[MORNING CALM TALES] The irresistible appeal of Korea's 'pojangmacha' food tents

Jeffrey Miller describes discovering the appeal of Seoul’s pojangmacha food tents after getting lost in Jamsil in the early 1990s. He finds warmth, food, soju, and easy conversation inside the orange tents, and says they reflect jeong, the Korean sense of attachment and shared warmth. The piece explains that pojangmacha began as movable food carts and later became enclosed street tents.

The author says the word pojangmacha literally means covered wagon and originally referred to food carts that could move from neighborhood to neighborhood.

Over time, many pojangmacha became stationary and were enclosed with cloth and later plastic tarps to block the wind and cold.

The article names several common foods served there, including tteokbokki, odeng, sundae, gimbap, dried squid, roasted sparrows, and beondegi.

The author says his Korean friend explained jeong as affection, attachment, warmth, and a bond that grows through time and shared experiences.

The writer says pojangmacha became a place where people drink, laugh, cry, and say things they might not say anywhere else.

Published Oct 3, 2026 5:20 am KST

Jeffrey Miller drinks at a "pojangmacha," in this picture published July 22, 2002, in The Korea Times. Korea Times Archive

Had I not gotten lost in Jamsil one cold December night, I might never have discovered the soul of Seoul.

It was the early 1990s, and I decided to be adventurous and find a different way back to my apartment. Somewhere in the maze of Jamsil 2-danji , I got twisted around and ended up on a street I had never taken before. Getting lost there was surprisingly easy. At night, the apartment buildings all looked alike, row after row of concrete towers rising into the darkness. I knew the subway station was somewhere behind me and my apartment somewhere ahead. Beyond that, I was guessing.

The December air had a bite to it. I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets and kept walking.

Then I saw the orange glow.

On the side of the street stood a rectangular tent, glowing in the darkness. Light filtered through thick orange plastic, turning it into a giant lantern. Shadows moved behind the vinyl. Every so often, someone lifted a flap, releasing a burst of steam and noise into the cold before ducking inside.

People gather at a "pojangmacha" tent in downtown Seoul, Nov. 23, 2025. Korea Times file

I stopped. What was this place? There was no sign or name that I could see, yet people kept disappearing inside. Curiosity got the better of me. I crossed the street, lifted the flap and ducked inside.

Everyone stopped talking.

For a second or two, the entire tent went quiet. Faces turned toward me. Men holding small glasses of soju stared. A woman paused with her chopsticks halfway to her mouth. I stood there with the plastic flap still in my hand, wondering if I had made a terrible mistake.

Then someone resumed talking. Another person laughed. Almost as quickly as it had stopped, the noise returned. Everyone went back to eating and drinking as though I belonged there.

The first thing that hit me was the warmth, thick and damp and heavy with steam. My glasses fogged. Condensation ran down the orange plastic walls. Then came the smells — hot broth, frying oil, garlic, red pepper paste, something sweet cooking on the griddle and something unmistakably fishy.

A griddle hissed and popped. Oil bubbled in a deep pot. Men and women sat shoulder to shoulder on small stools, coats open and faces flushed from the heat and alcohol. Green bottles of soju crowded the counter beside small glasses and half-eaten plates of food.

Someone shouted something from the other end of the tent, and laughter erupted. I had no idea what was so funny. I smiled anyway.

People crowd into food tents at a market in Seongnam, Gyeonggi Province, Jan. 24, 2017. Korea Times file

The middle-aged woman behind the counter spotted me. Her face was red from the heat as she moved between the griddle, bubbling pots and her customers.

“Eoseo oseyo,” she said. Welcome. It was one of the few Korean expressions I knew.

“Anjeuseyo,” she said, pointing to an empty stool. Sit down. I knew that one, too.

By then, I was too embarrassed to turn around and retreat into the night, so I obliged her and sat down.

The counter was crowded with foods, many of which I couldn’t identify. Rice cakes simmered in a fiery red sauce. Oil snapped and hissed around pieces of squid, sweet potatoes and seaweed-wrapped noodle rolls. A long, dark roll of something sat on a cutting board. I would later learn it was "sundae" — Korean blood sausage.

