KOREAN SPIRIT
Soju know your bibimbap from your bulgogi - but do you know what to drink with it? Jane Lawson searches Korea’s capital for answers.
After wandering alone for hours, in Seoul for the first time, I found myself pacing between doorways of an atmospheric hanok village, swaying to the heady lunch-song of garlic and smoky-sweet, grilled meats. Hunger hoisted me from my comfort zone into a handsome wood and stone structure fronted by large, earthenware vessels, sign enough I’d likely be fed.
The empty eatery rang warning bells, but I’d already committed so, fumbling over a menu written in Korean script, helpfully garnished with alluring photos, I gestured towards several items including what appeared to be a reasonably priced half-bottle of wine.
A small vessel and fittingly sized cup arrived as kitchen-crew poked their heads out from behind a screen, their expressions translating curiosity and mirth. I drank quickly, anxiety getting the better of me and although instantly aware it wasn’t wine as anticipated,
I was halfway through the meal, and at the bottom of the bottle, when the true error of my ways became apparent.
Despite being deceptively smooth and refreshing, I’d selected a particularly potent brew from Andong – the birthplace of soju. While standard soju, the ‘drink of the people’ with an 800-year history, is a dilute spirit (16% alcohol) made from sweet potato, molasses or tapioca, this light flavoured, crystal-clear rice-based rendition had an alcohol content of 45%. Fortunately, I liked it, I liked it a lot.
I feigned composure as the tabletop was set with 12 exquisite dishes, each containing a variety of kimchi which, until that point, I’d only known as an overtly pungent supermarket variety of fermented cabbage. Suddenly a complex spectrum of new tastes ziplined over my palate from deeply savoury and satisfying to cool and refreshing, mildly sweet or sour to red-hot and fragrant; each a salve for my haze and happily remedying any kimchi misgivings.
The old-school soju drank particularly well with my main of superbly tender dwaeji galbi (pork ribs) and fragrant, garden-fresh perilla and lettuce wraps, collectively known as ssam; harmonising beautifully with the creamy, gelatinous pork fat which seemed to melt away.
Later I’d learn that Andong soju is widely regaled for its ability to cut through rich, meaty dishes.
Although giddy with accidental discovery and overindulgence, clarity intervened with the realisation that
Korea’s culinary pursuits were far more intriguing and layered than I’d given credit for. Imminent, speed-dating style immersion became crucial to comprehending what I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Striking up a lively conversation in a downtown café, an obliging couple explained that combining soju, dwaeji galbi or samgyeopsal (grilled pork belly) and friends is crucial, both culturally and socially, to an evening’s relaxation. They also divulged that onggi, the claypots I’d spotted prior to lunch, are predominantly used in fermentation of condiments including bean and chilli pastes, soy sauce and… kimchi. The advertising had been subtle, yet effective enough for me to have made myself right at home, albeit a little prematurely.
My new friends insisted I continue my education by joining them for a dinner of winter specialities including budae jjigae (a spicy, umami loaded hotpot of sausage, beans, kimchi and noodles) and sundubu jjigae (nutty, handmade beancurd with mushrooms, crown daisies and white radish) with a robust, full-flavoured regular soju – another perfect marriage. Reluctant to end the evening, we moved on to Gwangjang, one of the city’s many bustling street-food markets, where
I was introduced to fruit soju. From a wide selection of flavours, including lemon, grape and peach, we chose a particularly crisp, not at all sweet, apple variety which provided a surprisingly delicious partner for a few delectable hwayangjeok skewers; a festival favourite featuring grilled beef and an exotic range of vegetables.
Before I could protest, I’d been poured a glass of cloudy makgeolli, a slightly spritzy, unrefined rice wine with undertones of malt and citrus. Being low in alcohol (6-9%) and high in probiotics and vitamins it’s traditionally gifted between older generations during holiday periods, symbolising good health. It’s now fashionable among Korea’s youth as an allnight sipper, popularly eaten with bindaetteok, an addictive, crunchy fried pancake made from dried mungbeans and fresh sprouts, glutinous rice and beef or pork. In the name of research, I could not resist either.
Recently at Sydney’s Jung Sung restaurant, I sipped my first bokbunjaju. After devouring an ethereal contemporary bibimbap of scallops, crisped rice and micro-namul (vegetable sprouts), a premium wagyu steak arrived, accompanied by a ruby-hued raspberry wine. Although less sweet than its pretty fragrance inferred, I remained dubious until, gumming my way through the lushly-marbled beef, the wine burst open revealing distinctly herbal notes and yet another majestic match.
Sometimes it pays to take a chance, like that first day in Seoul. Who knows what you’ll discover. Geonbae!