If you were to do a survey up and down the peninsula asking people to name the country’s most boring metropolis, Daejeon would likely top the list1. For better or for worse, many Koreans consider it to be a snoozy, unremarkable burg — though they’ll also (usually) admit that it’s a pretty nice place to live. Whether or not this reputation for blandness is fair is certainly up for debate, but as I rolled into Daejeon on the train after a pleasant and boozy night in friendly (and distinctly pretty) Chungju, I was already sizing it up, and yeah, at first sight it seemed somewhat generic.
But ALL Korean cities have a similar, uninspired look when you initially cast your eyes upon them. There is an oppressive sameness throughout the urban landscape of this country that can at times border on depressing: massive boxy, utilitarian apartment blocks; hissing grey overpasses and highways; city roads choked with blue buses and shiny white, black, and silver cars lacking a single dent; pseudo-futuristic sky towers, old brick houses, slow-flowing streams lined with walking and bike paths, flashing neon signs, and lit-up red crosses2 topping church steeples that look more like radio towers attempting to send a signal to the Almighty than any kind of sacred architecture.
The fact that Daejeon seemed like it came straight out of Korean city Central Casting was no surprise, but I was also taken in by just how big the place was. With around 1.5 million people, it’s the 5th-largest metropolis in the country by population, and it shows. Daejeon is a sprawling town, smothering a wide valley where three rivers converge in one seething urban(ish) mass that stretches and snakes beyond what you can take in with one glance. Like most any Korean urban settlement, it’s ringed with pine-covered mountains and hills, but they’re well in the distance in Daejeon: at first sight I could also tell straight away that it was the flattest Korean city I’d ever been to — a rare sight of even ground in a nation dominated by knobby, rocky rises.
Daejeon’s boring reputation certainly preceded it, which is probably why — despite 22 years in South Korea — I had yet to visit the place, save a transfer from the train station to the bus terminal during a hazy winter morning, when everything was covered in a shit-brown dusty miasma. This did little to stoke my enthusiasm to come back for some time, though I now returned with more than a modicum of excitement, if only for the fact that I was about to explore a brand-new town.
Even if Daejeon was as uninspiring as some said, there had to be a few gems to discover, which — this being Korea — especially meant great local food. I also have been traveling long enough to realize that it’s often the least-sexy destinations that offer the greatest surprises, so I arrived with a happy heart and open mind and hoped that Daejeon would show me some kind of magic if I looked hard enough.
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My love motel3 was situated in a large cluster of other such unsavory accommodations in the Jungni-dong neighborhood, next to the Hannam University campus — about 15 minutes north of downtown by bus. The fact that there was a uni nearby came as no surprise, as Daejeon is South Korea’s educational capital, home to nearly 20 institutes of advanced learning, including Chungnam National University and KAIST (Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology), the country’s flagship STEM research school (essentially their MIT).
All of these scientists and professors living in and around Daejeon means that it’s not only full of smart people, but also a prosperous place, as all of those campuses, jobs, endowments, and grants translate into cash, which in turns seeps back into the city and creates even more employment.
You wouldn’t have known that from my musty little motel, a place whose online ratings must have once been so dire that they changed the name on Agoda (when you arrived a completely different — and very old — sign greeted you). But for just 30,000 won, the price was more than right. A withered woman’s hand slid my key from behind a partition that blocked most of her face, though her creaky voice was friendly enough, and after stashing my bags I was out in the full press of the August heat to see what Daejeon had in store.
While I was fully content to do so on two feet — which is usually how I explore a new town — after consulting the online map oracles and getting an on-the-ground sense of just how stretched out this city was, I was stoked when I came upon a bicycle rental station.
Daejeon has a city-wide program called Tashu, where you can take out a bike for free for 60 minutes. After that they charge you just 500 won (about 35 cents) per 30 minutes you go over. The bikes are three-speed granny bikes with baskets and all in good working order, and after wrangling with downloading the app and connecting my credit card — always a massive ballache in Korea because you have to jump through countless annoying security code protocols — I amazingly got it to work.
Soon I was cruising down the sidewalk (which had a designated bike lane) on my way to the newer, shinier part of town, as a metal stampede of traffic growled on the eight-lane road to my left. Despite great programs like Tashu — along with tons of bike paths on other impressive infrastructure — it was very clear that Daejeon, for all of its forward-thinking “smart city” conceits, was still very much built around the automobile.
