Eating a Live Octopus in Seoul
Seoul made me feel like a pixel. Just one out of however many thousand or million it takes to make one of those 8k TVs in the Samsung and LG ads I couldn’t walk a block without seeing. I, a microscopic part of a larger image, stood there unprepared for the cold, thinking of a jet lagged Anthony Bourdain arriving in this country for an episode of No Reservations. Within moments of stepping on Korean soil, he is given san-nakji, bits of squirming octopus tentacles separated only moments before from the body. I would instead opt for fried chicken and beer as my first meal, feeling no need to rush things, but I knew I had to try this dish.
The next morning I went to find Gwangjang market, Seoul’s number one destination for those seeking street food, with hopes of finding san-nakji. I quickly realized both Apple and Google Maps did not work. Samsung’s empire was noticeable. Everyone had phones that folded. It was like books found themselves in the 20-year fashion cycle, having gone out of vogue only to be reborn in the visage of a creased phone with 5g capabilities and 7 cameras on the back. The reek of android was palpable. I could almost smell green text bubbles in the air.
I eventually made it to Gwangjang Market to find old ladies in pink turtlenecks running their respective stalls with dedication and experience. I ate hotteok, and tteokbokki and Gimbap. I was introduced to new flavors and textures and enjoyed nearly all of them except the cold gelatinous pig hoof I tried. There were deep reds in most things I ate and I felt the lingering taste of garlic, a sensation almost forgotten to me in Japan, where garlic is not commonly used.
I saw an octopus in a tank. The lady running her little restaurant gasped when I pointed at it. She gave me a look and said something in Korean that I couldn’t make out, but needed no translation - “Are you sure?” I nodded enthusiastically. She smiled, started laughing, and shuffled inside her restaurant to tell her friends the white boy was here to eat san-nakji! Her friends looked up, saw my wry smile, and started laughing as well. I received more looks aiming to ensure that I knew what I was getting into. I kept affirming.
I watched one of the ladies working there quickly separate the octopus head from the rest of its body, hack the tentacles into little bits, and put them on a plate still squirming. No, I have not seen “My Octopus Teacher.” Yes, I am aware of how intelligent octopuses are. Do I feel bad about my desire to consume one of them in such a gruesome manner? Honestly? Not really. Am I losing sleep over it? No. This dish has been appreciated by Koreans as a delicacy forever. Who am I to say something is wrong or gross because it's different?
That being said, I did not love it. It reminded me a little bit of squirming maggots. These maggots were a sort of translucent gray, had suction cups on them, and hung on for dear life to the plate they were served on. They had sesame seeds and some sesame oil drizzled on them and I was instructed to dip my chopsticks in gochujang, pick up the octopus, and eat it. I tried my best but they were fighting back, which is something I never thought I’d have to say about something I was about to eat.
It was tense like you might expect a sea creature to be when subjected to the limbs being hacked off. Slimy, too. Chewy, tense, slimy, sticky. The four horsemen adjectives of the Octopulys. I imagine Anthony Bourdain is in heaven a bit conflicted. Somewhere between cracking a huge grin at being the sole reason some tourists nearly had their gag reflex triggered in a food market, but cognizant of the fact that he is likely responsible for the lives of thousands of mollusks that people didn’t even end up liking.
I moved a few stalls down to get hand cut noodles and a Coca Cola. The texture of the thick noodles was eerily reminiscent of the live cephalopod I just consumed, in a way that I didn’t exactly appreciate. Nonetheless, the warm broth made me feel better in the cold and I accomplished what I had set out to do.