So let them (me) eat cake!

I was fortunate to have to return to the United States for a week last month. The trip was unexpected and somewhat unwanted, due to the pressures of being away from work (i.e. having to return to a session in progress after a week of being away) and to the fact that I didn't feel I was ready to go back. Yes, I know, Boo-hoo...

The short of it is that I went back, got the business I needed to get done done, saw friends and had a great time. What's more, I was able to stock up on a few favorite snacks, the lack of which often leaves me wanting in Seoul. I am allergic to gluten, so pastas and breads, crackers and cookies are usually on my "no list." Most Korean street food is questionable and Korean cafe snacks such as pastries are never edible.

My first afternoon in Seattle, I was fighting falling asleep and decided I needed to get out of the hotel in order to make it until a reasonable sleeping hour--I am not a great fan of jet lag and I try my best to get into a groove as soon as I arrive. I googled gluten free bakeries in the city and came up with the Flying Apron Bakery, a few miles from where I was staying. Naturally, I put on my walking shoes and got moving!

I hadn't had a piece of cake in months. What I returned to the hotel with was this:
This chocolate cake was good. It was dense, but not dry and included macadamia nuts and a cinnamon frosting in between the cake layers that was a splendid touch. This treat was a welcoming homecoming, but I have to admit I still longed for Portland's gluten free scene. Of course, I know it better and so can find just what I've been craving.

While Flying Apron is good, it is also both gluten free and vegan, which means the tasty morsel pictured above includes no butter, milk, etc. I'm going to be frank here: I'm not vegan, and although I appreciate those who are, I also appreciate gluten free snacks that give me everything the real-deal gives me, which sometimes means animal fat.

When I reached Portland, I stopped at New Cascadia Traditional for a cupcake and a loaf of sourdough. A sample photo of each is to be found to the left, but I must admit that these are stock photos from their website. I wasn't as active with the camera back home as I have been in Korea, and my main purpose in buying these items was to eat them.

And that I did. They were perfect - I won't say more. Whether you're gluten free or not, you are doing yourself a disservice if you happen through Portland and miss this bakery! (And I'm not saying this only because I am back in Seoul and aching for a loaf of crispy on the outside, perfect on the inside bread to chew on.) Everyone deserves a cupcake now and again.

A Night to Remember

The evening was dry and the light of day still to be had. Gangnam was beginning to come alive, as it does in the nine-to-fivers' after-work hours, with friends and roamers milling about and street vendors staking out their share of the sidewalk for the nighttime rush.

Four of us crossed the street to hail a taxi moving in the right direction. A friend, Il Han, was taking a few of us out for sushi. The invite was preceded by the questions "Do you like sushi?" and "Really? You like sushi?" This shouldn't suggest that he didn't believe my response, but rather that he was concerned that our definitions of sushi may be different. In the pacific northwest of the United States, we have our share of sushi restaurants. Sushi has also made its way across the country and into such out-of-the-way nooks as Traverse City, Michigan and Crested Butte, Colorado. With that said, sushi can come in all shapes and sizes (and rolls), and who can know if my sushi is your sushi. After all, English has made its way around the world and is a bit different in every port: You say california roll, I say una-ju.

The taxi zipped us up the busy road, around a couple of corners, and after a short time, we landed in the parking lot of Lee Myung Whan's Japanese Restaurant. Upon entering, Il Han suggested we take seats at the bar. It's more interesting than taking a private room, because we can see what's going on.

I'll tell you now that I had no idea what I was in for. The restaurant was quiet. One gentleman sat at the bar as we came in and I don't know when he left. We noted evidence of other guests in trays of sushi being taken from the counter and disappearing down a narrow halls, but the place was otherwise empty. The benches, tables and bar were of wood. Our stools were as well. The shelves behind the bar-those supporting bottles of sake, soju, and wine, among other house specialties-were dark and robust; they rose to the ceiling.

