Not all kim chee is created equal

It's my third day here in South Korea, and I've had kim chee (fermented or picked veggies -- usually cabbage) with every meal. Like bread at many American restaurants, the kim chee is plopped down on the table even before you order. Unlike the U.S., even the cheapest restaurants provide kim chee right off the bat, but I'm finding I don't love all of it. Some is too tangy; others are too sweet. In fact, getting that perfect blend of spicy, savory goodness is something the Koreans have been working at for centuries and will likely never be attained. But hey, it's the journey, right?

Two nights ago, at the end of my first workday, Bossman Nick (really Eo Dook Cheon or something equally unpronounceable to me) said that while tradition stipulates taking the new employee out to dinner, to prevent the spread of swine flu, the staff would not be allowed to congregate for several weeks. Apparently, Canadians and Americans hanging out with each other or native Koreans is the only way to spread swine flu ... This coming from a people who seem to have no concept of just how germs are spread. It's completely normal to see a bucket of water in public with a communal ladle from which everyone happily slurps. Here at school, there are a dozen plastic cups by each water fountain that everyone shares. I'm unsure if anyone ever washes these cups. And don't even get me started about those narrow squatty potties that are the only facilities at school. I've quickly learned to avoid the ones the children use, and my aim is improving.

So moments after Bossman Nick's contamination alert, the six Anglo staffers promptly ignored his orders and took me out for shabu shabu at ta Korean restaurant -- one where you take your shoes off at the door and sit on little square mats on the floor. Shabu shabu, I've discovered, is the Korean version of fondue. It starts with a chili-beef broth, simmering over a propane-fueled range in the middle of the table, to which veggies (mushrooms, cabbage, etc.), shrimp and sliced beef are added. That's the first course. When most of the meat and vegetables have been gobbled up, udon noodles are added to the broth. And when those have disappeared, and the broth has condensed, rice, eggs and scallions are thrown into the pot for a porridge-y third course. It's warm, filling, cozy goodness.

After my second workday. Bossman Nick seemed to get over his swine flue scare and took five of us Anglos to a Soju tent. Soju is the local firewater -- rice liquor that tastes like vodka. It's imbibed straight or mixed with vodka or juice. (I wonder if I can make a martini with it?) I hear these Soju tents pop up all over the city when the weather gets warm. The floor is made of gravel, and the place is filled with low, plastic stools and tables. In the middle of each table is a pit in which waiters put a bucket of hot coals covered with a grill. Then comes the best part -- a massive platter filled with a crazy array of clams -- some were the size of two hands! The tasty morsels were piled onto the grill and came out perfectly tender. I don't think the seafood was seasoned at all, and the delicate flavors were perfect all on their own.

I'm told all the Anglos lose wait when they move here, but I'm thinking the opposite may be true for me. Wish me luck!