In the Korean drama on Netlix, food is used to portray a fictional North Korea that arguably has not much to share with the real one but whose apparent function is to run a commentary on South Korean consumer culture.
A lot has been written on Squid Game, the Korean hit series on Netflix, and there would be a lot to say about the role food plays in it. However, I would like to share some thoughts on a much lighter Korean TV product: the romantic drama Crash Landing on You, now also available on Netflix. The premise of the story is preposterous, to say the least: a rich Korean business woman, Yoon Se-ri, is caught in a tornado while paragliding and ends up landing in North Korea.
Here she is rescued by a handsome but aloof army captain, Ri Jeong-hyeok, whose more dangerous weapons might appear to be his chiseled cheekbones but who can actually shoot and hold his own in a fight. With the help of four soldiers he tries at first to hide her and then to pass her for his fiancées who is also a spy for a mysterious Division 11 of the North Korean government. In the meantime, Se-Ri has been chosen as heir to an industrial empire, while he is revealed to be the son of an extremely high ranking official. All sorts of mishaps and comical situations ensue. And the two slowly but inevitably fall for each other. I started watching the show because of its flagrant absurdity, but ended up being sucked in by the staggering amounts of food scenes. As somebody who keeps an eye on this kind of things, I could not let go, although I must admit I often skipped over the frankly repetitive romantic sequences: it is easy to spot them, because there is always some sappy song playing. But I guess that’s the whole point: schmaltz galore.
I am not the first one to notice the presence of food in the show, but so far it has been commented upon as Korean food porn (a great way to entice us to get to know more about it) and as a ruse in romantic scenes. While I agree on both points, what really struck me is how shopping, cooking, and eating are used to describe a fictional North Korea that arguably has not much to share with the real one but whose apparent function is to run a commentary on South Korean consumer culture. No cooking scenes take place in South Korea, at least up to episode seven, but everybody has access to plenty of food. Se-ri is proud that she used to be known as a “picky princess” who would eat only three bites of a dish to show her disdain, even in the best Michelin starred restaurants. The drama uses food to imagine a nearby but remote and mysterious world, a reality plagued by poverty and hardship but full of tenacious and creative life. In a memorable scene, a train to Pyongyang breaks down in the middle of the countryside. Immediately dozens of peddlers come out of nowhere to sell some food to the travelers. Later, when it’ becomes clear that the train is not going anywhere, all the passengers settle for the night in the field, buying and roasting corn and potatoes around small fires for which the locals have provided precious wood (while also renting covers and selling water).
In the one high rise in the village where Captain Ri lives, they raise a goat in the bathtub and chickens on the terrace, to the shock of Pyongyang dwellers. Soldiers catch fish and crabs from a river for a picnic, after Se-ri saves the piglet they had brought to slaughter. One of them points out that as refrigeration is not good, it’s better to keep meet alive on four legs… As a matter of fact, blackouts happen all the time, both in the countryside and in the capital, and they almost become narrative engines. For this reason, cooking in the North is simple and wholesome, and basic tools such as grills, coal stoves, and fire pits are used. North Korea is made fun of as a backward place (although fried chicken seem to be popular there too, at least among the upper crust). However, some ambivalence is palpable: the showrunners’ gaze on their northern neighbor is almost nostalgic, even though it is unlikely they have ever been there (they may have other connections though). The show expresses a certain longing for a simpler existence, where food and the pleasures one can get from it seem more authentic, less constructed or subject to ever-shifting trends. When the soldiers show Se-Ri an underground pantry full of fresh vegetables and kimchi, she points out how those same items would be very expensive in the South, sold as organic.
Scarcity is not hidden. A child beggar steals some food at the market in order to feed his starving sister, only to be given extra food by Se-Ri. As meat is scarce and difficult to buy, it becomes the symbol for special occasions and it is leveraged as tool to buy favor or recompense subordinates. In fact, the distance between the have and the have-nots is made evident by the food found on their tables, both in the South and North Korean scenes. While it is not surprising to see Se-ri’s family in the South have heated discussions over amazing spreads of food that nobody seems to enjoy or even notice, the drama makes a point to show how also in North Korea those connected with power have access to plentiful and good quality food, which is almost taken for granted. In other words, class and inequality exist everywhere. Corruption is rampant on both sides of the DMZ: the bad guy of the series, a North Korean army officer, has organized a ruthless antique smuggling racket, in which many powerful people are involved. More everyday forms of corruption are to be found across society, mostly caused by need: with a little money, everything is available in the black markets of the North, including a coveted rice cooker that tells you when the meal is ready. Furthermore, the differences of living standards between the capital and the rest of the country are often highlighted.
Because of its value, food appears in all sorts of social transactions. At the same time, it is used to establish relationships and friendships. The village women’s welcome Captain Ri back by bringing him steamed corn and potato pancakes. Se-Ri bonds with the soldiers secretly taking care of her when she partakes in their clam roast, accompanied by copious soju. She is at first quite suspicious, musing she never eats clams except in bouillabaisse and always with sauvignon blanc, but the sweetness of the seafood and spirit pairing conquers her. When the village women find out that Captain Ri may have broken up with Se-Ri, they bring beer and dried fish to drown her pain in booze. Actually, the increase of food sharing between the newcomer and the other women traces the thawing on their relationship, which had a rocky start due to Se-Ri’s unwillingness to pay them any mind or, worse, to participate in the kimchi making for the winter, an activity all the village women consider fundamental. Also Captain Ri cooks for Se-Ri to express his care; he prepares simple dishes that at first leave his refined guest unimpressed but then slowly grow on her. He even finds and buy raw coffee beans, toasts them, grinds them, and use them to make coffee in a percolator from a previous period of his life (needless to say, he is an accomplished pianist who trained in Switzerland). Also in North Korea, it seems the shortest path to somebody’s heart is through their stomach.
I am not an expert in Korean culture, and I have no idea of how the food scenes that tickled my interest resonate in South Korea. I would be curious to hear impressions from Korean viewers. I hope some of them will read these notes and will share their observations…