Lunch at the Seven 11 snack bar, courtesy of Kitty Wong.

Swimming in boiling water

As we curved around the hillside corner, we saw it. The sea broke into two curling harbours, the water splashing into large boats and buoys in the distance, and one line of rooftops under our sneakers.

The fish market. We followed the staircase down and under the tops of the open-air shacks made into make shift diners. It was supper hour in the fresh blue blackness, locals sipping soju and picking at raw fish with chopsticks.

The owners of all the shops flagged us down with their two-to-three English phrases. We settled on one stand and were ushered into a table, kicked our shoes off and sat crossed legged.

She took us to the mass of overflowing baskets and asked us to pick out the fish we wanted. We shrugged and smiled, whispered we didn’t know the difference, pointed a finger and said, “Er, that one?”

The appetizers came first, still squirming with life when we poked them. Picked up a cut tentacle of an octopus, dipped in hot sauce and dropped in. He swam around my mouth, grabbing on to my lip and holding on for life as my teeth crunched him.

The fish came next, set raw beside our hot place of spicy soup and noodles. One cup of rice and bottle of cider, we slipped all our plates in and let it boil. The broth was delicious, the fish fresh, the bill expensive.

The table beside us called a cab for two foreigners and we headed off towards the hot springs.

SPAM smiles

Canadian Thanksgiving came to a close this weekend and won’t take place in the states until the end of November. But in Korea we celebrated Chuseok in early September, the holiday they tell foreigners translates roughly to our time to be thankful.

The gift giving here is standardized into thin square boxes of essentials, which the parents of our students purchased and left at our desks. In one of the two boxes gift-wrapped for each of the foreign teachers were enough toiletries to last the year out. In the other, cans and cans of Spam.

I’d never tried the stuff. A can of comic relief in Canada, its regularly consumed here. So I ripped open one of my cans and let the smell waft through the apartment. Lit up the gas stove top and sliced off two strips to fry up. Doused in sauce and ketchup to cover the drip of packing preservatives, I cooked it to a slow warm.

Toasted two slices of bakery bread and slipped in a slice of cheese. A cut down the square centre and my grilled spam cheese was done. It tasted like tuna-bacon. It wasn’t awful, but I scrubbed hard to get the Spam smell out of my sink and hid the rest of the cans in the back of my cabinet to be forgotten, saying to self: Happy Chuseok.

Dinner with the devil

Outside the department store was a single sign of protest. In red sharpie on the tip of an umbrella of signs in Korean script were four English words. Lotte is like devil. That was all we could understand, but the message was simple enough: someone had it out for the conglomerate.

In the metro you can buy snacks from a Lotte vending machine. You can stay overnight at a Lotte motel, live in a Lotte Castle high-rise apartment, catch a film at a Lotte cinema, purchase Lotte insurance, buy groceries at Lotte Mart, and ride on roller coasters at Lotte World.

We chose to dine at Lotteria, the Asian alternative to McDonalds. On our way past the mall’s Women’s Trendy Zone to the racks of fake designer goods, we took pause to refuel. The family pack was a sample of Lotte’s load. Pepsi, lemonade, fries, a chicken sandwich, two mozzarella sticks, and the crown jewel of the meal: a half-fish half-bulgogi burger on a single bun.

The mozzarella sticks were delicious, but we left the half sandwich half eaten in its paper wrap. The meal was good enough grease but couldn’t compete with the street vendors, who sold corn dogs covered in caked-on crinkle fries. Nor could it compete with the previous night’s two Korean-style dinners (photos! it happened!).

But for what its worth, I’ve already been back to Lotteria for another quick, cheap dinner with the devil.

Chicken, couture, culture//sans chopsticks

For his first meal in the country we found a cutesy burger joint and ordered two hefty chicken sandwiches. We’d woken up with stomachaches, courtesy of late night after-airport beer and bulgogi hot dogs, scarfed down in a back alley crowded with early a.m. barroom patrons.

Two doctor peppers and one September issue, a phone call to claim safe arrival. Teddy bears and culinary characters painted pastel on the walls welcomed him into a culture warm with cuteness.

Bread thick and fries crisp, avocado over melted cheese tasted tomato homesick. The chefs gave grins thick with approval of our pleasure. They kept nodding and smiling, eyes wide and watching lips smack.

Running through the rain back to the hostel we splashed past local lunch hour, fish swimming on display in blue bins and kimchi for the taking. Water dripping down my full belly, I promised we’d eat Korean, too. Later, on lighter stomachs.

Potato pizza keeps me going.

If there are vegetarians in this country, they can't be very happy.

I was dining with a ghost

And so the eating tour of Winnipeg begins, with a sunday on a Sunday at an all-day buffet. First off is Aalto's, our one-time Friday morning hang over breakfast spot. Served with a slurpee, in true local fashion, the hotel lobby eatery cured each ache and pain brought to us from nights spent dancing at the Pyramid Cabaret.

Next is Cousins for a veggie burger and pint of Fort Garry Dark, eaten with the company of a good book and your favourite waitress. Then it's off to the Fyxx for your fix of your favourite left-over sandwich, all cranberries and love.

You still have days, pace yourself, you murmur into the Rye-bread. But without fail you hiccup from scarfing the meal down too fast, and think to yourself, that this says a lot about your relationship with Winnipeg.