Yuzu for What Ails You

Let's talk about one of my best friends.  I've known Jessica for fourteen years.  We met in my sophomore year of college.  We lived together during my senior year.  We've traveled together, watched countless romantic comedies together, gone out, stayed in, gossiped, processed every life event of the last decade and a half together.  We've laughed a lot and cried some, too.  And I am thrilled to report that when Jessica gets married this summer, I will be her maid of honor.  I really do feel honored -- she's that kind of friend.

Jessica's mom, a source of much folklore in our circle, is Korean, and so since my formative college days, Jessica has been responsible for initiating me into the world of Korean food.  It started with packages her mom would send her:  giant 70s orange tubs of brown, swampy fermented bean paste inhabited our fridge.  At odd hours, Jessica would heat dried fish -- small whole fish pounded flat and dried like jerky -- directly on the stove's burners.  The pungent reek would take over the apartment.  It got better though -- Jess also introduced us to delicious sheets of crisp toasted seaweed, and smushy little Korean mochi with a bit of sweet bean paste in the middle.  Later came all-you-can-eat Korean barbecue, fancy Korean coffee shops, and short rib soup you eat with scissors.

So, you can imagine my excitement when for once, I had a new Korean food to share with her.  I was introduced to Korean yuzu honey tea, or yujacha, a year ago, and instantly fell in love with the stuff. Yuzu is a Japanese citrus fruit with all the familiar and beloved brightness of our own lemons, but with a novel flavor -- a little sweeter, and a bit more complex.  You make the 'tea' (not really a tea at all, more like an emulsion of sorts) by scooping a bit of yucheong, a honey yuzu marmalade, into a mug, then adding steamy hot water. 

The next time I saw Jessica, I was jumping over myself to tell her about my amazing Korean disovery.  And Jessica, all cool, was like, "Yeah, I have a jar of that stuff in my fridge right now."

WHAT?

Fourteen years and bff status, and she's been holding out on me.

Despite my rage, we got over it, and while I'm a little sad for the lack of yuzu tea in my life the past 14 years, I'm happy that I have it now.  It's delicious always, but particularly perfect when you have a cold, as I did last week.  When you've finished the tea, you're left with a prize of slightly bitter yuzu rind at the bottom of your mug.  As if the steaming cup of hot beverage and the citrus contribution weren't healing enough, the pith (white part) of citrus rinds contain bioflavonoids, which, according to an old doctor of mine, break up congestants.

Most of you don't have a Jessica, but you have a Tannaz.  (And I mean, Jessica wouldn't have told you anyway.)  Your Tannaz is telling you, go have some yuzu tea.

From the Heavens, in Bovine Proportions

There's a certain sensation I'm thinking of. It has to do with a mundane weeknight meal becoming somehow festive, almost like a holiday. It's extremely casual. Mellow and friendly, and weirdly exciting. Usually there is a sense of the communal to it, and it's very blue-collar. It tends to take place somewhat outside. It has a taste of third-world to it, but the last time I experienced it was right in my own backyard: Manna is all-you-can-eat Korean barbecue, in Koreatown, in a tent.

For the first memory of this sensation, we go to Guadalajara. 2001ish, on a balmy night. We rounded up a bunch of Guadalajaran cousins -- strangers to me, as they were some sort of second cousins of the boyfriend of my friend (gushy sidenote: said friend and boyfriend are getting married tomorrow. woo!) -- and went to dinner. The place was called La Esquina, perhaps because it is on the corner, and it had a ceiling but no wall on one side. On the night's menu, shrimpburguesas.

OK, they weren't really called that, but that's what we were calling them. From the counter you'd get a burger, except instead of a patty was a bunch of shrimp, held together with a thin layer of melted cheese. So you got your shrimpburguesa, and customized it with toppings: basic hamburger stuff, plus strawberries pickled in jalapeno juice. Nothing fancy at all, but something about it was jubilant -- the place had a pulse.
Next we go to Israel and the world's most utilitarian kabob joint. A broad, completely unadorned hall with concrete floors simmered with activity. Stacks of cheap plates and mismatched flatware sat on a table against the wall. At every folding table was salt, pepper, and a bottle of lemon juice. Again, you'd order from the counter from a menu stripped down to the essentials: salad, rice, kabob. Skewer after skewer of chicken, ground beef, chunks of steak, made the place smell amazing. This place was a far cry from the trendy restaurants right on the sand in Tel Aviv, with perfectly groomed beach babes everywhere you look. It was in some town off the main road, in a strip mall, most of the clientele were families, and class-wise, it was a side of Israel that I hadn't really experienced before. But it was bustling, delicious, and just right.

