Korea: Sanchon

I had one meal that was especially memorable in Seoul. All the food was memorable, as I love Korean food, and, as you might expect, Korean food is best in Korea. But this meal really stands out.

My friend Chul treated me to a set lunch at a restaurant in Insa-dong that has gotten press over the years for its food—the New York Times reviewed it in the 1980s, for example. It is called Sanchon, and it serves Korean temple cooking. You find Sanchon down one of those narrow, secretive alleys off Insa-dong proper, make a number of left turns, getting thoroughly lost in a maze of little alleyways, lined with tiny shops and tinier plots of bamboo. You enter a door of a nondescript building with a traditional tile roof, and suddenly frantic, urban Seoul disappears and you’re in a Korean country inn: big wooden beams set in whitewashed walls, low lighting, rolls of calligraphy script on the walls, low tables scattered about with pillows for sitting on, a pile of shoes at the door (note: always take off your shoes in a private Korean interior), and a staff bustling about in such a quiet and serene way that “bustle” doesn’t seem to be the proper word.

The owner of Sanchon was a Buddhist monk for eighteen years, and “Korean temple cooking” is thus the Buddhist Korean food that you’d get in a temple. As such, it is entirely vegetarian, and it avoids most of the really strong ingredients of Korean cuisine—garlic, onions, peppers—that make Korean food so assertive but would theoretically upset the Zen spirit of a Buddhist monk. You’d think that this might limit the range and taste of the food. Oh, anything but.

Traditional Korean music plays in the background as you’re escorted in your stocking feet to your low table. Tables sit about a foot and a half off the ground, and you sit cross-legged or with your feet tucked to a side, on a low pillow. Immediately the green tea comes in an earthenware teapot, and you feel awkward with the tiny cup that you, clumsy Westerner accustomed to the 7-Eleven Big Gulp, would liken to a thimble. Chul pours the tea, and then your wooden bowl comes, made from the zelkova tree, as Korean Buddhist bowls would. (A bowl would be a monk’s only possession, and he would carry it from temple to temple.) Then the food starts arriving. And arriving. And arriving.

You probably know that Korean meals—indeed, Asian meals—aren’t organized around a main course, big side dish, and salad. Instead, lots and lots of little dishes come, and you share everything. Obviously, this means you slow down a great deal, as you take little bits of things at a time. If you’re a Westerner, if the mode of dining doesn’t slow you down, the chopsticks sure will. For Koreans, a meal is a social experience; good conversation is part of the deal, and you really shouldn’t dine alone. Finally, I suspect that in a Buddhist restaurant, contemplating your food--the beauty of its presentation, and the labor of the workers who grew, cultivated, and cooked it--is also part of the experience. So the table is covered with dish after dish after dish, only one quarter of which you can identify. So what? It’s Korean, it’ll be delicious. Dig in!

Here’s what you get, according to the Sanchon menu: “Wild sesame and rice gruel.” Don’t let “gruel” put you off and give you visions of Dickensian squalor here. This is sort of a very tasty porridge, like a not-sweet rice pudding. (Porridges of various traditional sorts are a Korean staple. There are entire restaurants devoted to them.) “Tofu: beancurd made with pure saltwater.” Comes in slightly salty broth with vegetables. “Turnip mushrooms, peppers and other vegetables, wrapped in thin vermicelli pancake.” “Seven wild vegetables, each with its own seasonings.” “Kimchi.” Well, of course, both hot (chili peppers in the pickling marinade) and "white" (mild, no chili peppers). “Fresh lettuce in seasonings.” “Three kinds of deep-fried seasonal vegetable pancakes.” These were a distant relative of the French omelette, and they were absolutely wonderful. I could gorge on these, though I suspect that gorging would be most un-Buddhist. “Special chopsuey made with a variety of mushrooms and vegetables.” My guess is this is an awkward mis-translation; chop suey is American, of course. This was a delicious stir-fry of sorts. “Small potatoes glazed with soy sauce and taffy.” I don’t know what’s quite meant by "taffy," but let me assure you that it doesn't mean the saltwater confection you get in Atlantic City. It was a sweet soy glaze, enough to have the consistency of a very light taffy. The potatoes were soft from being roasted, and the glaze made them taste like sweet potatoes, only better. “Seasonal Buddhist monastery vegetable favorites.” I have no idea what any of them were, but who cares? This dish was so good, it made me cry. “Seasoned wild mountain roots.” Ditto. I have discovered that in Korea I will eat anything put in front of me, whether I can identify it or not. Some of the roots were a kind of mushroom or fungus the likes of which I have never had. They were like Michigan morels, but not really. (Now that’s a helpful description.) They looked like ginger root, but were earthy like mushrooms and seriously good. “Steamed rice, beans, millet.” A blander dish to cleanse the palate, maybe. “Soybean stew with mushrooms, turnip, red peppers, beancurd, etc.” “Traditional temple tea made from Oriental medicinal herbs.” To be drunk in the event, I suppose, that this meal isn’t healthy enough already. “Traditional snack made by mixing mugwort or beans with sticky rice.” Now this sounds strange, and it was. Taste-wise, it was mildly sweet and very good; texture-wise, it was close to a birdseed-coated marshmallow. And, of course, various soy sauces for dipping bits of food in. All of this food in little bowls means that your table is just covered with stuff, and there are so many dishes that you don't know what to try next. No hurry; if you don't have to go back to work, you could sit there for hours. And that's what we did. 

This was a prime example of a total dining experience. It wasn’t just the food. It was the place, the atmosphere, the conversation with Chul, the attentive and nearly silent service, and of course the food. I expect that we all gather specific meals in our lives to remember; committing the details down in print will help me remember this one. But even if I hadn’t, I should guess that I would not forget it soon.

If you’re interested: www.sanchon.com. You may click the link to an English version of this page, and learn all sorts of interesting things about Buddhism, Korea, cooking, and Buddist Korean cooking.

Comments

[kangmi]

Sanchon was my favorite place to take visitors, followed by a visit to the bird tea room (down that same small alley).

[Rob Kellerman]

If I may ask -- who are you? Are you a friend of Chul's? I clicked on your website but some of the Korean won't download. I'm always curious to know who's reading this blog! In the meantime, next time I come to Seoul, I will definitely take in the bird tea room as well.

[kangmi]

No, I don't know Chul, but I somehow found yout site through your Korea posts.

[Rob Kellerman]

Nice to have you reading about your wonderful country. Welcome!

[kangmi]

Although Korea is indeed a wonderful country, it's not *my* wonderful country. I'm American.

[Aliza]

To my mind it is a great article.
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[Nike Dunks]

Simple is beautiful ah! Your blog is very simple! But very unique! Especially your articles so good it! It is all too real attention! But you do friends I admire you

[Coach Sneakers]

It is with narrow-minded people as with narrow-necked bottle; the less they have in them the more noise they make in pouring out.