We’ve all done it — that is, those of us lucky enough to have large Korean markets at our disposal. After fetching fresh greens you can’t find at mainstream markets and grabbing a package of marinated meats, you wander into the banchan section replete with neatly packaged side dishes.

 

Will you pick up some namul — seasoned spinach, bean sprouts or mushrooms — and whip it up with steamed rice and red pepper sauce for a healthy bowl of bibimbap? Or will you get your spice fix with baby squid pickled in a fiery red sauce? Finally, you settle for piping hot slices of bindaedduk, crispy mung bean pancakes that are fresh off the fry pan.

 

Welcome to the Korean version of the soup and salad bar, where the variety is astounding, the translated labels at times perplexing, and the story behind the preparation quintessentially American.

 

Store-bought banchan, which generally refers to anything on the table that isn’t rice or soup, has become so prevalent that no self-respecting Korean market in a major city will offer less than two dozen varieties, including warm and cold dishes.

 

Hannam Chain, on Olympic and Vermont in L.A.’s Koreatown, is no exception. On a recent Saturday morning, scents of garlic and sesame oil typical of a Korean kitchen permeate the air in the store’s bustling banchan department. Large batches of kosari, brown stems that will later be seasoned with salt, garlic and sesame oil, are boiling away in a vat of water, and cooked glass noodles sit in a container soon to be transformed into japchae, a kind of warm noodle salad made with meat and vegetables.

 

Jinho Kim, head of Hannam’s banchan department, moves swiftly around the multiple food stations making sure the ingredients are assembled properly and everything tastes right.

 

“The key to making good banchan is the seasoning,” she says.

 

But don’t ask her for specific measurements. Like many an accomplished Korean cook, Kim says her secret to perfectly seasoned banchan boils down to “son mat,” literally translated as “taste of hand.” In other words, just like her own mother whose shoulder Kim would peer over in the kitchen, Kim uses her instincts.

 

“I keep to tradition,” adds the petite 58-year-old. “Even though some have asked me to make [this or that] saltier or spicier, I think it’s important to preserve our cultural heritage.”

 

Yet, in today’s modern supermarket kitchen, Kim is also adjusting to change. Many of her employees are Latinos, and oftentimes, they are the ones to whom she is passing on these Korean culinary traditions.

 

Take Coronado Ramos, a 37-year-old Salvadoran worker who is responsible for washing and cutting radishes to make kimchi, a spicy fermented dish that accompanies every Korean meal. When he started working under Kim 12 years ago, he knew nothing about Korean food. “Now I’m an expert,” he says.