One Perfect Moment

I smelled the Jagalchi Market before I saw it.

It’s the distinctive fetor of creatures from the deep sea that have been out of their home environment for far too long, and it made my nose cringe.

Still, the walk through the market was fascinating, and is one of the big draws for many people who visit Busan, which stands on the Southeast coast of Korea.

These crabs were obvious, a pairing of dingy brown red king crabs, adorned with perilous spines, and their cousin matsuba crabs decked out in bright orange, both nestled in plastic crates awaiting their fates.

As were these shrimp, gaudy and delicate.

But I’d never seen anything quite like these. I thought they looked like some sort of tunicate, with their spigots projecting like aortas for pumping sea water – and it turns out I was right – they’re called sea pineapples.

And this plain, strange beast sitting among the crustacenas is a gaebul, a species of marine spoonworm. The name translates to mean a dog’s testicle or penis. According to Wikipedia they are often eaten raw with salt and sesame oil or gochujang.

If you’re wondering, I had to do an image search to figure out what those last two things are. And neither of them was something I felt any desire to eat.

Leaving the market, several vendors tried to entice me into their restaurants for a meal, but I wasn’t really wanting seafood. The reasons weren’t limited to the odor, and I might have considered it at another time, but the food prices near the market were absolutely exorbitant.

Clearly I was hungry, however, because just beyond the margins of market I found myself irresistibly intrigued by a bowl of bingsu. I just kept it basic, with sweet red beans served on a bowl of shaved ice, and it was delicious.

After the bingsu, I headed back out into Busan, intent on going to the top of the Busan Tower, with its panoramic views of the city, until I found myself distracted by more food.

This time it was noodles and meat. I shouldn’t have been hungry, but the photo in the window was irresistible, and I was in no mood to resist. So I sat at the table and navigated through the menus on the computer to place my order.

Much of the ordering here is done on computer, often affixed to the table. Usually an English menu is available (but not always). One simply flips through the images, finds the food they want, insert a credit card to pay, and deliciousness arrives shortly thereafter.

It works well.

After lunch I found my way to the Busan Tower, where a hazy view of the harbor was on wide display below me.

The day had been cloudy to begin with, and by the time I was back on the ground, the occasional sprinkle of rain was turning to a steady drizzle.

Other sites I might see were farther afield, and given severe weather warnings that were popping up on my phone, I decided to escape to my hotel for a rest.

Much later in the early evening I would dare to venture out into the weather, my insufficient rain coat wrapped tight about me.

I had identified a nearby neighborhood with many restaurants, hoping to find one where I could nurse a hot meal. I considered Korean barbecue, but such places usually have minimum table numbers, and the one I found tonight required three diners. I might have ordered enough for two, but three would be too much food for me (even if it was all protein).

As I considered my options, I browsed the street market, with big bowls of kimchi beckoning shoppers to buy.

I meandered past the booths, where the vendors mostly paid no attention to me. But there was one exception: an older Korean woman with a single cast iron pan, a steamer, and a countertop with 5 stools beckoned. She was selling dumplings.

She didn’t speak a word of English, but at her urging I sat down. I pulled up the translation app on my phone and asked her what was best, but quickly realized that is very difficult and subjective question to answer.

Instead I rephrased the question, asking what she was most proud of, and this time her face glowed with exuberant pride. She pointed to the sign, and I assented to the fried dumplings.

I sat alone at the tile counter eating those 8 perfect dumplings until an older gentleman sat down and ordered his own plate of steamed dumplings.

The two of them spoke while I savored my solitude. After a few more minutes of this she brought him a small bowl and he pushed two of his dumplings my direction.

They were delicate and absolutely delectable.

It wasn’t long before my dumpling dinner was done, so I paid my bill and thanked them both in the few rudimentary words of Korean I have learned.

It honestly wasn’t the meal I had expected, or had even hoped for. It wasn’t as glamorous as barbecue might have been, and it certainly wasn’t a table at a nice restaurant.

As it turns out, however, it was much more than that. Dinner tonight was a few moments of sublime perfection, and the joy on her face as she served her dumplings is something that will remain with me much longer than any of the other options I considered. No reservation I could have made would have ever matched this.

And I walked back to my hotel reflecting on how meaningful this simple dinner had been.