Yes, there is a subway (just one line but it’s as dialed-in as anything in Seoul or Busan) and a bus system, but most everyone still seems to drive in Daejeon. The roads are wide and massive and you have to wait AGES at the crosswalks (the biggest roads don’t even employ crosswalks, but instead the dreaded pedestrian overpasses). During my time there I spent uncountable minutes languishing in the relentless summer heat as endless rivers of traffic whooshed by; some of these pedestrian signals must have been programmed on four or five-minute cycles (I never counted, but man, it seemed like forever).
The automobile-centric design of the town (much of it is built on a grid, with long straight roads that kind of suck the joy out of everything) makes Daejeon feel like more of an overgrown Korean suburb than a proper city. Like Changwon4, much of it was obviously planned. This means that it’s well-laid out and easy to understand, but also sapped of character. This was driven home by the seemingly endless rows of charm-free apartment blocks which dominated the landscape after I crossed the bridge over the Yeudong Stream into Seo-gu, Daejeon’s “New Town.” Sure, it looked like a decent place to raise a family, but to recall a comment once made about the dead space of downtown LA: “There is no there there.”
Despite the obvious themes of this this essay (so far), I’m not really an urbanist, though I have spent so much time traveling in cities that I have now formed some pretty entrenched notions about what makes my heart soar: car-culture mixed with cookie-cutter housing does not. However, to be fair, this was just a slice of Daejeon, but as it was one of the first sections of the city that I met head on, the impression was already made.
Still, I was happy, cruising along on the bike while the warm air slapped my face, and soon the apartments gave way to government buildings: courts, the prosecutor’s office, tax centers, police, city hall, and more organs of the state. This is also a kind of empty architecture, more function than form — though it’s designed to make you feel small in every way — and Daejeon seemed to have more of it than any other Korean city I’ve explored. This whole core of Seo-gu was made up of sterile government structures, and it even had a name and metro station befitting the blandness of it all: “Government Complex.”
Eventually, however, I found signs of life, and before I knew it I was cruising into a vibrant shopping district dominated by the modern, alabaster form of the Galleria Department Store. There were humans on the sidewalks and I could suddenly feel the city’s pulse. Behind the big store was a whole nightlife district filled with restaurants, nightclubs, and pocha bars blasting sugary dance music and K-pop (along with the abomination that is Korean hip-hop5), and as I pressed on I came into the hipster area.
Every Korean city now has at least one of these districts, where former machine shops or small residential houses (known as jutaek) have been converted into cafes, bars, eateries, and shops (Look, a macaroon bakery!) run by very consciously cool young people. Despite the sometimes overly-precious attitude afoot, this is where creative, fun stuff often happens in Korea, which is why I went there in the first place.
A restaurant named Taco Gang was recommended by a friend, where I downed two banging tacos de birria6 cooked up by tattooed, English-speaking cooks, all washed down with an ice-cold bottle of Dos Equis amid some vivid and yes — very hip decor. I felt a bit guilty going with Mexican in a city that is known for some great homegrown Korean food, but I’d been craving tacos all summer, and these hit the spot, though I know I’d need some more sustenance later in the night.
I decided to pedal back towards Jung-gu — the older part of town where the train station is located — though as I was rolling along the now cooler streets (the sun was setting) I heard the sound of drums and chanting from a loudspeaker. Koreans love nothing more than a good demonstration, and soon I saw what all the fuss was about: the right-wingers were out making a racket!
The Korean right is pretty much as nuts as American MAGA, and they too have gone all-in on election fraud and every other nutbar conspiracy theory under the sun. Their beloved president, Yoon Seok-yul, is now languishing in prison after attempting to declare martial law. and they believe it’s all a plot executed under the nefarious machinations of Red China and — of course — North Korea. They demonstrate daily in all of South Korea’s major cities, carrying placards, shouting, singing, and waving both South Korean and American flags.
They’re absolute lunatics and I don’t feel thrilled that they have taken up the Stars and Stripes as a symbol for their cause, but so have the Trumpies and that whole pack of jackals, so I barely even feel like that flag represents me anymore. That said, I will also admit that (living abroad) it’s nice to have some people loving America instead of hating us — for whatever reason — so as I cruised by their insane procession, I though “fuck it” and shot them an impulsive thumbs up. They cheered my Yankee ass on and I will freely admit that it kind of felt good.
