There was nothing I wanted to do more on Friday night than eat at the mall food court.
“The K-town Galleria is supposed to have some of the best and cheapest Korean food in L.A.,” I told my brave dining companions, Tory and Jeff, as I proudly showed them my research scribbled on a Post-it note with our directions to Koreatown.
Tory and Jeff, however, seemed a little wary. I tried to justify the choice to them, explaining how I read about it on a super hip L.A. culture blog. “It would be fun! Really! The blog told me so!”
“The name is just kind of ironic,” Jeff said. “Galleria’s probably the hardest word for a Korean to pronounce.” We laughed because Jeff was Korean and could excusably make statements like that, but it was also a decent point: Why would someone build a mall in Koreatown with a name almost impossible for many of the Korean clientele to pronounce? Perhaps the name speaks to some desire to meld Korean with Western culture, to create a place for Korean families to eat and shop, but also feel American and part of luxurious Los Angeles consumer culture.
The mall’s monolithic structure with four levels of parking garages and three levels of stores, including a supermarket, embodied the notion of “one-stop shopping.” Bright pink fluorescent lights on the outside accompanied by posters advertising Korean clothing and perfume confused me; was this building a luxury shopping mall, a place to stock up the fridge, or a place to catch dinner? Was this really the same place that would also serve heaping bowls of steamed rice and meat simmering in clay bowls, like I saw in photos online?
Upon first entering the mall, the familiar smells of plastic, body odor and miscellaneous fried goods greeted us. The faint fluorescent lighting cast a dull, yellow light over the mall’s widely spaced, taupe-colored linoleum floors and the hum of people darting in and out of bath supply shops, toy stores and clothing stores filled the space. Each storefront featured a sign with a Korean and an English name, and one particular store was filled with enough pastel-colored giant stuffed animals to make Sanrio proud.
The Galleria certainly smelled and sounded like any mall, but upon entering the food court, it was transformed into a trip to a completely different culture and place. Each eatery lined the perimeter of the food court, its menu displayed by giant green-tinged faded photographs with captions either only in Korean or Korean accompanied by poor English translations, such as “Octopus Pork Bacon Fried,” “Cheese with Spaghetti,” and “Omelette Fried Rice.”
The three of us stood in the middle of the open food court, overwhelmed by menu options.
“Jeff, you want to order for me?” Tory asked.
With eight restaurants at our disposal, how would we even possibly begin to choose? We walked the perimeter of the mall, Jeff pointing out various menu items of interest.
“You can get blood sausage here,” he said, pointing to a picture of “hae jung guk,” which appeared to be a large tube of black-and-white speckled matter in a pot of broth. “It’s the kind of thing you eat to cure a hangover,” he added.
I pointed to a picture of what looked like oatmeal and asked Jeff what it was.
“That’s just porridge. Don’t get that. It’s like … sick people food.”
I finally settled on spicy seasoned rice cakes with noodles, which Jeff identified as “Korean street food,” developed post-Korean War with cheap quality ramen noodles and a spicy chili-based sauce.
What greeted me was a heaping and steaming plate of noodles, cabbage, rice, dumplings and tube-shaped rice cakes coated with a bright, orange-red sauce and black sesame seeds. With a side of miso soup and kim chee, it was enough to easily feed two. As I gathered my plate, the cashier raised an eyebrow.
“Lady, you like spicy things?”
I nodded and affirmed that I did. She shook her head and simply smiled, turning to the next customer to speak in rapid Korean, probably discussing my foolish white-girl ways. The dish suddenly seemed 10 times more overwhelming than it did in its grainy photographed form on the menu board.
Upon settling at a table with Jeff and Tory, however, Jeff assured me that I had made an “interesting choice.”
I was ready. Navigating my chopsticks into the slippery ramen noodles, I managed to shovel a cluster of noodles into my mouth. It was the perfect amount of spiciness; I felt the satisfying chili burn, but I didn’t need to cry or rush to the water fountain.
Around us sat Korean families, enjoying plates of tonkatsu and bowls of udon noodles.
It was a busy spot on a Friday night, serving young groups of friends, mall workers on their dinner breaks, and people like the three of us, seeking some insight into a world just a little bit removed from our own.
By the end of the trip, we still weren’t sure we could define what exactly the Galleria was meant to be.
Its meld of Korean food with Angeleno-style high-rise shopping provided a mix of both worlds.
If you would order Octopus Pork Bacon Fried then e-mail Cohn at jcohn@media.ucla.edu.