Myeongnanjeot

A Korean delicacy born out of necessity.

The microwave beeps an urgent symphony of pulses. Out comes the plastic packet that, once peeled, wafts the sweet smell of white rice. Placed on the table, the rice sits lonely, a blank canvas waiting for more. But, aha! Lifting the lid of the light wooden box reveals two bright red ovals, their outer skin glistening with condensation. Carefully, the lobes are severed with a sharp knife and then lifted out of the box and onto a plate. A quick slit reveals thousands of eggs as small as a grain of sand contained within the translucent skin. When placed on a spoon of rice, an explosion of deep fishy, salty, and spicy flavors envelops the tastebuds. The hot rice contrasts with the multitude of cool eggs that give an expansive mouth feel. The saltiness of the roe contrasts beautifully with the fresh rice, and the pepper flakes kick takes the duo’s flavor over the edge into transcendence. The spicy and salty fish eggs demand the addition of rice, leaving the roe with the playful name ‘rice thief.’

The spicy and salty fish eggs demand the addition of rice, leaving the roe with the playful name ‘rice thief.’

My experience eating myeongnanjot, or fermented salted pollock roe, is both a delightful blip of nostalgia and an embodied experience of culture. Growing up, in a Korean American (heavy on the American) household, I did not regularly eat Korean food. But one food that always brought me back to my Koreanness was myeongnanjeot. I did not have the language to call it that, and initially, I never really knew what I was eating. I saw the small pink dots and enjoyed the rich flavor blast that served as a contrast to the fluffy canvas of rice. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized each dot was a fish egg, and each lobe contained thousands, but taste won over any morality concerns I had. I first ate the salted roe at my grandparent’s house in California. Their kitchen always smelled of mildew, and the fridge and freezer were always packed with expired food, leftovers, and freebies taken from anywhere and everywhere. Everything that came out of that fridge had a distinct flavor, a cold freezer-burnt taste with a hint of funk. The fish roe we ate was always frozen and funky anyway, so the flavor wasn’t altered by sitting in their freezer and soaking up smells. Some see the funky flavor as gross and weird, but my love for the roe always felt like a great cultural connection. When I eat myeongnanjot, I feel Korean. The embodied memory of flavor makes me recall my ancestral lineage and food heritage.

When I eat myeongnanjot, I feel Korean. The embodied memory of flavor makes me recall my ancestral lineage and food heritage.

To look at myeongnanjeot, we must look first to its mother, the myeongtae or walleye pollock fish. The myeongtae is a very special fish to Koreans. It is sometimes called gukmin saengseon or the national fish. According to historical records, Koreans have enjoyed pollock roe since the Joseon dynasty (1392-1910). One of the first recorded mentions of pollock roe in Korea occurred in 1652 in the Seungjeongwon Ilgi, which recorded the king’s daily life. Pollock fish are prevalent along the Eastern coast of Korea since they prefer cold water. The fish are caught and dried on wooden slats along the coast, but the organs rot quickly and thus are removed. The rows of drying fish are quite a spectacle, since hundreds of fish are hung by the jaw or gills on logs two rows high and tens of feet long. Korean people took to fermenting the organs to prevent their early spoilage. Korean cuisine consists of many preserved food items, either through fermentation or drying, since the cold and harsh winters do not provide much sustenance. Fermentation has been part of Korean cooking for at least 5,000 years. These fermented foods are consumed daily in Korean cuisine, as within the traditional Korean diet of hansik, kimchi is served with every meal alongside various other banchan, or side dishes, that may also be fermented.

These fish do not only serve edible purposes, but are also symbolic. A dried myeongtae wrapped in a white string is often hung above the doors of shops since its wide eyes and large open mouth scare off bad spirits. The pollock’s eyes are so big they are though to be able to see 10,000 miles away, enough to see any bad things coming. Many Koreans believe fish do not sleep, so the dried fish can serve as a round-the-clock protector. Myeongtae are also the premier fish for ancestor worship, since the “Chinese character for ‘myeong’ means ‘bright,’ and symbolizes making your vision bright and clear.” Myeongtae are also though to represent the fish god, and serve as a protector and symbol of abundance.

The fish eggs from the pollock are more commonly known by their Japanese name, mentaiko, and are widely considered a Japanese food rather than a Korean one. The first term I learned to describe the roe was mentaiko, and I did not know the Korean word for the eggs until traveled to the homeland last summer. I went to a Korean folk museum in Seoul, and to my delight, there was a whole exhibit dedicated to fish. Within this exhibit, I learned that the consumption of fish in South Korea is one of the highest per capita in the world. Koreans proudly are among the highest consumers of croakers, pollocks, and anchovies. I also learned that my favorite food, the salty fish roe, is actually originally a Korean product. During the violent period of Japanese colonization in Korea, the Japanese colonizers discovered this food and took a liking to it. This lost history of the pollock roe represents one of many of the things stolen by the Japanese during their violent colonial occupation of Korea.

