The rain has started falling and I can already feel the dampness seeping into my bones. It's time for a spicy blast of Seoul food to ward off the shivers. Bubbling soups, sizzling stone pots and meaty short ribs spell instant comfort on a soul-chilling autumn evening.
There are plenty of Korean joints to choose from along the western edge of Robson Street, home away from home to the hordes of language students who populate the area.
Nor Boo Korean Restaurant, with its bright yellow awning spangled in Christmas lights and gloomy green walls plastered with handwritten menus, isn't the most aesthetically enticing of the bunch. But it does come highly recommended by numerous cooks, restaurant workers and assorted night owls who appreciate the kitchen's late hours (it's open until 2 a.m.). The restaurant was also recently named by Vancouver Magazine as one of the best spots in the city to eat for under $25.
“The food looks good,” my companion says with a distinct note of surprise as we squeeze through a maze of haphazardly arranged tables laden with jumbo-sized hot pots boiling up steamy wafts of stewed beef, pork and vegetables.
Following the hand signals of a seriously stressed-out waitress, we find a seat at the only empty table in the middle of the room. Ice water is promptly delivered in a white milk jug with two plastic tumblers. Then we wait, and wait a bit more, while watching a Hollywood entertainment show that plays on a large-screen television to the accompaniment of Asian pop music blasting through the stereo.
A server finally arrives to take our order. She does not speak fluent English, and after a while – as she keeps passing our table with drinks and food for everyone but us – we begin to wonder if she understood that we were serious about ordering the items we had pointed to on the menu.
Hungry and thirsty, I wander over to the beer cooler at the back of the room. “Very strong,” says a second, much more affable waitress, as I ogle a green bottle of soju that everybody seems to be drinking. “Lemon – refreshing,” she says, leading me back to the table with a milder beverage and two stout shot glasses. Indeed, this citrusy rice-vodka cooler is tart yet sprite, but we still haven't received the beer we ordered about 15 minutes earlier.
“It's very busy tonight,” she apologizes, darting back to the kitchen, where she presumably gives our original waitress a polite reminder to stop ignoring us (we're the only non-Asians in the restaurant and also the oldest). Our Corona suddenly appears (the Korean Hite is sold out), soon followed by a jumbled progression of small plates and platters that barely fit on the table.
Chicken jap chae ($14.99) is a chewy nest of long, thin, translucent noodles made from sweet potato starch, mixed with crunchy carrot and zucchini slivers and greyish chicken chunks. Although fragrant with soy and sesame, it's a rib-sticking mess that appears to have been wok-fried all together in one massive heap. (In a more refined version, the ingredients would be seasoned and cooked individually).
Pickles, a major component of any Korean meal, arrive later. It's a curious selection of mildly sour cabbage kimchi tamely flecked with chili, sesame-oil-soaked bean sprouts, mayo-tossed rotini and sweetly stewed potato chunks.
Gahl bee ($10.99) creates gridlock on the table. I try to move the cast-iron platter of grilled short ribs around and end up burning my thumb. The friendly waitress is there in a flash, with a soothing cup of ice water.
