Eobyeong (Fish Cake)
Monday, December 1st. The moment I got home from work, I fired up my laptop. Dinner could wait. I had something urgent to handle—tomorrow was my on-call shift.
The butterfly effect from Gatong, which I'd discovered through the Bosinsijok exercises, had been nagging at me all day. But more than worries about altering history, my concern for King Munjong took precedence. The wheels of Joseon's chariot were turning under Munjong. As a modern doctor, it was my duty to help however I could. First things first: fix his diet.
I sent a message via Gatong.
Pheasant meat comes up often. Jeon Sun-ui says it's good for vitality.
'Oh, man...'
I put myself in Jeon Sun-ui's shoes. He'd prescribed pheasant to boost the king's energy. That made sense in Joseon medicine. But pheasant is a hot-natured food in traditional Chinese medicine—it could worsen the nighttime fevers. And Munjong was probably in a state of severe physical depletion right now. Sure, it was protein-rich, which wasn't bad. But it would burden digestion. We couldn't waste recovery energy on that.
I messaged Munjong again.
Read.
Jeon Sun-ui's prescription. This wasn't about him right now. Come on, dude.
What alternative? I paused to think. What to replace pheasant with? Joseon palace cuisine was mostly high-protein but heavy on digestion. Ingredients available in Joseon. Nutrition for TB recovery. High protein, low digestive burden.
White-fleshed fish, eggs, tofu came to mind. Eggs alone weren't enough. Did tofu exist in Munjong's time? It did.
Tofu was practically banned due to brine issues.
'What? Say that again?'
I hurriedly searched the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty.
Daehogun Jeong Hyo-gang submitted a memorial: "Salt fields are trampled by cattle and mixed with dung and urine to produce salt, so they cannot be pure. Using such water for tofu offered in ancestral rites and to the king is improper. Please allow the use of acid water instead."
The king asked the senior councilors: "What water is used to make tofu? Some say salt melt, others seawater—who is correct?"
Yi Gye-jeon and others replied: "Salt melt, known in the markets as gansu."
The king said: "Gansu is unclean and unfit for tofu."
Jeong Hyo-gang lacked talent and virtue, favored Buddhism and Taoism, and made such statements often to advance himself.
'Ah, salt fields trampled by cows, mixed with animal waste...'
Read. Understood.
Still uneasy. Needed another substitute. White-fleshed fish: high protein, low fat, easy to digest. Ideal for TB patients. And fish was plentiful in the palace—West Sea, Han River.
But plain steamed or grilled fish? The royal kitchen might get monotonous. What could we make with white fish?
Suddenly, it hit me: fish cakes. Mashed white fish mixed with salt and starch, formed and cooked. High protein, digestible, chewy texture to stimulate appetite.
Problem: fish cakes didn't exist in 1451.
Quick search. Fish suhpyeon (fish paste) mentioned in Jinyeon Uigwe from Sukjong 45 (1719). Japanese kamaboko recorded as "kamabogot" in 1700s cookbook. No fish cakes yet.
For Munjong's health, I'd introduce the fish cake recipe to the royal kitchen—250 years early.
Searched: Busan fish cake homemade recipe. Japanese oden broth. Perfect. Maximize fish ratio with white fish. Simmer in oden broth for Joseon-style oden soup. If he liked it, they'd innovate—fried or clear broth.
Now, explain via Gatong.
I typed slowly.
Munjong asked:
I chuckled.
Read.I have never heard of such a dish. What is its name?
Name. I hesitated. Not the literal "fish jelly"...
I wanted something cool, but cooking wasn't my expertise. Trusting Munjong and Jeon Sun-ui, I sent:
Understood.
The next morning, Munjong summoned the head chef and court ladies from the royal kitchen.
"Make this eobyeong." He relayed the recipe from Gatong.
The kitchen was chaos that day. Fish was grilled, steamed, boiled—not mashed like this. Some batches crumbled from over-mashing. Wrong starch ratios made them disintegrate in oil. Frying led to under- or overcooking. After three trials and errors, they barely served eobyeong for dinner.
The next evening, during my on-call shift, a Gatong from Munjong arrived.
Busy with shift, I replied briefly, relieved.
Jeon Sun-ui tried it too. Said the fish essence remains intact. He named it eobyeong at the kitchen.
Is Jeon Sun-ui a naming pro?
Name doesn't matter. Grateful he solved my dilemma.
Shift just starting, but I felt energized. Munjong enjoyed the fish cakes. A diet centered on eobyeong, tofu, eggs could extend his life. More diet tweaks needed. Finish shift first.
After shift, two resident colleagues invited me for dinner. Tired, but I agreed. Slept like a rock at home, woke late, headed to meet them. Subway station, then to the restaurant—a familiar spot for hot broth on winter days. Tiny shop in a narrow alley.
At the alley entrance, seeing the sign froze me.
This was my go-to since internship days. Definitely used to be "Original Oden Bar." Owner famous for learning oden in Japan.
Looked again. Original Eobyeong Bar. Small text below explained.
A colleague glanced back. "Doc, what's up? Let's go in—it's cold."
Oden gone. Did fish cakes cross from Korea to Japan instead?
"Doc?"
I snapped out, opened the door. Warm broth scent wafted out. Smelled like the old oden days.
Menu on the wall.
I stared at the menu, speechless for a long moment.
Colleague ordered from the approaching server. "Kitchen-style eobyeong skewers for two."
Eyes still on the menu, I added, "One more serving of eobyeong skewers."
Then muttered to myself, "Your Highness, you must have loved it."