I often like a country for the people I meet there. It turns out you can like a restaurant for its owner too.
Our Airbnb sits at the foot of Mount Buram, in a quiet neighborhood where a small creek and shaded hiking trails are practically at our door. A few steps in the other direction lies the district food zone — several dozen small restaurants packed into a few alleys, each devoted to a specific style of Korean cooking. That afternoon, we had a craving for raw fish.
The restaurant we entered was short on options. The owner, a bespectacled middle-aged woman, explained that they carried only salmon and tuna — but that their salmon was special and tasty. Something about her manner convinced us to stay.
The sake selection on the shelves was extensive. She poured our choice into a double-walled chilling decanter, and we sipped while she covered our table with small dishes of sauces, pickles, and condiments. After delivering the sashimi, she withdrew to the corner.
I confidently picked up the chopsticks, ready to dip the salmon into soy sauce, when she swooped in, blocked my hand with a gentle smile, and took the utensils from my grip.
"Let me show you," she said with a childlike grin.
She flattened a slice of salmon on a small plate, dabbed it with wasabi, and layered it with a sliver of ginger, a single caper, a few curls of onion, and a tuft of green radish sprouts. Then she dipped a piece of yellow radish into the soy sauce and used it to sparingly drizzle the assembly. Apologizing — unnecessarily — for her chopstick skills, she carefully folded the whole thing into a neat parcel, and placed it on my tongue like an offering.
The flavor and texture that followed were extraordinary. I also understood, in that moment, that a woman who feeds you becomes an object of desire. (An Oedipus complex, perhaps?)
She prepared one for Adi as well — with enough wasabi to produce flames from her nostrils. After Adi's recovery, the meal continued pleasantly, with more sake, more fish, and easy conversation. We learned about the owner's family in Canada, the merits of Norwegian versus Canadian salmon (the European is larger and more flavorful, she insisted), and her husband's particular way with the fish.
At the end of the meal, she brought us two ripe plums — an unexpected and personal touch. At the register, she slipped a Kopiko candy into my mouth and managed to tuck a few more into Adi's pocket.
Yes, you can like a restaurant for its owner. The salmon was excellent too
