Dog. Man’s Best Friend. Fido. Many things to many different people.
To me. It’s best served with a side of kimchi and a cold bottle of mekju.
Before all of this had happened; before I had crossed the line into the dark abyss of controversial foods, I had envisioned the veritable outcome of writing an article about
eating dog. I would be adding my metaphorical drop into the already overflowing bucket of negative associations among Asian-Americans. That Asians eat dogs.
My first encounter with this belief was 4th grade at Richmond Elementary School by a kickball all-star named Timmy. Badgering me on the playground, hotly asserting his own opinion that I, no matter how many times I had chosen the chicken
nuggets over the fried rice at lunch time, had eaten dog. God, I hated Timmy.
I don’t normally try to reinforce stereotypes. Actually, I go out of my way to refute them. For starters, I can drive. I’ve never had an accident or caused one. I’m patient
on the road and probably one of the more well-mannered drivers. When myself and another motorist come to a four-way stop at the same time, I give a polite gesture for them to proceed. Please, sir. After you. I’m hopelessly inept at math; you can just ask my high school algebra teacher or the customer waiting in line when I was a cashier
at Thriftway, and the register crashed and I had to do math on a receipt paper. I never did remember to carry that 2. And as far as the other stereotypes about Asians are concerned, well… there are just some things you can’t
change.
Which is why I was at an ethical dilemma of sorts; debating the nuclear fallout after publicly admitting to enjoying such a controversial
dish. I’ll be ostracized by the Asian-American community abroad. Doors will close when I come to town, tumble wheat blowing in the empty streets. Upon seeing me approach the building, store owners will flip their "Open" signs
to "Closed". Everywhere I go, I’ll hear the faint whisper behind closed storm shutters and judging eyes. There he goes. Peter Kim. Dog eater. Such are the ideas that transverse my neural circuitry, firing like pistons and filling my brain with a spicy cocktail of equal parts fear, repulsion, and electric curiosity.
So much am I concerned about this, that even as I am walking up to the glass doors of the restaurant, I’m thinking to myself that I can still call off the whole operation.
My inner dialogue sounds a lot like a hostage negotiation: You haven’t done anything yet. Back out now, and we can all just go home and forget this ever happened.
I’m being led here by a friend, a local Korean girl, and we walk to the restaurant one night after work. We walk to a street that is caked in neon lights coming from every
direction from the tightly packed restaurants, one after the other, a patient and eager row of businesses like call girls vying for our attention. There is a brightly lit neon sign hanging over the metal and glass façade
of the building and I think that it doesn’t look very dissimilar to the Chinese takeout stores that I grew up around in Philadelphia. Next to the restaurant name, it reads yeongyangtang, meaning “nutritious soup”.
Inside, my friend tells me that this dinner is somewhat timely. In Korea, there are certain holidays in which the consumption of yeongyangtang, or better known as bosintang – a Korean soup made with dog meat – is a customary endeavor. There are three days marked on the lunar calendar that are considered the hottest days of summer, and collectively they are referred
to as Bok nal. Today is one of those days and I wouldn’t describe it as timely, but maybe perfectly untimely; I’m sitting across from a cute girl and I can’t stop sweating. And it’s not the cold sweat that comes from being nervous – no, that’d
be par for the course – it’s the drenching, sticky sweat that comes from the humid heat of this country. Known for its rejuvenating qualities, bosintang is widely-believed to provide relief from the hot summer days and Koreans everywhere indulge in this tradition of eating this soup in order to
cool down. I’ll take two.
My friend informs me rather abashedly that it is also consumed by males for its purported benefits to increase “stamina,” which I had suspected, and quickly thereafter confirmed,
the word-use to be sexual in nature. As if it needed any clarification.
However, elsewhere in the world, the dish isn’t without its criticisms. In fact, it’s probably one of the most controversial food dishes next to human cannibalism. And even
then, I’m sure you could find more supporters who enjoy a good Hannibal-esque dining experience. Even amongst Koreans, the dish is coming under duress. There is a pronounced generational gap in Korea, with certain foods
deemed “old school” by the younger generation – and subsequently those foods dwindle off the diets of many Koreans. Bosintang is one of those foods. In terms of governance, there is no strict regulation on the dog meat
industry. There are the claims of animal cruelty, citing the ways in which the animal is slaughtered. A humane slaughtering always seemed somewhat of a paradox to me, but I guess I’m in the minority. Either way, this meal’s
reputation precedes it.
A large cast-iron pot is set down before us; dark black and medieval-looking. It is placed onto a gas range that is built into the table. The owner turns the knob and the pilot
light crackles and the burner ignites in a blue flame. As the soup starts bubbling hotly, I’m told that we should stir its contents, mixing in the seed powder. I stir and observe. I notice the fatty cuts of meat, the reddish
brown soup, stalks of deep green vegetables.
The meat itself is tender like any meat that stews long enough. Lean but with good portions of fat. You will hear people describe that it looks similar to roast beef and I believe
the same. I notice a slightly blueish tint to the meat (it was not until later that I found that the meat is seasoned with bangannip – a type of mint herb needed to cut down on the natural odor – which is responsible for the blue color).
The soup is flavored with a Korean red pepper paste. It’s dusted heavily with a coarsely-ground powder that my friend calls “black sesame”, which gives it a bit of a gritty
texture. It’s also flavored with dandelions and it has a distinct, earthy and fresh taste. The meal comes with several side dishes: Kimchi – spring onion, radish, and cabbage varieties. A dish of raw onion and cucumber that I mistakenly believe should be added to the soup, although
my friend insists that it is meant to be eaten raw. And a few saucers of mustard and pepper paste.
What surprised me was how incredibly normal everything seemed. For all the hype and anticipation, it was exceptionally ordinary. I felt marginally alien in the environment, but
nothing spectacular. In fact, the experience was pretty enjoyable.
Sure, there is the obvious downside to all of this. I’ll have proved Timmy from the 4th grade to be correct all along. But Timmy is small and culturally biased and maybe a tad racist. And even as I’m leaving the restaurant, I can’t
help but think about my dog back home in the States. I wonder if somehow he’ll be able to tell. Like the housewife who embraces her returning husband, only to register the faintest notes of unfamiliar perfume still lingering
on his wrinkled dress shirt. He’ll know. But as of right now, my conscious is clear and my perspective has changed and the epiphany comes
that I did this for no other reason than to distance myself from myself. I’ve widened the lens on the microscope a few clicks, and 4th grade seems like microbes in a Petri dish.
I turn to my friend and she asks me if I’d like to get coffee at the Starbucks and I agree. We walk towards the front entrance and I can see the big red and green letters against
a yellow backdrop. We pass underneath the warm glow of the neon sign and walk out into the street.
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