Last night I stopped off at A.O.C in Chungdam for some wine with friends.
A.O.C is a 1920’s style art deco wine bar and restaurant. Palm trees intersect dining areas; a back room sports a Moroccan theme complete with metallic flecked silks and low cushions. The main dining area provides elegance with dark wood tables and cream leather dining chairs. Everything from Pink Martini to Madeline Peyroux lightly wafts through the speakers. I reviewed it a couple years ago for the free community magazine KScene.
Earlier this week the New York Times posted an article concerning the most summery of Korean Summer dishes, naeng myeon.
Interviewed by Elaine Louie, restaurateur Kim Jung Hyun disclosed the delicious fact that his first serving of naeng myeon (at the tender age of 3) changed his life. He went on to open five naeng myeon restaurants in Korea, Paraguay, and NYC.
Prior to moving to Korea, only ice cream and smoothies made it into my culinary lexicon of cool dishes. Yet naeng myeon’s seductive and delicate beef broth contrasting with the thin slice of ripe, succlent pear won me over from the first slurp. It is a curious mesh of ingredients that pulls you in bite after bite, as you desperately scramble to place your finger on just what is so addictive.
Kim’s secret to longevity (now retired and a cool 71)? Three bowls a day, every day.
I love naeng myeon too, but perhaps not to this extent. Now that the monsoon is near it’s end and the first days of “bok,” or the dog days of summer, have passed, chilled noodle dished are about all I can consider for lunch and dinner. Maybe I’ll make it to 51.
Naeng Myeon- a cold soup of thin buckwheat noodles in a cloudy broth served with a crown of seasoned beef, sliced crisp Asian pear, a shaving of lightly pickled radish topped with a hard-boiled egg. Condiments like vinegar and mustard are served on the side.
Naeng Guk Su- a cold noodle soup in a kimchi water broth served with sliced fried egg and slices of beef.
Kimchi Naeng Myeon- a chilled noodle soup chock full of kimchi. Do not try kissing anyone after eating!
Memil Guk Su- cooked buckwheat noodles chilled and served with a dried fish and seaweed broth.
Pyeongyang-Naeng Myeon- the brother of naeng myeon, this version with a beef and radish broth originates from the N. Korean capital of Pyeongyang.
Dongchimi Naeng Myeon- a non-spicy version of the kimchi naeng myeon made with white kimchi and a generous helping of plain old water.
Ham-heung Naeng Myeon- cold chewy sweet potato noodles topped with a fiery chili sauce. Also hails from N. Korea, the region of, wait for it, Ham Heung. Did you already guess that?
Bibim Naeng Myeon- a lunch time favorite of mine sees the same chilled chewy noodles topped with chili sauce and the fantastic four; sliced pear, radish, seasoned meat, and a halved hard boiled egg. Be sure you have a nice large glass of water by your side for this one.
Hoe Naeng Myeon- love sashimi? Chilled buckwheat noodles topped with a fiery sauce and adorned with raw or fermented skate (white fish).
Where to eat in Seoul? Most of the Korean “diners,” Kimbap chunguk, Kim bap nara, and so on, have a wide collection of chilled noodle dished. Look for patrons slurping from large silver bowls and say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
For a restaurants specializing in buckwheat noodles, head to Hyegyo in Sinsa-dong.
The Nanxiang chain originated 100 years ago in Shanghai. Kevin and I popped in over our long weekend, and in a fit of gastronomic hedonism, we ordered steamer after steamer of addictively delicious xiaolongbao (soup dumplings). Our favorite? The crab soup dumplings. Glorious meatballs of pure salty sweet crab in a crabby broth; 5 USD for six.
Fast forward to last week. (Can we do that? I guess we can It is my blog.) I gathered a discerning and tough crew to sample what the Seoul branch could offer. Actually, it became obvious as they managed to clear all three kimchi sides before anything arrived, that their toughness was a cover for their hunger.
Let me start with the sad fact, there were no crab xiaolongbao.
Second sad fact, the basic pork soup dumpling robbed my wallet of 8,000won (9 USD) for six. Ouch.
On the brighter side we were highly entertained by the performance of the mandarin collar clad servers outfitted with clip microphones and earpieces.
Anyhow, the review says it all. Read it and eat it.
