Watch! 2-eyed, 4-limbed freak… Eat! Live octopus…
The anticipation is killing me. Not as much as a freshly chopped up octopus tentacle, struggling with all the will of a 1970’s German art-house nihilist to wrap around the vocal chords of its aggressor in a B-movie villain if-I’m-going-to-go-I’m-taking-you-with-me last ditch effort, might. But close.
Walking through the eerily empty Garak Market for fruits and vegetables, an ominous pair of tabby cats began such a discordant series of yowls that I felt for sure they were auditioning for a part of the UPN made-for-TV movie version of The Fall of the House of Usher. What followed was far more dark and disturbing.
Suddenly we come upon a white car, blinding us with headlights powered by its mighty Korean-made 97 horsepower engine. Luckily they were friendlies, a co-worker named Winnie and her baby-carrying husband, that would guide us through this harrowing ordeal.
We head towards the strangely vibrant “fish” market, quotationed not because of a lack of fish but because of the abundance of species of animals I never knew previously existed. For sale. To eat.
The sight of gutted sting rays laid upon a poorly sanitized shelf like trophies could hardly not bring to mind man’s fragility in the face of terrible, barely-thinking sea creatures, whose natural impulses and reactions to environmental stimulus care not for the timeliness nor dignity of one’s demise.
A hurried, too desperate shop owner tries to herd us into a room already packed to the brim with people that have a taste for food that’s either not dead or is barely so. Clearly we have stumbled into some underground death worshipping cult. Our pace quickens.
Finally, we situate ourselves on the elevated heated floor to begin our rite-of-passage into self-accredited intermediate knowledge of Korean culture. Soon after our guides choose the giant fish and octopi, we are treated to a slightly moving sea ear/lamprey snack.
Three minutes later, a wrinkled old lady (we would respectfully call her an ajuma) unceremoniously brings us 4 styrofoam plates full of uncooked octopus tentacles. But because of the features of the animal’s central nervous system, the pieces gyrate wildly on the plate by themselves, when prodded, when picked up with chopsticks, when dipped into sauce, and when inside the mouth. Observe:
After 2 or 3 attempts, I found myself the master of the tiny beasts, though I couldn’t help myself imagining the Fantasia scene… ok, the Itchy and Scratchy scene where chopping up the little mouse creates two little mice, which create 4, and then, 8 and then a finely powdered dust impossible to avoid inhaling, eventually leading to being axed to death on the molecular level. Are the octopi multiplying inside me this instant? Mutating with the hydrochloric acid in my stomach? Will I ever be able to eat cooked seafood again? Can I top the hyperbole in my next post? Does this represent a departure in style and content in all my future writings? Am I indirectly apologizing for my 2 month blog hiatus? Will you leave the site in disgust after realizing I’m doing nothing more than proposing open-ended questions with no commitment to ever answering them? Point your web browser here, daily, hourly, minutely, infinitesimally….
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