Green Onion Kimchi with Eonyang Bulgogi Is as Good as Green Onion Kimchi with Jjajang Ramyeon

Personally, I'm a huge fan of green onion kimchi. It's one of those kimchi varieties where people are fiercely divided—the sharp, pungent heat of the green onion is a dealbreaker for plenty of people.

I wouldn't go so far as to say it's the best kimchi in existence.

But I will say this: every single time I've eaten it, it's left a lasting impression.

That sting of green onion cutting through the aggressive salt-fermented seafood and chili powder seasoning, the slow-building burn that numbs your tongue just enough to keep you reaching for another bite—before you know it, you've demolished an entire bowl of rice.

Even with zero other side ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dishes on the table, a good batch of green onion kimchi was enough to make a meal feel complete.

Wake up in the morning, slap down some green onion kimchi, a couple of fried eggs, maybe a sheet of roasted seaweed, and you had yourself a flawless breakfast spread. Flawless, that is, except for the unholy onion stench that clung to your mouth afterward.

Long stalks of scallion coated in crimson seasoning.

That first bite of a bashful little scallion dressed in its red gown, pale skin peeking through—crunch. That crisp, toothsome snap bursting between your teeth, chased by the juiciness of the stalk itself.

And when you're done, a stray sesame seed or a lone fleck of chili powder lingers on your tongue, leaving behind a warm, nutty, spicy farewell note.

"Ah, I want some right now."

Andrea wrinkled her nose at me.

"You're making kimchi out of that? You're taking an already spicy vegetable and coating it in spicy seasoning?"

"You think it sounds bad?"

"Obviously!"

"This stuff is the single best partner for that meat you love so much."

Wrap a slice of shaved pork belly around a piece of green onion kimchi and pop it in your mouth, and you'll taste the perfect harmony of spicy and salty.

But fine. I get it. An elf who thinks the food pyramid is just a pile of meat isn't going to understand the appeal of green onion kimchi.

Ah, you poor, kimchi-ignorant soul.

"...Personally, I'd rather just eat it plain than wrap it in leafy greens. Why on earth would you fill your stomach with vegetables? I truly cannot comprehend it."

"I knew you'd say that."

Of course she did. The girl is utterly deranged about meat.

"One bite, and you'll change your mind."

Once she commits to a food opinion, she doesn't do things halfway.

I got to work prepping the green onions.

Trimmed the roots, peeled away the dirt-flecked outer layers, and stacked them in neat piles.

I'd prepared enough for two full kimchi containers.

One was for me. The other I planned to serve to customers—not everyone, just the regulars and the ones who seemed like they'd appreciate green onions. Like I said, green onion kimchi is a love-it-or-hate-it kind of thing.

"While I handle the onions, julienne the ginger and grind the onion into a fine paste. And grab the glutinous rice from over there and mill it into powder."

"Understood."

"You channel mana into that blade no matter what. Got it?"

"Yeah."

Andrea pouted slightly, her lips jutting out in faint protest as she thinly sliced ginger with a kitchen knife and ground the glutinous rice. She'd apparently gotten it into her head that today's menu was going to be nothing but rabbit food.

Clueless.

The whole point of green onion kimchi is to eat it with meat. Just like you make bossam and suyuk when you do a big gimjang batch, green onion kimchi deserves a proper meat dish on the side. It's a complete dish on its own, sure, but before starting a workday? The calorie count's a little lacking.

Once all the scallions were clean and trimmed, I gave them a rinse.

Whether to brine them depends on the situation. If you want to eat them right away, soak the white parts in salt water for about twenty minutes. If you've got time, skip it.

Brining the green parts just kills the crunch and oversalts them—better to leave them alone and add them straight to the seasoning.

Since we were eating these today, I gave only the white parts a quick salt-water bath.

"Boss, here."

Still pouting, she held out the minced ginger and onion and the finely ground glutinous rice flour.

Attitude aside, the girl does solid work.

"Good job."

"D-don't think I'm happy just because you said that!"

"What if I told you there's meat too?"

"...I would like that."

"Actually, I lied. No meat."

"Wh—wait, really? There's really no meat?"

Lately Andrea's whole demeanor had definitely softened. Proof that a well-fed person is a happy person.

Maybe it was all the carbohydrates. Her complexion actually looked healthy now.

I watched her cling to me with a flustered expression, firing off questions, and pressed a finger to my lips.

"It's a secret."

"B-Boss! Tell me! If I don't eat meat before working, I'll collapse!"

Teasing her had definitely become more entertaining. Back in the old days, a comment like that would've earned me a death glare.

Maybe it was just because I was her boss now, but the softening wasn't limited to her expression.

"Bring the chili ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠powder, fish sauce, and honey. And grab some sesame seeds too."

"Ughhh."

While Andrea fetched the ingredients, I started dissolving the glutinous rice flour in water to make the paste—the single most important component of the kimchi seasoning.

