Divided by borders, connected by food

The line drawn between South and North Korea has deepened into a chasm too vast to measure. The hope of reunification has been shattered by ideological conflict and the cold logic of power that now shapes the international order.

And yet, deep within us, there remain countless unbroken ties to those on the other side — a longing for family and home, a shared history and culture, and food.

Food may be the oldest memory device in any culture.

The mandu a mother once folded, the sikhye a grandmother once brewed — food followed the people who left. When ingredients were unavailable, substitutes were found. When recipes were only half-remembered, hands found their own way back. The form changed, but the food carried the memory of the place left behind.

On Oct. 1-2, a social dining event called "A Table of 20 Speaking of Peace" was held at Naeil-ui Siktak in Gwonnong-dong, Jongno-gu, Seoul, where dishes that carry memory were placed on the table. Organized by the Korea Unification Agriculture and Fisheries Foundation and sponsored by the Ministry of Unification, the event centered on the theme of "the umbilical cord of taste."

The phrase refers to the way food and flavor learned from family continue to be passed down through migration, division and generational change. Just as an umbilical cord connects a life to its mother, food serves as a thread linking people to their hometowns and one generation to the next.

The event featured North Korean-born culinary researcher Chef Jang Yu-bin, Kim Seong-hui — head of Hana Doga, which produces traditional home-brewed liquor from Hoeryong — Chef Choi Ji-hyeong of Ribukbang, a dining establishment specializing in North Korean cuisine, and food editor Jeong Yeon-ju, a third-generation descendant of displaced persons. The North Korean dishes they brought were neither elaborate royal court food nor perfectly preserved traditional recipes — they were mostly everyday home cooking from the North.

That ordinariness is precisely what made each dish a vivid record of personal history. Jang Yu-bin, director of the Institute for Unification Food Culture, prepared dishes learned from his mother in Onseong, North Hamgyong Province. The spread included eon-gamja-baensae (dumplings made from frozen potato starch), North Korean-style mandu, gajami sikhae (fermented flatfish), yeongchae kimchi, a banchan made from artificial meat, dried eggplant stir-fry, green tomato salad and swimddeok (a type of rice cake). Among them, the mandu and swimddeok carried the taste he had learned from his mother.

Kim Seong-hui, head of Hana Doga and originally from Hoeryong in North Hamgyong Province, brought home-brewed liquors passed down through her maternal family. Three varieties — taejwaju, nongtaegi and sampalju — were set out, along with doenjang noodles: wheat noodles and pumpkin leaves in a doenjang broth. The occasion also introduced the drinking custom of "seonjuhumyeon" — liquor first, noodles to finish.

What defines displaced-community food is not that it has been perfectly preserved, but that it has changed over time. That point was illustrated by the kimchi rice and bap sikhae — an improvised sikhae — presented by food editor Jeong Yeon-ju, a third-generation descendant of displaced persons.

Jeong's maternal grandmother, who fled as a refugee, could not bring her hometown recipes intact. She reconstructed the flavors she remembered as best she could. Those dishes passed to her daughter, and then to her granddaughter. Along the way, an exact match to the original taste was impossible to maintain — but the memory of the food survived.

Viewed through the lens of culinary tradition, this is transformation. Viewed through the lens of culture, it is another form of transmission. When people move, food moves with them — and when food moves, it adapts to its new environment.

Food culture, then, is less a museum artifact than a living memory. And the food of the South and North is not as distant as one might assume. The dishes served at this gathering also demonstrated that the two Koreas' food cultures are not entirely separate.

Familiar staples shared across both sides of the border — corn, potatoes and dried pollack — appeared on the table, alongside dishes whose names alone feel like common ground: geotjeori (fresh kimchi), bindaetteok (mung bean pancakes), mandu and sikhae.

There were, of course, differences in preparation and eating customs. The same ingredient became a different dish depending on region and household. But those differences felt less like a complete rupture than the natural result of two peoples living apart in different environments for a very long time.

Food, in this way, both reveals cultural boundaries and shows how permeable they can be. Red and blue salt placed on the round tables at the event symbolized as much. Set apart in colors evoking the two Koreas, the salts gradually mingled as the meal progressed. By the end, the two colors had blended into purple.

"If the word 'reunification' has come to feel too distant, we can start by talking about peace," said Kim Won-il, standing director of the Korea Unification Agriculture and Fisheries Foundation. "If we cannot build a grand stage, we can start by setting a table for twenty."