Savoring Seoul: Missteps and Memories from a Michelin-Star Restaurant
Reading time: About 7 minutes.
On our first full day in Seoul, Mike and I roamed the city like caffeinated chipmunks, each racking up over 15,000 steps. I was still getting over the cold I’d caught in Japan, so by dinner, my body felt like an overcooked noodle. Instead of navigating the subway from downtown, where we were staying, to Gangnam District, where our restaurant was, we hailed a cab. For once that day, someone else could be in charge. Or so I imagined.
True to my nature, though, as soon as we were in the cab, my inner anxiety diva decided she couldn’t fully relinquish control. My eyes locked on the driver’s navigation screen as if monitoring our proximity to the glowing dot representing our destination could somehow steer the car. Each time the dot grew closer, I felt a tiny surge of relief.
After miles of highways and boulevards, the car slowed down and pulled into a small, congested street. According to the nav system, we were near the destination dot. I glanced out the window.
This couldn’t be right. Jungsik, a two-Michelin-star restaurant, should’ve been nestled among the glassy skyscrapers and wide boulevards we had just passed, somewhere that practically smelled like sophistication. Instead, we were in a cramped street flanked by hulking, shadowy buildings. Cars were parked so tightly against the buildings they looked like they’d been wedged in with a crowbar. No trees, no sidewalks—just asphalt and stress.
When the cab lurched to a stop, we were deposited into what looked like an alley dressed up as a road. My stomach tightened, and I whispered, “Are we in the right place?”
As a student backpacking in Europe, I learned that looking lost is the international symbol for “scam me.” Standing on the side of the street, scanning for clues, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Seoul’s reputation as a safe city was the only thing keeping me from getting back into the cab and heading to the hotel.
Mike, meanwhile, radiated calm. He looked down at his phone and then pointed at a dark gray building across the street, a structure so austere it made Brutalist architecture look whimsical.
“That’s it,” he said.
I squinted into the shadows. The building looked like a gloomy fortress. The only windows were stories above us, and they were covered on the inside to block out any hint of light. There was no signage, just a faint light at the top of a small concrete set of stairs leading to what I could only assume was an entrance. It screamed “vampire’s lair” more than “fine dining.”
Before I could question or protest, Mike was across the street, so I followed him. Sure enough, a tiny illuminated plaque near the door confirmed it: Jungsik.
Down the Rabbit Hole
I wasn’t reassured when we got to the top of the concrete stairs. We stood near an empty podium for what felt like minutes until a flustered young man in a uniform came running out from the shadows. We gave him our reservation information, and with a quick smile, he pointed to an elevator tucked further into the darkness. Once we were inside the elevator, he reached in and pressed a button, but he did not join us. As the doors closed, he said, “Turn right when you get out.” There was no time to back out now. No time for further questions. The doors slid shut, and the elevator rattled upward toward our fate.
When the doors reopened, we stepped into a dimly lit hallway with a single door marked by a security keypad.
“We need a code?” I whispered, glancing around for other doors without keypads. What kind of Michelin-starred dining experience requires a secret handshake?
I peered up a set of stairs and wondered if we had gotten off on the wrong floor. Just as I started to make a case for going another floor up, the door opened. A cluster of staff members appeared, smiling and gesturing for us to enter. Against my better judgment—and every horror movie instinct—I walked through the door.
To my relief, the restaurant was an oasis of calm and refinement. It was small, intimate, and bathed in soft light, instantly dispelling the Dracula vibes of the previous few moments. I unclenched my jaw for the first time in what felt like hours and relaxed into a lovely meal.
The Bathroom Odyssey
At some point during any multi-course meal, nature calls. This meal was no different. After looking around for signs to the bathroom, I asked a waiter for directions, fully expecting it to be tucked neatly into the restaurant’s layout. Instead, I was instructed to return to the dimly lit hallway through the door we had entered and climb another flight of stairs.
“You want me to leave the safe part of this building?” I thought.
But I smiled politely and followed the directions, hoping the bathroom wasn’t another urban myth.
At the top of the staircase, there was another door to open. Once again, I stood in a darkened corridor, debating whether I could hold it until we got back to the hotel. But we still had several courses to go and then a long subway ride back. This was my only opportunity for possibly hours. So, I opened the door and immediately froze. Instead of tiles or restroom signs, I was in what looked like a secret gentleman’s lounge. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, and a bar backed by glinting liquor bottles dominated another. Curved plush sofas gave the space a decadent vibe, the kind that whispered, “You shouldn’t be here.”
I glanced around. No restroom in sight—just two curtained doorways. My brain immediately went into overdrive.
What’s behind Door #1? A bathroom? A bloodsucking mob boss? A crime scene? And Door #2? Do I even want to know?
My instincts screamed, “Turn back!” Just then, a man emerged from one of the curtained doorways. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but he regained composure far more quickly than I did.
“Bathroom?” he asked with a hospitable smile.
“Yes,” I croaked, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t nearly just peed her cotton Jockeys.
He pointed to the other curtained doorway. “There. Down the hall, to the right.”
This felt less like finding the restroom and more like completing a side quest. But I made it there and back as quickly as possible, adrenaline coursing through me the whole time.
A Taste of Humility
The remainder of the meal was spent in the comfort of the restaurant, and by all accounts, seamless—until the infamous towel incident.
During one of our final courses, the waiter set an oval platter in front of each of us. They were dotted around the perimeter with smaller, bite-sized dishes. He instructed us to start at the bottom of the platter and work our way around it clockwise. We were to savor each morsel, taking our time to enjoy them in their own special way, but also note how well the flavors followed one another in harmony.
All went well until we got to 3 o’clock on the platter. Nestled between a dainty morsel set atop a tiny pedestal and a bitty bowl with a swig of soup was what I thought was a marshmallow. Having a marshmallow during a savory course seemed odd, but what did I know? Maybe there is such a thing as savory marshmallows. With childlike curiosity, Mike and I both popped it into our mouths, ready for some chewy, inventive flavor.
Chewy, it was. Inventive, not so much.
“This is weird,” I thought as I struggled to chew through the unexpectedly tough texture. Then it hit me: This wasn’t food. It was a hand towel.
I froze mid-chew. Mike froze mid-chew. We locked eyes in horror.
Slowly and as elegantly as possible under the circumstances, we began pulling the towels from our mouths like clowns in a synchronized, never-ending scarf trick. In my mind, I was thinking, “Play it cool, man! Play it cool!” But the tiny towel just kept coming. I prayed no one else was watching, though I am certain the wait staff saw exactly what we had done. If I’m going to be a clown, at least I should make someone laugh while doing it.
The Moral of the Meal
When it was all said and done, dining at Jungsik was an emotional rollercoaster wrapped in fine dining. The food was extraordinary, of course, but it was the surreal, laughable moments that made the night unforgettable. From navigating secret doors to enduring the shame of hand-towel snacking, I learned that even Michelin-starred meals are better when you embrace the chaos.
So, here’s my advice: Go with someone you trust, don’t be afraid to laugh at the awkward moments, and never—never—mistake a moist towel for a savory marshmallow. It just doesn’t taste that good.
Post Script
After we returned home, I told a friend about our experience, and she reminded me about the movie Spy with Melissa McCartney. Below is a clip from that movie. Watch it, and you’ll know exactly how Mike and I looked when we taste-tested the hand towel at Jungsik.