A tray of "tteokbokki," Korean spicy rice cake / gettyimagesbank

Rising from a tub of steaming broth was what looked like a small bamboo forest. Dozens of wooden sticks protruded from the pot, each holding folded pieces of something pale and flat. I pointed to one.

For some reason, I thought of an old Schlitz beer commercial: You only go through life once, so grab all the gusto you can. It seemed as good a philosophy as any.

The woman pulled a skewer from the broth and handed it to me. I took a bite. It was hot enough to make me pull air through my teeth. Soft, slightly chewy, a little fishy. Not bad. I nodded my approval. The woman seemed satisfied and returned to her cooking.

I had just eaten my first "odeng," fish cake folded onto a wooden skewer and simmered in hot broth.

Sticks of "odeng," fishcake, rise out of boiling containers at a Korean food stand in this 2005 file photo. Korea Times file

At some point, one brave soul sitting nearby decided to try his English on me. Whether his courage came from genuine curiosity or the soju he had already consumed, I couldn’t say.

“Hello,” he said, smiling.

“Hello,” I replied, also smiling.

He tried another question. I answered and then tried some of my newly acquired Korean. We didn’t get very far. His English quickly ran out. My Korean had never really started. After an awkward pause, we both laughed.

Someone poured me a glass of soju. I drank it. The alcohol hit the back of my throat before spreading warmth through my chest. I coughed, earning another laugh.

I tried another Korean word. More laughter. Another glass appeared.

By the end of the night, I was trading shots of soju with people whose names I didn’t know, trying out my new Korean and laughing through conversations none of us completely understood.

A "pojangmacha" tent advertises Japanese food in downtown Seoul, Jan. 1, 2004. Korea Times file

Without knowing it, I had discovered the "pojangmacha."

The word literally means “covered wagon,” a fitting name for what began as a food cart on wheels. Vendors could move from neighborhood to neighborhood, selling inexpensive food and drinks wherever people gathered. Over time, many became stationary and were enclosed with cloth and later plastic tarps to keep out the wind and cold. By the time I arrived in Seoul, the glowing orange tents were part of the city’s nighttime landscape.

After that first night, I saw them everywhere.

I also began learning the food. There was "tteokbokki," thick rice cakes swimming in a fiery red sauce; odeng skewers simmering in broth; sundae, Korean blood sausage; and "gimbap," seaweed-wrapped rice rolls fragrant with sesame oil.

Then there was "anju," food eaten while drinking. Dried squid I could understand. The roasted sparrows took a little more courage.

And then there was "beondegi," boiled silkworm pupae. I could usually smell them before I saw them, an earthy odor rising from a steaming metal pot. The first time I looked inside and saw hundreds of small brown pupae glistening in the broth, I stared for a long time. Apparently, Schlitz had not prepared me for everything.

And, of course, there was always something to drink — beer, or soju. Usually soju. But food and alcohol were only part of what made a pojangmacha special.

A "pojangmacha" restaurant is empty in Seoul, Oct. 22, 2019. Korea Times file

I began to understand that during an early excursion downtown with a Korean friend. By then, I knew enough to duck beneath the orange plastic, find a stool and accept a glass of soju when one was poured. That first night, the tent was crowded. The plastic walls bulged whenever the wind blew. Steam clouded the air, heavy with the smells of broth, grilled food, cigarette smoke and soju. Strangers sat close enough for their elbows to touch. A man at one end of the counter talked loudly to anyone who would listen. The woman running the place fired back a comment that sent everyone into laughter.

My friend watched the scene for a moment, then he told me about "jeong." There was no single English word for it, he explained. Affection, attachment, warmth, a bond that grew between people through time and shared experiences. None of those words seemed quite enough. He gestured around the pojangmacha. This, he told me, was where you could feel it.

Perhaps that was why pojangmachas meant so much to Koreans. People went there after difficult days. They drank with friends, confessed things they had been carrying inside and nursed broken hearts. In Korean movies and television dramas, the heartbroken always seemed to end up beneath an orange tent, drinking soju until the woman running it decided they had suffered enough.

