My wife and I were out on a date the other evening. We were struggling to decide on what to eat, and soon identified the problem to be that we both had funny tummies. We couldn’t say why, but we were both feeling a little strange inside.
Too much information for a date, you may say, but we’ve found that this kind of sharing makes the whole process a lot smoother now that we’ve no need to pretend we’re always hunky dory. There’s nothing to prove: we’ve already mutually agreed on each other’s awesomeness.
This time, however, our identification of the problem only aggravated it.
You see, my proposed solution to a funny tummy was to drink milk, or something yoghurty. At least something nice and cool… A salad perhaps. Emjay’s idea was to eat something spicy, with lots of hot broth. Not too spicy, just a bit of a kick.
My milky wishes couldn’t have sounded more absurd to her, and her mouth-burning desires more unbearable to me.
신라면 (Shin Ramyeon) don't look that spicy but are as hot as it gets.
After wandering around town for nearly forty minutes we settled to differ and bought spicy cup noodles and a take-out chicken salad wrap from a corner shop. Hardly a date scene, but we had a lot of fun nonetheless.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was a big fan of spicy food when in the UK. I would devour a spicy Indian curry with glee, and I regularly treated myself to fiery mexican stye dishes. Heck, I even used to eat jalepeño peppers straight out of the jar. But even after two and a half years here Korea’s unique spicy food is still a huge shock to my system. It’s not just the spice that’s the problem, either: it’s the temperature at which it’s sometimes served.
For example, it’s not unusual to sit down for dinner and be presented with a deep red broth that bubblies over the sides of a stone pot which has been heated directly over a flame. It’s as hot as they come, and takes ages to cool down.
Somehow my wife and her family have an impossible ability to pour this scolding hot spicy liquid streaming into their stomachs. I have to wait a few minutes after my food comes out before I can even consider scooping some broth onto my spoon. Even after spending another moment blowing it to a temperature that won’t scald my tongue the spice burns my throat instead. By the time I’ve started eating properly everone else is almost done.
I’m hardly keen to gobble it down anyhow; rather than making my insides feel calmer, eating this kind of food tends to turn my digestive system into a volcano by the next morning. It makes driving to work a little impractical.
해장국 (Haejang Guk), perfect for searing your insides after too much to drink.
To a Korean though, it seems as though heat and spice are soothers of the soul. Midnight snack? Spicy noodles. Hangover? Violently boiling spicy broth. Breakfast? I can leave you to imagine.
The way the taste is described is also a little alien to me.
I often hear someone slurping down their spicy soup declare afterwards how refreshing (시원해, siwonhea) it was. I put the same thing in my mouth and declare it an attack on my tastebuds that has to be quashed immediately by spoonfuls of rice or a smothering of water. Not so much refreshing as invigorating. In the same way that chasing down the guy who just stole your wallet is invigorating.
I’ve gotten used to most of the strange Korean foods I couldn’t eat when I first got to Korea, including cold noodles, rice cakes, sweet potato (in everything) and even a little dried seaweed if necessary. But this spiciness is really taking it’s toll.
I really wish I could eat hot and spicy Korean food with the same gusto as my wife and her family, but until my tongue turns to iron they’re going to have to get used to waiting for me to finish!
Cunning Culture 