Learning a new food culture
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Hi everyone!
When I moved to South Korea, I knew I’d have to face a world of new tastes and unfamiliar dishes. My first meal there wasn’t at a fancy restaurant or part of a planned excursion, but rather at a small, local eatery tucked away in a busy alley. The sign was all in Korean, and the only reason I went in was because I could smell something savory and warm wafting out from the doorway. I figured if the food smelled good, how bad could it be?
I was greeted by an elderly woman who smiled and spoke quickly in Korean. I didn’t understand much, but I caught the word “kimchi” and gave her an enthusiastic nod. She led me to a table and soon, dishes began to arrive, filling every bit of space. Small bowls, each filled with colorful vegetables, tofu, pickled radishes, and, of course, kimchi—a fermented cabbage with a spicy, tangy kick.
I hesitated at first. Everything looked foreign, and I wasn’t sure where to start. Should I use chopsticks? Was it rude to just dig in? I observed the other diners—locals who seemed so at ease, mixing their bowls of bibimbap with gochujang (chili paste), slurping up hot doenjang jjigae (soybean paste stew), and using their chopsticks with an expertise that seemed impossible for me to achieve.
To cope with this entirely new food culture, I had to let go of my fear of looking foolish. I mimicked what I saw. I mixed my bibimbap, took a bite of kimchi, and found that its bold flavor was unlike anything I’d tasted before. It was spicy, sour, and a little salty, but there was something about it that made me want to try more.
The next day, I decided to embrace my curiosity. I went to a traditional market where vendors called out, displaying foods I'd never seen before: rice cakes, dried anchovies, bright red chili peppers. I bought tteokbokki—a dish made of chewy rice cakes cooked in a spicy sauce. The heat was intense, almost overwhelming, but the soft texture of the rice cakes balanced it out. A vendor saw me fanning my mouth and laughed, handing me a cup of cold barley tea.
Moving to a new country meant adapting to new tastes, but it also meant opening myself up to an entirely different way of life. I realized that food was more than sustenance; it was a bridge to understanding a culture. By embracing each new dish, even when I wasn’t sure I’d like it, I discovered not only the flavors of Korea but also the warmth and generosity of its people. And in that little alleyway eatery, I found a place that started to feel a little bit like home.
When I moved to South Korea, I knew I’d have to face a world of new tastes and unfamiliar dishes. My first meal there wasn’t at a fancy restaurant or part of a planned excursion, but rather at a small, local eatery tucked away in a busy alley. The sign was all in Korean, and the only reason I went in was because I could smell something savory and warm wafting out from the doorway. I figured if the food smelled good, how bad could it be?
I was greeted by an elderly woman who smiled and spoke quickly in Korean. I didn’t understand much, but I caught the word “kimchi” and gave her an enthusiastic nod. She led me to a table and soon, dishes began to arrive, filling every bit of space. Small bowls, each filled with colorful vegetables, tofu, pickled radishes, and, of course, kimchi—a fermented cabbage with a spicy, tangy kick.
I hesitated at first. Everything looked foreign, and I wasn’t sure where to start. Should I use chopsticks? Was it rude to just dig in? I observed the other diners—locals who seemed so at ease, mixing their bowls of bibimbap with gochujang (chili paste), slurping up hot doenjang jjigae (soybean paste stew), and using their chopsticks with an expertise that seemed impossible for me to achieve.
To cope with this entirely new food culture, I had to let go of my fear of looking foolish. I mimicked what I saw. I mixed my bibimbap, took a bite of kimchi, and found that its bold flavor was unlike anything I’d tasted before. It was spicy, sour, and a little salty, but there was something about it that made me want to try more.
The next day, I decided to embrace my curiosity. I went to a traditional market where vendors called out, displaying foods I'd never seen before: rice cakes, dried anchovies, bright red chili peppers. I bought tteokbokki—a dish made of chewy rice cakes cooked in a spicy sauce. The heat was intense, almost overwhelming, but the soft texture of the rice cakes balanced it out. A vendor saw me fanning my mouth and laughed, handing me a cup of cold barley tea.
Moving to a new country meant adapting to new tastes, but it also meant opening myself up to an entirely different way of life. I realized that food was more than sustenance; it was a bridge to understanding a culture. By embracing each new dish, even when I wasn’t sure I’d like it, I discovered not only the flavors of Korea but also the warmth and generosity of its people. And in that little alleyway eatery, I found a place that started to feel a little bit like home.
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