Guamegi and Hongeo-hoe

It happened just yesterday. I overdrank, snacking on hongeo (fermented skate) and gwamegi (half-dried fish) freshly delivered from Korea. I’d only ever heard that hongeo was a specialty from Heuksando, and I had never even heard of gwamegi before. My friend, who was born in Daegu, proudly declared she had brought it straight from Korea, saying, “It’s hard to describe, just come and try it.”

Since my husband likes fish but had never heard the word gwamegi before, I just told him, “We’ve been invited to have sashimi.”
Maybe it reminded him of the rock-hard frozen fish strung on ropes in the winter back in the day—he widened his eyes in curiosity and smacked his lips. Using that moment, I dragged my busy husband to a friend’s house in Long Island.

The table was no ordinary spread. Next to the semi-dried gwamegi were fresh seaweed, cabbage leaves, seaweed sheets, and red pepper paste. Next to the pungent hongeo were kimchi and sliced boiled pork. Noticing my husband frown at the unfamiliar fish, I quickly distracted everyone by wrapping gwamegi in seaweed and cabbage, adding a spoonful of spicy sauce on top, popping it in my mouth, and washing it down with a shot of soju.
“This is killer! Amazing!”

As I wrapped a piece of hongeo in kimchi with pork belly and got ready to eat, my friend warned,
“Wait, the smell of an old outhouse is about to hit you!”
“I may look fancy, but there’s nothing I can’t eat,” I said, sneaking a glance at my husband’s uneasy expression.

I stuffed it into my mouth and followed it with a shot of makgeolli.

The ammonia stung my nose with a vengeance.

“What is this flavor?” 

I wondered, but still reached for another piece, then washed it down with beer. That strange, indescribable taste made me curious again—one more piece, one more drink.

Unlike his strong appearance, my husband is weak-stomached. He didn’t touch the food and sat quietly drinking. I should’ve made him some rice and soybean paste stew, but I was already tipsy and avoided eye contact.

One piece of gwamegi, one shot of soju. One piece of hongeo, one shot of sake. Then some makgeolli on top of that.

Looking away from the table, I glanced out the window. The sky was still bright.
Even now, once I’m tipsy, I always look outside to check how dark it’s gotten. If it’s still light, I smile to myself—there’s still time before we have to go home. When darkness finally starts to fall, it softens the mood and deepens the taste of the alcohol.

My friend’s husband kept busy changing CDs to play the music we love. Then he asked,
“How about coffee?”
We all shook our heads quickly.
“No, no!”
It’s an unspoken rule—once the coffee comes out, it means the night is over and it’s time to head home. So every time our friend asked “Coffee?”, we drunkenly shook our heads, and the night went on.

Now, I’m paying the price. My stomach burns, my throat is raw, and I’ve been in bed all day.
Why can’t I just accept getting older, instead of trying to relive my youth every time I see alcohol? I need to live long and healthy if I want to enjoy the fruits of my life. Aigo… I’m dying here.