Free Sad Peninsula by Mark Sampson Page B

lets out a little yelp of delight. “Oh, see this one?” she says, pulling out a tome with a deteriorating green cover. “This is a very famous Chinese text, a collection of ancient folk tales. I read this in reprint when I was first learning Mandarin, but this looks like the original.”
    She opens it carefully to show me the Chinese characters inside. They look daunting in their complexity, tracing down each page in intimidating columns. “You can actually read this?” I ask.
    â€œOf course.” She shrugs. “I learned Mandarin before I learned English. The way the world is going, Michael, you may have to learn it one day.”
    â€œEither that or Arabic.”
    I grab another decrepit book out of the row at random, peel it open, and see an entirely different alphabet scorched onto its pages. “Can you read this one?” I joke.
    She leans in to look and her face darkens instantly. “No. That’s Japanese.” Her voice is like a stone falling through water. She sets her book back and slides past me, moves in so close that I can practically smell her shampoo. “I refuse to learn Japanese,” she whispers, as if she doesn’t want the a’jumah at the counter to hear.
    W e decide to get something to eat. I suggest the Korean diner next to the Starbucks at the end of Insadong Row, but Jin just scoffs. “That’s for tourists ,” she says. “Follow me.”
    She leads me down one of the ancient alleys that branch off from the main drag, an alley that seems to narrow, cartoonishly, the farther we go. We arrive at a traditional Korean restaurant — pagoda roof and low walls — and enter to find the inner decor done entirely in cedar. There is traditional Korean music coming from the sound system, the melodic squeal of a gayageum that reminds me of weeping. The hostess seats us in a booth. I pick up one of the menus but frown when I see no English translation. The waitress comes. She’s about the same age as Jin, and just as pretty. They chat in Korean, nodding several times at the menu and a few times at me. After the waitress has collected the menus and left, Jin says: “I went ahead and ordered food and drinks for us. I hope you don’t mind.”
    â€œNot at all.”
    The waitress returns a few minutes later to set a large clay bowl with a ladle and two cups at our table. Inside the bowl is a milky white liquid, but it’s not milk: the smell of alcohol coming off it is strong. Jin thanks the waitress, then takes the ladle and transports some of the creamy liquid into the cups.
    â€œThis is dong dong ju ,” she says, “a popular Korean beverage. Michael, it’s very potent so you should drink it slowly.”
    â€œHey, I can hold my liquor,” I say, lifting the cup and smelling its contents. “I come from a long line of alcoholics.” I take a full pull of the dong dong ju and something magical happens: I’m buzzing the instant it hits my stomach.
    â€œYou like it?” Jin asks, taking a girly, tentative sip from her own cup.
    â€œVery much,” I reply. I take another generous pull, and then another. Pleasant summer campfires begin burning behind my eyes.
    We chat for a bit and I try with questionable success to pace myself. Before long the waitress arrives with our food, a sizzling stone plate covered in what Jin informs me is pa’jun — Korean green onion pancake. It comes with little ceramic dishes of sesame oil for dipping. Jin chats with the waitress while she sets up a small armada of side dishes around our table, kimchi and bean sprouts and some kind of scrambled-egg concoction carved into a square. The two of them nod a few more times in my direction. When the waitress leaves, Jin throws me a tight little smile.
    â€œShe thinks you’re handsome.”
    â€œDo you think I’m handsome?” I, or possibly the dong dong ju , ask in return.
    She wrinkles her