My sister and I were in the mood for some more street food right after having dinner at one of those iconic tent stalls called pojangmacha (포장마차) in the Jongno 3-ga district. To be honest, I was just having a bit of food greed early in the trip. It was day two and I was raring to go when it came to ticking things off my to-eat list.
After taking a post-meal stroll in the area and excitedly sharing some classic must-have street food items like dumplings and sweet pancakes, mandoo (만두) and hotteok (호떡), my appetite had been whet for some chicken skewers, dak-kkochi (닭꼬치). I had some at dinner, but I was a determined woman on a mission now, and I wouldn’t give up until I had some more.
As we walked back towards the Jongno 3-ga metro station, I decided to just get a skewer before we headed off from the area. I stopped by this little mobile pojangmacha run by an ajumma (아줌마). She had a head full of short permed curls which she kept in place with a bright read visor which matched the red shade of her blouse.
She was chatting with a distinguished old gentleman dressed in a white shirt and tan blazer, a sort of dandy-ish ahjussi (아저시) style, that we kept seeing on the older men in Korea. She stopped her conversation as she noticed me approaching her stall.
I was still unsure of how to order in Korean, so I smiled, pointed towards the dak-kkochi and raised a finger to signal that I wanted one. I would later learn on this trip that I just had to point to something and say, “Hana, juseyo.” (“하나 주세요.”)
“So, where are you from?”, as I waited for the pojangmacha ahjumma to prepare the dak-kocchi, the well-dressed grandfatherly customer of hers had started pouring himself a disposable paper cup of something from a huge bottle of what looked like red wine, and started chatting with me.
My clearly awkward lack of ordering skills and cradling of my Sony A7 had given me away. I must have had the words “tourist” stamped across my face.
“I’m from Singapore.”
“Ah, I’ve been to Singapore to visit a friend before. Long time ago. I live in the States now. Just coming back here to visit.”
Just like that we were now in conversation.
“This is my favourite stall. Best food in Korea. She’s my friend. I always come back here. Best food. Believe me. I’ve eaten here for years. It tastes the best.”
He looked towards the ahjumma and smiled. Now he had me curious. This dak-kkocchi must be the freaking best. Anticipation was building and I couldn’t wait for her to pass me the heated up chicken skewer.
“Please, have some of this,” He gesticulated towards the huge bottle of wine-red liquor. “It’s good sangria. A friend gave it to me. I brought it back.”
I looked at him with what must have been an incredulous look, “Wow, that’s a really huge bottle. How did you manage to even bring it back.”
“I have my ways.”
Gosh, this conversation, I had so many questions. My travel party had slowly inched away from the wagon-like pojangmacha, and I glanced at them as our conversation continued.
The ahjumma squeezed some sweet chilli sauce onto the grilled chicken skewer into a plastic food bag and handed it to me. I thanked her in Korean. It was basically the only thing I was kinda confident of saying at that point of the trip.
“Here, have a cup and give some to your friends.”
I waved my hands and shook my head, “It’s okay! It’s okay! No, no, we couldn’t take some.”
“It’s very good.”
An encounter with this ahjussi who told us this was his favourite stall
Out of courtesy, I took three cups – one for Camy, one for Michelle and one for me.
You know how everyone talks about not taking alcohol from complete strangers? If all the Hollywood movies were to be believed, after taking the sangria, I might have been drugged, kidnapped and sold, and maybe I wouldn’t be here writing about that encounter. I’m not sure why, but after weighing the pros and cons, I decided, he was just a friendly old uncle who wanted a little chat. I am also pretty sure at this point my travel party must have been thinking I was a freaking crazy person.
I took a sip of the sangria from the paper cup he had handed me and looked up at him surprised, “This is really nice!”
He smiled, “I’m glad you like it. Would you like more? Help yourself.”
“No, no. It’s okay. Thank you very much!”
I felt compelled to take a photo of him before I left. It had been an interesting chat with a random stranger.
“I’ll need to catch up with my friends, but is it okay if I took a photo of you?”
He nodded. As I raised my viewfinder to my eye, he promptly raised his paper cup of delicious, sweet sangria in a mini toast for the photo.
“It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the sangria. Have a good evening!”
“Enjoy your holiday in Korea.”
I hurried off to where Camy and Michelle had been waiting with my sister, sipping on their cups of sangria.
Oh, back to the dak-kkocchi. After taking a bite of what this ahjussi affectionately considered the best in Korea.
“How is it?”
“Man, this must taste like home for him, but I don’t think I could say it’s the best in Korea. That sangria was really good though.”
With that, we finished the sangria, threw the paper cups into a trash bag lying at the side of the street and continued our journey to the entrance of the Jongno 3-ga metro.
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