The sound of the AC vent fills my ears as I walk into Assi Korean Market, what I consider to be Korean Heaven. My sister walks beside me, her frazzled hair giving barely half an inch of height over me. She wears neon pink Nike shorts and an even louder t-shirt, which displays an inspirational quote that reminds me of a Kidz bop song I listened to years before. My grandparents waltz in behind us, bringing in their calm yet important demeanor. They always seem so elegant and famous to me. Whenever I’m with them I felt like I’m walking into North Korea with Dennis Rodman. It may have to do with the fact that my grandfather always wears his grey corduroy coat and his chunky golden Rolex is always worn a few notches too loose. Maybe it's the fact that my Grandmother is always greeted by numerous Korean Ahjimmahs- Korean for ladies- all scrambling to say hello and bowing low again and again. 

My grandfather grabs one of the free newspapers piled at the front of the market entrance and pulls out a cigarette, an old habit from when he immigrated to America in the 1950s. The dream was to come to America, look and act like Americans -thus the cigarette- and drive a Cadillac and wear a Rolex. I always thought he looked like Paulie from Goodfellas, whenever he smoked. He would usually put his watch hand in his pocket and pace gravely  in the front of the entrance like a five star general contemplating if he should send the troops or not.  That’s unless ,if he was short on time, then he’d stand still and just huff and puff quickly like a rapid fire machine gun.

While my grandfather smokes, my grandmother usually grabs my hand and pulls me towards the food court.  The first thing you are greeted with are rows upon rows of tables and chairs in the middle which are surrounded on the outside by a sea of food stalls. My greatest dilemma; I never know where to sit. The blue-collar workers, who are likely here on their lunch break, normally sit near entrance. In the middle, are the others- a random hodge podge of college students, families, and Yelpers exploring "deep dives." On the far opposite side, near the grungy bathrooms and the odd oceans mural, sits the hardcore Koreans. That is where my grandma and grandpa reign. They have their special table that they always sit at, right across, of course, from the  main Korean food stall. Of course, when they get their food, they stall owner actually brings it out to them , and they get extra kimchee! That is the mark of greatness. Ever since I was little, I always wanted to sit on that side. I always wanted to sit crossed-legged, with a cheap cigarette and a cup of Boricha (barley tea which to some tastes like bland coffee, but it has grown on me) in each hand. Yet, a part of me never felt welcomed. I never learned Korean and the closest thing I’ve ever come to smoking was a pretzel. 

If you aren’t familiar with Korean Supermarkets, the food court is basically zero-star dining. Immigrants who can’t afford to buy restaurants set up food stalls, but  serve some of the most authentic and delicious food you’ll ever have.  If you say you like a home cooked meal, this is the place for you. A place where Hispanics, Koreans, Chinese, and any other minority you can think of congregates. Everyone is welcome.  High school jocks and  drama crew alike swarm near the colorful Korean bakery stall, getting their caffeine fix of bubble tea and piping hot fish shaped deserts off of the grill that squirt out warm red bean if you are not careful and bite to fast! A young family wolf down kimpap and odeng, the Korean version of McDonalds fast food. Instead of burgers, they chomp on what is a modified California roll with beef, egg, and pickle plus fish cake soup.  "Number 45!" yells Mrs. Kim in Stall 5. "Number 15!" pipes Mr. Park in stall 10. A cacophoney of  numbers are shouted that blur into a warm background song. I can smell the pungent smell of mothballs fuming off of my grandma's knitted sweater. The fragrance is repulsive yet comforting to me. Her warm, soft, squishy hand pulls me towards familiarity and the feeling of being hugged.  In front of us, at the entrance of the area which is connected to a Korean grocery store, big bold red letters scream “KOREAN FOOD”. An inexperienced food courter would likely take one glance at the dilapidated, faded red sign and  dirty tables - you bus you own food so no one really cleans the tables- and immediately walk in the other direction. The ones in the know realize that the more misspelled and simple the name, the better the food. 

A symphony of clattering pans and angry Korean Ajimmahs screaming words in dialects that even my Grandma doesn’t know, reminds us that we were in the right place. I approach the counter, staring at the glowing menu above. Discolored images of Korean food hang above me like the slides of an old PowerPoint. My eyes skim across until they land on the bright yellow letters, E23. “Kalbi Pap Jusayo!” I say to the pimpled-faced cashier, who looks around my age and whose wired bug-eyed glasses reflect my own sweaty face back at me. She smiles at me. I smile back at her. We have chatted over the years. Like me, she does not speak Korean, but at least she understands it. She is a junior too. "Yes, junior year and APs are brutal too!" she says. She plays cello ( no surprise). She is  a snowboard champions (surprise). I think her parents own this stall, but I have never asked. All I know is that she works here after school, and the owner always give me extra panchan ( Korean small dishes of pickles or treats that come with your meal). I pay and head off towards the weathered wooden tables. 

              I battle through the wall of smoke and make a beeline for my grandpa. He is sitting in his chair, cross-legged with a cigarette trapped between his discolored teeth. Grandma not there. She has gone shopping quickly while they wait for their food. Grandpa is surrounded by a swarm of church friends. He is a deacon and head of their senior group. I don’t say a word, but I bow to all his friends, nodding my head up and down, and smile. They greet me warmly then quickly go back to their chatter. 

As they say, I am saved by the bell. The same pimple-faced cashier dings the bell to say my meal is ready.  As I walk towards the booth to pick it up, she comes out and meets me half way, holding my steaming plastic tray, and brings it to me. She says she is on break and can I join her?   I realize how cute she is, how low her now foggy glasses sit on her nose. I don’t care about the food, I just want to find out more. We sit in the middle of the food court together and eat.