Which brings us back to exotic retreat in our own backyard, good old Koreatown. Manna brings this lively, gritty scene to LA and adds to it a decidedly American bent: all-you-can-eat (17 bucks a person -- not bad at all considering how kbbq can add up). The tent has the proportions of a commissary, but is decorated with random twinkly lights -- about the only intentional decorative touches in the place. Sit down, order some beer (not included), and tuck into the extensive panchan. And prepare yourself for much meat: mounds of thin slivers of marinated beef, thick cuts of boneless short rib, or even chicken and pork keep coming faster than you can grill and eat them. And how's the meat? Solid. It doesn't feel buffet-quality at all -- it's quite good. Just try to balance it out with some rice or fresh green salad, also included and constantly refilled. A large crew of servers manage to wrangle the needs of a dining room full of patrons, and they'll even help normalize the temperature of your table's built-in grill if you seem to be struggling not to burn your meats.

There is nothing pretentious about Manna. Everyone seems to have a common goal: a straightforward path to as much Korean barbecue as possible, and enjoying themselves once they get there. It's the jolliest beef assault you can find, and everyone's invited.


Manna is at 3377 W. Olympic Blvd., 2 1/2 blocks west of Western.

When in Koreatown...

Whenever you travel to a foreign country, you know you're up against some interesting challenges. It's a loss of control -- you don't speak the language, so you have to depend on the kindness of others, engage in some creative guesswork, and hope for the best. And in most cases, it all turns out great. At first it seems like a setback, but I think this is one of the reasons why we travel. The crazy adventures, the being plopped in a world that is bizarre and completely new, the starting out as a doe-eyed stranger with everything to gain, and gradually gaining it. By giving in to that loss of control, you learn to embrace a whole set of practices, experiences, even personalities you didn't even know existed. It's such euphoria -- laughing like a little kid at what unusual turns your life can take.

I feel like this kind of experience exists for me, a million times over, about four miles from home. Los Angeles has a huge and sprawling Koreatown, and while a lot of it is totally accessible to gringos like myself, there is much that really does require guidance from someone who knows the language. So,when you do get to peek in, it's a privilege. Last night my friend Hannah, who is Korean, introduced us to Dansungsa, a soju pub that requires a local guide. The night was a tiny slice of what traveling through Seoul might be like, a mini-adventure in being the foreigner.

Dansungsa is in a strip mall on 6th, and has no English sign. It is recognizable by an old image of Kim Jung Il (in sweet sweet shades) on the sign. The parking lot: fancy cars, various couples consisting of non-descript guys with decked out ultra-feminine girls teetering around on high heels.

What's up Kim Jong Il?

Inside, the place is not small, but it's intimate -- dim light, lots of wood, and it's walled off into small areas of a few tables each. The walls are densely layered with newspaper clippings, graffiti, and posters of old Korean movie stars. We were completely at Hannah's mercy here -- the waitress handed her the all-Korean menu, printed on a block of wood, and we were on our way.

What I learned about Korean bar food: there's a lot of egg (with ketchup, obviously), there's a lot of red, unexpected items are molded into cakes of varying shapes, and there is a lot of fiery hot. Our eyes were much bigger than our mouths when it came to ordering, but this meant we got to try a lot of different dishes. The minute you sit down, they start bringing you stuff. They start off with a bowl of spicy communal soup with cabbage, and maybe parsnips?, and totally incongruously, sticks of celery with ranch dressing. Whatever. We then ordered a million dishes:

• kim bap -- tiny perfectly circular sushi-like rolls filled with rice, egg, and meat
• a rolled omelet with herbs, served with ketchup
• a pot of (totally) tubular rice cakes, triangular fish cakes, and various other geometric wonders in a very red very spicy sauce, which was delicious
• a mix of squid, mushrooms, scallions, and other vegetables in a different very red very spicy sauce, which was chewy
• a giant pancake of eggs and scallions, served with a soy dipping sauce, which was really yummy and really simple and I want to make it myself sometime
• a skewer of fish balls -- the same pasty mix that is used to make the fish triangles, now in sphere form, grilled in a very red very spicy sauce
• shrimp wontons -- whole shrimp wrappen in wonton skins with cream cheese and fried. yum, of course.

Along with the food, on the waitress's suggestion, we got lemon soju, which came in a beat-up little kettle that seemed like it had spent its life being pelted with metal bearings. And bottle after of bottle of Hite beer.

The place was really lively, and as the night progressed, it became more so. Adding to the surreal where-am-I feel, our table was visited by a man wearing an inflatable soju bottle. He was accompanied by a pretty Korean lady who talked to us for a very long time. We had absolutely no idea what she was saying but she had a very soothing voice.

What's up, inflatable soju friend?

Just as I thought we were winding down, our night got a second wind. About 12 people squeezed into the table beside ours. They overflowed into our space, and we got to talking. You know how it goes -- someone goes to school with someone, someone used to work with someone, and before you know it, some guy named Hi Ho is eating your on-the-house udon. Very friendly, these kids. Small world, this Koreatown.

This was a really fun experience. How often do you get to hang out with a giant soju bottle? Not very, I bet. There are no international travel plans in my near future, but me and my soju bottle friend, we're gonna have some good times this summer.

Dansungsa is at 3317 W. Sixth St., in a strip mall on the northeast corner of 6th and Berendo.