I brought the glutinous rice mixture to a gentle simmer over low heat, letting it thicken into a loose, watery paste, and stirred lightly with a spoon the whole time. The last thing I needed was scorch marks on the bottom of the pot.

Once it hit the right consistency, I poured the paste into a large mixing bowl. Over it went the finely minced onion and ginger, then the chili powder, fish sauce, and honey Andrea had brought.

Some people add sugar or plum syrup depending on their taste.

Personal preference.

I liked honey best. The bees on this continent produced genuinely top-tier stuff.

'I should track down some bees soon. My honey's almost gone.'

I dumped everything into a massive gimjang mixing bowl, pulled on rubber gloves, and stirred it all together with both hands.

Squelch. Squelch.

Slap. Slap.

The fish sauce and glutinous rice paste made a sticky, slapping sound.

'Good noise.'

I hummed along to the pleasant rhythm, stirring until everything was uniformly combined.

"I don't see what's so enjoyable about that..."

Leaving Andrea's grumbling behind, I took the now-seasoned paste and added the well-brined green onions.

Whoosh!

The lightly salted scallions tumbled into the bowl. I massaged the seasoning into them evenly.

The smell was starting to hit.

That glorious scent of well-brined green onions melding with fresh kimchi seasoning. The sharp, piercing aroma almost felt like it was numbing my nose. Almost.

Still, I was in a good mood.

'Jjajang ramyun would've been perfect with this.'

Pile a heap of green onion kimchi onto jjajang ramyun, twirl it up with chopsticks, and slurp it all down in one go—fwip!

Khhh.

In my personal opinion, that was the single greatest pairing green onion kimchi had to offer.

"That's a vicious smell..."

Andrea, evidently not a fan, was watching me while pinching her nose.

"Are you going to need the containers?"

"Grab two kimchi containers, wash them out. They should be in the back storage."

"Yedth."

She asked in that stuffed-up voice and went to retrieve and rinse the containers. We were on the same wavelength now.

Made sense—it'd been almost a month. It was about time she got the hang of things.

I packed the scallions, now robed in red and fully transformed into green onion kimchi, into the containers Andrea had brought. Two red containers, filled to the brim.

"Can we eat it now?"

"I'm going to let it sit in the shade for about two hours. Then we can eat."

"Ah, I see."

"You sound disappointed."

"N-no. I just... it looks like it'll be good. Ha, haha."

"You're a terrible liar."

"..."

She really had mellowed out. Good food really does make people happier.

Probably time to stop messing with her, though. Push it much further and she might actually get mad.

"We are having meat."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I pulled out the meat I'd marinated before she'd arrived for work.

"Bulgogi?"

"This isn't your standard bulgogi."

"It's not? It looks the same."

From the outside, just looking at the seasoned surface, it did appear identical to regular bulgogi. The core of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠marinade was similar.

But unlike standard bulgogi, this variety wasn't marinated for long. And instead of a griddle, it was grilled quickly over a mesh rack on an open charcoal fire—that was what made it special.

The meat still held a reddish hue since the marinade hadn't had time to soak deep.

"This is Eonyang bulgogi."

"Is it different?"

"Different. You grill this one much more thoroughly—crisp it right up—compared to regular bulgogi."

She blinked, clearly not grasping the distinction. The look on her face said: as long as there's meat, what difference does it make?

"Fine. What's the point of explaining? Seeing is faster. But first."

"First?"

"Let's prep the ingredients for today's lunch service."

We needed to give the green onion kimchi a little time to hit its peak flavor anyway.

"Got it!"

Now that she knew a meaty brunch was in her immediate future, Andrea ignited with motivation and channeled mana into her blade.

Vwoom!

With practiced ease, she poured mana into the sword and blitzed through the ingredient prep.

Lettuce for the donkatsu. Tofu and squash for the doenjang-jjigae. Garlic for various seasonings—pulverized under a mana-charged blade. She even sliced the meat into neat, orderly strips.

"Question, boss. Does it have to be cut with my sword?"

"I already disinfected it with mana."

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then we're good."

"That's not really the issue here..."

I looked at the grumbling elf.

"Why, got a sudden itch to slice up a person instead?"

Andrea shook her head.

"N-not particularly."

"Then what, you planning to boil it into soup later?"

"That's not it either."

"Better it earns its keep as a kitchen knife than rotting away in storage. Wouldn't the sword prefer it that way?"

"I... suppose?"

"Then get slicing."

"...Fine."

Seeing a blade that once guarded the elven people reduced to mincing garlic and dicing onions might bring a tear to your eye—but that's just the onion and garlic doing their job. Onions always make you cry.

Once the prep was done, I lit the charcoal in the small brazier out back and called for Andrea.

"Come eat."

"Coming..."

Exhausted by her newly instituted morning workout routine, she dragged herself out, body transformed into something resembling green onion kimchi incarnate. She'd declared she'd move more to offset eating more, and she'd brought the kimchi and marinated meat to the table herself. Diligent as ever.

