Schwartz, who looked back at him, eyebrows raised in question. Chang nodded sharply. An unspoken instruction. Schwartz opened the door and left the room. I shivered involuntarily and headed for the same door. As I reached for it, Chang spoke again.
âJohn Lee will pick you up in the morning, as usual.â
He sounded very sure of himself.
Chapter Eleven
Long and thin and laced to a single main street like a rural village set amidst an urban sprawl of ten million, Seoulâs inner suburb of Itaewon always did have a split personality. By day it was an innocent shopping magnet, by night a seedy pit of after-dark entertainment.
Nightfall had already drawn the curtain down on a dayâs shopping, but I didnât want to buy jeans or sneakers or a ski suit.
I was after the darker side of the Ville and my priorities were plain. I was going to get hammered, and if even a hint of Itaewonâs seedier side remained, I might go there too. For it is in his cups that the reckless male finds his focus, making perfect sense of even the most casual back alley flophouse jump.
First I had to eat, and for that I wanted to go truly local. Yong San Kalbi has traded from an Itaewon side alley since long before I first set foot in the country. Nearly every Korean neighbourhood has a kalbi jib , or ârib houseâ, a dining delight evolved from the village with refreshingly few concessions to the big city. Abject poverty sits vivid in the memories of Koreans who can recall the period immediately after the war, three years that tore the peninsula in two. In the first decades following the 1953 armistice â a âtemporaryâ peace agreement remains in place, more than fifty years later â millions of Koreans lived with poverty and hunger while farmlands were brought back to pre-war outputs, and from a flattened nation grew the beginnings of an export-driven economy. In a country where meat on the table was once a luxury, it is no surprise that restaurants overloaded with meat options are so popular today.
The typical kalbi jib has basic sturdy furnishings and glowing charcoal fires in mini braziers that are wedged into holes in the middle of scarred and scorched tables. On offer is a selection of raw, marinated meats roasted above the coals to carbonized perfection and surrounded by spicy side dishes of chopped and pickled vegetables, sticky white rice in shiny stainless-steel bowls and tall bottles of chilled beer on demand.
The squeal of an ill-fitting aluminium door drew an automatic staff chorus of welcomes. The restaurant was one large room with an uneven concrete floor and maybe fifteen heavy tables, six of which were busy with locals, mostly men doing the after-office male bonding thing, drinking hard and loud and unabashed in their enjoyment. I made my way to a corner table next to an open window, not that it would make much difference. Going home smelling like a barbecued garlic clove was fundamental to the kalbi jib experience.
A short waitress in her thirties with chunky legs, flat shoes and a glaring squint plonked a heavy glass of barley tea in front of me and waved at a menu framed on a concrete pillar.
A few seconds later she scurried off to deal with an order for a double portion of pork ribs, one bowl of steamed rice, the full array of side dishes and the coldest tall beer she could find.
I picked at the side dishes while a charcoal brazier was summoned and carried in at armâs length by a wiry young man in sooty t-shirt and blackened jeans.
The waitress returned carrying an alloy platter draped with pork ribs beautifully filleted to leave a long tress of transparent marinated meat clinging to each short bone. Using metal chopsticks she painstakingly arranged ribs on a silver grille that sat above the glowing coals. As the meat readied I got the standard demonstration of how best to enjoy it. She palmed a lettuce leaf, smeared spicy bean paste across it with the back of a spoon, swept
âJohn Lee will pick you up in the morning, as usual.â
He sounded very sure of himself.
Chapter Eleven
Long and thin and laced to a single main street like a rural village set amidst an urban sprawl of ten million, Seoulâs inner suburb of Itaewon always did have a split personality. By day it was an innocent shopping magnet, by night a seedy pit of after-dark entertainment.
Nightfall had already drawn the curtain down on a dayâs shopping, but I didnât want to buy jeans or sneakers or a ski suit.
I was after the darker side of the Ville and my priorities were plain. I was going to get hammered, and if even a hint of Itaewonâs seedier side remained, I might go there too. For it is in his cups that the reckless male finds his focus, making perfect sense of even the most casual back alley flophouse jump.
First I had to eat, and for that I wanted to go truly local. Yong San Kalbi has traded from an Itaewon side alley since long before I first set foot in the country. Nearly every Korean neighbourhood has a kalbi jib , or ârib houseâ, a dining delight evolved from the village with refreshingly few concessions to the big city. Abject poverty sits vivid in the memories of Koreans who can recall the period immediately after the war, three years that tore the peninsula in two. In the first decades following the 1953 armistice â a âtemporaryâ peace agreement remains in place, more than fifty years later â millions of Koreans lived with poverty and hunger while farmlands were brought back to pre-war outputs, and from a flattened nation grew the beginnings of an export-driven economy. In a country where meat on the table was once a luxury, it is no surprise that restaurants overloaded with meat options are so popular today.
The typical kalbi jib has basic sturdy furnishings and glowing charcoal fires in mini braziers that are wedged into holes in the middle of scarred and scorched tables. On offer is a selection of raw, marinated meats roasted above the coals to carbonized perfection and surrounded by spicy side dishes of chopped and pickled vegetables, sticky white rice in shiny stainless-steel bowls and tall bottles of chilled beer on demand.
The squeal of an ill-fitting aluminium door drew an automatic staff chorus of welcomes. The restaurant was one large room with an uneven concrete floor and maybe fifteen heavy tables, six of which were busy with locals, mostly men doing the after-office male bonding thing, drinking hard and loud and unabashed in their enjoyment. I made my way to a corner table next to an open window, not that it would make much difference. Going home smelling like a barbecued garlic clove was fundamental to the kalbi jib experience.
A short waitress in her thirties with chunky legs, flat shoes and a glaring squint plonked a heavy glass of barley tea in front of me and waved at a menu framed on a concrete pillar.
A few seconds later she scurried off to deal with an order for a double portion of pork ribs, one bowl of steamed rice, the full array of side dishes and the coldest tall beer she could find.
I picked at the side dishes while a charcoal brazier was summoned and carried in at armâs length by a wiry young man in sooty t-shirt and blackened jeans.
The waitress returned carrying an alloy platter draped with pork ribs beautifully filleted to leave a long tress of transparent marinated meat clinging to each short bone. Using metal chopsticks she painstakingly arranged ribs on a silver grille that sat above the glowing coals. As the meat readied I got the standard demonstration of how best to enjoy it. She palmed a lettuce leaf, smeared spicy bean paste across it with the back of a spoon, swept
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