Photo: The vessel that gives Onggi its name! A household ‘onggi yard’ holding one family’s various ferments in Seoul.
After almost two months in Japan, this past May, I took a quick hopper flight from Kyoto to Seoul for my first-ever trip to South Korea. Even though I had been to Japan twice for multiple month-long stays, I had never ventured only an hour by plane to the land of my favorite food and TV dramas.
When I wasn’t tanking copious amounts of banana milk from my local convenience store, I was searching the markets for as many ferments and traditional foods that I could sample. My underdeveloped language skills may have meant I missed out on a lot more of what Seoul’s markets had to offer than I even realized. But they also led to shy, funny food encounters with locals in a jumbled amalgamation of Korean, English, Japanese, and even Spanish. During all my awkward fumbles, I learned one thing above all else: food and ferments need no words - they are a language of their own. I’d love to share some of the ferments my new friends fed me, or taught me to make myself.
Note: Diving into my fermentation adventures in Korea, I’d be remiss not to mention kimchi. Though I won’t be talking about kimchi in this blog space, if you’re interested in all things spicy lacto-pickles, check out Onggi’s blog on kimchi and kimjang.
Photo: Bibim gukksu (cold noodles coated in spicy gochujang sauce) served at Seoul Folk Flea Market alongside gochujang spiced kimchi banchan.
Jang
Perhaps the most pervasive of all fermented foods I ate in Korea, jang served as the flavor base for nearly all of my meals, snacks, and sometimes even desserts!
The word jang in Korean refers to any fermented sauce or paste. Classically, some of the most well known types of jang include ganjang (a rich and salty soy sauce), doenjang (an earthy, fermented soybean paste), and gochujang (a spicy fermented soybean and chili pepper paste).
Even though I was unable to frolic through an artisan jang maker’s onggi yard during this most recent stay (believe me, I tried), I was lucky enough to stumble into Bukchon Gwang, in the hidden alleyways of Jongno’s Bukchon Hanok Village in Seoul.
Bukchon Gwang felt like an overseas cousin of Onggi - a quaint market housing small-batch, artisanal, and traditional Korean ferments made by local artisans around Korea. I had sought the store out after learning Hana Makgeolli’s products were being stocked in small quantities on their shelves; wanting to show support and see Hana Makgeolli abroad in the wild.
Running into the store, covered in shopping bags and out of breath, I made it to Bukchon Gwang with only fifteen minutes until close. I expected baffled looks from the staff aimed at a disheveled and confused tourist. Instead, I was met by the shopkeeper, a lovely woman named Da Saem, offering me a sample of eight-year-aged ganjang.
The flavor was unlike any soy sauce I’d ever tasted before. Rich, deep, salty and with a tinge of molasses, the ganjang’s viscous liquid offered a nuanced, layered flavor that only years of slow fermentation could provide. Da Saem explained to me that the ganjang had been aged by a local artisan inside an onggi that was buried in the earth to make the most of the local climate and terroir. I bought it immediately.
As Da Saem showed me around Bukchon Gwang, she introduced me to brews of makgeolli, local perilla oil, doenjang pastes of numerous vintages, and gochujang flavored snacks. She explained Bukchon Gwang’s mission was to continue to support and promote the preservation and craft of traditional Korean ferments as they have been made for hundreds of years. To support this work, Da Saem created the Good Fermented Food (GFF) Awards, an initiative led in partnership with Tomorrow’s Table, a nonprofit organization dedicated to nurturing Korea’s traditional fermentation and rural food culture in the modern age.
Eager to support her cause, I left with several more bags filled with gifts for my friends, family, pantry and a promise to talk all things ferments during my next stay.
If you’re interested in trying jang in your home kitchen, Onggi has a range of doenjang, gochujang, and more from Queens SF in our market. If you’re like me and want to take it a step further and learn about how jang is made, I highly recommend picking up a copy of Michelin Chef Mingoo Kang’s cookbook Jang: The Soul of Korean Cooking, for a deep dive behind jang and its artisan makers!
Photo: Entrance to Bukchon Gwang artisanal ferments market in the Bukchon Hanok Village, Jongo, Seoul.