Having broken the seal in the taco joint, I was ready for another icy beer. After all, I was on vacation and had braved temperatures of around 34C (95F) plus crushing humidity, while cycling along sizzling pavement in a seething furnace of a city. Once I arrived in Jung-gu, I parked the bike and wandered through a whole pedestrian complex of side streets full of restaurants, shops, and boozers in hope of stumbling upon a little bar where I could just get a glass of cheap Korean draft beer, but… no dice7.
However, I was officially in town doing research for Bradt’s upcoming South Korea guide, and there was a craft beer pub in the neighborhood that I needed to check out. Surely I could just get a pint there, though given the fact that the soupy air was nearly on fire, I wasn’t really in the mood for a Sasquatch Ass triple-hopped IPA or a Belgian Flaming Farm Goat wheat sour. I was craving simple lager. To paraphrase the oft-quoted Tony Bourdain: “You know what kind of beer l like? I like cold beer.”
Still, the craft beer place had come highly recommended, though my buddy warned me that it was “a little pricey.” I walked in the door and it certainly looked like a real craft beer joint back home, with exposed brick, soft lighting, and couples nibbling on pizza while sipping from an array of golden, black, and amber brews in those fancy glasses that look like they came from an upscale science lab.
I sat at the bar and was greeted in perfect English. The barman handed me a menu, which I briefly opened before scanning the wall where they displayed what they had on tap. “This might not be too bad,” I thought. They had over 20 draft beers available, and some very deep cuts by the look of it, but then I saw the prices: 16,000 won. 17,000 won. 19,000 won for a single glass of beer.
I was prepared to pay a bit more than usual, but these prices were pretty much double of what you shell out almost anywhere else. Even the most expensive places in Seoul where I’ve supped crafties have been cheaper. I just couldn’t do it. Despite the fact that these guys were clearly beer aficionados, they were clearly taking the piss with pricing, and I wasn’t having it.
“Sorry,” I said, getting up and shaking my head. “Your prices are insane. There is no way I am paying that.”
Now it is worth pointing out that the place was packed — full of Korean customers — a lot of them were clearly on dates. They seemed perfectly happy (or oblivious) to be ass-reamed by the price of a pint, and the owners surely knew it. In fact I’m sure their whole business model rests on the fact that a lot of Koreans will happily pay super-inflated prices because of the perceived value. This is especially true on dates or outings with friends. Picking up the tab for such an expensive meal or round of drinks bestows status on the treater, so — in a sense — money is no object (or at least one used to impress).
My evening was coming to an end, and it was clear that I needed some very local flavor. I figured if I just cycled back towards my neighborhood I would run into something cool, and I was nearly back to my love motel when I came across it: Oh Mun-chang Sundae Gukbap.
Situated on a very busy road with a garish red sign letting the world know that here lies the business, this 24-hour joint was clearly a local institution, serving up bowls of blood sausage8 soup in a bone broth along with jokbal (pig’s trotters), if you’re craving the full pork blast. It was brightly-lit and slammed at 10:30 at night, and as I strolled in amongst the boisterous tables of locals chewing, slurping, and downing shots of soju, I knew I had chosen well.
This was the kind of Korean joint that really gets my blood pumping, though I was a bit surprised when — in addition to blood sausage — my bowl of gukbap arrived filled with chewy slices of intestines instead of actual meat. However, feeling the flow of the universe, I just embraced the moment and took the offally goodness down, along with plenty of kimchi, onions, peppers, and a bottle of local soju for good measure.
While the food was satisfying, the prices were even better — straight out of 2007. In many ways this unpretentious, spit-and-sawdust local spot serving steaming bowls of gut soup and pigs’ feet was the exact opposite of the bourgie craft beer place I had fled just a couple of hours beforehand. This was the Daejeon I had come to find, and all along it had been right there, just a two minute walk from my shitty motel.
While sundae gukbap isn’t necessarily a Daejeon-specific delicacy, it is a regional dish, one that I’d enjoyed in other spots in surrounding North Chungcheong Province, including Jecheon (though usually filled with meat instead of innards) . What Daejeon is famous for, however, is wheat-based fare. Because of its central location that served as a railroad hub during and after the Korean War, a lot of US food aid — especially wheat — came through town and the locals made good use of it (I suspect plenty “fell off the train.”).
Opened in 1956, the city’s Sungsimdang9 bakery is the most famous in Korea which also means it’s absolutely mobbed, with lines befitting a BTS concert more than a bread house (more on that later). Dajeon is also known for its noodle dishes such as kalguksu (knife-cut noodles), along with naengmyeon (ice noodles), which I have been ODing on over the course of this relentless Korean summer.