We were in luck, Il Han told us. The owner is in tonight and he'll be preparing our sushi for us. Christine, Sasha and I were delivered small wooden trays with wasabi, and pickled radish and ginger set to one side. The trays were put far enough in front of us that Mr. Lee could reach over the display case on the bar and place a piece of sushi on them every now and then. He began to do just that after Il Han was given a tray with a glimmering stack of bean noodles wound upon it. He would not be eating sushi this evening. Il Han prefers sashimi.

Beer was ordered for the gluten tolerant and a bottle of red wine was delivered to me. (I am well aware that people don't drink red wine with fish, much less sushi, but I think I've mentioned in earlier posts that I'm not the most cultured of beverage consumers. And I like red wine.) It was clear that wine was not a popular drink in this establishment, as I was offered a wine glass with enough dust in it to fluff up my nostrils. I took it as a sign that this place was genuine.

A piece of tuna laid over a firm pile of rice was the first piece of sushi placed on our wooden boards and the first to be eaten as well. I have never tasted tuna so richly. Its cold and firm texture filling my mouth from tongue to palate and cheek to cheek, I chewed and didn't want to stop.

I had mentioned to Sasha only a night or two earlier that I didn't think I had the ability to taste raw fish so much as feel it. I've always enjoyed the texture of sushi, but I really can't say that I've tasted the difference between tuna and white fish and white fish and salmon.

That has changed.

The heavenly tuna (that tasted like tuna) was followed by white fish (which tasted like white fish), the white fish followed by more fish. I don't have a list and I couldn't recap the entire menu, but the things I was served were of a world unknown to me. Il Han's sushi redefined food for me.

The white fish was a special kind of tenuous, but not stringy by any means. One tuna, which is meant to be eaten frozen, was a patchwork of brilliant red flesh bound together by melty white strips of connective tissue. We were served Korea's musky miso soup and welcomed occasional deliveries of tempura, scallion pizza, yam chips, and other things I cannot recall as an individual moment. Sake arrived, toasts were made, I drank more wine, the owner and the chef offered their glasses, which we dutifully filled, and more toasts were made.

Several pieces were brand new to me that evening. And I gather several pieces I may never feel cross my pallet again, although that remains to be seen. The sea urchin was served on rice and wrapped in seaweed paper. The bright orange sacks looked soft enough to pet from where I sat and I had little idea of what to expect when they reached my mouth. The word sea urchin evokes the image of The Little Mermaid's evil octopus witch--and I don't know why, so if I were doubtful about anything that evening, it was the sea urchin.

To be honest, I can't say I've been dreaming of consuming more of it, but what I remember of the sea urchin that night is its cold creaminess. The moment it hit my tongue, its softness melted into the edges of my mouth where the cheeks meet the gums. My teeth were bathed in it, my tongue had no way of knowing what to do with it. It couldn't be pushed, nor could it be tossed aside, nor chewed, nor spat, nor gargled. It only melted in good time. And for that alone, it was delicious.

Abalone was the urchin's polar opposite. Raw as well as sauteed, this piece is delicious. The raw abalone must be chewed gracefully. It seems to fall into sheets of dissolving cartilage. The type of creature from which it was cut rested in the display case directly before me, and I could see the bony mollusk breathing at times.

The eel, which is a favorite of mine back home, ruined me for eel back home.

Somewhat early on in the evening, Il Han told us the owner was expressing amazement at our rate of eating. He would put something in front of us, we would eat it, he would feel it his duty to put something in front of us, we would feel it our duty to eat it, his position defined it as his role to put something in front of us, our cultural background would direct us to eat it immediately. He felt we ate too fast, we felt he fed us too fast. Thank goodness Il Han was there to translate. We slowed down.

Eventually we were served a divine piece of sushi. I can't tell you what it looked like or how it felt or tasted. We were then served a piece of the fish's skin after it had been seared. It was curled up and thick but oh-so tender, warm and sweet. This was puffer fish, we were told, and the owner held up a fish-shaped skin with round holes missing where the Fugu's big eyes had been and we recognized the all too well-known coloring of the grey and white fish. Mr. Lee is certified to serve the fish.

