Remember what I just said about tempting the Fates with "How bad could it be?"
I found out tonight --- and it was really bad --- when my hostess pointed to the cooking meat and said "dog."
OH MY GOSH, that's right, how could I forget? They EAT DOGS in Korea! I saw two cats yesterday and mentally noted there were no dogs, whereas Carole and I saw dogs by the dozens in Bhutan. When I told my host mother that I did not want to eat dog and noted dismay on her face, I thought perhaps this was a cultural confrontation when I should "Buck up, little camper" and do my best not to barf.
Korean restaurants serve so many dishes --- there were 30 at merely lunch today --- that I looked around for something to eat at the same time and disguise whatever is the taste of dog. My host mother had already served me some meat --- "Filet of Fluffy" was the tragedy I imagined --- so I grabbed a slice of pickled vegetable to wrap around the tiniest piece of meat. Fortunately, all I tasted was veggie.
How could these otherwise very nice people so causually chew and swallow Man's Best Friend? Was I eating beagle, mutt or Akita? Barbarians. But had living through invasion by the Japanese, World War II and the Korean War brought such starvation on the country that they learned to eat protein wherever they found it?
We sat on the heated floor at low tables with recessed grills in the tops. It was bad luck or being the guest of honor that positioned me front and center for roasting Rottweiler. The Koreans casually poked at the meat, turning it over and over, and then I saw more raw meat arrive. One woman offered mustard sauce, pointed to the thinly sliced meat of an odd color and said "Delicious." Not on your life. I pictured Mindy, our Australian Shepherd, and declined.
Other women were piling the bones on their plates and pulling off meat with chopsticks or sucking it from the joints. Simply barbarians, I thought as I hoped I wouldn't be ill. I had eaten enough to show I was not rejecting their culture and then concentrated on veggies and soup.
I wondered about people who could eat a puppy that surely had looked with trusting brown eyes at its cook. I rationalized that I had eaten zebra when I was in college in Kenya, but at least zebras are wild and usually killed by lions or crocodiles rather than tiny grandmothers with butcher knives.
Fast forward to after-dinner grocery shopping with my host mother who wanted to know what I'd like to have for breakfast. ("Not poodle," I bitterly thought about saying.) As we walked past the meat department, I asked my host's 21-year-old daughter to point out sliced dog in the deli case so I could recognize it the next time it was served for dinner. Her eyes widened in utter horror.
"Not dohg!" She almost wailed. "Dohck! DOHCK!" The way I had heard duck pronounced with a Korean accent had made me think she was saying dog, and I had jumped to conclusions based on cultural stereotype.
I had just had a lesson about reserving judgment of a new situation before I condemned it. I had, however, remembered another lesson when traveling last year: Whatever is offered, accept. I had accepted trying something new, contrary to how awful I thought it was for an American to eat dog, and my fears proved unfounded. (Thank goodness we had gone shopping or I'd still be thinking they were barbarians!)
I wonder what cultural confusion I will encounter tomorrow? At least I know that my Korean hosts don't eat puppies any more.
I found out tonight --- and it was really bad --- when my hostess pointed to the cooking meat and said "dog."
OH MY GOSH, that's right, how could I forget? They EAT DOGS in Korea! I saw two cats yesterday and mentally noted there were no dogs, whereas Carole and I saw dogs by the dozens in Bhutan. When I told my host mother that I did not want to eat dog and noted dismay on her face, I thought perhaps this was a cultural confrontation when I should "Buck up, little camper" and do my best not to barf.
Korean restaurants serve so many dishes --- there were 30 at merely lunch today --- that I looked around for something to eat at the same time and disguise whatever is the taste of dog. My host mother had already served me some meat --- "Filet of Fluffy" was the tragedy I imagined --- so I grabbed a slice of pickled vegetable to wrap around the tiniest piece of meat. Fortunately, all I tasted was veggie.
How could these otherwise very nice people so causually chew and swallow Man's Best Friend? Was I eating beagle, mutt or Akita? Barbarians. But had living through invasion by the Japanese, World War II and the Korean War brought such starvation on the country that they learned to eat protein wherever they found it?
We sat on the heated floor at low tables with recessed grills in the tops. It was bad luck or being the guest of honor that positioned me front and center for roasting Rottweiler. The Koreans casually poked at the meat, turning it over and over, and then I saw more raw meat arrive. One woman offered mustard sauce, pointed to the thinly sliced meat of an odd color and said "Delicious." Not on your life. I pictured Mindy, our Australian Shepherd, and declined.
Other women were piling the bones on their plates and pulling off meat with chopsticks or sucking it from the joints. Simply barbarians, I thought as I hoped I wouldn't be ill. I had eaten enough to show I was not rejecting their culture and then concentrated on veggies and soup.
I wondered about people who could eat a puppy that surely had looked with trusting brown eyes at its cook. I rationalized that I had eaten zebra when I was in college in Kenya, but at least zebras are wild and usually killed by lions or crocodiles rather than tiny grandmothers with butcher knives.
Fast forward to after-dinner grocery shopping with my host mother who wanted to know what I'd like to have for breakfast. ("Not poodle," I bitterly thought about saying.) As we walked past the meat department, I asked my host's 21-year-old daughter to point out sliced dog in the deli case so I could recognize it the next time it was served for dinner. Her eyes widened in utter horror.
"Not dohg!" She almost wailed. "Dohck! DOHCK!" The way I had heard duck pronounced with a Korean accent had made me think she was saying dog, and I had jumped to conclusions based on cultural stereotype.
I had just had a lesson about reserving judgment of a new situation before I condemned it. I had, however, remembered another lesson when traveling last year: Whatever is offered, accept. I had accepted trying something new, contrary to how awful I thought it was for an American to eat dog, and my fears proved unfounded. (Thank goodness we had gone shopping or I'd still be thinking they were barbarians!)
I wonder what cultural confusion I will encounter tomorrow? At least I know that my Korean hosts don't eat puppies any more.
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