Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching a lot of Korean dramas lately (Doctor Slump on Netflix anyone?), but when I walked into Seoul Garden on a recent weekday, I didn’t feel like I was in an old strip mall off West Market Street in Greensboro. More like a small town Korean restaurant off the coast.
As we sat down in a booth near a window, a smiling Korean woman greeted us and served us a round of banchan, or appetizers, before our meal. Sausages stir fried with sliced onions, baechu-kimchi, salty bean sprouts, and cucumber salad filled the metal dishes in the middle of the table. My mom and I ate our fill while we waited for our mains.
It’s been cold here lately, our weeks filled with spotty snowstorms and the promise of ice, which has me craving soup. Last month, I took readers on a ramen tour of Greensboro — a journey into a dish with which I’m very familiar. But this time, I ventured across the ocean to the tiny peninsula of South Korea to try a dish I’ve always wanted to taste: sundubu jjigae.
The spicy tofu soup, which I got as mild as possible but still made my nose sweat, comes with base ingredients of silken tofu, broth flavored with chili flakes and chili paste, and a raw egg cracked on top. At Seoul Garden, customers can try many options—kimchi, just tofu and veggies, beef, oysters, or a variety of seafood.
I went with the last one.
As the daughter of a sushi chef and someone who doesn’t eat a lot of meat anymore, seafood is a staple in my house and heart. Made into a stew, how can I resist?
My bowl came piping hot, so much so that it was bubbling when it hit the table.
Bright red-orange broth filled the earthenware pot while pockets of white silken tofu and pieces of green from the kimchi poked through the surface. Underneath the molten exterior, cut portions of octopus, ovals of oysters, and melting bits of soft-cooked egg created layers of flavor.
I was no longer in Greensboro as I carefully enjoyed the piping hot dish; I was in Busan, in Jeonju, in Seoul.
But much to my surprise, I later learned from research that sundubu jjigae became popularized after the war when American soldiers brought home recipes. Korean immigrants capitalized on the new wave of customers, opening up jjigae—or soup—restaurants in places like Los Angeles. Eventually, the Americanized version made its way back to South Korea, where it’s now popular enough to have regional varieties.
In a way, the dish is not just a passport to Changwon or Gangneung. It’s a time machine to the advent of Korean immigrants in the US in the 60s and 70s—a postcard from a moment in American history.
As I slurped the soup, I couldn’t help but think of the times Korean immigrants, American soldiers, and second-generation Koreans all sat in the same restaurant, enjoying this soup. And what a joy it was that I could enjoy the dish now, so many miles and decades removed from its origin.
And, it’s delicious.
The broth, deep in flavor with the brine of the sea, coupled with the heat of peppers and the silkiness of the tofu and egg, all make for a comforting, complete experience.
Out the window, the cars may still drive down Market Street. But my mind, my spirit is elsewhere—rooted in the spices, transient as the sea.