BKLOG

Ryan:  are you consistently discriminated against?

me:  not overtly

me:  well… there is this one guy that won’t sell me a fucking sandwich.  Don’t get me started on him

I realize I’ve commented extensively on the lack of equal treatment for foreigners.  It can be eye opening to the way different groups or individuals are treated back home.  But it is also infuriating, especially when it’s 3am and all you want is a ‘Toastie.’

Before I even landed on this Asian rock, I heard stories about this sandwich.

‘Oh man… this guy sells the best sandwiches.’

‘…perfect drunk food!’

‘I would crawl through a kiddie pool of Kimchi just to get one!’

Being a gastrophile… or, at the very least, a pot-bellied slob… I struck out one night to sample the fabled toastie.

There are only a few foreigner bars in Changwon.  They stay open until 5 or 6 and, depending on the night, are usually packed for most of that time.  Two are staples in the alcoholic/foreign English teacher community: O’Brien’s and the International Pub.  They are nearby one another, facilitating multiple switches of scenery on a given Saturday night, yet far enough away to keep things fresh.  Smack dab between them is an intersection brimming over with food vendors.

Korean street-meat’s staple is fish cakes: think of a soggy chicken nugget made of ground fish (bones and all) and formed into ribbons of meaty, salty greyness.  Now skewer that bad boy with a chopstick and suck it down.  Congratulations!  You’ve now got enough in common with the drunk old men next to you to garner craggy smiles of adulation while they take turns pissing and throwing up in the gutters.

If fish cakes aren’t your bag, try the pork plate.  Mmmm mmmm good!  I was really drunk last time I went down this road, but I think I remember gnawing on pig’s feet (I believe the civilized world calls them ‘trotters’), sampling some tissue that was white and pock marked with what must have been artery holes, and slurping down good ol’ fashioned pork fat.  This dish comes with complementary mustard!

I haven’t tried them yet, but I hear the boiled silkworm larva are in season right now.

The food isn’t all crazy.  A great way to sober up a bit and ‘stretch the night’ is with a steaming bowl of mandu ramyan.  Ramyan, or ramen to you and me, is a package of ramen noodles with a little extra spice and an egg.  It becomes mandu when you get some dumplings in there too.  There is nothing like sitting with a bowl of this stuff and a bottle of soju in the winter time.  The steam covers your face and the soup warms you up from the inside.  The soju is obligatory.

Everybody here knows about the sandwich guy.  They’ve all had one and exuberantly vouch for it’s greatness.  My first attempt at the drunk-munchie holy grail was a Thursday… Scrabble night at IP.  It wasn’t much after midnight when I started the stumble home.  I walked by the toastie tent and immediately wanted one.  I convinced my accomplice that she wanted one too and we went for it.  There were a few Koreans standing around the grill.  They all had a sandwich… some of them had two.

They looked like a fucking toastie commercial.  I could imagine it: The sandwich guy is flipping bits of egg and meat and buttery bread over a skillet in a suburban kitchen.  He lovingly stacks the sandwiches, perfectly halved, on a platter and pushes open a nearby screen door.  Stepping into sunlight, the sandwich guy calls out into the summer air, ‘HO-YOBUSAYO MAPSUMNIDA!!!!’ and all these drunk Koreans come running up and muscle for position to grab a toastie.  As they stuff their face, the camera zooms in on the sandwich guy who smiles knowingly and shakes his head in satisfaction for a job well done.

As we approached, I was pleased to note there was no line so I made it clear I wanted two sandwiches.  Now I don’t know exactly what I said… but there is little chance he understood.  He looked at me and shook his head.  ‘No?  What do you mean no?  My money’s blue!’  I forced a little transalatory help from some of those already enjoying their toasties.  They explained to me he had a big order and didn’t have time to make ours.  The only problem was that he wasn’t cooking anything.

Bastard.  I traveled 9000 miles to taste this sandwich!  I pushed my money into his face and made my request again.  Nothing.  At this point, my companion decided I was getting hostile… which I wasn’t… and dragged me away from the scene.

I was still spitting poison the next morning.  I replayed the events over and over and couldn’t pinpoint where things went wrong.  I have honest eyes… people love me… how can this motherfucker just go ahead and buck the status quo like this?  I figured I couldn’t let it bother me and forgot about it.  That was almost three months ago.

Last Friday, I was out on that strip of land between OB’s and IP once again.  And once again, I had a hankerin’ for some toastie.  There is no way this guy could have remembered me… but I was refused again.  This time, there was a Korean in my party and he asked why.  The toastie nazi said he was out of ingredients.  ‘BULLSHIT!’ was my reply and I started to pester him.  I danced around and started chanting, ‘I want toastie… I want toastie… I want toastie.’  I was encouraging others to join in but apparently the propensity to chant while intoxicated is a trait of only the American flavor of douchebag.

Then the toastie nazi got very angry with me.  He became red in the face and started yelling in a way that made all the Korean’s who were present blush and look away.  ‘Damnit…’ I thought to myself.  ‘I’m never getting a toastie.’

And so it goes.  I don’t mind the stares.  I couldn’t care less that people get up and take ten steps away when I sit on a bus-stop bench.  Hell… if I ever begin to understand Korean, I won’t even mind it when they talk shit about me.  But god damnit… this must be some sort of international civil-rights violation.  Get me Ban-ki Moon on the phone.  I want justice!  I want my toastie!