Craving cold noodle-y pleasures, I found myself back in Jung-gu the next afternoon, wandering through the Central Market. Daejeon’s main bazaar is just as sprawling as the city itself, a covered complex full of fruit and veggie stalls, meat vendors, dry goods hawkers, clothing shops, street food stands, and plenty of old-school restaurants. If you ever find yourself hungry in an unfamiliar Korean city, just head to a street market and duck into one of the local eateries: You’ll rarely strike out and your wallet will also be happy for it.
When I came across Heung-mi Naengmyeon I could feel it call me, as it checked pretty much every box for a quality market matjib10. This was an ice-noodle specialist store with fluorescent lighting and almost no attempt at decoration in the bare-bones interior. An older guy made noodles by hand in the corner, while his tough-looking wife oversaw the whole affair.
The median age of the customers had to be somewhere near 70, and they only served five things, all noodle dishes. I ordered bibimnaengmyeon (ice noodles mixed with a spicy, sweet, tangy sauce), and was presented with a gargantuan bowl that I had no hope of finishing. This was a no-bells-and-whistles take on the dish, naengmyeon stripped down to its most basic components: ice, noodles, sauce, boiled egg, radish, and a few slices of pork.
I left absolutely stuffed — as well as cooled down — and before I knew it I was sipping an iced coffee in Elvis, an LP cafe run by an aging gentleman and what seemed to be several buddies of his. I had walked by the day before and peered in the window; they had waved for me to come in, so I knew they were friendly, and now I savored the smoky brew while jazz poured from the speakers.
The owner estimated that he had anywhere from fifteen to twenty thousand LPs in the cafe — both Western artists and Korean — and encouraged me to browse his collection. He also had a number of vintage radios and some cool old stereo gear and I got the impression that Elvis was a real labor of love — not to mention a good excuse to spend his days shooting the shit with his old friends to the soundtrack of their youth.
I was tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon at Elvis, as — in addition to coffee — they also had a fridge full of beer. However, as much as this older version of Daejeon appealed to me, I was also there to discover the modern side of town, the “City of the Future” that it bills itself as. You could see this in a lot of the architecture, much of which has a space age, science fiction look, reminding everyone that they are in the incubator of South Korea’s high-tech prowess.
This, of course, meant a visit to the National Science Museum, and after another sweaty bike ride I found myself strolling its grounds. Situated along the banks of the Gapcheon River, this is South Korea’s premier celebration of all things science, a massive campus with meeting halls, a planetarium, and massive pavilions full of exhibits and hands-on experiments. It should come as no surprise that it’s popular with kids, and I felt the kid in me come alive as I took in (replica) skeletons of a Triceratops, Brachiosaurus, and T-rex, along with a woolly mammoth.
I was always into life sciences more than tech stuff, so I of course enjoyed the Natural History Hall most of all, but the Science and Technology Hall also held a number of treasures — including replicas of satellites, which always amaze me (We launch weird machines into SPACE and they just circle the planet for years!). My particular favorite was an exhibit on Admiral Yi Sun-shin’s turtle ships that featured an interactive game where you can sink Japanese naval vessels with cannon fire (they explode and go down in a violent flaming ball). It was fascinating to see how the Koreans manage to sneak a bit of jingoism into educational science, but to be fair, the Japanese really did have it coming.
That night I sought out more local fare. Minhee had done some internet sleuthing and sent me a few leads, including a couple famous for bbyeo gui — spicy marinated pork spine served with haejangguk (hangover soup)11 and side dishes. I tried to get into the most famous place, but the wait is always crazy and by the time I rolled up they had stopped giving out numbers. Instead I ended up at Yanam, a newer, smaller place that does the same dish. I wasn’t sure at first, as not only was it situated across the alley from the yuppified craft beer spot, but the staff were all young people and it looked very shiny and almost too clean.
Still, I had to wait about twenty minutes and order for two people, but I was famished and determined to get down with this local take on a dish I had eaten many times. Soon an absolute pile of glistening red pork spine appeared on a bed of udon noodles, along with kimchi, myeolchi bokkeum (mixed tiny dried anchovies — one of my favorite banchan12), onions, peppers, and for good measure, a bottle of Cass beer along with soju, of course. I was going large — all in — and determined to leave a sweaty, full, half-drunk mess.
