A Frustration in Communication Leads to a Realization about Dalkgalbi

On Wednesday, I went to TKD as per usual, but I was pulled from the class early. The sabonim received a call from persons unknown (at least to me) who he could only describe as “chingu” or friends.

“Ah… Jeremy-shi?” he says to me politely while I’m mid dulachagi. “Yes?” say I, finishing the kick with a rather unsatisfactory plop against the padded target. (It’s supposed to make more of a plablam! sound if you kick it correctly.) “Chingu-rul Mimisa-ei manayo. (Friends meet at Mimisa.) You go.” “Chingu manayo?” I respond in confusion. “Now?” “Yes. Go, ot change-y. (Change your clothes.)”

Now, my confusion was understandable, as there is no one in the hamlet that I can properly call chingu. Everyone is either too young or too old or a colleague or just plain Korean. Because of the social hierarchy, no one would call me a chingu. This led me to all sorts of wild conclusions (and, admittedly, fantasies) about who could be waiting for me at Mimisa. Did one of my fellow entertaining teachers from American happen to come to the hamlet without telling me in order to surprise me? And if so, how on Earth did they know to look at my host mother’s beauty shop? Did they just ask every citizen of this fair city, “Hey! Do you know who the foreign guy in town is staying with? … Which foreign guy? You mean there are two? … Well, what are my options? … Australian or American, huh? The American one then. … The beauty supply shop? This way? Ok, thanks,” until they found me? I could only imagine this scenario as I walked in great anticipation towards my host-mother’s humble shop.

Well, the reality turned out to be much less exciting than the fantasy. As per usual, I suppose. Turns out, my host mother was meeting her friends for dinner. I just needed to tag along if I wanted to eat that night. Ah, disappointment. At least it was followed by food, a lesson in hospitality if I ever heard one: If you’re going to disappoint someone, give them some food to go with it. (One of the Korean proverbs in the back of my phrasebook in fact says, 둘이 먹다가 한 사람 죽어도 모른다 Duri meogdaga han saram jugeodo moreunda (While two are eating, one could die and the other wouldn’t know).

The evening was not a total loss, however, as I realized that one of Chuncheon’s claims to fame, that it serves the best dalkgalbi in the world, is in fact true, at least so far as Chuncheon and my hamlet are concerned. Dalkgalbi here is positively disgusting when compared with Chuncheon’s, and even I, one who has been voted by my fellow ATEs as “Most likely to eat anything,” had trouble finishing it to my aching stomach’s appeasement. I wonder how many of my fellow ATEs have been similarly disappointed outside of Chuncheon, and whether this is pandemic across the country. I thought before that such regional differences in food taste must be exaggerated to the benefice of the city which claimed to have the best item, but I see now the truth of this concerning Chuncheon. Once you’ve had dalkgalbi there, you’ll never go anywhere else.

I bemoan my leaving Korea eventually because of the loss I will feel at leaving Chuncheon’s dalkgalbi forever behind…