Budae jjigae, a culinary remnant of the Korean War featuring Spam and hot dog wieners, stirs up mixed emotions
Story and photo by Namju Cho
I first had budae jjigae in 1989 as a freshman at Yonsei University in Seoul. Loosely translating to “military unit stew,” budae jjigae always seemed to have mysterious origins. As soon as my schoolmates and I would sit down at one of the grungy watering holes near campus, a lady would bring us a big pot filled with everything a hungry college student would want to eat. The stew had kimchi, green onions, tofu and two signature ingredients: sausage (as in the kind used for hot dogs) and Spam. Ramen noodles were optional.
For this college student, it was love at first bite. I wolfed down my very first red-hot bowl of budae jjigae with great satisfaction, even as I had to continuously wipe beads of sweat from my forehead.
The first explanation I’d heard about this dish came from my classmates who said that restaurants near U.S. Army bases started adding sausages and Spam — foods products first introduced to Korea by American GIs — to a traditional Korean stew of kimchi and gochugaru (red pepper flakes). It soon became a favorite at gatherings and emerged as the ultimate comfort food.
It is difficult to map out a definitive history of the jjigae, but most agree it is a relic of the Korean War. Because poverty crippled the countries following the war, which ended in an armistice agreement between the two Koreas in 1953, civilians who worked at U.S. Army bases would often collect any leftovers, especially meats, and take them to their respective homes or nearby restaurants. According to some accounts, scraps consisted of half-eaten hamburgers, ketchup-smothered fries, fried chicken bones with hardly any meat left on them and, of course, sausage and Spam pieces. To ensure the remnants were free of bacteria, Koreans threw everything into a big pot of water, dissolved some red pepper flakes, added kimchi and boiled it.
Budae jjigae was born.
In a recent story, the Korean daily Chosun Ilbo noted that because the stew was a hodgepodge of leftover food, it was dubbed kkulkkuri jook, literally translating to “porridge for pigs.”
That may explain my parents’ reaction when I told them I was working on this story. “Why are you doing it on that?” my mother asked admonishingly. “That’s nothing to be proud of.” My father, who served in the Korean War, said the stew wasn’t really Korean food so I shouldn’t be writing about it.
Initially, it was only restaurants in the cities of Uijungbu and Dongducheon near the U.S. military bases that served this stew, but, as the jjigae became popular among younger populations, more and more restaurants began adding it to their menus. In 1998, restaurateurs that served the stew advocated to shed “military unit” from its name and declared an alley in Uijungbu “Stew Central.” Some 25 restaurants in that area currently offer the jjigae.
However, there are many restaurants throughout Seoul where one can feast on the unusually harmonious combination of Spam, sausage and kimchi in a pot.
None is more famous than Odaeng Shikdang (Fish Cake Restaurant), which formerly specialized in fish cake soup. The restaurant claims that owner Kisuk Heo first served the stew in 1961. On a recent day in October, the 10-table restaurant is the only one with a long line of people waiting outside. It gained popularity after it was featured in a comic book that was recently made into a television drama, Shik Gaek.
Owner Heo and her crew are very hands-on and take their newfound fame seriously. Piled in a wok-shaped pot on a tableside burner are a small round patty of meat, a few slices of sausages and Spam, glass noodles, green onions and tofu topped with red pepper flakes. A woman pours beef broth from a large kettle into the pot and covers it with a lid. I am filled with anticipation when I hear the same woman yelling at a customer nearby for pouring more broth into his pot without her permission. Just as I am about to start digging into my own stew, the owner comes over. “It’s best to eat the noodles first,” she says, “or else they’ll get all mushy.”
The stew had just the right level of spiciness and balance of ingredients. I especially liked the aged (read stinky) kimchi touch, which added another layer of flavor. Looking around, I was surrounded by customers of all ages and walks of life enjoying a hearty lunch that hit the spot on a clear, autumn day. If they had any clue about the stew’s origins, they didn’t seem to mind.
Afterwards, I reviewed online message boards to gauge this stew’s meaning to other Koreans. One user derided the stew as “bastard food created after the U.S. Armed Forces entered Korea,” and urged people to “think about our pride when it comes to food.” Another called it “merely fusion food,” adding that instead of provoking anti-American sentiment and eschewing the stew, we should enjoy it while not forgetting our impoverished past.
I tend to agree with the latter viewpoint. For me, the stew is an undeniable and tasty piece of our tragic history. Denying the existence of the dish doesn’t make me more patriotic. And trying to eradicate this dish would be like removing the French baguette from Vietnamese banh mi sandwiches because the bread is a relic of that country’s colonial past. That would truly be a shame.
Budae Jjigae Joints
The following Los Angeles restaurants serve budae jjigae:
Booksetong: 755 S. Vermont Ave., (213) 385-3369
Han Il Kwon: 3450 W. 6th St. #106., (213) 480-1799
Keun Gama Korean Restaurant: 3498 W. 8th St., (213) 365-6788
