自助餐 (zi4zhu4can1), literally “self service meal,” is the Chinese word for buffet. Buffets in China are universally found in 5-star hotels and are similar to how we treat buffets in the US. Among the specialty restaurants that provide unlimited food, they adopt a number of limitations to make sure that they still turn a profit. For example, time limits are generally imposed (typically in the range of 90 to 120 minutes) and complex rule systems penalizing wasted food. The best items are nearly inaccessible behind a long queue where the food is either only served for brief intervals or limited to one portion per person.
Buffets in Taiwan, specifically the vegetarian buffets, are a different beast altogether. One fills up a plate as one wishes, but pays according to the total weight of the food. That also happens to be how 串串香 (chuan1chuan1xiang1, a type of Sichuan hotpot with skewers) is calculated, where it is easier to weigh the pile of skewers than count them.
While on the topic of unlimited food, free refills is 续杯 (xu4bei1, literally “supply more cup”), while if one is getting unlimited alcohol as part of a meal special or happy hour, the term is 畅饮 (chang4yin3, literally “free drinks” meaning “to drink one’s fill”).
Finally, the Korean for all-you-can-eat is 무한리필 (muhan ripil) which combines Chinese with English. Muhan based on 无限 (wu2xian2, “unlimited”), while ripil is a sound loan of “refill.”
The lunar new year started well. By not drinking on the eve, I was up bright and early and hangover free. After drinking a couple cups of coffee, I went out to see if I could get some food. In Korea, it is traditional to start the New Year with a bowl of “sliced rice cake soup” (떡국, “tteokguk”) because it represents long life or something like that. It’s interesting that the rice cakes are also (sometimes) a part of the new year celebration in China, where they are called nian2gao1 (年糕, literally “Year Cake”). The place I had had lunch the day before had it on their menu, so I thought I’d try my luck if they were trying to capitalize on tradition in the morning. Luckily for me, the convenient store had a pack I could cook on my own.
I puttered about the hostel until the mid-afternoon when I went on a long-ish (long for someone out of shape) jog of 7 km. There are running tracks along all the waterways in Seoul and often with clusters of exercise equipment. By passing through a small park on the way to the nearest tributary, I only have to go through two stop lights, so I’m going to do as much running as I can.
I showered, dressed, and chilled until the evening when I had made plans with two Norwegian guests to go for the bbq pork buffet. They had spread the invitation around, so 7 of us left the hostel to get some food. I had no problem getting a table this time, and we were roasting up mountains of pork belly in no time. We were all down to drink some soju and beer, but the waiter carded us and since a few of us were not carrying ID, we weren’t able to drink at the meal. The irony is that it probably saved us a fair amount of money not paying the restaurant prices and it left more room in the belly for bacon.
Some very satisfied customers
After dinner, we found a karaoke room and sang for about two hours. Though there was a decent selection of English language songs and even some songs in Chinese, I’m going to need to learn a Korean song. We did have some drinks at the karaoke, and picked up some more on the way back to the hostel where we decided to play Monopoly for some reason when it was already close to midnight.
Despite a relaxing weekend in the boonies, I moved into Seoul proper in search of 热闹 (re4nao5, “hot & noisy”, i.e. bustling). I have a dorm room booked for the entirety of the Spring Festival (as determined by the official holiday in China). The place is more cramped and smelly, but the cheapest accommodation yet. I did discover on my way out of the last guesthouse, that Ctrip was charging me nearly 50% more over what the base rate would be if paying cash. This presents something of a pickle as I don’t want to be overpaying, but so long as I can pay for accommodation from my Chinese bank account, that may be the only way I can ever get my money out of China.
Planning to feast in the evening, I wanted to skip lunch, but after arriving at the hostel, my stomach started growling something fierce. I set out to find some food in the Hongdae neighborhood where I was staying and was surprised to see just how many shops, restaurants, and cafes had paper signs on their windows announcing their closure for a number of days. The lunar new year (새해 “saehae”) is only a single day public holiday in Korea, and I’ve heard conflicting reports as to whether it is a big deal or not.
“Spicy Mixed Noodles,” not spicy, but cold
Like many a hostel in Seoul, the Bird’s Nest is mostly staffed by an assortment of “volunteers” who are friendly enough, but it was difficult to get more than a couple words out of any of the guests. It’s funny how much the vibe of youth hostels varies from country to country.
Towards nightfall, I started researching food options in the area, wanting to do something fairly extravagant, even if I was dining alone. I settled on a pork bbq all-you-can-eat place and headed through the Hongkik University night market strip to reach it. The cluster of lanes with restaurants, bars, food stalls, and street musicians certain check off the box for an exciting atmosphere, though it was hard to tell if the holidays had any affect or if it was a typical Monday night. At the restaurant I asked for a table and was informed that I would have to pay for two portions. I decided to have bbq another night. This conformed with a vague notion I have that anywhere where you are cooking at the table has a two person minimum.
I settled for a Japanese curry house with tonkatsu (a breaded fried pork chop) ordered one notch down from the spiciest available and topped with roasted garlic flakes. I wouldn’t exactly call it settling, though doing Japanese food in Korea to celebrate Chinese New Year is a bit of a stretch. At least I had pork in honor of the Year of the Pig.
