Jeong: A Shared Connection

By Francesca Duong

My family rarely ate out when I was a kid. We still do not.

In my hometown, the restaurant scene consisted of large chains or overpriced local restaurants with mediocre food. In my hometown, foodies would cry. I know I did.

Restaurants were mostly saved for special occasions, like birthdays or mini celebrations. The restaurants we frequented were a small Chinese buffet and a neighborhood Thai restaurant with incredible pad thai. Aside from those infrequent outings, we mostly ate at home. It was common to hear the sizzling of the pan hours before our meal as my mother worked laboriously to cook for our family. Food at home was far cheaper and healthier than eating out, despite the occasional lack in variety.

Jeollanam-do (전라남도) is known for having some of the most delicious foods in Korea. Gwangju is no exception.

Every street in Gwangju is lined with restaurants serving their own special menu. Every person has their own choice of favorite restaurant. Yet, despite this acclaimed province for food, when I came to Gwangju, it was hard to break out of my previous habits. It was difficult to justify eating alone or ordering delivery when I could cook for myself. What I did not realize, though, was that eating out has more purposes than just providing substance and nutrition.

It is a powerful concept in Korean culture that binds people together. There is no direct English translation; however, it refers to the connection between people – an unspoken bond of loyalty and care that is shared between both friends and strangers. To “build jeong” is to cultivate the relationship, as if stacking bricks piece by piece to build a strong foundation.

Within the first few days of arriving in Gwangju, my coworker and her mother took me to a Chinese restaurant to eat jjajangmyeon (짜장면) and fried rice. I recall sitting across the duo I had barely known and attempting to converse using a mixture of English and limited Korean. My mind was racing, trying to find questions that would drive the conversation and remove any awkward silences. Little by little, food filled our table, and we started eating. As we passed around the dishes, my heart calmed, and our conversation freely flowed. Certainly, after the meal, we had a much closer relationship than before.

Simultaneously, while our relationship grew, another one was also budding. Before we left the restaurant, my coworker’s mom gestured to the owner to come over. He was an old man who spoke Mandarin Chinese, and when he heard I could also speak the language, he started eagerly asking me questions. “What are you doing in Korea?” “How old are you?” “How long does it take for you to get to work?” As my brain kicked into overdrive to dust off my Chinese abilities, he smiled at me with such warmth and care that it was almost as if I was a long-lost family member. Through food and through language, we found camaraderie.

When we left, the restaurant owner walked us out and waved goodbye as we walked down the road. I promised myself that I would come back soon. In two weeks, I did.

Gwangju was the first time I visited a restaurant alone. Typically, eating alone often generates images of people feeling lonely or sad – my experience was anything but. Seeing the bright red sign of the restaurant brought a sense of calmness to the nervous excitement I felt. My hand wrapped around the handle of the door, I took a deep breath, and then I flung the entrance door open.

Immediately, the owner greeted me with recognition. He gestured for me to sit anywhere in the restaurant, and I chose to sit at a small circular table close to the cash register. After ordering, the owner brought out a pitcher of tea and directed me to wait a few minutes before serving. The restaurant was buzzing, and almost every table was filled. Regardless, between orders, the owner would come to my table, swirl the tea in the pot, and check to see if it was ready. When the tea was steeped to perfection, he poured me a cup.

As I ate my food, customers began to trickle out of the restaurant as it neared the restaurant’s rest time. Once I was the only one left, the owner pulled out a chair and sat down with me. I poured him a cup of tea, and we chatted long after my plate was cleaned. He told me about his parents moving to Korea from China, and I showed him pictures of where I grew up. He introduced me to the other staff members, and I told him about my daily life.

It was comforting. It was a growing connection.

Before I left, I asked him how I could address him. “叔叔,” he responded. Uncle.

“

叔叔,” I repeated. “Goodbye!”

I felt new ties to the owner, to the restaurant. I felt jeong. I frequented the restaurant every few weeks, and during those visits, I was constantly greeted with a warm smile and pitcher of hot tea. When the owner was not busy, we would chat as I ate my food. The shared space and time grew to be invaluable to me, and I was grateful for our bond.

Unfortunately, as the weeks passed and my schedule started becoming more and more packed, I was unable to visit the restaurant as much as I previously had. Yet, the restaurant still lingered in the back of my mind. Even though I was not physically present, I still felt an attachment to the restaurant. I wondered if the owner was still in good health or if he had been working too hard. I wondered if the restaurant was doing well or if it was a quiet day that day. I missed it.

Maybe a month had passed before I was able to visit again. The owner’s face crinkled and he shook my hand.

“

很久不见!” The owner said. It has been a while.

“

对啊, 很久不见。 ” I responded. Yes, it has. “真的对 不起。我这几天很忙。 ” I am sorry. I have been busy.

“

哎呀! 不用, 不用。没关系。 ” No, no. It is okay. “你 有空的时候, 来这儿。我们欢迎你。 ” When you have time, come. We will always welcome you.

“Thank you,” I said, with much more meaning than could be verbally communicated. Thank you for everything.

The Author

As a writer, Francesca Duong, strongly believes in the power of narrative as a platform for truth and discussion. She loves lengthy conversations, being involved in the community, and discovering delicious foods.