Just a couple of beers inside me, I'd left the bar early. It was four am. Food stalls lined the stretch of road that led to my apartment. They were tented like bungalows of warmth, steam escaping from vertical openings that marked the four corners.
Entering, the change was in something more than just temperature. Ambrosial, heat swirled from the soup, the oil and dakbogi. Friends huddled on plastic chairs , and the owner, face lined, showed his slanted teeth in a carefree smile.
'Ne, Annyong Haseyo,' he said as his wife entered through the far corner.
'Annyong Haseyo. Food mix chom chuseyo,' I blurted, 'One, hana, duguae chuseyo. Mix dakbogi, sa chuseyo, incheon obec won, kamsa hamnida.'
This ridiculous smattering of English and Korean had no right to be described as language of any sort. Yet it produced a complement, even if it was one I couldn't understand.
'Hangulmal chota , chota,' said the woman sitting on my left.
'What?' I said.
'Good. You Korean, very good,' she said. Her hair was scraped back harshly, but her face was friendly.
'Well...ok,' I replied, sitting down.
There followed what was probably my first conversation in Korean, and this after six months in the country. When I say a conversation, I mean they spoke and I nodded, but it was the first time I'd spoken to Koreans without them either switching to English or walking off.
This might have been because they were drunk. Substituting the traditional soup , the owner produced a bottle of beer and offered me a cup.
'Serviss-er,' he said, meaning free. I nodded gratefully and clinked cups with the owners and the woman next to me. I forgot my cup was cardboard, and when I raised it to my lips the rim was dented from the enthusiastic cheers.
'What's your name?' I asked the other customer in Korean. She responded with the name of a ubiquitous Korean dish.
'Kimchi??' I asked.
'Aniyo. No. Mrs. Kim Hee Jae.'
'Mrs. Kimchi,' I nodded, 'Mr. Kimbap,' I said, pointing at myself and adopting the name of seaweed rice roll. This produced more of a laugh than expected, with the owner happily ladling soup and the other customers smiling.
The feeling was better than the conversation, atmosphere more important than the limited words which passed over the guidebook foods. It was one of those moments when I remembered I was in Korea. The routine of work was forgotten and I could have been travelling, moving between experiences, peering into other worlds. The owner filled my cup.
Half an hour later, I tried to pay , but was met with an insistent barrier of 'Serviss-er, Serviss-er.' In such situations, I've never been one to protest too hard. I said goodbye, and left clumsily through the slit of an exit.
Out in the cold, I could hear their convivial laughs. I held my head down and hunched my shoulders as I walked. Air stung my ears, but I was warm inside.
