Last week I went to Korean BBQ in Oakland. Ohgane. It was excellent. We were two Jews, a California “Babe,” her boyfriend, and a Korean woman; let us call her… Sarah. It feels wrong to write about these people on the Internet without their knowledge — I was there as a once-removed interloper — but this isn’t about them. It’s about the noodles that Sarah ordered. They were superthin and spicy and cold. The sauce was red. When I asked Sarah what they were, she just said “Buckwheat noodles.” The answer made me sad, because I worried that “Delicious Korean buckwheat noodles” wouldn’t be enough for me to find them later to make at home every night for the rest of my life, which I kinda wanted to do. But a week later, all is well, for Sarah has come through! Over the transom comes this link:
Where can I find these? In the old days, I would just research Korean groceries in San Francisco, write down some addresses, go try them, and that would be it. But now my life is such that I have to write a 500-word blog post with digressive playful annoying preambles and regular ambles and postambles with embedded Lee Hazelwood songs and stories about the first time I ate a noodle and on and on, culminating in a link to a yelp page I found in four seconds for a store I’ve never been to. Sorry, Lord.
And so on.