“Could we get some kimchi, please?”
My husband, who loves kimchi, made this simple request. We weren't expecting a full spread of side dishes—just a small plate of kimchi to start.
“Kimchi isn't served before you order meals,” the waiter replied.
We had just ordered a bottle of soju and were waiting for our guests from Seoul. Like the travelers in Hwang Sok-yong’s epic novel Jang Gilsan, we wanted to stop by the tavern, down a shot of liquor on an empty stomach before the hot soup arrived, and chew on a humble piece of kimchi. But the waiter’s expressionless answer instantly ruined the mood for a drink.
Soon, the two guests we invited arrived and sat across from us. My husband ordered scallion pancakes (pajeon), blood sausage (sundae), and steamed dumplings as appetizers. Yet, they didn't even bring us small sauce blocks or individual plates to share the food. No one could touch the appetizers, so we just sat there waiting. Finally, I asked again.
“Could we please get some small dish bowls and some kimchi?”
With the same blunt, stony face, the waiter snapped back, “If you don't order a main meal, we cannot give you kimchi.”
“Look, we’re having drinks and appetizers first, and we will order our meals later. Can’t you just bring us the kimchi ahead of time?”
“I will bring it once you order your meals.”
Since when did appetizers and main meals become so rigidly separated? The waiter ignored us completely, offering no further response. The joy of having a drink was rapidly slipping away.
“Please call the manager over.”
The waiter walked away with a blank face that said he couldn't care less. A few moments later, someone else quietly slipped a plate of kimchi onto our table.
Has the cost of living risen so high that kimchi has truly become as precious as gold? Was this a stingy policy ordered by the restaurant management, or simply a lack of flexibility from the waiter himself? Or were we being rude by asking for kimchi with just appetizers?
Suddenly, I recalled a behavior said to be common among some young people in Korea these days: "silent staring." When asked a question or spoken to, they just stare blankly at the other person without saying a word. I wondered if this, too, was one of those lonely changes left behind by social distancing.
The restaurant wasn't even busy. Even though the waiter kept his eyes on our table, he still never brought us those small dish bowls. Remembering a warm scene from Jang Gilsan that I read ages ago—where tavern women boisterously boiled pots of soup—I tossed out a casual remark to break the heavy silence.
“Don't you think 'jongji' (small dish) is such a beautiful word? 'Bongji' (plastic bag/pouch) too.”
Prices have truly gone through the roof. The price of a bowl of soup has more than doubled, so I understand the restaurant's need to make a profit. Still, we ordered a bottle of soju, three appetizers, and eventually our main meals. Is it really necessary to be so stingy with kimchi, the most basic staple of a Korean table? It felt incredibly cold-hearted. It was a thoroughly bitter and confusing evening.
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