What Is Your Banchan?Discovering the Power and Connectivity of Food.

By Katie Sam

Graphic by Zoe Lyko

I love trying new cuisines, waiting in line for the latest trending pastries, and discovering underground mom-and-pop storefronts. Nothing beats the sensation of biting into a foreign flavor and slowly falling in love with a new taste. Yet, amid all of this novelty, I find myself returning to familiar staple dishes.

If you’ve ever dined at a Korean restaurant before, you may recognize the typical “appetizer.” For me, however, this dish is far more than just a precursor to a larger meal; rather, it transports me to the comfort of my family’s dinner table, surrounded by my mom, dad, sister, and grandparents. This is banchan, a traditional Korean meal composed of an array of small shareable side dishes served with steamed rice. Some of my personal favorite dishes include Ojingeochae-muchim (seasoned dried shredded squid), Takuan (daikon pickled radish), and Eomuk Bokkeum (stir-fried fish cake). Because banchan is very customizable, healthy, and rich in taste, my mom insisted that my sister and I grow up with this dish. For as long as I can remember, every Sunday my mom would cook plenty of rice and prepare side dishes, so that on nights when she couldn’t make us dinner, my sister and I could easily reheat the rice and enjoy a meal together.

I didn’t realize how important this dish was to me until I moved into college this past fall. The contents of the dining hall varied greatly from my fridge at home, and it was hard to find tastes that resembled my mom’s cooking. I truly thought Asian-style white rice would always be available, especially since Warren’s wok station offered basmati rice with curry, and Warren’s Wraps N Bowls featured Mediterranean yellow rice. However, I was mistaken, which eventually led me to H-Mart. On my hunt for white rice, I ended up stocking up on many other things including side dishes, chili oil, and furikake seasoning.

For the first time, I became the chef. In a kitchen much smaller than the one at home, I set about recreating banchan in my dorm: microwaving the rice, opening the side dishes, and snapping apart my wooden chopsticks. When I sat down at my desk to eat, I found myself transported back to my family’s dining room. My mom to my right, my sister to my left, and my dad across the table. I could vividly recall our conversations: our reviews of the latest Stranger Things episode, laughter over SNL skits, and our mom translating Korean reality TV for us all. 

As familiar flavors settled in, so did a sense of calm. In that moment, I learned how taste carries memory, and how memory carries comfort, grounding us in times of unfamiliarity. Now, when I try new foods, I don’t merely think about chasing novelty, but I think about understanding what anchors others to food, in the way banchan anchors me. Perhaps the true beauty of food is its ability to allow us to travel the world by exchanging each other’s own “banchan” dishes.