"You packed the kimchi nicely."

I liked it. I really did.

By then the charcoal had burned down to a fine white ash.

I laid the bulgogi—faintly reddened by its light coating of marinade—across the silver mesh rack. Spread the meat flat and let it sit still over the charcoal.

Sizzle.

Crackle. Pop.

I listened quietly to the sound of meat cooking over an open flame. Every time fat dripped through the grate and hit the coals, the fire flared up noisily.

Whoosh.

"Sniff sniff."

Andrea inhaled the aroma and broke into a blissful smile.

"Even just the smell is wonderful."

"Your mouth's about to split your face in half."

"Hehehe."

When the meat turned brown and the spots touching the grate deepened to a dark char, I pressed down on both sides with the rack and flipped it.

Tssssss!

I could see the fat boiling on the meat's surface.

"Nice."

The smell was perfect. The sound was perfect.

Grilling until the marinade cooks down to a concentrated glaze—that was the defining trait of Eonyang bulgogi. You could crisp up bulgogi on a regular pan, sure, but it would never match the flavor of doing it over charcoal on a wire rack.

'Even hitting it with a torch to fake that fire-kissed taste has its limits.'

You can't replicate what charcoal does.

I cooked the meat until the outside was deeply seared and the Maillard reaction had done its work. Unlike other bulgogi that stays slick with leftover marinade, Eonyang bulgogi's whole identity was pushing that browning reaction as far as it could go.

'Meat is all about the Maillard.'

White smoke wisped up from the meat in lazy tendrils. On the surface, where the Maillard reaction had bloomed into appetizing dark-brown blossoms, fat bubbled and shimmered.

It smelled incredible.

I lifted the whole rack and set it directly onto a plate. Putting the meat straight onto a cold dish was an amateur move—the meat would go cold in seconds. Serving it still carrying the right amount of residual heat, perched on the warm rack, was the way to go.

Andrea, who'd set out the side dishes while I was grilling, stared at the crisped Eonyang bulgogi with open admiration.

"It really is different! It's so... thoroughly cooked."

Visually it resembled tteok-galbi, but the difference was significant. What was the difference? You'd know the moment you bit into it. The fundamental texture alone, not to mention the flavor, was entirely distinct—hard to put into words.

In any case: crisped Eonyang bulgogi, and freshly made green onion kimchi.

Today's breakfast menu.

"Dig in."

"Thanks for the meal!"

"Wait. First bite, you wrap the meat around the kimchi. No exceptions."

"Do I... really have to?"

"Then don't eat any."

"Fiiiine..."

Visibly deflated, she lifted her chopsticks and stacked meat and a piece of green onion kimchi onto a scoop of rice. The ratio was about eight parts meat to two parts kimchi, but I didn't nitpick. That was enough. Too much kimchi, and it would smother the bulgogi's flavor.

She'd understand with one bite why I insisted they be eaten together.

She gathered the meat and kimchi up with her chopsticks like she was wrapping a ssam, scooping rice along with it into one large bundle.

Nom.

Andrea popped it into her mouth and chewed.

She probably ought to cut back a little on carbs if she wanted to lose weight.

"...Hmm?"

"Good, right?"

At first her brow furrowed in surprise, but the tension slowly released, her eyebrows lifting by degrees. Her eyes swung toward me. I didn't need to hear her say it.

The green onion kimchi had made a very deep impression indeed.

I didn't wait for an answer. I grabbed a bundle of bulgogi—crisp on the outside, still tender and faintly juicy within, holding just a whisper of marinade.

I stacked the meat with a piece of green onion kimchi on top of some rice and ate it in one go.

"Khh."

That's it.

The first hit was the bold, aggressive punch of green onion kimchi slapping my palate awake. Right on its heels came the savory richness of the bulgogi—the soy-based marinade and the meat's own deep flavor, pushed to the extreme by the Maillard sear.

The plain white rice neutralized the intensity, reining in flavors that would've tipped into oversalted territory on their own.

Then the green onion crunched between my teeth, reasserting its presence.

There it is. Right there.

This is why I can't quit green onion kimchi.

The bulgogi, of course, was delicious by default. How could meat grilled this well be anything else?

But the green onion kimchi—holding its own, refusing to be overshadowed by the Eonyang bulgogi, radiating its own defiant presence—that was what made the combination genuinely fantastic.

"Boss, this is seriously delicious!"

She pointed at the green onion kimchi.

"It suits your taste? Thought it might be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a little spicy for you."

"Not at all. It's really good."

This time she added more kimchi to her meat bundle. That was definitely going to be too spicy.

"Cough! Cough!"

Called it. The sharp, sinus-clearing heat of the green onion kimchi was too much for her—she hacked and sputtered, caught in a coughing fit.

"From now on, one stalk of green onion kimchi per bite. That's the rule."

"Ugh, yeah, I'd better."

Face flushed bright red, she answered with tears brimming in her eyes. Even so, her chopsticks never stopped moving.