He is also certified to serve the intestine of this fish, which, after being toasted for a short time, looked like a perfectly roasted marshmallow. In my mouth it even felt a little like a marshmallow, with the skin just taught enough to create some tension on my teeth, and the warm center flowing out, coating my tongue, teeth, and cheeks, and exiting by way of my throat.

I admit that is when the camera came out. This already unbelievable night reached its apex with a puffer fish feast. I exclaimed that I couldn't pass up a photo opp. with the Fugu skin, and as I turned to get my camera, the owner turned to get his puffer fish--the live one.

The evening continued with photos and drinks and sushi and soup and laughter and talk. Sea cucumber joined the menu, also a treat with a crunch that didn't exactly crunch, though it resisted as if it might.

I cannot remember anymore where the evening began. Was it in the taxi, where we chatted about the school and the nearing completion of our program? Was it when we arrived at the restaurant and took seats at the bar? Was it that first bite of tuna or the last slurp of soup? Or was it some time much earlier, when I was asked if I like sushi, when I tasted my first bite of sushi, when I didn't think I'd ever eat sushi?

The night ended with a dessert of fruit and small glasses of raspberry wine and several more photos of everyone together. We learned from Il Han about sushi etiquette and Korean traditions, as well as about him and his own experience in the city and country in which we all now live. The owner came around to sit with us. He showed us some baseball memorabilia. I showed off my Korean by (surely) offending Korean-speaking parties when I asked to be served cat. What I MEANT to say was I like cats (as in to cuddle with, not to eat). Ah, the intricacies of linguistics.

We climbed into a taxi that would take us back to our apartment building and thanked Il Han again as the doors closed and the car began to roll. This was one of those nights that will never happen in this way again, but simply knowing that such people exist for company and that such food exists for nourishment is enough for my senses tonight.

Tea Time

A few weeks ago, Sasha and I were visiting one of many department stores in the Seoul area on a search for anything familiar. Our main purpose was to scour the basement grocery department for imported goods that we could stock our cabinets with. We did pretty well as we found curry paste, salsa and nacho chips, dark chocolate, and Sriracha hot sauce -- all items not found in our neighborhood market.

We were also intrigued by the coffee and tea sections on the first floor. I had been looking for something-other-than-Lipton black tea since we arrived, and the local market only sells a variety of green teas and some fruit teas, all of which are sold by the bag (or jar) en mass. I set out to find a familiar box of Earl Grey. (I'm okay with bags, but they shouldn't be Lipton.)

I'm beginning to sound a bit snooty about tea. I should clarify that I don't really know bunk about tea other than the fact that I like to drink Earl Grey with a bit of honey and milk. I've preferred this to coffee for some years and here in Seoul I was missing both dark tea and dark coffee. I found the tea displays and looked longingly at signs I didn't understand for about twenty seconds before two women approached to help me.

Department stores seem to hire hoards of people to sell their goods. In every corner of every department, a uniformed woman waits to assist you in any way she can. From a western perspective this can be overwhelming to the point of annoying, because there is a sense of pressure to buy when an employee follows your every move. On the other hand, if you are looking for information or even to buy a product, a friendly assistant is no more than two feet away. (I've quickly come to accept this cultural difference, even though it takes some level of mind over body to remember the woman following me isn't assuming I'm a thief, nor is she trying to pressure me into buying and leaving her store. Minimum wage is about 4,000 won--or $3--in Korea and jobs at all levels are competitive. The attentive service brings job security to an employee, if not additional commission.)

The women helped me choose a Korean tea--one not stored in teabags, but rather in caps of tightly pressed dried tealeaves wrapped in tissue paper. Each cap brews 2 liters of tea. This tea is fermented, they told me (like so much else in Korea, I thought happily), and has purifying qualities for good health. I was trying something new! But I also included a box of familiar Earl Grey tea in my final order.