Back at the hostel, the common areas were full of people eating, drinking, and playing cards. It was like a completely different hostel than the afternoon. I played cards for a couple hours, stuck to water, and was in bed well before midnight
I don’t really have much to say about 김밥 (gimbap or kimbab), other than that it is probably one of the first words I learned in Korean and the cause of my initial awareness into the morphemes. 밥 (bap) is the word for cooked rice (as in bibimbap) and although 김 (gim) is the same sound as in kimchi, it actually means “laver” (the proper name for that seaweed wrapping). Also, gimbap is quite delicious.
Though it looks like a sushi roll, there is usually no fish and definitely no raw fish in there. The pictured rolls both contain scrambled egg, ham, pickled radish, some other veggies, and their respective titular ingredients: tomato and chili pepper. The chili pepper gimbap was way better than the tomato one, despite being the place’s signature item.
炸酱面（zha2jiang4 mian4, “fried sauce noodles”), aka “noodles with fried bean sauce” is one of those dishes that I strongly associate with Beijing, though its origins lie in Shandong. Aficionados of Chinese cuisine would note that Beijing food (and all cooking in northeast China) is rooted in 鲁菜 (Lu3cai4 “Shandong cuisine”), one of the 8 great schools of Chinese cooking.
I’ve always loved proper 炸酱面 because the noodles are thick and chewy, and remind me of freshly made spätzle, while the freshly shredded cucumber and radish (or even more veggies if you get lucky) offset the rich and salty sauce.
Zhajiang mian is also a Korean dish (in a sense). Alternately called 자장면 짜장면 (jajangmyeon / jjajangmyeon), it is clear we are talking about the same dish linguistically. In culinary terms, Jajangmyeon is its own dish in Korea. The sweeter sauce is full of onions and seafood (instead of just salty beans and pork scraps).
As a certain podcast host would say, always read the plaque. Interestingly enough, Incheon claims Jajangmyeon as one of its specialties, though it gives credit to the influx of Chinese workers in 1884. Apparently, they would make the sauce in China and carry it across on merchant ships, serving it on freshly made noodles.
It’s weird coming to Korea when one is only familiar with the food through the context of China. I know the names of several classic dishes in both English and Korean, but have no idea what it would be on an English menu.
部队火锅 (bu4dui4 huo3guo1 “army hot pot”) is a dish that I always assumed the Chinese were taking some liberty with their translation. The Korean for which is 부대찌개 (budae jjigae), so one would be forgiven for thinking that 部队 (bu4dui4) is just a sound loan, while 火锅 (huo3guo1) is a slight improvement over jjigae (a general term for stews) since it is cooked on the table. I always figured the “army” aspect of it described the way that a lot of people could eat from the same pot.
In truth, the 部队 refers to American troops, who apparently introduced the key ingredients during the Korean War. Though the ingredients vary depending on the “flavor” you order, they almost invariably contain hot dogs and spam (or other off-brand processed “ham”). America’s contribution to Korean cuisine. I didn’t realize how popular Spam is here, but I have seen several stores selling gift baskets of Spam.
…and after.
This particular pot was kimchi flavored of course.
馅 (xian4 or xian4r) is the general term for the filling or stuffing in all kinds of dumplings (such as the 水饺 [shui3 jiao3, boiled dumplings] pictured above). The word is typically erhua‘d, meaning that it is pronounced like “xiar”.
An interesting thing about 馅 is that the meaning has drifted to encapsulated ground meat as sold in the supermarket. I am fortunate to live near a supermarket where the butcher section has ready-to-buy ground beef and ground mutton, which I find myself buying fairly regularly to make chili, meatballs, and tacos.
The word for “grind” is 磨 (mo2) and that works for grinding grains, spices, and coffee, as well as meat. If you need something to be ground on-demand, you’d ask for it to be 磨成粉 (mo2 cheng2 fen3) or 磨成馅儿 (mo2 cheng2 xian4r) if the end result is a powder or meat filling respectively.
葱爆羊肉 (cong1 bao4 yang2rou, “Exploding Onion Mutton”) is a Northern Chinese dish, bountiful in flavor and surprisingly easy to throw together at home. The hack is to pick up thinly sliced mutton/lamb from the grocery store freezer aisle. Though intended for hot pot (火锅 huo3 guo1), you can easily throw it in a wok with some sliced 大葱, 孜然, and 香菜 (Chinese onion, cumin, and cilantro, respectively).
葱：local “Chinese” onions are basically just divided into big and small. The small version being what we’d call shallots or green onions. “Regular” white, round onions are marked as foreign, i.e. 洋葱 (yang2 cong1, “ocean onion”), though my supermarket lists them as 葱头 (cong1 tou2, “onion head”) and red onions are purple in Chinese (紫葱 zi3 cong1).
“爆” (bao4) means explosion and in this dish name refers to a cooking technique: 爆炒 (bao4chao3), though how it is different than regular just stir-frying eludes me.
羊肉 (yang2rou4) refers to lamb or mutton per the general construction of animal + meat = edible.
