Oh. Yeah.

This is it. This is a dish that embodies what I love about Korea: under a polite and mild-mannered exterior is a straightforward kick to the shin, blunt and loud and completely unapologetic.



Here I am, blithely dipping into a bowl of blazing red Champong, a noodle soup that has origins in Japan and China, and is now found in Korean-Chinese restaurants here and abroad. It's usually made with a variety of seafood, and at this particular place it came piled high with fresh from the tank shellfish, clean and perfectly cooked. Those first bites of clam, bigger clam, and huge scallop are amazing, not at all rubbery and lightly scented with the cooking broth, spicy but not yet painful, just starting that slow burning feeling on my tongue.

Five minutes later, with a bowl of discarded shells behind me, the real challenge begins: I'm left with a bowl of opaque red soup made of chicken or beef stock, various savory things like onions and garlic, and what must have been a mountain of Korean ground chilies. The pleasant sensation of spice from before is now an almost unbearable pain, the soup is both spicier than anything I've had so far and still boiling hot, and it makes my eyes water and nose run, sweat beginning to bead up on my forehead. But the few taste buds I have left, despite losing more and more of their comrades with every mouthful, are crying out with joy, and I can't stop, I must keep shoveling as many of the rich, eggy noodles and chewy, fresh bamboo shoots into my face as I can, stopping only for a spoonful or two of the thick, almost gritty broth. It is the most exquisite torture.

Before I know it, I'm done, mouth still on fire, dredging the bottom of the bowl with my spoon, hoping for a few last bits of noodle. Finally, I let go of my spoon, gulp down a couple mugs full of cooling barley tea, and wipe the sweat and tears from my face. The heat on my tongue dissipates surprisingly quickly. All I feel now is happy and full.

I'm so glad I'm here.