At home I brewed my fermented tea and drank it. A lovely tea indeed; my unsophisticated pallet believing it to be much like a black tea. I couldn't tell you what was fermented about this tea. I'm not sure what I had expected, but I found it not unusual in the least. I welcomed a break from the green tea that is as lovely, but somehow slightly tiresome in its unfamiliarity. In the west we hear so much about green tea and its antioxidants, its purifying nature. It's the best tea, the healthiest, and the trendiest, too. This has always made me feel a bit bad about preferring black tea. Could I really be doing my body so badly? Alas, it makes no difference as I now had fermented tea, which purifies AND tastes like what I want to drink.

Fast forward several weeks and I am introduced to tea from a different perspective, a Korean perspective.
I attended a tea workshop in which a tea maker explained her work and shared her tea. "The tea tree," she said, "is where tea leaves come from." With this imagined in my mind as many types of tea tree as there are types of tea - green tea trees, Oolong tea trees, white and black tea trees...

She continued: "Green tea, white tea, Oolong tea, black tea, they all come from the same plant. The difference between these teas is the level of fermentation the leaves are exposed to. Green tea is not fermented at all and, therefore, maintains high levels of vitamin C. Fermented teas lose much of their vitamin C in the process, but maintain their purifying qualities."

This information was so new for me that I had to research it online when I got home. Indeed, green tea and black tea are one in the same and the term fermentation is quite misleading as tea leaves are not treated with vinegar and left to steep for weeks or months, but rather oxidized. Alas, the Camellia sinensis made my evening. My fermented tea is black tea and it is no less beneficial to my body than green tea (so long as I find enough vitamin C elsewhere).

The most rewarding event of the evening (outside of drinking lovely teas, of course) was peering into the tea-maker's large ceramic bowl of lotus tea. This was an infused green tea and I'll tell you, when it is done right, green tea is not tiresome.

Bird brained...

My mother refers to pigeons as something like rats of the sky---even if they don't spend all that much time in the sky.

What she means by this is that they are dirty and gross and, well, horrifying. In addition they are found in every major city in this world (as well as some minor ones, I'm quite sure), just like rats are. Luckily they do not grow to be the size of raccoons, as some urban rodents are known to do. I'm sure that would only make them that much more horrifying. My mom may never travel to another urban local again if she knew she could expect turkey-sized pigeons swooping from the eaves to chance partaking in her morning croissant or afternoon snack.

But that brings me to the real issue at hand when pigeons are being discussed. They are scavengers at best and flock to the places where they know there is food. In some towns pigeons wait patiently (I am anthropomorphizing; perhaps the pigeons would not call it patience?) for scraps to be left behind and then dive in to clean up. In other places, certain parts of Seoul being in this category, there is no waiting, the pigeons move right in as you eat.

This would gross my mother out. In fact, if she reads this, she may think twice about visiting. (Don't worry, ma. We'll do our best to avoid these areas.)

The real message here isn't about the pushiness of the birds (they're hardly unique---they are pigeons, after all); I don't need to tell you about how they turned their heads so one sharp, bright, amber eye could keep us in view as Sasha munched on a pancake; I won't go into their efforts at pouncing this way and plunging that way to position themselves most strategically for the moment a morsel fell from the paper wrapping in his hands to the stone walkway below his feet.

I would rather like to tell you about how the pigeons contribute to the textures of Seoul. For these pigeons are not smooth, feathered beings. These pigeons are waxy and crusty. They are missing legs or parts of feet and some have string tangled around those parts that remain. Their shiny black heads are dull, sticky and grayish. Some look as if they dunked their heads in wet cement, then stood to let it dry in clumps above their beaks and through chunks of top feathers. More than anything they look un-groomed and unkempt. Their appearance makes you wonder where (how) they live and how they missed the lesson about keeping oneself reasonably clean.

Other birds hide their crust and gunk with molt. Perhaps the molted feathers can't be released to fall away due to the general stickiness of the rest of the bird, or perhaps the feathers are hanging on at their roots like loose teeth do in children's mouths. In either case the downy hangers-on only add to the general disorder of the creatures as they scavenge.

