A Slow Year

The hidden Korean restaurant housed in the same building as Yellow Cab, Katipunan, was empty at eight in the evening when I decided to kill an hour or two in a well-lit place full of strange kids. The only other customer was a light-skinned man in a blue collared shirt wolfing down a plateful of rice but he sat in a corner far removed from the television in front of which the kids sat, arranged. I purposefully avoided the red squishy couches adjacent two tables full of kolehiyalas. Screeching.

The women who prepared a tall glass of water, a platito of kimchi, and their complimentary bowl of hot soup were both quiet but smiling. It wasn't their opening day but they hadn't been busy in a while. The whole place felt inexplicably new and hopeful but there beneath the veneer, the dull pounding of a terrible anxiety. Like thank you, thank you, thank you, like someone humming. The place was full to bursting with an expectant energy, the will to succeed throbbing beneath a cloth or behind a fist.

I had been craving this popular Korean rice dish I first tasted at a stall in the UP shopping center. When my order arrived, it was a huge, eight-inch diameter bowl, white and heavy. I kept my eyes down. Listen, prior to this I had never eaten in a Korean restaurant. The first time was with my best friend, Gail, whose appetite for Korean cuisine predated the rise to prominence of Korean pop stars and their uberKawaii culture. Somewhere in Powerplant mall, a small restaurant with a white marble facade and a cramped, long dining hall.

All I knew was to fold-in the meat, vegetables, and sauce until the rice turned pink or orange, whichever came first. The Gochuchang was sweet and spicy, a careful and clean smell. The texture was smooth and, by comparison to that one Other Gochuchang I tasted, it was mild and almost playful, especially considering the serving size. So there I was, mashing away, thinking there wasn't enough rice in the bowl. That was when I heard it. The man was Korean, that much was certain, and he took the bowl and spoon from me. I remember only being unable to look away. He said: you're doing it wrong, let me show you how to do it authentically, how we really do it. Words to that effect. Then he said: hold the bowl with three fingers, like this--thumb on the lip, pointer and third fingers at an angle on the bowl--and you mix--thoroughly, I thought, smashing the rice and carrots and beef together until my polite bowl of innocuous ingredients looked incurably beaten--here.

When I looked around, I thought: will he go over to teach other miscreants? Have I offended him by mixing his food incorrectly? He said he had been here seven years with his Filipina wife. After the college kids left, he was first at their tables to clean up.