Haggis never entered my mind as one of those gross out foods that people from across the pond ate. It was, rather, a vegetarian tale from the crypt. Like the Scared Straight television show in the 1970’s where troubled children experienced first hand the horrors of prison to scare them away from crime, telling the tale of Haggis was a vegetarian’s way to pull already jittery eaters into the land of pulses and veggies. More effective when told around a campfire with a flashlight.
I mean really, entrails encapsulated in a sheep’s stomach?
Having recently returned from a trip to Glasgow, our friends Gill and Tony invited Kevin and I over to sample the haggis Tony had smuggled though Korean customs in his suitcase; one vegetarian, and one the real McCoy.
Like Vogue columnist and “The Man Who Ate Everything” author Jeffery Steingarten, who “decided the same day he was appointed food critic at Vogue that he should get rid of his food phobias, by eating all the things he didn’t like to see if his opinion would change.” I too have decided to revisit foods that would normally cause me to wiggle at the thought.
Wine and coffee certainly weren’t part of my repertoire when I was twelve; why not give things like mushrooms and artichokes a shot too?
Haggis though was going to be a test. Could I stand up to this new creed?
Earlier in the day Gill had thoughtfully sent a link to a Haggis site to familiarize myself with my dinner.
Here are some facts about Haggis courtesy of MacSween
• MacSween is unable to send haggis to the following destinations due to import restrictions: USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China, Switzerland.
• Haggis is made of lamb, beef, oatmeal, onions, and spices.
• Haggis is one of Scotland’s most celebrated products.
• Poet Robert Burns elevated the status of Haggis with a poem, and on January 25, the anniversary of the poet’s birthday, people allover Scotland enjoy a meal of haggis.
• Haggis is ceremoniously stabbed.
• Visitors to Scotland often think that haggis is an animal, and are curious to know how they are hunted.
So this is what I’ve been dreading? This, something I’d expect to be on an episode of the stunt game show “Fear Factor” or gonzo eater Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations”? Please, haggis looked no more loathsome than a hotdog.
Enter Gill and Tony’s apartment, a warm space in the drizzly Korean Monsoon. A lovely rustic soup with pasta and colorful veggies emitted homey aromas. A loaf of real sourdough bread and a generous nub of butter graced the table.
After a glorious first course the haggis was brought from the oven. Gill and Tony stabbed it with a knife and, for the amusement of Kevin and I, recited the Burns poem (or what they could remember of it).
Scooping the sausage from the casing Tony informed us, “It’s the only sausage where you don’t eat the casing.”
“Well, there you have it.” I thought, “What’s the big deal. I can do this.”
Breaking me from my thoughts, Gill asked if I would like to try the meat version.
“Sure,” I say, “if its only lamb and beef, I can handle that.”
“It is lamb and beef,” Tony hesitated. “But it is the stomachs, the guts, all the parts that aren’t normally used.”
Suddenly the room became a little warmer, and my heart began to beat a little faster. Is this why MacSween can’t import haggis to the States? The website didn’t mention guts.
Slowly breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I head my voice. “Well, I’ll just try a bite.”
What. What? Did I just say that? Really? It must have been the wine talking.
Standing in front of the stove Gill gracefully ladled he most comfortable of comfort dishes, a sweet mash of carrots and sweet potatoes that was stunning, and classic mashed potatoes, onto our plates. I instantly decided to go for those first.
Composed of legumes, nuts, oatmeal, onions, and spices, vegetarian haggis, introduced in 1984 and now approved by the Vegetarian Society, was pleasantly toothsome. On the plate it was more akin to a grain pilaf than a fake meat product. If they can ship it to Korea, I plan to buy more.
But here we arrive at the main event, the real haggis: the cold sweat inducing, stomach stuffed with innards. Like an out of body experience, I watched the spoon near my mouth. On autopilot the chewing motions began. “Don’t think about the stomach, don’t think about the livers.” I silently murmured to myself.
Puffed oats, provided a contrasting texture for the smooth, almost paste like meats. Spices popped with heat, and before I knew to do otherwise, an opinion was forming in my head.
I liked it.
Like a ghost story that is exposed for it’s obvious flaws. Haggis has come round; nothing to squirm about, nothing for a vegetarian to fear. Next January 25, if you find yourself without a reason to celebrate, grab some haggis, and a book of Burns.