A pojangmacha wasn’t simply a place to eat and drink. It was a place where Seoul lets its guard down. People drank, laughed, cried and told each other things they might not say anywhere else. Maybe that was jeong. Or at least, it was the first time I thought I understood it.

"Pojangmacha" tents crowd Insa-dong in central Seoul, Sept. 30, 2000. Korea Times file

Then I remembered that first orange tent in Jamsil and realized I might have experienced a little jeong before I even knew the word.

I had walked in as a lost foreigner and brought the tent to a momentary silence. Then everyone simply went back to eating and drinking as though I belonged there. A middle-aged woman had welcomed me and found me a stool. A stranger had tried to speak my language, and I had tried to speak his. We understood almost nothing the other was saying. It didn’t matter.

By the end of the night, my face was warm from the soju and the heat of the tent. My coat smelled of frying oil and fish broth. I was trading shots with people I had never met before, trying out my handful of Korean words and laughing when I got them wrong.

Outside, the December air was cold, and Seoul was still a city I barely knew. Inside the orange tent, the broth was steaming, the soju was flowing and laughter surrounded me. It was warm inside the tent, and warm inside my heart.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels . His latest is " The Tree at Panmunjom ," about the 1976 Axe Murder Incident. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.

杰弗里·米勒讲述了他在上世纪90年代初迷路于蚕室后，偶然发现了首尔路边摊的魅力。他发现，在这些橙色的帐篷里，有温暖的氛围、美味的食物、烧酒，还有轻松的交谈。他认为，这些帐篷体现了“情谊”（jeong），即韩国人之间亲密无间、充满温情的情感。文章解释说，路边摊最初是流动餐车，后来发展成封闭的街头帐篷。

作者说，“pojangmacha”一词字面意思是篷车，最初指的是可以在街区之间移动的食品车。

随着时间的推移，许多路边摊变成了固​​定的摊位，并用布，后来又用塑料篷布将其围起来，以阻挡风寒。

文章列举了那里供应的几种常见食物，包括炒年糕、鱼饼、血肠、紫菜包饭、鱿鱼干、烤麻雀和秋葵。

作者说，他的韩国朋友将“情”解释为喜爱、依恋、温暖，以及随着时间和共同经历而增长的纽带。

作者说，pojangmacha 成了人们喝酒、欢笑、哭泣，以及说一些他们在其他地方可能不会说的话的地方。

发布于2026年10月3日 上午5:20（韩国标准时间）

这张照片刊登于2002年7月22日的《韩国时报》，照片中杰弗里·米勒正在路边摊喝酒。《韩国时报》档案馆

如果不是在十二月寒冷的夜晚迷失在蚕室，我可能永远不会发现首尔的灵魂。

那是九十年代初，我决定冒险尝试，找条不同的路回公寓。在蚕室二段路的迷宫里，我不知不觉地迷路了，最后走到了一条从未走过的街上。在那里迷路出乎意料地容易。夜幕降临，公寓楼看起来都一样，一排排混凝土高楼耸立在黑暗中。我知道地铁站就在身后，公寓就在前方。至于更远的地方，我就只能靠猜了。

十二月的空气带着一丝寒意。我把手更深地插进口袋里，继续往前走。

然后我看到了橙色的光芒。

街边立着一顶长方形帐篷，在黑暗中闪闪发光。光线透过厚厚的橙色塑料布，把它照成一个巨大的灯笼。影子在塑料布后面晃动。时不时地，有人掀开帐篷的帘子，一股蒸汽和噪音喷涌而出，然后迅速钻进帐篷里。

2025年11月23日，人们聚集在首尔市中心的一个路边摊帐篷前。（韩国时报资料图）

我停了下来。这是什么地方？我没看到任何招牌或名字，却不断有人进去消失。好奇心驱使着我。我穿过马路，掀开门，钻了进去。

所有人都停止了说话。

帐篷里突然安静了一两秒。所有人都转头看向我。几个男人手里拿着小杯烧酒，盯着我看。一个女人筷子夹到嘴边，也停了下来。我站在那里，手里还攥着塑料封条，心里琢磨着自己是不是犯了个大错。

