In the Seorae Maeul neighborhood in south-of-the-river Seocho-gu there is a delightful microcosm of French cuisine and culture.
Koreans live on a peninsula that is called “the shrimp between two whales.” Korea is called the shrimp because a majority of the small peninsula’s history has been spent thwarting Chinese and Japanese aggression. This situation has ensured that Koreans are a scrappy bunch, something reflected in the Korean proverb “iyeolchiyeol” (이열치열) or “fight fire…
I felt the volcano rumble and I looked up to see the giant face of the supreme leader himself peeking down at me. He smacked his big, murderous lips and stuck his chopsticks into the chilled broth.
In the Republic of Korea, K.F.C. means one thing and one thing only:
Korean Fried Chicken.
I am of the firm opinion is that some of the best food in the world is created by poor people who are forced to get creative with what they have.
Was this a bubbly middle finger from a delegation of endangered animals to the bourgeois humanoids? A critique of capitalism gone wrong? A shrine to capitalism gone right? I don’t know. I’m still grappling with it now.