Makgeolli
While sool is the general term for all Korean alcohol, makgeolli is the sedimented rice wine that fills the cups of numerous social gatherings, ceremonies, after-work happy hours, barbecues, crisp winter evenings, and a warm summer’s day.
For those who have perused Onggi’s market or even our blog space, you’ll be deeply familiar with Hana Makgeolli, the Brooklyn-based sool brewery whose product, only days before my trip, became the first ever foreign-imported sool to South Korea.
Sad to have missed Alice by only five days, but eager to support the expansion of my favorite rice wine, I made it a personal mission to take an informal sool tour of Seoul. Included in this was perhaps my most memorable moment with makgeolli in Korea - when I was taught how to make it myself.
Per Alice’s recommendation, I booked a makgeolli making workshop with The Sool Company on a cloudy afternoon in Seoul.
A Korean alcohol education center and makgeolli brewery based in both Seoul and The Netherlands, The Sool Company is the leading English language resource for traditional alcohol in Korea. After brief introductions at the start of our workshop, our instructor, Omar, led myself and a kind couple from Singapore through the long and varied history of Korean sool.
When it was time to begin making our makgeolli, we steamed chapssal rice and swirled it in large metal bowls with nuruk starter. As we worked, we began to talk and learn more about the varied backgrounds and histories of one another. Omar, originally from Mexico and having previously lived in Japan, conversed with us in English, Japanese, and even Spanish. By the time we sat down to sample makgeolli from different brewers and masters alike, our class felt like a close, intimate hangout among good friends.
In addition to the basic process of sool brewing, we learned makgeolli’s various uses over time. My favorite bit of lore came as we were offered to sample what looked like makgeolli solidified into a paste. Omar shared that this type of makgeolli was carried by women, hidden within the folds of their dresses in earlier times and eaten with a small spoon; a demure version of a flask.
I left our workshop buzzed in more ways than one; my soon-to-be sool hugged tightly against my side to ferment and bubble on my apartment counter for the remainder of my stay. In only two weeks, my rice and nuruk mixture had turned into an effervescent, tangy drink reminiscent of a refreshing, sweet and sour yogurt drink. Because homemade alcohol is generally frowned upon by TSA, I had to stop its fermentation early and drink it the night before my flight. I thought that my makgeolli wouldn’t have had a chance to form a high alcohol content in this short time - oh, how wrong I was when I woke up dangerously close to missing my flight the next morning!
If you’re interested in learning more about makgeolli and how it’s made, check out our interview with the sool queen herself, Alice Jun of Hana Makgeolli, or sign up for a class or tour from The Sool Company yourself!
Photo: My first time making makgeolli at The Sool Company in Seoul!
Moju
Moju is makgeolli’s non-alcoholic (okay, maybe low alcoholic) best friend. Herbaceous, sweet, nutty, and rich, moju just might be my new obsession.
I first sampled moju while lost in the depths of one of Seoul’s most notorious flea markets. Haggling for prices in severely broken Korean had left me thirsty, and the most unexpected vendor came to my aid.
I had wandered to the second floor of the Seoul Folk Flea Market in an attempt to locate the ATM. I knew the second floor was likely to distract me with numerous antique goods and vintage treasures, but what I didn’t expect was to be drawn by a warm, comforting scent wafting through the isles.
Standing among stalls of old military uniforms, used electronics, and jumbled jewelry was a man seated behind a large steaming pot of some sort of bubbling brew. The homemade sign advertising this concoction was entirely in Korean, and at the time, I was unable to read it.
I approached his stand shyly and asked for a cup of whatever he was selling in Korean. His face lit up at my request. Scooping a ladle into the cast iron cauldron and gingerly pouring its contents into a paper cup, he handed a brown, milky liquid to me and urged me to drink up.
The brew smelt both familiar and medicinal. Right as I lifted the cup to my mouth to take a tentative drink, I noticed a collection of large wine-filled glass jars behind the man’s head that contained various vegetable roots, fruits, and to my immediate panic, snakes.
I remembered that snake wine had been a delicacy in Korea for hundreds of years throughout the Joseon Dynasty and before the Korean War. For the older generation in some rural regions, this remained true. It was a practice that I respected for its resourcefulness and medicinal tradition, but one I was more than hesitant to partake in - snakes and I don’t exactly get along.
