A few weeks ago, I realized I was in trouble. I walked into a restaurant — not even one I was planning to review in these august pages — and wasn't excited. No goosebumps of exhilaration marring my perfect skin. No giddy grasping for the menu like Horshack with a question for Kotter. No anticipatory saliva lubricating my mouth for the gustatory offering that would invariably excite or disappoint. Nothing. Sigh.
I was burned out, after too much of the same thing week after week. Mind you, I'm not cryin' — I know I have a great job — but every so often the accumulated psychic detritus of dozens of similar meals needs to be blown clear. Everyone gets that feeling sometimes, don't they? Well, maybe not everyone.
Many people return to their roots when they hit sensory overload, but I didn't think Rice Krispie squares and tuna noodle casserole were going to get the job done. A big leap out of my comfort zone was called for, a culinary defibrillator straight to the palate to resuscitate my comatose sense of wonder. Sa Ri One Korean Restaurant was my cure.
I knew I'd made the correct decision when the waiter set down a dozen tiny bowls before the entrees even arrived — some side dishes, some condiments, many serving as both. Most recognizable was a square of pale cabbage, tinted pink and splattered red by the ground spicy peppers it was pickled with. Less fiery than some, Sa Ri One's kimchi was bright with vinegar and hot enough to keep us from pinching more than one leaf at a time with our chopsticks.
The other sides included tubes of dark seaweed that hit my Western palate with a burst of alien green; giant pickled slices of daikon radish like raw potato; translucent threads of watery sprouts with buttery bean still attached; tart carrot and cucumber salad. Some of the other stuff, like strips that looked like doughy wheat pasta that turned out to be sesame-flavored fish cakes, had to be identified by the waiter.
Tiny whole dried anchovies and rings of dehydrated peppers — invigorated by a quick sauté with sweet soy and a splash of vinegar — were crunchy blasts of heat and salt. Meant to season soup or a lettuce wrap, they were too good
to save for dinner. I repeatedly pecked at them with my chopsticks until they were gone.
Each bite taxed my tongue with unusual flavors and uncommon ingredients daring to be identified. I was stretching culinary muscles that had become numb with monotony. It was glorious.
Korean food relies heavily on that holy continuum of Southeast Asian cuisine: sour, salty, spicy and sweet. One flavor might dominate — as in the salty anchovy salad — but each has a role in almost every dish.
I had enough time before the entrée arrived to marvel at the wooden booths that line each of the small dining rooms. The booths are simple, elegant, comfortable (just like the rest of the décor), and, as became apparent when examined closely, were made almost completely from lacquered 2x4s and plywood. Whoever created these things was a genius. I might build some for my dining room.
My woodworking daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of barbecued beef and short ribs sizzling on iron platters. By themselves, the strips of beef bulgoki ($12.95) were sweet and oily, with that spongy texture so common in Asian marinated meat. They transformed when wrapped in large leaves of wavy green lettuce with a liberal swipe of salty chili paste and tart pickled salad. Hot and cold, soft and crisp, rich and bright, this wrap was much more than the sum of its parts.
A heavy, sweet glaze turned the short ribs ($14.95) into one-dimensional beefy candy. Licking my sticky fingers between attempts to munch thin strips of beef clinging to shards of rib, I realized that I would rather roll some more bulgoki fatties. Greater rewards for equal effort.
A simple bowl of bibimbob ($7.95) — steamed rice, rice noodles, shredded carrots, mushrooms, ground beef and a fried egg — was also disappointing. Other than a bit of sesame oil dressing the noodles, there was little excitement, as if I had carried my alms bowl door-to-door like a good Buddhist monk. I am not a good Buddhist, so I doused my bibimbob in chili sauce and picked at it while jealously eyeing my companion's meals.
One of those was a bulgoki chicken lunch ($7.95), one of the best midday deals in Tampa. Essentially a bento box, several small square bowls were nestled in a wooden platter, each with a little treat. A bowl of miso soup with tofu squares that instantly disintegrated in the mouth sat right next to a steaming pot of rice. A thick but delicate square omelet was adjacent to a pile of soy bean sprouts. The chicken was coated in a spicy sauce, unlike the sweet beef. But wait, there's more. A couple of fried dumplings, a cube of kimchi and a can of soda completed this $8 smorgasbord.
Those dumplings were so captivating, we ordered more of the blistered golden pockets on a dinner visit ($7.95). The filling was almost airy, just soft ground pork and tiny cubes of tofu with chopped scallion. Crisp and creamy, the pizza-sized seafood pancake ($9.95) was just as good, accompanied by an exceptionally tart vinegar, chili powder, soy and sesame liquid that was like a twisted take on Carolina-style barbecue sauce.
I capped my Korean-food spa week with pig intestine and pork sausage soup ($9.95) — soon dae guk. The waiter looked like he wanted to dissuade me, but I was determined. Burbling in a small iron pot, cloudy from fermented soybean, the soup was topped by a heaping spoonful of brick red chili paste that almost instantly disintegrated into the broth. From the first gulp of intense broth, my pores opened and my heart raced.
Black hunks of blood sausage stuffed with transparent noodles fell apart when touched by chopsticks; they almost melted on my tongue. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the thin strips of intestine were like vulcanized rubber — too hard to chew and probably indigestible.
So what if I left the bowl filled with pork guts? A few simple visits to Sa Ri One provided me with some much needed perspective on the food that I have become acclimated to, while simultaneously reminding me how unappetizing tripe is. A lunch visit every few weeks should provide the culinary electro-shock maintenance I need.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Aug 3-9, 2005.