Sokcho Sundubu - old story

Sokcho Sundubu

Not long after setting foot in Sokcho, a tourist hotel caught my eye. A friend mentioned that whenever he visits Sokcho, he always makes sure to stop by that hotel’s sauna. While a sauna might be a good way to relieve the fatigue accumulated from long hours of driving, it’s not quite the case for me.

Whenever I stay in hot places like a sauna or a jjimjilbang, the heat rushes to my head, leaving me dizzy and with a throbbing headache. For me, a sauna's scorching room is nothing less than a man-made version of hell. So, even though our itinerary originally included a sauna session as part of the package, I suggested we skip that part.

Perhaps, for my friend, who had driven through the night and was likely exhausted, I should have gone along with the plan. But I simply couldn’t bear the thought of it. (At this moment, I find myself regretting it, thinking, I could have just endured it for a little while.)

Leaving the area near the tourist hotel and passing a rotary (do people even use that word anymore?), I spotted a cluster of five or six restaurants gathered together. This place was called Haksapyeong. It was an area known for its tofu-making restaurants, specializing in sundubu (soft tofu dishes). According to my friend, the name came from the old days when local families made and sold tofu to send their children to college.

He first visited this place with his late father decades ago, and even now, whenever he comes to Sokcho, he makes sure to stop by. It has already been nearly 50 years. In that time, his father has passed, and my friend has, in turn, brought his own children here whenever he had the chance. This sundubu restaurant had become a place where memories were revived—a space where the past came alive.

Through this journey, my friend could travel back 40 or 50 years, pulling his father from the depths of his memory and inviting him once more to the dining table. In that sense, this meal might have been more than just food; it could have been a solemn ritual, a quiet and sacred moment of remembrance.

I wonder if, decades from now, his grown sons will also return to this very place, reminiscing about their father. Time, in its way, carries an air of reverence and sanctity.

The Taste of True Sundubu

The sundubu I tasted here was truly sundubu in its purest form.

I usually enjoy spicy seafood sundubu stew, so naturally, I expected something similar from this restaurant. Until that day, I had always thought of sundubu as a bubbling, red-hued, spicy dish. I assumed Sokcho sundubu would be made with fresh seafood, beef, or pork, simmered in a flavorful, spicy broth. I figured that the only difference from what I ate in the city would be the use of freshly made tofu and higher-quality ingredients.

So when the dish finally arrived at the table, I was momentarily stunned—my mind going blank like the soft, white tofu in front of me.

The sundubu was served in a clear broth, completely unseasoned, without a trace of red. It was simply soft tofu floating in a pale, transparent liquid. I tried to imagine its taste before taking a bite—bland and unremarkable, I thought.

Feeling slightly disappointed, I took a spoonful and placed it in my mouth. It was nothing like the sundubu I was used to. It wasn’t spicy, rich, or overpowering. It was just there—plain and quiet, resting in its own simplicity.

To add a little flavor, I drizzled a small amount of soy sauce into the bowl and took another taste. This time, I allowed the tofu to linger in my mouth, trying to truly experience its flavor. Slowly, a subtle, nutty richness began to unfold.

The taste of Sokcho sundubu was not forte but piano—or even pianissimo. If you simply swallowed it without paying attention, you’d miss it entirely. But if you took the time to notice, to truly taste it, its delicate essence would reveal itself.

Up until that moment, I had believed that sundubu needed to be dressed in layers of spices, mixed with meats and seafood, painted in vibrant reds, and bursting with strong, stimulating flavors to be considered a proper dish. But in doing so, I had overlooked the tofu itself, buried beneath all the additions.

It was only in its purest, unadorned form that the true flavor of sundubu could finally emerge.

As I ate, I found myself connecting with my friend, who sat across from me, savoring the same sundubu. Had I ever truly seen or tasted real sundubu before? Or had I only ever encountered its heavily garnished, disguised version?

I wondered—how often had I mistaken an embellished, heavily adorned face for the real one? Had I spent my life unable to recognize authenticity, mistaking artificial beauty for something genuine?

Tasting the quiet, unassuming yet deeply comforting flavor of Sokcho sundubu, I found myself longing to encounter the true essence of the things most precious in life.

This little sundubu restaurant in Sokcho was, in a way, a sanctuary—a place where one could meet the unfiltered, unmasked version of something real.

If my friend’s sons someday fall in love, I hope they bring their partners here, to taste this sundubu. And if I ever have the chance to visit Korea again with my wife, I will take her to Sokcho for sundubu.

Together, we will sit down, eat slowly, and reflect on how much of ourselves remains as pure and simple as this dish—how much of our love is as unadulterated as true sundubu.