然后有人又开始说话了。另一个人笑了。声音几乎瞬间就消失了，转眼间又恢复了原状。大家继续吃喝，仿佛我本来就是他们中的一员。

首先扑面而来的是一股闷热潮湿的蒸汽，我的眼镜都蒙上了一层雾气。水汽顺着橙色的塑料墙壁缓缓流淌。接着，各种气味扑面而来——热汤、油烟、蒜香、辣椒酱、铁板上滋滋作响的甜味，以及一股浓烈的鱼腥味。

铁板发出嘶嘶声和噼啪声。油在深锅里咕嘟咕嘟地冒着泡。男男女女肩并肩地坐在小凳子上，敞开着外套，脸上被热气和酒精熏得通红。柜台上堆满了绿色的烧酒瓶，旁边是小酒杯和吃了一半的菜盘。

帐篷另一头有人喊了一声，顿时爆发出一阵笑声。我完全不知道有什么好笑的，但还是笑了。

2017年1月24日，在京畿道城南市的一个市场里，人们挤在食品帐篷里。（韩国时报资料图）

柜台后面的中年妇女发现了我。她穿梭在烤盘、冒着热气的锅和顾客之间，脸被烤得通红。

“Eoseo oseyo，”她说。“欢迎。”这是我所知道的为数不多的几句韩语之一。

“Anjeuseyo，”她指着一个空凳子说。“坐下。” 我也知道这个。

那时，我羞于转身逃入夜色中，只好顺从地坐了下来。

柜台上摆满了各种食物，很多我都叫不出名字。年糕在火红的酱汁里咕嘟咕嘟地冒着热气。鱿鱼、红薯和海苔卷在油里噼啪作响，发出嘶嘶声。砧板上放着一长条深色的卷状物。后来我才知道，那是“血肠”——韩国血肠。

一盘“炒年糕”（tteokbokki），韩国辣炒年糕 / gettyimagesbank

从一锅热气腾腾的肉汤中升起的，看起来像是一片小小的竹林。数十根木棍从锅里伸出来，每根木棍上都夹着折叠起来的、苍白扁平的东西。我指着其中一根。

不知为何，我突然想起一则施利茨啤酒的老广告：人生只有一次，所以要尽情享受。这似乎是个不错的人生哲学。

女人从汤里抽出一串鱼肉递给我。我咬了一口，烫得我倒吸一口凉气。鱼肉软嫩，略带嚼劲，还有点鱼腥味，还不错。我点头表示满意。女人似乎很满意，又回去继续做饭了。

我刚刚吃了我的第一份“odeng”，这是一种用木签串起来，在热肉汤里炖煮的鱼饼。

这张摄于2005年的资料照片显示，在韩国一家小吃摊，一串串“鱼饼”（鱼糕）正从沸腾的容器中缓缓升起。（《韩国时报》资料照片）

不知何时，附近一位胆大的家伙决定用英语和我搭讪。他的勇气究竟是出于真心好奇，还是因为之前喝了不少烧酒，我就不得而知了。

“你好，”他笑着说。

“你好，”我笑着回答。

他又问了一个问题。我回答后，也试着用我新学的韩语交流。但我们没能聊多久。他的英语很快就用完了。而我的韩语其实也还没真正开始学。一阵尴尬的沉默后，我们俩都笑了。

有人给我倒了一杯烧酒。我喝了下去。酒精涌上喉咙，随后一股暖流涌遍胸口。我咳嗽了一声，又引来一阵笑声。

我又试着说了一个韩语词。又是一阵笑声。又一杯酒端了过来。

到了晚上，我跟一些我不认识的人互相喝着烧酒，尝试着说我新学的韩语，一边笑着一边聊着我们谁也没完全听懂的话题。

2004年1月1日，首尔市中心，一个路边摊（pojangmacha）帐篷正在宣传日本料理。（《韩国时报》资料图）

不知不觉中，我发现了“pojangmacha”。

这个词的字面意思是“篷车”，用来形容最初那种带轮子的食品摊位再贴切不过了。摊贩们可以挨家挨户地走动，在人流聚集的地方售卖价格低廉的食物和饮料。随着时间的推移，许多摊位变成了固定的，并用布料，后来又用塑料篷布遮盖起来，以抵御风寒。等我抵达首尔时，这些闪着橙色光芒的帐篷已经成为这座城市夜景的一部分。