I absolutely succeeded in this goal. The pork spine contained massive, wobbly hunks of meat that almost fell off the bone. It was also properly spicy: each bite delivered a satisfying wave of heat that caused perspiration to bead on my forehead and run into my eyes. This, coupled with glasses of ice-cold lager combined to act as a kind of temporary heaven, and even if I was making a spectacle of myself — sitting alone, slowly gorging and drinking myself silly while frantically scribbling in a notebook — it was worth it.
I’d go back to Daejeon just for that meal alone.
After spending the next morning dippng my toes in Yeosong Hot Springs (public foot baths) and exploring the Daejeon Museum (beautiful building but underwhelming) and Daejeon Art Museum (small but impressive), I jumped on a bus and took a day-trip to Sejong, which is just about forty-five minutes north of town. This is South Korea’s administrative capital — a somewhat surreal, hyper-modern town that was also strangely beautiful — and the subject of my next piece.
That night I found myself back in Daejeon feeling restless. Part of this was because I hadn’t talked to anyone the whole time I’d been there, except ordering meals and a short conversation with the old boys at Elvis LP cafe. This was in contrast to Chungju, where in one evening I’d met more people than I could keep track of. I’d been living entirely in my head in Daejeon, which can be gratifying, but I was craving a bit of human contact.
Was Daejeon an unfriendly town? Not really. It was just a big city and acted like one. The reason I hadn’t met anyone is that I had yet to find a proper boozer, but that was solved a couple of hours later, when I walked into The Ranch Pub, a Western bar in Gung-dong, a great little neighborhood sandwiched between the gates of KAIST and Chungnam National University.
Ranch was exactly what I’d been looking for. Several beers on tap for normal prices, pub fare (I didn’t eat but still), and friendly vibes. The bartender made plenty of small talk and the tables were filled with what I took to be faculty members of the surrounding universities, laughing, knocking back pints, and spreading relaxed joy. I sipped my beer and thanked the heavens that Daejeon was home to at least one decent bar.
Soon a group of around seven Americans poured in and we immediately got chatting. They were techies from Seattle (small world) and were in town building a “quantum computer” at one of the local unis. Like most non-expats, they were astounded to hear that I had lived in Korea for over 20 years, and once they learned that I also work as a journalist they began to clam up, as perhaps their project was a bit sensitive to jabber about in bars.
More than anything, however, it was probably just the good ol’ Seattle freeze13 doing its thing: be friendly for a bit, but then close the interaction down. I have been away from the Emerald City so long that I barely recognize the place anymore, and actual Seattle residents surely don’t view me as a local either. Living abroad for decades makes you a bit of a freak in the eyes of “civilians,” and I could also feel them get uncomfortable as I chatted in Korean with their Korean colleague.
Perhaps they thought I was trying to show off. And maybe I was, just a little bit.
My time in Daejeon was coming to a close, and while I think I took a big bite out of the town, in the end it felt like a shallow taste. Like most of the places in North Chungcheong Province and its surroundings, Daejeon seems like more of a place to live than a place to visit, and to really know it, you probably have to spend a lot of time just doing your daily thing and let it come to you organically.
This manner of slowly getting acquainted is probably what makes it seem boring to some. Perhaps this essay is boring — over forty five hundred words to describe a place that most skip during their travels on the peninsula — though I thank those who have made it this far. I just felt that underappreciated Daejeon deserved an attempt at a deep dive. After all, I have to include it in the guide book and I was alread in the neighborhood, so Daejeon ended up becoming the acme of my summer travels. What you have read are my meditations on that fact, but before I bow out, there is one thing missing:
The bakery.
I hate lines, so there was no way I was going to brave the absolutely insane queue to get into Sungsimdang. I have had their bread (courtesy of my brother in law) and while it was very good, it wasn’t wait-at-least-an-hour-good. However, my wife — who acts as a kind of unofficial researcher and fixer during my Korea travels — turned me on to a secret. Sumsingdang has a basement sandwich shop right around the corner from its flagship store, and there is almost never a line.
She was right! I rocked up at noon, walked down the stairs, and was treated to an array of pre-made sandwiches ready to be picked out and eaten. Sure, it was elbow-to-elbow, but there was no line, and in five minutes I was out the door with two great-looking Euro-style sandwiches: Mozzarella and ham on sourdough, and a ham cheese tomato combo on some more rustic-style bread.
As I sat in the train station, taking down what may have been the best sandwiches I’ve eaten in Korea, I wished, for a moment, that I had a bit of wine. It would have been a great match with the meat, cheese, and amazing bread, but perhaps it also would have been a bit too much. The simplicity of the sandwiches was what made them great, and as I chased a swallow with a satisfying gulp of fresh water, I was thankful for it, even if it was a bit boring.