These birds are like zombie birds, hobbling and wobbling to and fro as they eye you with one eye and then bounce and turn in order to eye you with the other. With missing feet parts, crusty heads, crooked wings, and dirt-caked beaks, one may wonder if there is anything worth noticing about these creatures. But there is. There is something that is perfect in each of them twice.

Their sharp, amber eyes never miss a beat. Pitch-black pupils so perfectly absent of color see every morsel fall, they see every anxious human arm wave them away, they see every competitor approach. And it's those perfect eyes wrapped up in an imperfect package that makes pigeons a texture of Seoul.

Feeling Home

It was late by the time we arrived at the building that was to be our home in Seoul. We were led up one level to apartment number 204. My tired eyes looked around at what seemed a rather cramped, small space. Our luggage flopped onto the middle of the floor and the room was instantly full--as it happened, the middle was the edges and they met the walls directly.

We slept a roasting hot sleep, the dry air cracking our throats throughout the night, and awoke several hours later when day had broken. We sorted our belongings into the drawers, cabinets, and closet that made up our new surroundings. The floor that had been hidden under our luggage was warm and felt nice under our feet. It looked of wood but didn't really feel like wood, although the telltale grain of lumber was there to be seen, and even felt. Still today, weeks after this first encounter with the space, my eyes follow grain lines across the floor and to the walls, where the texture changes from not quite wooden wood to intricately pressed paper.

The walls are wrapped in texture as well. One wall is fancy with red circles on a cream background. Ribbons of subtle gold run from the floor to the ceiling, sometimes transecting the circles, both large and small. The other walls are decorated in a subtler paper--all off-white color and only diamonds pressed into it at regular intervals. The walls are touchable.

It took me a week to realize it, but everything in this apartment is touchable.

The floor is warm and grained but won't splinter,

The walls are a color that changes with light.

The desk drawers and closet have a laminate luster,
That kind's hard to find but sure out of sight!

There are tiles in the kitchen that I like to touch, too.
Then the glass in the doorway is partly opaque,
Which makes it all rough and hard to see through.
The list could go on, but I'll stop for your sake!

The phrase goes "feel at home," but I didn't feel at home until I felt home. It's all here. Every little bit of it.

...smooth mirrors; small, rough bathroom floor tiles; lampshades of canvas; a glass table top; the bright metal runners that are our cabinet handles; the soft and speckled pink marble that would hold in our thresh; the porcelain of our bathroom; the brand new metal fixtures; more tiles, more paper, more fake wood window sills...

Dots Mean Danger

I feel the earth move under my feet-
and when I feel the dots through the soles of my shoes, I know the trail is changing...

Dots don't mean danger really, but they do suggest great change in terrain. Be it a turn in the walkway or a flight of stairs, the dots warn walkers of changes ahead. Call it the death card of pedestrian existence: you've come this far and great change is imminent.

What am I talking about? The warning blind sidewalk, of course.

Hengtong go-ahead blind sidewalk and warning blind sidewalk have the advantages of combustion resistance, slip prevention, wear resistance, static prevention and easy laying.

What's more, they can be found all over Seoul. Quite literally, actually. Upon arrival, I naively assumed that these tiles, which are laid side-by-side to form a trail down the center of every major city sidewalk and metro station, were a form of divider for what can become heavy pedestrian traffic.

Interestingly, these markers changed in texture from those with four long, raised areas (which could invite forward progress by acting as runners when placed one in front of the other) to those covered with raised dots. The dotted tiles were also often laid side-by-side, and usually in conjunction with the runner tiles in some way. Sometimes the dots were not adjacent to the other tiles at all. I once found a single dot tile in a stairwell landing. There were no other tiles--not dots nor runners--in the building at all.

Try as I might, I can't claim a bit of genius in figuring out that these runners and dots are actually trail for the blind (Is it okay if I don't call them go-aheads and warnings? That's not very visual). A friend told me what they were. And I think a friend told her. Regardless, it's the truth. And these dots are not random.

Above: Dots warn subway riders (the seeing as well as the blind) not to stand too close to the edge of the platform.

