Jongno 5-ga is the Mary Poppins's bag of street markets. An unassuming, non-transfer station with hardly a unique name, the exit signs boast not one but three different markets: Dongdaemun Shijang, Pyeonghwa Shijang, and Gwangjang Shijang (shijang means market, just so we're clear).
I headed out this way at the urging of a student in search of Korean tartar, AKA a raw beef dish called 육회 (Yook Hwae). Nothing sets the spirit on fire like a proper quest, and thus the day promised to be full of adventure. Upon arrival, the market presented its first challenge: the distraction of dozens of food stands contested by the churning crowds of Sunday shoppers. Before pushing my way down the first alleyway, I sensed in my heart of hearts the truth I would soon learn: Gwangjang Shijang is a tourists' paradise.
Tourists' paradise indeed: nearly every vendor catered to us with a dash of commercial English as the place bustled with locals and foreigners alike, all clamoring to grab a seat at one of the metal counters and test their valor against Korea's finest and weirdest nibbles. And there I stood in the middle of them all, weilding my camera of photographic mediocrity in preparation for a Trial by Street Market, the international standard of any tourist destination. Strange foods beckoned from every nook, accompanied by the piercing voices of ajummas screeching their mysterious names. Like every quality fairy tale knight, I nearly abandoned my quest in favor of these enticing rewards, crunching on a miniature, red pepper pasted crab that was surprisingly sweet and sipping a fermented rice drink, shikae (식혜 ) that doesn't bother pretending to be anything other than saccharine. Gwangjang Shijang rumbled with the satisfaction of every tourist discovering the holy grail of travel: something totally authetic and real, yet somehow exactly what they had in mind when their pilgrammages began.
Eventually I regained my senses and was able to locate the true aim of this expedition, the raw beef. It arrived on a mid-size plate, its glistening strips of red meat sprinkled with sesame seeds and adorned with a shiny yellow yolk. Our waiter offered a welcome explanation, instructing us to mix the meat into a hidden bed of pear slices and dig in. Although I wished I had spotted the bibimbap option on the menu, which offered less meat in exchange for rice and some veggies all for a lower price(!), my friend and I eagerly scraped the plate clean, feeling valiant next to a table of four ajeosshi (older men) who had ordered the same thing. On an impulse, likely due to the constant assault of delicious smells and advertising, we also ventured into two more dishes: a whole, fried sole (Gajami/가자미) as well as the market's other famous dish, mung bean pancakes (Bindaetteok/빈대떡). Despite being a last minute decision, bindaetteok was the true treasure from this quest: a thick, greasy, slab encrusted with little gems of salted pork. My mouth is watering now.
Empty plates and full bellies, we departed Gwanjang Shijang and on the trusty steed that is the Seoul subway. Next quest: the search for a bard who can properly relate the tale of a tourists paradise, the golden ratio of uncomfortable, exciting, and delicious that can make any vagabond feel victorious.
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