This is among South Korea’s major cities. There are certainly plenty of places with less going on, but Daegu is generally viewed as the country’s most sedate big town.
Korea’s incandescent crosses were the first thing that stuck out when I arrived here. I remember seeing them burn into the summer night as I first took in Busan from my bus when I arrived in 2004. In fact, the first chapter in my memoir, Dispatches from the Peninsula, is titled “Neon Crosses.”
The Korean “love motel” is a cultural institution. Originally a slightly-seedy getaway designed for trysts, they have evolved, and these days some love motels are quite nice, offering a solid, cheaper alternative to more established hotels. I have stayed in countless love motels over the years to the point where I have grown fond of the old school ones, and this one in Daejeon fit the bill.
Changwon is a city of nearly one million people located just forty minutes from Busan. Like Daejeon, it’s home to a lot of tech and manufacturing companies and was built on a grid system. They both have a very similar feel.
While I have come around a bit when it comes to K-pop and even some of their cheesedick ballads, nothing makes me want to murder more the Korean hip-hop. While I’m sure there are some talented rappers doing it, what I’ve seen over the years is just ridiculous posturing and watered-down, laugable imitation. I’m not big on hip-hop in general (I got time for some, but not most), so I’m coming from a baseline of general dislike. Hell, to me, would be being trapped in a never-ending K-hip-hop show.
Mexican food in Korea has come a long way over the past ten years or so. While nothing like back home, it is possible to hunt down some decent tacos and other fare if you put a bit of work into it and aren’t afraid to sometimes pay a premiums (this shop’s prices weren’t so bad). This goes for foreign food in general here: Tens of thousands of young people have traveled and lived abroad and brought back the the things they’ve seen and eaten. This aspect of globalization has expanded the food choices in Korea, much to its betterment.
I have written about this before, but despite a more-than-robust drinking culture, it can be hard to just rock up and get a draft beer in Korea. Koreans drink in groups, and a Korean suljib (their version of a bar) is more like a restaurant. You sit at a table, and you have to order anju (drinking side dishes). Interaction with others outside of your group is discouraged, so the solo beer drinker can find it challenging to get a frosty mug on a hot summer evening.
Sundae (pronounced “SOON-day”) is Korean blood sausage, kind of their equivalent of a black pudding in the UK. It’s general made from pig intestines stuffed with glass noodles, rice, blood, and seasonings. It can be quite rubbery and I’m not necessarily a fan, but some of the more artesanal sundae (read: not mass produced) is lovely, and I have time for a bit in my soup. Offal, not so much, but the atmosphere was so good at this joint that I just dove in.
Sungshimdang was started by North Korean war refugee Lim Gil-soon and his family in 1956 after their train broke down in Daejeon and the local Catholic church gave them two bags of flour as charity. Today they do nearly 100 million dollars (USD) in sales annually and are easily Daejeon’s most famous landmark. The company is also known for its charitable work, donating bread (and money) to orphanages, women’s shelters, and more.
Matjib literally means “flavor house” and is used to describe a beloved local restaurant serving up good food.
Haejangguk translates roughy to “hangover cure soup” and there are several varieties, ranging from broth with bean sprouts to congealed beef blood soup (an… acquired taste) to pork spine (bbyeo gui), which is my favorite. Usually the pork spine is served IN the soup, but this Daejeon style serves it stacked up on the side, slathered in extremely spicy sauce. It’s killer.
Banchan is Korean for “side dish,” an essential element in the country’s cuisine. Korean court food, known as Han jeongshik, may have up to 40 banchan on the table. It can get crazy.
The “Seattle freeze” is a supposed social phenomenom where Seattle locals will be polite, but ultimately cold to newcomers, making it hard to make new friends in the Emerald City. I never experienced it because I was a local who probably did it to newbies, but now that I’ve been away and sometimes travel back to Seattle or meet Seattleites abroad, I can see how it may indeed be a thing.
Also, "Sundae gukbap" is always traditionally served with naejang. Old school places in Jeonju dont add any sausage to the bowl at all (you have to order it as a side or get the modeum). This is the authentic way the soup is served.
Daejeon has a lot more beneath the surface than it seems. Lots of local and historical hidden gems. As a naengmyeon fan, you have to try sutgolwon. I am glad you found Ranch though. 😊 This post is making me want to finish up my Daejeon guide. Cheers, brother!