Suction Cup Soup

Travel Story by Kate Liptrot

JeonJu, South Korea

My dinner was distressed, so he tried to climb out of the pot. He barely fit anyway, perched upon a mound of seafood, the rest of which was thankfully already dead. Tentacles shot out in every direction and I squashed down the lid to keep him from making it on to the table.

Watching him through the glass of his prison, a pot which, in traditional Korean style, was cooking on a gas ring in the middle of our table, I was poised between horror and morbid fascination. I did not wanting to dwell too long on the idea that soon, scorched and ready to eat, this octopus would be making an appearance on my plate. I had not bargained for this when accepting an invitation to dinner.

South Korea constantly surprises the fresh eyes of a foreigner with the variety of food on offer. The sheer abundance and assortment of edible goods to be found sun-drying on sidewalks, swimming in tanks, and overloading trees and bushes provides a colourful sideshow to everyday life and is an ongoing source of entertainment. Walking home from work one night, my friend and I took a diversion just to stare at the free aquatic display outside a restaurant. King crabs the size of dinner plates were piled one atop the other in tanks, miserably waiting to be consumed. "Imagine the meat on those legs" my companion mused.

That was in Jeonju, provincial capital and midsize city, and we were yet to encounter the huge seafood market at Korea's second largest city, coastal Busan, where fish, squid, eel and crab arrive fresh from the water. It was here that I encountered a second octopus that, perhaps seeking vengeance for his fellow creature's death at my hands, flopped out of a bucket on to the road and headed straight towards me.

Koreans are unperturbed by such events. While I stood shrieking the stall owner calmly reached out and threw the octopus back into his temporary home. This is a country that has an incredibly strong work ethic, and the practiced manner of the stall owners' smacks of a people that have spent their lives immersed in the smelly and unsavoury work of the market.

Eating is central to the nation's culture. Well in to old age, people continue with their dedication to the preparation and sale of all kinds of food, and each morning I observe old women readying themselves for a day spent seated out on the sidewalk, peeling and chopping huge baskets of onions.

It is difficult to remain oblivious to these culinary activities. Any walk around the city requires care in order to avoid trampling on blankets strewn with fruit and vegetables, or piled with glossy red mountains of chillies, left to dry in the middle of the sidewalk.

My curiosity has been both noted and appreciated. In the countryside an elderly woman stood silently observing as I photographed a melon-sized fruit overhanging the road. When I finished, she plucked it from the overburdened branch and offered it to me, miming with her hands how best to eat it. Apparently I did not need to open my mouth for her to guess my linguistic failings.

I stuffed the fruit into my rucksack, as Korean etiquette dictates that when offered something, it is impolite to refuse. This does not pose much of a problem once you have grown accustomed to, and even learnt to love, the saltiness and spiciness of the national cuisine. However, such a transition takes time, and I recall how overwhelmed I felt when, jet lagged and wishing for a bowl of Kellogg's on my first morning here, I was taken to breakfast by my host. With typical Korean generosity he presented me with an array of foods, but seven-thirty in the morning felt a little early to be contemplating soy bean soup and salty fish.

My open mindedness has been tested on several occasions. While hotdog stands are popular in the western world, a favoured snack here is silkworm, a dry and musty tasting treat that appears on the street, in restaurants, and sometimes, even in bars as an accompaniment to your beer. When I first arrived I was encouraged to try it at dinner. Of course, I couldn't say no, and was relieved to find that it had none of the crunch or slime that you might expect from an insect.

In fact, the trauma which accompanied my first taste of silkworm came all from the fact that, watched eagerly by my new employers, I kept dropping the food on to the table. Chopsticks are never the easiest of implements and in Korea they are metal, rather thin, and very slippery. At times it seems like a sort of cruel joke on Westerners.

There have been times when I have sought respite in those havens of good, solid western food: American chain restaurants. While breakfasting in Dunkin Donuts one morning, I consoled myself that food answers some basic cravings and is a great source of comfort, something even the more open minded traveller needs once in a while. Never underestimate the importance of a bagel.

Still, despite occasional slips, I am yet to spend the gift I received at Chuseok, which is the Korean thanksgiving holiday. For all western employees the boss bought what she knew we secretly hankered for: 'Outback Steakhouse' gift vouchers. As time passes, I find myself more and more inclined to opt for Korean dishes, even those flavoured with a generous dollop of the nation's favourite ingredient, fiery red pepper sauce.

There remain, however, some dishes upon which I would prefer not to indulge myself, recently deceased octopus included. I have been warned that an octopus's suction cups can still work, even when dead. Whether or not this is true I never have allowed myself a chance to find out, for this knowledge is enough to take away my appetite. In Korea, there are times when it is possible to feel full just from looking.

Read more about the author of this story:
Kate Liptrot