Jeyuk Bokkeum and Doenjang Jjigae
"So tender."
This simple side dish—boiled to mush, roughly mashed, and tossed with mayonnaise. Not the fluffy kind of potato, but one with a nice chewy bite. The plain flavor spreads lightly across the tongue like jam. No need to chew; it mashes softly at the tip, with just a hint of mayo's richness seeping through. Before you know it, it melts away like ice cream in some magical trick. A few coarse corn kernels linger, reminding you something was just there. Bite into one with your molars, and the corn's sweetness bursts forth. Chew it thoroughly, swallow, and poof—the salty, sweet, spicy remnants of that jeyuk bokkeum vanish like magic.
How does such a simple side dish hold this kind of sorcery?
Ah, damn. Snap out of it, and my mouth is full of dried shredded squid. When the hell did I grab this? I chew it thoroughly. It's tough. Chewy as hell. But the more I gnaw—enough to make my jaw ache—the more umami floods out from deep inside. I can't stop!
A bite of rice to cleanse the palate, then some stir-fried fish cake. It's like a whole fish condensed into salty, savory bliss. Now, a bite of jeyuk bokkeum. Ah, there it is. Jeyuk bokkeum is the superstar that steals the spotlight from the dried squid and fish cake, making their charms all its own. Build-up? Please. In the face of this stimulating, sweet, umami-packed spice, everything else has no choice but to remember its place as mere "sides"...
...Ah, right. That's not it.
I eat the bean sprouts. Pickled in soy sauce... I guess. Barely any liquid, so I didn't notice. A faint grassy note, but the good kind—not unpleasant like chewing grass, but a mildly sweet, slightly bitter tang that whets the appetite. A spoonful of doenjang jjigae. Rich. Incredibly rich. Feels like they loaded it with MSG, leaving a thick coating in the throat, but that's the appeal. Scoop up a heap of rice, top with kimchi, and dig in. Ha. This is it. The crisp kimchi crunch and aroma fill my mouth. That's what it was. This place's jeyuk bokkeum and doenjang jjigae aren't anything special—just bestseller, crowd-pleaser level. But these sides turn a cheap spread into a massive festival. Their modest charms and humble flavors elevate the bold punch of the pork and stew by a whole notch. Like a plain beauty amid a crowd of uglies? Nah, that's not enough. "Humble" and "modest" aren't the same as "plain." More like a standout bombshell amid a bunch of cute, unassuming girls. Yeah. That's the better way to put it.
"Come to think of it..."
I sneak a glance at the other table. The aunties are still prepping green onions, onions, and garlic. At first, I thought they were just getting tomorrow's ingredients ready, but now it feels different. Basins overflowing with green onions and onions, piles of garlic. Under the table, even more awaits their hands. Prepping that much means using that much. Makes sense. A spot this delicious would burn through it in no time. It's got that popular vibe. A popular combo.
"Mm."
While I was distracted, a scraping sound rings out. My spoon, moving on autopilot, scrapes the bottom of the doenjang jjigae pot. A thin ring reveals how much was left in that little thing. When did I finish it? The pot's base shows a few cooled zucchini slices, mashed tofu bits. Under the faint soybean broth, the black ceramic and a sprinkle of chili powder peek through. I scrape up the last of the cooled stew. Ugh. Salty. Didn't notice when it was piping hot, but cold, it zings the tongue. The thick doenjang clings, making it feel extra salty.
I dump the half-eaten potato salad into my mouth. Ha. Perfect. The salt doesn't vanish completely, but it's neutralized just right, leaving only the nutty doenjang aroma.
"Ah."
Come to think of it, I forgot the jeyuk bokkeum. Rice is down to one spoonful. But the pork's more than half left. At this rate, I'll be shoving nothing but pork at the end...
"More rice? Want some?"
"Ah, yes please."
...Of course! Should've just ordered another bowl! I was so fixated on the pork, I forgot I could eat more rice.
Stainless steel bowl piled high like a mountain.
"Leave some if you're full."
"...Thank you."
Whoa. No need to heap it that high. Two or three times the first serving. Fresh from the cooker, steam rising, glossy sheen. That rice cooker's huge, huh. Makes sense. College kids eat with the same fire they bring to everything. This might be standard portion. Alright. Time to loosen the belt. Normal resolve won't cut it for this much rice. This isn't gourmet territory anymore—it's combat eating!
"Mm!"
The jeyuk bokkeum's cooled a bit but still delicious. Maybe the sweetness intensified; it's a whole new vibe from the first bites. Two or three scoops of rice per meat chunk, shoveling it in. Gotta wash down that concentrated salty-sweet sauce. Gulp gulp, crunch crunch, scarfing it down. Lettuce, perilla leaf, a chunk of meat, tons of rice. Too big for one bite—I cram it in anyway. Jaw's gonna pop. But that explosion of flavors on the first chew? The struggle fades; it's pure, energizing bliss!
"...Hoo. Pushed it too far."
I scrape the last of the sides. Clean plate club. Table full of empties—a tiny badge proving I'm still as passionate as any college kid. Ha. Not dead yet. Stomach aches from the fullness, but my mind's crystal clear. Victory thrill? Or joy at realizing I'm still in the game?
"Have a tangerine."
"Ah, uh..."
"It's fine. We give one with every order. Take two or three if you want."
"Then gratefully."
I grab one. Fail. Peeled easy, so I figured it'd be good, but the flesh is firm, super tart. Better than overly sweet ones, though—feels digestible. Still, not quite the finale I wanted...
Hm?
"...Oh yeah, this too."
Remembering the coffee machine by the door, I stand—and spot a basket next to it. Didn't notice coming in; full of yogurt.
"This is..."
"Grab one on your way out. Or eat it here and toss the container!"
"Ah, okay."
One yogurt from the basket, and a sneaky candy hiding beside it. Chug the yogurt. Aha. Perfect. This sweet, creamy smoothness dots the i. After the tart tangerine, any regret vanishes.
"30 pt."
"Card okay?"
"Want a cash receipt?"
"Yes."
...Places like this make you feel guilty using a card. Even ignoring fees and taxes, cash just feels right.
"Thanks for the meal."
30 pt for this insane satisfaction. Full spread, dessert finish—more fulfilling than a course meal. Cheap and bold-flavored, sure, but why so satisfying? Why this lingering nostalgia?
Stepping out after that bargain feast, the air's gotten chilly.
"Ah, crap. Last train... Hm?"
Sky's dark; check the time—8:40. Thought I ate slow, but only 20 minutes passed?
"I swear I chewed every bite..."
The vibe, maybe. Alone, but I ate like it was a race. Faster than fast food.
"Eh, satisfied, so whatever."
I've got cash to spare and eat well usually, but sometimes you crave cheap, massive portions to demolish. In that sense, these college kids are blessed. University district packed with spots like this.
"Gotta come a few days anyway—might as well eat around here."
Glance around: old-school shops, student-budget prices.
"Tons of options... Try something else tomorrow."
Peeking at menus en route—names alone sound drool-worthy. One a day? A month easy. Might get bored eventually, but right now, feels like I'm back in college.
"...Spicy chicken stir-fry?"
Not chicken stew, but spicy stir-fry? Next to it, chicken teriyaki? What's that? Ha. Driving me nuts. Stuffed, but craving more. Wish tomorrow came sooner. How long since I last anticipated a day like this?