About 25 years ago I wrote a column about how my 6 year old asked to have her birthday party at a Korean barbecue restaurant. The parents whose kids only ate chicken fingers and buttered noodles protested but allowed us our folly. What happened? The kids loved it because who doesn’t enjoy sizzling meat and live fire? The staff of Korean aunties insisted we leave the balloons outside and away from the grills but otherwise indulged us with special care, even joining us for cake and song. The readers of my column were flabbergasted. Back then, the only non-Korean people eating Korean food were deemed “adventurous.”
How times have changed. When extended family — ages 3 to 81 — came to town over the holidays, Korean barbecue seemed like the only good choice for a night out. It’s fun, interactive, and charged with that frisson of danger that keeps little ones rapt. Noise and mess are built into the experience, so there’s little that a toddler could destroy.
And this: Korean food has become a kind of international love language. With all the banchan (side dishes) filling the table, it is a cuisine that places generosity, comfort, and satiety front and center. It is a pleasure to look at and, in its clackety clackety way, to listen to. The flavors are so big, but also so easy. In today’s international pop culture, Korean aesthetics are ascendant, so the meals are also about music, visual arts, and beauty standards. People everywhere thrill to the pop vibe of Korean dining.
We ended up at Daebak, which has locations in Wicker Park and Chinatown, and is often my go-to if not my favorite. Let me get the criticisms out of the way first: Like most KBBQs in town, they cook over gas rather than live charcoal, so the meat doesn’t get that extra smoky level of flavor. The servers are always a bit too harried with large sections, so they tend to crowd meat onto the grill, making it steam in its juices rather than sear on the hot surface. Worst of all is the restaurant’s policy to charge for refills on banchan; this alone would be cause for brutal elimination in the Squid Game.
Yet, in the immortal words of Stephen Stills, if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with. I do appreciate the K-Pop/steampunk look of Daebak and like to linger around the table there. I like the set menus that offer a variety of beef and pork cuts as well as a greasy but delicious seafood pancake and a surprisingly great crock of jiggae stew (I like the one with kimchi and tofu). I like the value. You eat well for not a lot of money.
Soon after the fam left, my friend and his 11 year old, who’s my goddaughter, came to town. She did a perfect job of pushing food around her plate and trying most everything at a higher-end restaurant with the promise that we’d take her out for a Korean dessert afterward. We ended up at West Town’s Gangnam Market and let me tell you — if you haven’t been to this grocery store/food court on a Saturday night, you’re missing a great scene. Packs of teenagers and young families crowd the aisles inspecting every jar and package like forensic scientists. The color scheme is neon bright and the flow is meandering like Ikea, so you just want to get lost in the place. We never even made it to the food court because my goddaughter was so enamored with the snacks, candy, and makeup. We bought puckering gum, eyeliner, marshmallows, grape chews, and lip balm and had a grand time with it back at home. Korean restaurants and snacks offer a rare kind of joy.
A quick note to restaurateurs
If you recognize me, come say hi and let me pepper you with geeky questions about the food and wine list, but please don’t send any gifts from the kitchen. I totally understand you’re in the business of hospitality, and a little lagniappe is a kindness that you’d offer anyone in the industry. I’d imagine social media influencers, who are journalism adjacent, wouldn’t mind a comp or three. When you send me something, however, I feel like it would be an ethical lapse if I don’t pay for it somehow — usually through a generous tip. Then I’ve got to hit Chicago with a hefty expense report or simply eat the cost myself. Sometimes I say “no, thank you” and send the food back to the kitchen or ask the people at the next table if they’d like the dish. That always feels odd but necessary.
There’s another reason I don’t want any extras, which is that I take a decidedly old-school approach to this work. Much of restaurant writing today is an act of culling — sampling as much as possible to find the most extraordinary dishes. National magazines pick their best new restaurants from meals at hundreds of places; influencers raise their cocktails in a toast as an iPhone pans a table laden with every item on the menu; Chicago sends a bunch of writers with discerning palates around town to pick the city’s best pizza. Reviews are different. I write them from the perspective of a consumer advocate. If I can sit down with my party, order from a menu, and appreciate the warmth and generous nature of your hospitality without any extras, then I’m eager to recommend your restaurant. Thanks for listening. Love what you guys do.