那晚过后，我到处都能看到他们。

我也开始了解当地的食物。有“辣炒年糕”，厚厚的年糕浸泡在火红的酱汁中；有在汤里慢炖的鱼饼串；有韩国血肠；还有“紫菜包饭”，用紫菜包裹的米饭卷，散发着芝麻油的香味。

然后是“下酒菜”，也就是喝酒时吃的食物。鱿鱼干我还能理解，烤麻雀就有点让人难以接受了。

还有一种叫“蚕蛹”（beondegi）的东西，就是煮蚕蛹。我通常先闻到味道，然后才看到它们，一股泥土的气息从冒着热气的金属锅里飘出来。第一次打开锅，看到数百个棕色的小蚕蛹在汤汁里闪闪发光时，我愣愣地看了很久。看来，施利茨啤酒并没有让我做好充分的心理准备。

当然，总会有饮料——啤酒或烧酒。通常是烧酒。但食物和酒水只是路边摊特色的一部分。

2019年10月22日，首尔一家路边摊餐厅空无一人。（韩国时报资料图）

我开始明白这一点，是在和一位韩国朋友早年去市中心的一次旅行中。那时，我已经知道该如何钻过橙色的塑料布，找到凳子坐下，并在有人给我倒上一杯烧酒时欣然接受。那天晚上，帐篷里挤满了人。每当风吹过，塑料布的墙壁都会鼓起来。空气中弥漫着蒸汽，混合着肉汤、烤肉、香烟和烧酒的浓烈气味。陌生人挨得很近，胳膊肘都能碰到一起。柜台一端，一个男人大声地和所有愿意听的人说话。店里的女老板回嘴的一句话，引得大家哄堂大笑。

我的朋友观察了一会儿，然后跟我讲起了“情”。他解释说，英语里没有一个词能完全表达这种感觉。亲情、依恋、温暖，是一种随着时间推移和共同经历而逐渐加深的人与人之间的纽带。这些词似乎都不足以形容。他指了指路边摊。他告诉我，在这里，你才能真正感受到那种情。

或许这就是路边摊对韩国人意义非凡的原因。人们在经历艰难的日子后会去那里。他们和朋友们喝酒，倾诉心中的苦闷，抚慰破碎的心灵。在韩国电影和电视剧中，失恋的人似乎总是会聚集在橙色的帐篷下，喝着烧酒，直到摊主觉得他们已经受够了为止。

路边摊不仅仅是吃饭喝酒的地方，更是首尔人卸下防备、放松身心的场所。人们在这里喝酒、欢笑、哭泣，倾诉那些在其他场合可能不会说出口的话语。或许，这就是所谓的“情”。至少，那是我第一次觉得自己真正理解了“情”。

2000年9月30日，首尔市中心仁寺洞，路边摊帐篷林立。（韩国时报档案照片）

然后我想起了蚕室的第一个橙色帐篷，意识到在我知道“jeong”这个词之前，我可能已经体验过一点点“jeong”了。

我像个迷路的外国人一样走进帐篷，帐篷里顿时鸦雀无声。但很快，大家又像我一样继续吃喝。一位中年妇女热情地迎接了我，还给我找了个凳子。一个陌生人试着用我的语言和我交流，我也试着用他的语言和他交流。我们几乎都听不懂对方在说什么。但这无关紧要。

夜深了，烧酒和帐篷里的热气让我的脸颊发烫。我的外套上沾满了油烟和鱼汤的味道。我和一些素未谋面的人互相喝酒，尝试着说着我那点儿韩语，说错的时候就哈哈大笑。

外面，十二月的空气寒冷刺骨，首尔对我来说仍然是一座陌生的城市。橙色的帐篷里，汤热气腾腾，烧酒汩汩流淌，欢声笑语此起彼伏。帐篷里温暖如春，我的心也暖洋洋的。

杰弗里·米勒是多部小说的作者。他的最新作品是《板门店之树》，讲述了1976年的斧头杀人事件。您可以通过daejeonscribe@yahoo.com联系他。