Muse

Jeon first set up shop half a century ago atop a literal pull cart. When asked to clarify what a ¡®pull cart¡¯ looks like, she describes a wheeled, wooden stall rickety in a way that is hardly surprising for those with an understanding of Korea¡¯s poverty-ridden (modern, industrial-era) past. She explains how back in those days, these ¡®rear-cars¡¯ (as Koreans colloquially dub pull carts) or predecessors of today¡¯s makeshift pojangmacha stalls served soju by the shot (of course, in shot glasses specifically for soju). Anyone who has been to a Korean bar will find it astonishing that soju had, once upon a time been served by any unit less than the bottle.

Now more than ever, locals frequent Jeon's store for nighttime takeout, packaged to go in no time.

Locals no longer able to dine in as freely, or at all after 9 p.m. due to the coronavirus, still drop by for dinners to-go.

After a decade or so of serving as a mobile vendor, she set up a brick-and-mortar shop in the same block Ttottowa is now located in. Her business had made enough money to not only let her move into a more permanent structure, but to also support her deceased family member in addition to raising her two kids. (Exuding maternal fondness especially characteristic of elderly Koreans, she speaks of her children¡¯s — obviously now adults — proud careers.) When the municipality cleared the field on which she ran her business, which is 36 years prior to the time of the interview, she moved in then over the years, saw to her business expand enough to move into an eatery of grand scale. True to its theme of pojangmacha, seats had filled the sizable deck in the outdoor seating area or (humongous) porch. Since the pandemic struck, though, her shop has been reduced to that of a normal restaurant. Her storage, which smells pungently of her signature dakbal sauce, too, has been reduced from a surface area of nearly 400 m2 down to less than 5% of its original space. However, thanks to her nationwide vacuum-packaged dakbal delivery services, customers from across the country and abroad provide enough demand for her business to stay afloat for the time being.

Jeon has been making and
selling her store¡¯s main menu item
for well over half her lifetime.

Conversation with
Jeon Soollyae

QWhat led you to start making and selling dakbal?

Poverty and (for) survival! Back in the days, chicken feet were attributed no worth: meaning they were valued at zero cents, thus distributed at no cost. It¡¯s funny how nowadays, they are worth so much (fiscal value)! Of all the parts of a chicken, chicken feet were the leftovers anyone could afford as much as they wanted. Voila — I took that budget-friendly ingredient and took it through countless, laborious rounds of testing (out its sauce recipes). I gathered everyone I knew, made them analyze each sauce with persistence until I settled on one I had confidence in.

QAt what kind of moments does your business make you feel proud?

Oh, no one leaves leftovers of my dakbal. That¡¯s an absolute. And while locals who become loyal customers eventually leave town, they revisit at some point or another — with their city-dwelling acquaintances or more often, children and grandchildren living abroad. Conversely, foreign visitors who¡¯ve had a taste of it (yes, after scowling or pretending to be grossed out at first) will come back before their outbound flight for our vacuum-packaged dakbal to take home.

QHow has your daily life been, operating this eatery for the past 36 years?

What I share may be hard to visualize at this moment, given the space we¡¯re in right now (a small venue). Prior to the coronavirus pandemic, our operations took up an entire building of stadium-like size. I was an occupant of the enormous structure that held my spacious dining hall (the store), with my literal home situated upstairs. In my waking hours I simply went downstairs to tend to the shop and proceed with my day's shift.

Bidding cheers over soju, beer and dakbal anju.