Stalking the Elusive Hotteok (and other sweets) at Han Ah Reum
J. E. Clarke (Gaijin Girl)
Copyright 9/25/04
| It
is called Hotteok. The stuff
legends—er, pancakes—are made of. Grilled
warm dough on the outside, molten brown sugar
inside. The size of a CD, it is a popular
Korean
street snack, especially on cold winter nights. The
“tteok”—pronounced ‘duk’--means rice cake. The
“ho” refers to the sound a person makes
after taking the first scalding bite. I
had never seen one, but had heard the stories of how they tasted. So of course, I had to have one.
How hard could it be? This is
New York. The section of Manhattan called Little Korea is one block long, the stretch of 32nd street between 5th-6th Avenue. In the middle of the block, on the south side, is a non-distinct blue and white awning. It is the entrance to Han Ah Reum, the primary supermarket for the neighborhood. Han Reum (25 W. 32nd Street) is actually a chain store, the Korean equivalent of D’Agastino’s, with stores throughout the east coast. The NYC location isn’t the biggest, but it holds its own. It was my port of call. Inside Han Ah Reum, visitors find themselves surrounded by all manner of Korean goodies: jumbo jars of kimchi, rice snacks and fresh meat and veggies in the rear. But what caught my eye was the sweets counter. Stamped with the proprietary “Jinga” label, there lay a variety of glutinous tteoks that would look familiar to anyone who has frequented their share of Japanese bakeries. But the comparison only goes so far. For these brightly colored tidbits have a flavor all their own. Baram rice cakes—for instance—look like Japanese daifuku, their hollowed out centers filled with red bean paste. But they are coated with a light sheen of sesame oil, and the fillings are salty, not sweet. The injulmi are chunks of rice cake, chewier than your average glutinous rice ball, and covered with bean flour. The more cakelike items, such as Mugwort and Cinnamon Rice Cake, seemed bland to the tongue, although the Rice Wine Cake had a pleasingly moist texture. There was no Hotteok to be found. A scan of the adjoining bakeries also came up empty. Nothing at Worjipp, nor at the neighboring KR Space (34 W. 32nd Street). I should have known I’d score in New Jersey. The Han Ah Reum in Ridgefield is the size of a small airline hangar—the anchor store to its own mall. The bakery counter was in the back, lined with more tteok. Also on hand was Bungeo ppang, a delicious sweet bean stuffed pastry in the shape of a fish. Behind it all was a sizzling grill. Knowing not one iota of Korean—and aware that language is often a barrier—I had located a picture of a Hotteok vendor sign on the web, and presented it to the lady at the counter. Bingo. She smiled, nodded, and flipped something onto the grill. It was ready in a matter of minutes. It was worth the wait. The Hotteok was filled to bursting – the syrup sweet and so hot that it burned as it dripped out the edges between bites. I had purchased two – one ostensibly for my husband waiting at home. It didn’t even last the trip to the parking lot. The legend had been right – Hotteok was heavenly. And well worth the trip to New Jersey. |
