I like the whole idea of Korean food. I think it’s cute and tasty. But I have a limited experience with it. Somehow, I never seem to run across a Korean restaurant, and it’s not something I go out and hunt for.

In the few years I’ve been living here, I only know of two Korean restaurants in my immediate area, not counting the one at Crossroads Mall (you’ll find out why in a moment). I’ve gone to South Gate Garden Korean Restaurant in Factoria about three times, despite the fact that the Seoul Olympic Restaurant is much closer, simply because I frequently drive by the former, which keeps it on my mind when I suddenly get the craving for Something Different.

And what a treat it is to go there. The food is delectable, but of course, the reason I go there is for the banchan — those extra little tidbits that come out on a dozen little pinch bowls. Little servings of pickled vegetables of all kinds, tangy, sweet, hot, like a dozen replacements for the ubiquitous ketchup.

Unfortunately, every single time I’ve gone there, the service has been lacking to the point where my hunger for banchan actually wars with my dislike of making a scene. The waitresses hate me: I never get a water refill once I sit down. The last time I went there, they wouldn’t even come for the bill, forcing us to abandon our leftovers and scrounge together enough cash to leave on the table, so we could get the hell out and never darken their doorstep again.

It was the Bellevue Reporter newspaper that finally reminded me that I had a korean food restaurant much closer to me, but I approached it with some trepidation. Would the food be any good? Would the waitstaff spurn me? It was on a Sunday that I finally decided to take my courage in both hands and head over to check things out.

I shouldn’t have worried. The food was extremely tasty. Newbies that we still are, we ordered the house special, which consisted of a ton of raw meat and a smaller ton of raw shrimp and squid, and resulted in our being seated at a table in a room that smelled of slightly of gas. It’s so ironic, because usually I insist on going out to eat because it gives me a respite from cooking.

The waitress lit up the hot plate at our table, and started us off by throwing some tender, marinated slices beef on the grill. She put the tongs down within my easy reach (I don’t know if it’s because I’m the woman, or because the husband came in on crutches), disappeared, and came back with (fanfare) the banchan, most of which immediately disappeared down my gullet.

The meal went on. We ate and ate, but couldn’t seem to make a dent in all the meat. At several points, the waitress came by to check up on us, fill up our water, and relight the pilot when it went out. At one particular point, she asked if we wanted more meat. We eyed her uncertainly. Was this an all-you-can-eat house special? We opted for no meat, and leftover boxes instead.

I think the banchan at South Gate is actually a little better than that of Seoul Olympic, but as it turns out, I’m actually willing to survive a little drop in quality, in return for some recognition and human contact. Who would have thought?