Below: Runners lead the way to two metro exits. A group of dotted tiles at the intersection warns of a turn to the left and to the right.

Sometimes the tiles making up the trail are yellow and sometimes they are white. I've even seen pink dots with triangular cuts of black dots wedged into them. This rare aesthetic aspect of such trails may be to engage the sighted in the blind sidewalk experience. If nothing else, it conforms nicely to my vision of the textures of Seoul. In the photo below you see runners in white, and dots, warning of a staircase on the right and the subway boarding dock on the left, in yellow.

Finally, some tiles are just different. At points throughout the city and throughout the metro system one finds circles, not runners. Like those in the photo below, the go-ahead tiles consist of four arcs placed to make a circle. There is a dot in the center of this circle, but the dot is only one dot and the dot is a bit larger than those on a warning tile. All the same, these alternative runner tiles are accompanied by dot tiles to warn of change.

Whether it be to warn of a turn in the flow of traffic, a ledge or a staircase, a raised grate in the sidewalk, or a precariously placed vending machine in the hallway (yes, it happens), dots mean danger. Dots mean pay attention because things are changing.

And dots, I've found, are everywhere.

The closer you come, the sweeter it tastes.

I've often heard the closer one comes to a fruit's native land, the better said fruit will taste. And although I've had ample opportunity to test this theory, I think perhaps it's only making an impact this time around. In my short time in Seoul, I've eaten apples and bananas that taste of a type of heaven that I have not been unfamiliar with in this lifetime.
First, I should clarify a few things:
1. I grew up in northern Michigan, which is apple country and have lived for a number of years in Portland, Oregon, just south of the great apple state of Washington.
2. I visited the Big Banana in Coff's Harbour, Australia when I was 17. They have a banana farm there and I ate a banana split, but I don't remember much more about the place.

Apples do really well in point 1's parts of the world, but we all know apples are not native to these areas. Apples can also be really tasty in point 1's parts of the world, but many may know that familiar tastes can be improved by unfamiliar surroundings. Be it proximity to the apple's native seeding ground or remove from that which is familiar, I find my experience with the round-ish fruit here in South Korea awakens something inside of me. The crunch, the aroma, the sweet juice, (the absence of mealiness), all let me know that this is right. This is what apple--sagwa--was meant to be...

As for point 2, I must admit my ignorance to the world of fruit and most other things when I was 17 years old. A banana is a banana is a banana, I would have assumed. Hence, I ordered a banana split, totally destroying any chance I had of tasting a maturely picked banana. But if the experience of consuming Guinness beer in many parts of the world, save Ireland, is to be my guide (and it will be for the time being), then there is indeed proof that things taste better the closer you get to their place of origin.

The Netherlands is the closest I've come to the original recipe and the Netherlands is where I prefer to drink my Guinness these days. It certainly isn't as good in the U.S. It's not even as good in Germany. (I'm saving the real deal in Ireland for later in life, there is no point in rushing good things and what reason is there to live without reason to live?)

Back to bananas: I'm not in a tropical paradise here. The bananas I consume in Seoul are not gingerly plucked from a tree in the foothills. They come from somewhere else and perhaps it's really only conjecture at all that I am now closer to the tree from which they were pulled than I was in the northern United States. I can safely say that I am closer to their native place in this world, if that counts for anything. At any rate, they taste better. And they do amazing things with themselves that I've not seen before...

They plump like Ball Park Franks. I've had bananas turn brown, become mushy, and take on a sickly sweet flavor that makes them good only for baking banana bread, but I've never had one open itself up and attempt to lay seed on my kitchen counter. That, my dear readers, is beautiful. And it's edible to boot.

While the skins of these popped bananas are speckled with brown, the fruit inside is still firmer and more flavorful than any be-speckled banana I've had the misfortune to peel Stateside or in Europe. It's as if the fruit is telling me in the most natural way possible that it's ready now. Eat.

And eat I do. Here's to fruits you thought you knew!

P.S. I've not yet encountered Guinness here, but I'm sure I'll only try it once when I do... for the sake of experiment, of course.