My dad sent this picture of me fixing up a fried egg sandwich circa 1982. Back then my dad and I tag teamed our favorite snack. My job, to slather copious amounts of miracle whip on fluffy slices on wonder bread, while big daddy J seared eggs in pats of butter.
The egg ladies of Seoul ain’t got nutthin on the Williams’ family fried egg sammy.
My review of Buddha’s Belly ran in the Korea Times over the weekend, and wow, did I almost fail you.
It is a general rule of mine (and most restaurant reviewers) to eat at a restaurant at least twice before writing it up (or down as the case may be). This way we can be sure that dishes that were amazing the first time are just as good the next, or that inconsistent service once was just an anomaly (or not).
I have eaten at the tiny Buddha’s Belly many times and liked it fine, but my first meal at the new location was enough to wish I’d never set foot in the joint. Of the three dishes we ordered only the chicken and cashews rose above mediocrity. The other two, simply weren’t worth my hard earned cash.
The service staff, though somewhat helpful, lazily answered my questions, mis-identified ingredients, and met every query with an accusatory, “Why?”
With an acrid review forming in my head I couldn’t, in good conscience give a favorable write up.
I almost didn’t go back to try it again (I’m not reimbursed for my meals, only paid for the review). But I did, and man, what a difference a week made.
Not only were the staff incredibly more professional, but the menu had grown twice in size. Questions concerning recommendations and ingredients were thoughtfully answered, and we were warned that our appetizer would take a “long time to prepare.”
I had a great meal, which I hope translates to my first visit being a glitch. The Panang curry is the “cat’s pajamas,” as some like to say, as is the chicken satay, and the chicken with cashews.
So, readers, go to Buddha’s belly and eat in good faith, because, it is simply good.
Earlier this year I joined eGullet, the food forum for people with nothing but time on their hands and food on their brains.
Normally, I am not a fan of forums. Anyone who has spent any time on one is familiar with the social scene. The know-it-all who post only to hear the sound of their keys click, the cheerleader who consistently says things like “yeah, me too.” Or “that’s so awesome,” no matter the previous postings. They angry guy who only posts rants generally related to the topic he is posting in, but totally off base (in reality). Every once in a while you’ll run across an intelligible post, generally a question you would have put forth yourself. Finding the answer requires more scrolling through pages of the cheerleader angry guy and the know-it-all. Nothing I have time for.
eGullet, alternatively, is full of kind, mature people, careful to not to step on each other’s toes. In the competitive world of cooking and, now thanks to adventure writers, eating, eGullet is like a high-school counselor’s office: a safe place to share your insecurities, complain about the popular kids, and ask questions.
I figured I’d join, generate interest for my blog with my witty postings concerning Seoul’s dining scene and other tales from my passport. Meanwhile, editors of famous food and wine magazines, so impressed by my prose, would contact me begging for me to come work for them. I’d move to New York City, become the assistant to the editor at a aforementioned magazine, where I’d go on to write a tell all novel titled “The Devil uses Henckels” that would later be optioned for a movie. I’d be played by Maggie Gyllenhaal.
Reality wise, I have been introduced to crazy food items in the Japan thread that I am simultaneously excited and repulsed by. The first food item to cross from online to on-the-dinner-table has been natto.
Natto, a fermented soybean product, is protein rich and ample with medical benefits, and generally part of a healthy Japan breakfast. It is not, a neutral food, you either love it or hate it. Particular gross out points are rewarded for its pungent, earthy smell and tacky consistency.
Pinpointing the origins of natto are tricky. Some say it was created in China during the Zhou Dynasty (1134 BC-246BC) while Japanese historians argue natto was present in Japan during the Jomon period (10,000 BC-300 BC). Urban legend has it that warriors were boiling up some soybeans, preparing for the night’s meal when they were attacked by surprised. A solider threw the beans into a straw bag and fled. The bag was opened a few days later, the beans eaten, and the consensus was good.
Today, soybeans are washed then steamed, mixed with spices, and the rice straw bacterium Bacillus natto, then fermented for 24 hours. The results yield polystyrene containers, holding 2oz of the sticky beans, a sachet of soy sauce and mustard.
eGullet’s members provided me with various ways to try natto. From the standard, atop rice with a raw quail egg, to the creative, a natto and cheese sandwich.
