Of Molluscs and Men-A Tentacle Tale.

Survival, soju, and the silent power of side dishes.

Ever seen a dead octopus squirm?

No. Neither had I. Not until I found myself as one of the ‘guests of honour’ at my gracious Korean principal’s welcome dinner for ‘the foreigners’.

It’s disconcerting. Watching it contract entirely involuntarily in its alabaster specimen dish. It’s alive-dead, apparently. I still don’t know what that means.

Thankfully for me, being a woman and all, I wasn’t expected to eat the thing. No, no. THAT privilege was reserved solely for the male of the species. It was, afterall, the bringer of testosterone. The purveyor of sperm count. The oracle of masculinity. Or something like that anyway.

On certain other days of the year, being something of an equal right-ser, a feminist, if you will, I might have been offended. Today, I can assure you, was not one of those days. Principles be damned!

Today, I was deemed the ‘lesser sex’, and I was glad for it. Thankful, even. I held my metal chopsticks elegantly (like a complete novice) and tid-bitted my way around the various ‘Banchan’ (Side dishes). Spinach, sesame potatoes. Some kind of lotus thing (it was delicious). Safe in the knowledge that I, in all my testosterone-lite glory, was exempt from this sacred ritual.

The men on my team, however, had turned a rather strange shade of grey, not unlike the suckers protruding from the poor contracting octopus at the centre of the table. Uncanny really.

The build-up was something of a theatre. The Korean men were grunting and wielding chopsticks like samurai swords. They jabbed at the pulsating mollusc until it stilled, then proclaimed victory weilding it above their heads, before shoving it theatrically into their mouths. The western guys visibly baulked.

As they chewed, it was evident that the tentacles were a challenge to break down. Cheeks bulged, eyes watered, and for a moment, it was a toss-up — man versus beast in a battle of wills. To be fair man had a bit of a headstart, as is usually the case, in these cases.

The exaggerated swallow with a visible Adam’s apple, signified the end.

The tension peaked, a sudden gesture broke the stillness: a fist thrust high into the air.

Triumph and defiance.

-Victory!

And a shot of soju for everyone. Even the women..

We ‘geonbae’d’ joyously. Clinking glasses and relishing in the triumph.

And then it was time. The newcomers turn.

Excuses were made. The experience politely declined. I’ll admit it. I was slightly disappointed that not a single man from my homeland was willing to partake (there were four of them). Not that I was offering up my services to step in and take one for the team wither. No siree. They wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Against the rules of etiquette. Or, that’s what I’ll continue to tell myself. The host, ever the gracious gentleman, didn’t insist.

It wasn’t until sometime later that I learned that it’s not uncommon for a man to die in pursuit of octopus elixir. There have even been murder charges instigated as a result (But she was a she, and that’s another story entirely).

The thing is though, when I read a menu, the survival instinct in me implores me.

Don’t choose the option with the disclaimer, “Might end up dead”.

To be fair, it just doesn’t seem like a good idea.

But all cultures have their things, and who am I to judge?

I’m just relieved that I’m exempt.

Still, no matter how much I tried to keep an open mind. If I am completely honest, after that evening, I could never quite look at my principal in quite the same again. The reserved, contemplative man. Always pristine. Polite. Supportive.

But I had seen him with a half-live tentacle hanging from his mouth.

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Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’

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