The man’s smile in front of me was so broad and genuine I quickly shoved the possibility of alcoholic snake juice out of my mind and took a sip. I was immediately glad that I had. Snake wine or not, this nutty, sweet mixture tasted like a blend of mulled wine and creamy spiced tea.
Pleasantly surprised, I gave the man a thumbs up and bowed in thanks. “Moju!” He told me enthusiastically. When I Google searched moju later, I was deeply relieved to learn that no snakes had been involved in its production, though I had to admit I might have been converted even if they had.
Photo: Dongchimi makes up a central part of the Pyongyang style naengymeon (cold noodles) beef broth at Eulmildae in Mapo, Seoul.
Dongchimi
With my Korean language skills improving minimally day by day, I eventually worked up the courage to walk into a mom-and-pop naengmyeon (cold noodle) store in the neighborhood of Mapo. Sitting in Onggi’s shop during slow moments, I had read about one restaurant revered for its cold noodles in FARE Magazine’s Seoul issue: Eulmildae. From one photo of the restaurant’s canteen style eatery and one sentence about its hand pulled noodles, I knew it was a must-visit on my Seoul itinerary.
When my big-girl moment came to walk into the restaurant and ask for a bowl of naengmyeon, I tried to act as much of a local as possible. Positioning myself on the stool, I watched as a bowl of icy cold noodles slid before me without even having to order. Without adding any vinegar or mustard to the broth (as is the recommendation), I took a big sip before diving into the buckwheat noodles, slow-cooked beef, or hardboiled egg.
The broth alone was both an amalgamation of flavor and masterclass in subtlety. Later, back home in America, I would try to recreate this broth in my own homemade version of Pyongyang style naengmyeon and fail - all because I lacked one key ingredient: dongchimi.
Dongchimi is a tangy and mildly sweet water kimchi traditionally made with radish. The brine is added to naengmyeon to create the balanced, refreshing broth that I now consistently crave. Dongchimi is also served as a palate cleanser after oily, heavy meals, or as a cool accompaniment to spicy dishes, like the bibim gukksu I was served at Seoul Folk Flea Market that threatened to have me crying in public.
If you’re interested in trying dongchimi, I highly recommend fermenting your own batch in the fall using Korean or daikon radishes, Korean pear or apple, garlic, ginger, and scallions covered in a salt brine. Or, stay tuned for housemade ferments in Onggi’s market fridge - we just might have dongchimi coming your way!
Photo: Yukja citrus cheong mixed with seltzer water was a refreshing way to combat the heat and humidity of early summer!
Cheong
Cheong is a silent backbone of many Korean flavors. A syrup made by fermenting fruit with sugar for a minimum of three years, cheong sneaks into many of my favorite Korean dishes, often providing a subtle, nuanced layer of flavor that makes at-home replication difficult.
Cheong added complexity to some of my favorite braised veggie side dishes, known as banchan, as well as sauces and soup bases. One of my favorite ways to sample cheong was added to seltzer water or one of Korea’s many herbal teas.
As the weather started to heat up on the streets of Seoul, a cool, refreshing yukja cheong soda was a craving I had on more than one occasion. Sold at both the local mom and pop stores and trendy pop up cafes alike, I was never short of this sweet and tangy refreshment.
You may have already sampled cheong and not known it! Cheong is often used for making kimchi with additions like maesil (plum) cheong, adding levels of flavor that make your favorite kimchi recipe unlike any othe
Instead of waiting three years to ferment your own, a great way to sample cheong is to stop by Onggi’s market and pick up a bottle of Jeju Nature and Vinegar Company’s Lemon Cheong, made with fresh citrus on the island of Jeju.
More to Explore
My time in Korea was electric and exciting. I found Seoul to be a city of endless possibility, art, activity, and eats. Seoul contained a world of food I wish I had the language to dive in deeper into. Despite the barrier, I cannot express how grateful I am to have met kindred fermentation spirits such as Omar at The Sool Company and Da Saem at Bukchon Gwang. I am beyond grateful to those who opened their minds, hearts, pantries, and kitchens to me during my stay.
