The vendors were friendly and approachable, willing to engage with foreigners, dangling octopuses, crabs, spoon worms (also known as, ahem, penis fishes) in my face while quoting me prices.
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.