Bibimbop

There's a restaurant in the east village, 2nd avenue and 8th street to be exact. There is no immediately discernible name on the building, but it is unmistakably Asian, Japanese to be specific. Dark wood awnings and bright red lanterns stick out between Toy Tokyo and the random bar that neighbor it. Stepping through the door, onto the wide worn wooden floor that was green in a past life, I'm greeted almost immediately by heavily accented 'Hello!'s, coming from somewhere in the back of the long narrow room. The small tables are packed tightly, as most are in the city, and the walls are covered with generic Japanese prints and sheets of computer paper proclaiming the specials. I'm led directly to the sushi bar that takes up the back half of one wall, precisely the spot that I asked not to sit at. I take a menu, although I know exactly what it is that I came for. The menu is made up of the normal Japanese fare, sushi platters, miso soup, ginger-dressed iceberg lettuce salads. Things look up as you continue though, into Japanese entrees, tonkatsu, teriaki. But this is still not what I'm looking for. Japanese food is actually quite different than other oriental Asian cuisines. The flavors are simplified to the extreme and the highest emphasis is placed on presentation, not complexity of flavor. The true nature of this little eatery, however, is found on one page at the back, headed 'Korean'. This is what I'm looking for. The bibimbop. Rice, in an iron bowl so hot it's crisped and fried just by sitting there, topped with strips of beef, bean sprouts, carrots, and an egg broken over top. The heat of the bowl will cook it, although the creamy richness before it has completely coagulated adds a whole new dimension. A plate of condiments arrives, kimchee, pickled cucumbers, and raw bean sprouts, as well as a dish of bright red chili sauce. I begin to eat it just as I always do, mix a bit with my chopsticks, adding the chili sauce in small bits, cautiously, nibbling on the kimchee as I go, when I hear one of the sushi chefs talking in front of me. 'Spoon' he says. I insist that, no, I'm alright. I know how to use chopsticks fairly well, I don't need foreign implements. An elderly Asian woman appears at my side then, also insisting 'Spoon'. I could tell that she was not young, but, like so many Asians, she didn't seem old either. Merely older. She took the spoon she had brought, emptied my condiment plate, with the exception of the kimchee, into my hot rice bowl. Then she took a generous spoonful of the chili sauce and began stirring. All the while I sat and thanked her, in two languages, since she didn't appear to know too much English. I felt like a small child, in the best possible way, being introduced to a traditional dish, with great importance that I learn the correct way it is eaten. With my first bite of the newly mixed bibimbop I realized just how correct it can be. It was hot, countering the airconditioning on the 90 degree day, the spice had me reaching for my water glass after every bite, but I couldn't wish for less. The fiery sauce enlivened the rice and beef, giving them a life, awakening not only the food, but the eater as well.