Korean Food in Its Original Original Form

When a Korean friend promised to take me to a restaurant with “original” Korean food, I hardly knew what to expect. Original in his vocabulary did not mean novel or creative but pure, untouched, unblemished--Korean food that had not been adjusted to American tastes.

We wound up at Shin Mi in Koreatown consuming enormous meals of meat, seafood and vegetables in forms that I had not seen before.

Crab came coated with a sauce of intense peppery heat, a play in contrasts because the crab meat was not only cool but raw. This yin-yang of cold and spicy appeared again in a bowl of cold noodles into which we stirred thick red-pepper paste. The taste was rich with chile, but there was also an unexpected edge of sweetness.

Monkfish arrived on a platter, the fish buried under fine strands of spaghetti. The spaghetti turned out to be bean sprouts--longer sprouts than you ever see in an American market. These were mingled with a Korean green called sukkat in still another style of red pepper sauce.

A casserole bubbling heartily on a portable burner contained octopus, a big chunk of black-skinned fish, tofu and egg noodles in a broth that layered many shades of flavor, one of them red pepper. Black cod and radish in a soupy combination presented still further nuances of flavor, including spicy heat. The succulence of the fish indicated why this is one of the most popular dishes at the restaurant.

Sliced pork for barbecuing was heavily daubed with a thick orange marinade, the color and flavor derived from a red pepper-bean paste called kochugang . But there was also sugar, which produced crisp, caramelized edges as we grilled the meat.

To Koreans, red pepper must be as basic as salt. Go to a Korean market and check the shelves lined with hot bean paste, red pepper paste, ground red pepper, red pepper flour and so forth. While this recurrence of hot seasoning may sound monotonous to the uninitiated, it was no more so than a Western dinner in which each dish is seasoned with salt.

Some of the red pepper goes into the ever-present pickle, kimchi ; a meal at Shin Mi will include as many as five versions of the hot relish. Kimchi is also turned into one of the spiciest stews that you will ever taste. It comes in a black iron pot, possibly the only utensil sturdy enough to withstand the molten seasoning. There is an equally spicy beef soup. The antidote for both of these is to stir rice into the broth.

The side dishes that come with the meals can literally blanket the table with bowls and platters. Along with kimchi, we had slices of translucent, shadowy gray bean cake seasoned with green onion, sesame oil, soy sauce and red pepper. Another bowl held sliced zucchini impregnated with garlic. The most intriguing accompaniment was a bundle of winy tasting marinated leaves called kaenip , which sounded almost like catnip. These are not the feline herb, however, but sesame leaves, which are in season in summer and fall.

Marinated soy bean sprouts and spinach also arrived at every meal. Both were mildly seasoned so that they functioned as pleasant counterpoints to the peppery food.

We started our meals with cold barley tea, drank Korean beer with the food and soothed our blistered taste buds afterward with a cool sweet liquid flecked with rice grains.

Finding Shin Mi can be like going on a treasure hunt. The restaurant is hidden in a circular indentation in a shopping plaza, and the name is not visible on the outside. Unless you read Korean or Chinese, the single clue to its presence is the word “BBQ” in large letters. The entrance is below and to the left.

Recommended dishes: barbecued pork or beef, $11.75; monkfish spicy casserole, $10.50; boiled black cod, $10.50; cold noodles with beef and spicy sauce, $7.50; rice with spicy beef soup, $8.75.

Shin Mi restaurant, 3189 1/2 W. Olympic Blvd., Los Angeles, in Olympic Serrano Plaza; (213) 383-9632. Open daily from 11:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. Visa and MasterCard accepted.