This is a pretty common sight in eating trends in South Korea, it seems: Cafeteria-style fooding. Firstly, you approach a brightly-lit display case featuring plastic replicas and tiny placards of what could be coming to a plate near you very soon. everything from Mul-naem-young, KimBap and Donkaas, to a large bowl meant for sharing of many people guest starring various seafood parts. I try to peer closely trough the glass at the replicas in attempt to denote what KIND of meat is "in there," but to no avail. Here's what I think I know: if it's a little red, it's probably imitation crab. If it has tentacles or suckers; squid.
Anything tubular and a sickening brown, over-boiled color is probably some sort of animal’s ass-tasting intestine. It’s best to go with your gut on this one and steer clear of this big bowl. You pick your entree and write it down on a piece of paper if you can't remember it, or if you're too intimidated to try to pronounce it. Approach the cash registers situated not too far from the display, and sound it out. "H-har-ree-oo-deh-bohk-eum-bap, jewseyo (please)." "you peer up anxiously and a little proud at your attempt at the hangul. The woman behind the counter smiles politely and hands you a reciept with a food stall # and a food order #. You find a table--I prefer to sit by the window, looking out from the fifth-story room onto the busy main street of downtown Cheonan, car lights and gaudy neon signs from “leechard prohaiya” on every-other-block corner sparkling in the evening rain. But then again, so does everyone else, so sometimes you have to settle for a seat by the watercooler. You look with each chime of the constant bing-bong! calling up digital numbers while you sit and wait in a little plastic chair like at the DMV where you’ve taken your number like everyone else but it seems with each bing! someone else is called forward, and with every bong! you start to think that maybe you should clear your schedule because obviously you’re not going anywhere anytime soon; but just like that you keep staring with a vague hope of the knowledge that one of those kitchens is making my food right now. and then at last! The restaurant/kitchen on your ticket flashes #124. Your number! well finally. You spring up like a fool prizewinner at an auction. You trade your ticket for a tray of food that looks similar to the thing in the display case up front although not so bright and shimmery, pick up some silver chopsticks and a spoon to the left of the man in the apron and funny hat, and off to your table you carry your dinner accompanied by a side of a light soup and kimchi. always kimchi. Eat.