The first introduction of myeongnanjeot to Japan was in 1807, but was not greatly widespread. During the period of Japanese colonization (1910-1945), myeongnanjeot was introduced to even more Japanese people. The founder of the biggest pollock roe producer in Japan said that he used to eat the roe while growing up in colonized Busan. According to popular belief, the roe became important to Busan because Japanese colonizers would pay Korean workers in fish guts instead of money. This was an unfair method of payment that did not provide a monetary wage to Koreans. However, Korean people are resilient and made the most of their situation. Using fermentation techniques, Korean people would then preserve these innards, including the roe. Japanese colonizers then took a liking to the preserved fish roe and began exporting it to Japan. This is why the appropriation of pollock roe as Japanese mentaiko is particularly problematic.

Mentaiko is in vogue in the culinary world, seen as descending from a  “long lineage of oceanic hot girl foods” such as tinned fish. You can find mentaiko in Japanese-Italian-inspired pasta at Michelin-starred restaurants or in potato chips at your nearest Asian market. It is a food that is exotic yet approachable, containing the allure of Asia within a not-too-fishy packet. It is an umami bomb, adding depth, saltiness, and richness to any food it touches. But while some food critics argue that we should be eating more mentaiko, I argue that we must eat more myeongnanjeot. It is essential to think about this cod roe as a Korean product rather than a Japanese one because although mentaiko and myeongnanjeot have now diverged, the origins of mentaiko lie within the co-opting of Korean products and rebranding as Japanese. The story behind this must be changed to keep Japan accountable for the crimes it committed under the colonial system. The story here is not one of an equal-power cultural exchange but rather a massive power stealing a cultural product from its colony. Although the period of Japanese colonization is over, we must remember the history of the dish and honor myeongnanjeot.

Although the period of Japanese colonization is over, we must remember the history of the dish and honor myeongnanjeot.

Myeongnanjeot also represents my own return to Koreanness. When eating the eggs, the rich flavor washes over me and I feel a sense of oneness with other Korean people who enjoy the food. Even though prior to this project I did not know the history behind the dish, the sense of taste allows me to feel the history through flavor. The enjoyment I get from the dish connects me to the rich culinary history of Korea. This embodied sense of culture inspires me to learn more about Korean culture, from its cuisine to its history. I want to reclaim these histories of Korean making, to relearn what so much of Japanese colonization, Korean division, and American assimilation has taken away from me. Eating myeongnanjeot allows me to enjoy a delicious food, but also allows me to connect with myself and with what has been hidden under the surface for too long.

In Korea, the market stall is full of vast items that I have never seen before. From rice cakes bigger than my head to freshly fried twisted donuts, my mind spins with all the possibilities. The stall that draws my attention most is the jeot, or salted fish, stall. There, buckets of myeongnanjeot are piled high next to spicy squid, cuttlefish, and any other fish you can imagine. Walking through the Korean markets, I always looked at these fish stalls, but I was too afraid to ask about the things they were selling. I especially had an eye for the pollock roe, but it was always sold in massive quantities and I was too fearful to talk to the merchants in in a language I barely knew how to say “hello” in. Thus, in Korea, I never tried the roe straight from the source. Luckily for me, I am still able to access the roe in the states. Whenever I go to the Korean market in the US, I get a plastic tray with two perfect lobes to take home. At my house, it is treated like gold, we fight over it, covet it, and enjoy it over a steaming bowl of rice. And still, every time I eat it, I feel like I am reconnecting to something deep within myself, that it is not just me eating it but every part of my self and ancestors that also are partaking in the punchy eggs. A reminder of the brutal occupation that my grandparents went through, and the enduring spirit of Korean culinary history. Myeongranjot is not just a food, it is my favorite food and one that holds many memories and histories throughout my family.

References

Bburi Kitchen, “Hwangtae: open air freeze-dried pollock.” January 15, 2016. http://bburikitchen.com/hwangtae-freeze-dried-pollock.

Cha, Sang-Eun. “A hit abroad, pollack roe is rallying at home.” September 11, 2015. https://koreajoongangdaily.joins.com/news/article/Article.aspx?aid=3009090

Jung, Su-Jin, Soo-Wan Chae, and Dong-Hwa Shin. 2022. “Fermented Foods of Korea and Their Functionalities” Fermentation 8, no. 11: 645. https://doi.org/10.3390/fermentation8110645

Ng, Vanessa. “Mentaiko Didn’t Originate From Japan — A Dive Into History.” Medium. August 24, 2020. https://medium.com/curious/mentaiko-didnt-originate-from-japan-a-dive-into-history-eca5b2597220

“Pollock roe, traditional Korean food.” Visit Busan. Accessed March 25, 2024. https://www.visitbusan.net/index.do?menuCd=DOM_000000302003001000&uc_seq=380&lang_cd=en

Singh, Mehr. “Mentaiko Is Ready for Its Moment.” Eater. September 23, 2022. https://www.eater.com/23363532/mentaiko-japanese-salted-cod-roe-american-restaurants-cooking

Lanie Cheatham is a Comparative American Studies and Biology major with at least three and possibly five fish-related tattoos, depending how you look at it.