An ode to Korean BBQ
The meat sweats that became an obsession.
The first thing I learn about Korean BBQ is that nobody eats it alone.
“I can’t order a half portion?” I ask the waiter.
“Minimum two people.” He makes a peace sign with his hands. I dither until he points at a photo of raw meat with 400g written underneath it. There was no backing out now, he had been patient enough.
“Ok.” I order a Cass lager as well.
Like every place I ate in outside of Seoul, I am the only tourist sat in here. Giant nozzles hang from the ceiling and hover above a grill on each table. Their steady suction underpins the hum of the restaurant but do not guarantee that I won’t come out of it smelling like I’ve been on the charcoal myself.
“How you find us?” He was back with two slabs of pork and the largest scissors I have ever seen, ready to conduct an operation.
“It was recommended by a guy working at my hotel.”
I took his nod as confirmation that I was where every traveller wants to be; off the trail. To get here it took four failed parking attempts, two Korean navigation apps and one slam of my fists against the steering wheel. With Google Maps not fully available in this country, I couldn’t even be sure I was in the restaurant I had been suggested. Every eatery on Jeju Island has a cartoon pig somewhere.
Cass beer is soapy and too weak to soothe a self-conscious Brit but it became irrelevant. The second thing I learn about Korean BBQ is that banchan (side dishes) are out of this world.
Pickled radish, salty seaweed broth, fermented sauces, nose-clearing wasabi and the ubiquitous-but-always-outstanding kim-chi arrive on tiny plates with other delights. I can’t even tell you what the rest are and I don’t ask because it’s all so indulgent. The meal is orchestral and the meat sings a solo as it hisses on the grill and gets snipped down to size.
I am instructed to dip a piece in salt and wrap it in a lettuce leaf with ssamjang, a spicy-sweet sauce. The pork is so juicy I am concerned for my clothes and now my soul because it’s better than I even imagined. It trickles on my hands and it’s too late to wonder if it’s impolite to use them.
“Good?” I am observed the whole time by my chaperone and he smiles, satisfied. He knows it’s outstanding. Jeju is famous for its unique black pork that is said to be chewier, fattier and cleaner in flavour. I don’t recommend tapping it into a search engine as the pigs are also very cute. He puts more on the grill.
“Maldon.” He points at the table.
“I’m sorry?”
“Maldon salt. You British? I only order Maldon salt for the restaurant.” He beams. Maldon is a town in the county of Essex, where I grew up in England.
“I know it.” I beam right back at him. I have been lost on this island countless times and have felt tested by my solitude. No matter how remote you are, a taste of home always manages to find you.
I drop the awkwardness that comes with eating alone and regale in the feast. His mother comes out of the kitchen and gifts me a bowl of japchae, cold glass noodles that are a million times better than they look and sound. I hug them both when I leave.
I come down in a stupor and cannot eat a thing until the following evening. I’m an addict. For the remainder of my trip I try to replicate that first hit, but it was never quite as special.
I’m still looking for the next high.
Stamps of approval
This restaurant here in video 1 was in Seongsam, Jeju Island.
If you’re in Busan, make sure to visit Anga Sutbul-gui who are super accomodating with tourists. It’s within walking distance of Haeundae Beach.
Pochawa Grill in London’s chinatown is the best example of KBBQ I’ve had outside of Korea. Expect to queue outside for at least 20 minutes.