Though primarily experienced with our sense of taste, food tastes best when appreciated in different ways with each of our five senses. Gwangjang Market, one of the oldest traditional markets in Korea, has always been one of my favorite places in Seoul that allows you to enjoy food in such a way. And so, on our way to dinner on a frigid evening, we found it difficult to pass up on a quick detour for a "snack" at the market.
When we walked into the market area, the smells, sounds, and movements I expected were missing. A couple of vendors remained, closing shop in an alley that seemed to have already concluded business for the day. But after realizing that we were looking at textile and clothing shops (which close a lot earlier than the food stands), we continued down the alley, where we soon found ourselves being lured by a faint, but growing smell of fried foods.
Following our noses, we reached the Food Alley, a visual explosion of movement and colors ㅡ swirls of smoke rising from fryers and steamers and vendors tirelessly cooking and plating orders against a background of, fiery-red ddukbokki, golden brown assortments of jeon, and rolls of mayak kimbap bleeding green, orange, and yellow.
Among the calls of unyielding food vendors beckoning you to their tables, the clinking of soju glasses, and the post-work conversations had over them, you can hear each food cluster's unique soundtrack (like the sound of millstones grinding mung beans and the hiss of batter hitting hot oil in the Bindaeddeok Alley).
After surveying all that the alley had to offer, we still weren't sure what to eat, but a dewy-skinned woman called us to her island of steaming dumplings, where she was cutting noodles out of dough with a knife. We had been cold, hungry, and looking for something "soupy" to eat, so we accepted her invite and ordered a bowl of kalguksu to share. As we waited for our noodles, we had a prime view of the greatest one-woman show. Our host worked the dough to crank out noodles (sometimes "dough flakes" for sujebi) which she'd throw in the boiling water for a few minutes during which she'd cook more batches of dumplings and replenish customers' kimchi upon request with smiles.
The sound of a blade cutting through dough and just grazing the cutting board and the subtle snap of the dough being pulled apart were two of my favorite sounds growing up in Flushing with my grandma, who'd often generate a floury storm in the living room to make a month's worth of dumplings from scratch. Dozens of dumplings would take up the entire freezer and had to be eaten for weeks in various ways. The flour or dough left over from her dumpling project would always be used to make kalguksu or sujebi.
Our large, steaming bowl of kalguksu arrived topped with squash, seaweed flakes and a heap of black pepper. Its aroma was quite prominent, but the black pepper did not overpower the broth's deep anchovy flavor; it gave the soup a bold edge. Unbothered by the cold (partially thanks to the heated bench), we slurped away at the chewy noodles and deeply satisfying soup until we were too full to even consider eating anything other than dessert after. Dak-hanmari had to wait another day.
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