Hwaro
Since 2006, this Little Bourke Street room has done Korean barbecue the old, laborious way, over real charcoal at cast-iron braziers of glowing coals carried to each table rather than gas burners set into the surface. The distinction matters to the owner-chef, who prepares the meats and sauces herself: she oversees the slicing of the karubi short ribs and blends the seasonings lined up on the tables, among them a hot-pepper Sangyu mix said to run to more than twenty ingredients. Grilling is meant to be hands-on, the cooked meat wrapped ssam-style in lettuce with garlic, chilli and the house pastes, then chased with cold noodles to reset the palate. Little of this is spelled out for you; the format assumes you know the rhythm, or are willing to learn it over an evening. Open seven nights and running late, it draws a mix of homesick regulars, students and after-work groups into the charcoal smoke. In a city thick with Korean grills, the pull here is the length of the tenure and the fact that so much still passes through one cook's hands, a barbecue built on seasoning and patience rather than novelty.
