Food left the greatest impression on me when I first moved to Korea. It was a bitter cold day in February 1984, and I was staying in a guest apartment the US Embassy maintained on its Anguk-dong housing compound in central Seoul. On my first evening in Korea, at the end of a day of introductory briefings in the Embassy, I went to dinner in neighboring Insa-dong. I was joined by a colleague who had entered the diplomatic service with me, been selected for a posting in Korea the same time as I, and studied Korean language together and even flown out on the same flight to Seoul.
In our five-month long Korean class, we had learned only one dialogue about food, which was how to order bulgogi in a restaurant. As we entered Insa-dong, we couldn’t read the signs well enough to distinguish what type of restaurant was what, so we eventually settled on a nice and very clean-looking spot where the diners appeared happy. As we sat down and the waitress came over, we tried our best to use the food-ordering Korean we had learned. “Bulgogi ee inbun juseo” (Two order of bulgogi, please.)
The response seemed to come out at 200 kilometers an hour, and not what either my colleague or I recalled from our class. So we repeated ourselves, a little slower and a little louder “BULGOGI EE INBUN JUSEO.” The waitress was nonplussed, and soon started to giggle out of nervousness, calling over the manager. A rapid conversation between them ensued. We could not comprehend much of what they were saying, except for the word “bulgogi,” at which point we both said in unison “EE INBUN!” and held up two fingers each.
The both looked us, sighed, and signaled for us to wait. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and diners who had entered and ordered after us were getting their food. We were curious what was happening. Was the Korean they taught us at the State Department incorrect? Or were they just overwhelmed with orders? The waitress eventually came back with our bulgogi, and we loved it. But we still could not figure out why it was so difficult for them to understand us - we were speaking so clearly and so loudly.
As we walked back to Insa-dong a few nights later with other Embassy colleagues for dinner, we passed by the same restaurant, and I told them the story of how hard it was just to order bulgogi there. I suggested that maybe our teachers in the US had been absent from Korea for so long that their language forms were outdated. Our colleagues started laughing, and said “you know this is a Japanese sashimi restaurant, right?”
I turned bright red, realizing that I had sat down and essentially kept stubbornly ordering an item the restaurant did not even have, and I was too ignorant to comprehend. The owners, rather than ignoring us or forcing us to leave, obviously had gone instead to a nearby restaurant to order bulgogi for us.
I learned two valuable lessons during my first two excursions to Insa-dong. First, Korean food was incredible. My bulgogi (even in a sashimi restaurant) would be part of an unending line of astoundingly great meals. More important, though, is what I learned about the Korean people; they were adaptable, patient, and kind, even when confronted with stubbornness and ignorance. I regret that I have inadvertently put many Korean friends and acquaintances through challenges great and small over the years. It is a constant, though, that they continue to tolerate my many “bulgogi moments.”
