Fresh kal guk su

ON one of our recent weekend meanderings through Namdaemun Market, Seoul, we found a little out-of-the-way food alley packed with hawker stalls.

So hidden was its location – obscured by fruit stands and various other sellers – that we’d never seen it before. Or perhaps it was new. I’ll never know.
It was like the hawker alley for the locals, tucked safely away from the hoards of tourists.

As we’d already eaten lunch that day, we bookmarked it for a return visit which just so happened to be a week or so later when we made a beeline for it feeling quite proud that we were bypassing the usual eat street for something a little more secret.





The concrete alleyway was narrow and long, with wet concrete underfoot and squat stools running along each side, jammed together beneath two endless rickety benches.
Each stall had about two metres of bench space so once we chose our hawker stall it was a matter of cramming in together and fighting for some arm room to manouvre the chopsticks.

The reason we were so intent on this alleyway was for its handmade kal guk su – a wheat noodle - made fresh right in front of you and served in a peppery broth with onion, potato, perhaps a scattering of zucchini, and dried nori.

Each ajumma had minimal space and utensils to work with, making their output all the more admirable. Pre-cut vegetables hung in plastic shopping bags and the refrigerators were simply small ice boxes hanging high on the shed wall for only the basics.
Their cooking space had two big pots for boiling and a chopping board dusted with flour and piled with fresh noodles.

Our kal guk su noodles were gorgeously soft and ribbony. Perhaps not the tastiest broth we’ve had, but still so much more enjoyable having seen them handmade, cooked and then ladled into our bowls.
The addition of su je bi gave the soupy broth something to hold on to. As we also discovered, su je bi is made from the same dough as kal guk su, but instead of being cut into noodles the sheet is simply torn into rough bite-sized pieces.
Naengmyeon was our “serbis!” (service) dish, divided into two small bowls for each us, which Wes promptly declared delicious and one of the best he’d eaten.

Cramped elbow to elbow, watching the deft handiwork of our chosen ajumma and listening to the clamour of pots, knives and other stall ladies fighting for customers, was a sensory awakening.
I also quite liked the fact she gave me an apron to wear while I slurped my noodles.

That, I thought, was a nice touch.