Before having built up the courage to try, I asked around work. One teacher made a face not unlike a toddler eating a brussel sprout when I mentioned Cheon Guk Jang (Korean for Natto). She knew of its medical benefits (Vitamin b12, fights cancer, good for digestive health), and recommended trying it in a powdered form, that when mixed with soymilk is flavorless. An older staff member nodded with silent approval when I said I’d purchased a small container.
The time: Monday night, 9 pm. The place: my kitchen, Seoul Korea.
I tried to be optimistic. “This doesn’t smell so bad.” I said as I pulled back the plastic coating.
“Christ. Yes it does.” My husband retorted. Waving his hand in front of his nose.
The quail yolk, a dot of wasabi, a good tablespoon of natto, and a splash of soy sauce, just couldn’t win any fans. The taste was earthy, a bit funky.
More upsetting than the taste were the angle hair fine strands of mucus generated by stirring the natto. Every bite guaranteed a mess of strands attached to my lips stretching from the bowl. It was straight from a horror movie. You know the one, about the girl, cooking in her apartment and her food turns on her, trapping her in a sticky, stringy web of flesh eating mucus, don’t you?
After my interest waned, he grabbed the bowl and said, “This needs to go outside, no, in the bathroom.” And there it sits as I type; both of us nervous to open the door for fear of the odor that could permeate our home.
I am going to try natto again, but later, when Kevin isn’t around. The Japanese magazine “Orange Page” I picked up at Narita has a few ideas. I am determined to like it.
Today I officially surrender my Vegetarian Membership card. A few nights ago, of my own will, I sank my teeth into a tender medium rare medallion of filet mignon. No, I didn’t jump off the deep end; it was, rather, a gradual process that began innocently re-introducing fish into my diet well over five years ago. A recent trip to Italy secured a place for cured-pork products in my heart forever, and my father’s smoked pulled pork shoulder sent me down a path I thought I’d never go.
On our last night in Seattle, our families dined at Tosoni, a truffle that has sat under the nose of my mother for 23 years. (I’m guessing it had something to do with its strip mall location). The menu was pure meat, aside from a salmon entrée (vegetarians can special order a veggie lasagna). Once the waiter mentioned the misto misto (half and half) with lobster, I knew my fate.
Abnegating meat was my way of supporting an organic lifestyle, but started at an early age from being a picky eater. Omitting meat from my diet made me feel as though I was part of a green insurgency against slaughterhouses, mad cow, and horrifying chicken farms. I may not have donated blood to the Red Cross or cash to NPR, but I could stick it to the mass-production factory farms more concerned with profit than producing quality meat.
But I owe the turn of this leaf to a man, or as I thought of him a charlatan, I’d despised for years. His sarcastic, cooler than thou wit, and his acrid stance against vegetarians led me to roll my eyes whenever his name was mentioned and to boycott his books and television shows. However Anthony Bordaine’s new show No Reservations, is less about him swallowing live beating cobra hearts or half fertilized eggs, but explores people and places through local food.
Being an expat, and having traveled over Asia, eating the local cuisine is one of the few ways to immediately acclimate yourself into a culture. It places you in the shoes of locals, gives you instant conversation topics, and provides memories for a lifetime. If you spend an entire trip eating pizza and banana pancakes, you have missed out on half of what it means to be a traveler. I know I did when I refused to eat Korean food our first year here.
By adopting Bourdaine’s no fear attitude when it comes to jungle tucker or city street fare, I feel more connected to the place I live and the places I’ve traveled to. In my restaurant reviews I’ve been able to better represent the menu and pass on a more rounded opinion to my readers. My reviews have improved as a result, and point blank, I’m excited to start a new dialogue with meat.
Though I’ve accepted an animal protein future, this doesn’t mean (MOM and DAD) that I’m ebullient to sit down to roasts, chops, rumps, and breasts. I still feel squeamish about eating things I can hug and chickens freak me out, but I’m trying to put those feelings aside. Actually, last night I had a nightmare about a beautifully cooked golden roasted Cornish hen, flecked with herbs and dripping with juices. I was being forced to eat it.
To some I have fallen, no doubt, others will welcome me back to reality. My vegetarian lifestyle taught me the importance of health, the environment, sustainable agriculture, organics, and slow foods. I hope to carry these qualities over into a responsible meat consumer. That, or start a new life as a bacon hedonist.
