Whenever my dad and I pass by a golden retriever in the park, he always waits until the owner is out of sight and says, “I’d like to grill that meat up!”
I really hope he never used that pick-up line on my mom.
Every culture has a unique cuisine, and every cuisine has its dark side. Today, shadowed by galbi, bibimbap and bulgogi, I will introduce the less glamorous yet (potentially) equally delicious Korean delicacies, starting with dog.
Personally, I’ve never eaten dog. For people like my dad, who grew up with too many siblings on a farm when the national GDP of South Korea was comparable to that of Ghana, dogs could guard cattle and nourish the emaciated family when its time passed. However, he only had meat a few times a year on holidays. So for those of you who are cringing while reading this and clutching your furry little critter, remember that plenty of people eat cow and guinea pig.
While eating dog is quasi-illegal in South Korea today, there is little enforcement to regulate the laws. According to my parents, most dog meat is sold and eaten in the countryside and appears to be a dying practice – pun not intended. When I asked my dad about the taste of dog, he slightly furrowed his eyebrows and looked off into the rosy-tinted past as he pursed his lips in concentration and said, “It’s very tender and tasty, not like any other meat I’ve ever had.”
Spam is a staple ingredient in Korean cuisine. This mysterious, canned meat found its way onto the peninsula when American soldiers occupied Korea during the reconstruction phase after the Korean War. In fact, there is a particular dish, which was also brought over, called “army stew.” It consists of kimchi, rice cakes, ramen noodles, spam and sausage. Spam is often pan-fried and served for breakfast or a quick snack. It used to be one of my favorite side dishes until I took a look at the nutritional facts. Although I couldn’t convince my mom to forgo the spam at the supermarket, she began to buy low-sodium spam. Thank goodness for the low sodium!
Kimchi, though not unglamorous, is a mystery to many. Officially known as pickled cabbage, this spicy staple is served with virtually every meal, including breakfast. My parents still make their kimchi by hand, although many Koreans buy kimchi from stores. They cover every inch of every cabbage leaf, still intact in its rotund form, with a spicy mixture of red pepper powder, water, baby shrimp, anchovy sauce, garlic, onion and salt. Then they place large jars of kimchi into holes and wait a few months, to create the slightly sour, slightly acidic, fermented taste of kimchi.
Do I like kimchi? To be honest, not really. I’ll have it once every so often if I’m bored with my meal or if my parents say it’s a good batch. But before you throw your tomatoes and hot dogs at me, this news shouldn’t be anything surprising, considering that I don’t consider myself to be Korean but rather in the middle of the Korean-American spectrum.
In fact, I’m not a big fan of any of these Korean specialties, save for dog which I can’t judge because I’ve never had it. Food is a glorious medium with which to express one’s culture and heritage; oftentimes my dad gives me a stern talk at the dinner table if I push my kimchi around too much. Considering that Koreans eat dog, spam, kimchi (from a rather unnutritious vegetable) and white rice, Korean cuisine makes the most out of the sparse ingredients in Korea to create mouth-watering dishes.
Food reflects the history of its origin, and I like to think that Koreans were optimistic at meals during difficult times.
