maneuvering and flipping, while the scissors turn slabs of meat into bite-size pieces of deliciousness. If you don’t know what you’re doing, some no-nonsense waitress will more than likely take over. I recommend taking advantage of the golden opportunity to establish your indoor grill mastery. Demonstrating that you can, indeed, be trusted to turn over a few pieces of meat despite your misfortune of not being Korean scores major points.

Bulgogi and onions, turning delicious before my eyes.

As a foodie, I was sure as hell going to cook my own dinner. I’ve only had the tongs taken away a couple of times, usually by pushier waitresses who grew impatient with my technique. I like to let the meat build up a nice brown crust before cutting the larger pieces. This seems to be the opposite of what you’re supposed to do, at least in some places. Up against the language barrier, at times there's nothing to do but sit back and let a middle-aged woman cook your dinner for you. Still, nothing beats that first crisp, salty bite of pork belly. Wrapped in a leaf of lettuce – please, no iceberg – and smeared with a little gochugaru paste, the lowly belly of the pig soars to delectable culinary heights. Seriously, it’s delicious. 

Banchan galore, with two types of kimchi.

The meat is the star of the show, but the banchan (side dishes) make the meal. Everything from the national dish, kimchi, to potato salad can show up at the table. The Korean people we’ve talked to, both in the ROK and US, have a general consensus that if the banchan are not good, the place is not good. I think they might be right. After conducting research over the last year and a half, we’ve come up with a proven method for judging a restaurant. If the place looks like a chicken joint but has a ton of tiny dishes on the table, it’s almost guaranteed to have good food. 

Until the next post, keep laughing, learning new things, and eating good food.