Some of my colleagues at the law firm are rather picky about where they are willing to eat. I go to lunch with one of them—let’s call her Ms. Lee—every couple of weeks. When I make suggestions, she votes them down quickly. “The food is poorly seasoned,” “the rice is not good,” “it’s dirty,” “I’m not in the mood for that,” and so forth. Sometimes she just has a pained expression on her face which indicates clearly we will not be sharing a meal at that restaurant.
There are plenty of restaurants to choose from in Gangnam, the richest and most exclusive area in Seoul. Some are of the five-star variety and cost far more than I would want to pay. Most, though, are franchise operations, meaning you are certain to see countless others just like it. I have no problems in patronizing such generic restaurants, although they are bland and somewhat unsatisfying. But there is one restaurant near our office that is utterly authentic. In fact, it has no name. Out front is an orange awning, and two plants hang from it. The glass door through which you enter states the main two dishes: kimbap and ramyeon.
The aforementioned Ms. Lee would not be caught dead in this place. It’s unpretentious, and that’s one reason I like it so much. The restaurant is situated between two buildings, and a small roof spans them. Barely a meter separates one white wall from the other. It's tight quarters, giving new meaning to the term "intimate dining experience." The room, if it may be called that, is so narrow that you sometimes have to turn and shuffle sideways to get through. There are seven stools on which people sit and have a meal. Spoons and chop sticks are stacked at three places along the counter, rolls of toilet paper serve as napkins, and water is available. Prices are low and, as I mentioned, the choices are limited. The menu on the north wall features a couple of artistic renderings of kimbap and ramyeon. According to Ms. Kang, who opened this humble restaurant in 1993 with her sister Ms. Kang (no first names, please), it has not changed in 20 years. I have had bibimbap each time I’ve gone there, and I can say it is as good as what you find in most other restaurants in Seoul. You want fancy cuisine? Go elsewhere.
The hours are from 6 a.m. until 7 p.m., Monday through Saturday. When asked how business is, the ladies respond with a term I have heard many times from Koreans—“so-so.” Only one friend has joined me at this special restaurant—Yong Yoon, one of my main assistants in the effort to rescue Jikji from the French. In each instance, we have a fine time. Ms. Kang and Ms. Kang are delightful hostesses, and the other diners are like us. They eat and go, without lingering too long. Sometimes there are people in the street, waiting for an open stool at the counter.
I enjoy going in there, sitting cheek by jowl with other office workers or students, eating and talking with Mr. Yoon. The Kang sisters seem to be amused by the foreigner who asks so many questions.
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