I keep a Google Doc of New Year’s resolutions, with goals ranging from serious to silly. Somewhere below financial solvency, drinking less, and calling Mom more often, I wrote down: “Get into Korean cuisine.”
I have spent months in China and Japan, gastronomically geeking out as only a food writer with an addictive personality can. While sharing copious culinary DNA with both traditions, Korean fare is decidedly its own species. Also, at the risk of bombast, I’ll aver that I just might be New York City’s foremost barbecue connoisseur. A Texan at heart, I have sampled the finest smoked meats from Austin and Memphis to Oslo and Osaka. KBBQ was a glaring lacuna in my ’cue credentials.
I am a Seoul Man! I said a Seoul Man! Good God, girl! Kimchi it to me! HUH! — James “Lee” Brown
An old pal from boarding school, Jae-Yeop, brought me to Lalaon in Williamsburg to commence my Korean culinary tutelage. It’s not prohibitively expensive like Atomix or Jungsik, and the menu reads like a greatest-hits list of Korean comfort food. Chefs Michael and Ju chose a location overlooking the East River to evoke the Han River, long a popular Seoul haunt for picnickers, revelers, and lovers.
Lalaon means “joyful” in Korean, and the ambiance lives up to the name. The dining room is convivial and upbeat, with high ceilings, large windows, and pastel ukiyo-e prints (a Japanese rather than Korean art form, but still delightful). The long tables, sunny patio, and family-style dining would make a splendid setting for big groups. I made a note to recommend it to friends for birthday dinners.
After we ordered the Barbecue Experience, our waitress returned with a wooden board of assorted beef cuts worthy of a victorious Viking chieftain. The house specialty also included a procession of banchan—little dishes of pickled, fishy goodies—bowls of steamed rice, egg soufflé, and kimchi and doenjang stews. Since we’re growing boys, we supplemented the spread with Korean fried chicken and fluke ceviche. The raw fish came in a cantaloupe purée—a refreshing interlude to the carnivorous main event.
As we sipped neat pours of Ki-One, a superb Korean whisky, our waitress fluttered by every few minutes to re-up the grill with fresh meat. Like a banchan bodhisattva, Jae-Yeop initiated me into the secrets of ssam, the holy of holies of KBBQ. Grilled beef wrapped in lettuce and enlivened with spicy sauces, it’s basically the Korean answer to tacos. First, taste the beef with nothing but salt. Next, add a hit of ssamjang—a savory, spicy fermented paste—along with fixin’s like kimchi, raw garlic, and sliced chilies.
By the time dusk settled over the East River, our table resembled a battlefield. A platoon of empty bowls, glasses, and dishes. A smoldering grill caked with charred flesh. Two men silenced by the gravitas of chili oil, beef fat, and whisky.
Dessert, included in the Barbecue Experience, was mercifully light: lemon sorbet and sujeonggwa, a traditional Korean punch of cinnamon, ginger, and dried persimmon.
One New Year’s resolution well underway. Drinking less and financial solvency might have to wait for 2027.
