Spicing Up the D-Hall: A Call for Korean Condiments

Many times, when I tell people that I am Korean, their reaction is to tell me how much they love Korean BBQ or kimchi. I am very proud that these foods have gained as much popularity as they have, but the rarity of instances in which people name even one other food betrays a monolithic understanding of Korean cuisine that has taken hold in America.

In fact, beef is extremely expensive in Korea, and as a result bulgogi, galbi, and other similar foods so ubiquitous in Korean-American food are only for special occasions in Korea. Additionally, I suspect that a lot of what contributes to the popularity of K-BBQ is its relative familiarity to an American audience — America’s fascination with meat means that no Korean barbecue place will offer flavors too far from what you might find at a regular steakhouse or even an American equivalent. Even kimchi is functionally a spicy sauerkraut. Truth be told, Korea’s most exciting and truly distinct flavors are mostly lost on the rest of the world, and this should not be the case.

The foundation of Korean cuisine is its fermented sauces, also known as jang. Ganjang, or soy sauce, is quite familiar to many around the world now, but gochujang, or fermented chili paste, and doenjang, a fermented soybean paste, are the two elements truly constitutive of a Korean meal. These two pastes serve a whole host of diverse purposes — they can serve as marinades, sauces, soup bases, part of a braising liquid, or condiments.

They also do not have any flavor analogs in any other world cuisine. America has been obsessed with spice and hot sauces — jalapeno, sriracha, and Tabasco are mainstays on tables from Peter Luger’s to McDonald’s — but to reduce gochujang to just another hot sauce would be a grave injustice. It offers a unique blend of sweetness, spice, nuttiness, and numerous flavors that escape description in words, those which come from months of careful fermentation. Additionally, gochujang has untapped culinary potential that could expand the American definition of what is culinarily acceptable: Gochujang-smoked ribs could bring the deep, smoky sweetness that is familiar to so many, but add a dimension of spice and make them that much better. Given that it seems like anything can be made into an “aioli” and slapped onto a burger, why shouldn’t Shake Shack take a flyer on gochujang with its next sauce?

Doenjang is another ancient pillar of Korean cuisine, with a world of unexplored possibility for the American culinary scene. For thousands of years, Koreans have been perfecting the art of fermenting and brewing soybeans. As a result, we have also learned how to use them in stews, pancakes, sauces, and just about anything else under the sun. Doenjang brings saltiness, sweetness, and a unique depth of flavor that can only be described by the Korean verb “gusuhada,” which has no exact English equivalent, but roughly is approximated by “nutty” — think of a much stronger miso. However, exposure to doenjang in the West is minimal — relegated to an accompaniment for K-BBQ that often goes untouched, unless the customers know what they should be looking for.

Ultimately, though, what a larger understanding of Korean food generally and these two specific components offers extends beyond our dining habits. In a time when America has become divided, perhaps more than ever, finding points of agreement between an increasingly diverse number of cultures and ethnicities will only grow more and more important. And while it seems simple just to try some new foods, what you gain is a sensory experience of culture, and hopefully a delicious one at that. Tasting the complexity of flavor present in the doenjang and gochujang you have just read about offers a glimpse into the importance of patience in Korean culture more generally, and the benefits that that aspect of our culture offers.

This idea doesn’t stop with Korean food — to the extent that no matter who we love, what we look like, where we come from, or what we believe, we still all eat, and we can all do better to reach into somebody else’s pantry the next time we’re eating out, and offer a place on our tables to new foods, no matter whether we are comfortable with them or not.

David Moon ‘21, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Eliot House.