Tag Archives: Korea

Mixing Rice, Making Self: Chef Edward Lee’s Theory of Bibimbap

By R. Claire Bunschoten & Ben D. Lee

On the Netflix show Culinary Class Wars, Korean American chef Edward Lee makes food to make identity. In the semi-final round of the South Korean cooking competition show, chefs are tasked to create a dish communicating their life story. Signature dishes abound: elaborately crafted songshu guiyu and painstakingly refined pasta vongole speak of hard won skill. Lee, however, offers a twist on a Korean classic when he prepares for the judges a “modern-style” bibimbap to communicate his Korean American identity in the form of a deep fried ball of rice reminiscent of arancini, encased in a layer of Ahi tuna, and topped with caviar. The result of his efforts are mixed.

Bibimbap, which literally translates to mixed rice, is a humble yet prominent mainstay of Korean cuisine dating back at least to the sixteenth century. Comprised of a bowl of warm white rice topped with an artful arrangement of vegetables (namul), some beef, and often an egg yolk, all is then mixed together by the diner with a condiment of gochujang (fermented red pepper paste) or soy sauce to one’s own taste before eating. Scholars of Korean foodways such as Hae-kyung Chung note that bibimbap has “a distinctive flavor that combines ingredients to create new flavors while allowing those ingredients to stay true to their core.” In this way, bibimbap is a dish of transformation; although bibimbap’s ingredients are discrete at the start, the mixing at the heart of its name (bibim from the verb bibida, “to mix”) produces a unified dish.1

A bowl of bibimbap. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Chef Edward Lee’s creation plays with bibimbap’s essence: its mixedness. Lee reconceptualizes the bibim at the center of his bibimbap both materially and rhetorically. Perhaps most obviously, his interpretation of bibimbap has the dish take a new shape which does not require mixing. The judges, when first presented with Lee’s bibimbap, ask if the dish must be mixed before eating. “No,” Lee responds, “Just cut into it.” Skeptical, judge chef Anh Sung-jae wonders aloud: “비빔이 없으면 비빔밥이 아니지 않나요? If there’s no bibim it’s not bibimbap, right?” In doing so, Anh identifies the key tension of Lee’s interpretation; Koreans understand the bibim of bibimbap in its verb form where mixing is a process, Lee however seems to understand bibim as a mixed state of being. In a later interview Anh explains that he disagrees with Lee’s interpretation of bibimbap because it “misrepresents what that iconic Korean dish actually is.” Indeed, as Mun et al concur, “Bibimbap is a food that is eaten by mixing bap, namul, and jang in one bowl.” To require a knife and fork to cut into bibimbap is antithetical to Korean convention. Yet Lee’s liberty with bibim and understanding it as an equivalent to the U.S. English usage of “mixed” extends to the chef’s narrativization of this dish as key to his identity.2

With the dish set in front of the judges, Lee explains: “저는 비빔인간 입니다. I am a bibimingan.” Drawing on the bibim of bibimbap and ingan meaning person, Lee appends the two concepts to assert that he is a mixed person. As he continues to describe his struggles with his identity to the judges–”Am I American? Am I Korean?”–he turns to bibimbap as emblematic of his experience. “Bibimbap at first sight has many different colors and ingredients, but they’re all mixed to create one unique flavor.” Lee casts his culinary training, experiences in the United States, and Korean heritage as the ingredients of his life, seemingly disparate and distinct yet all critical to his sense of self. He continues in English, “When I look at bibimbap, I see myself. It kind of reflects my life and identity as a Korean American person. I am bibimbap.” 

By reinterpreting a dish with Korean roots with aspects of his multi-cultural upbringing and culinary training, Lee crafts his identity through his take on bibimbap. While this narrativization of the dish for the television program presents bibimbap as a reflection of Lee’s identity, making food (as a chef or otherwise) draws on the breadth of Lee’s creativity and embodied knowledge. Bibimbap as a food, as cultural code, becomes a means of materially making identity. After all, Edward Lee is not bibimbap. Although bibimbap allows Lee to materially and rhetorically articulate his experience of the Korean diaspora, people are not food. Yet, Lee is not alone in using food as a metaphor for racial and ethnic identity. 

Food is often used to mark racial, ethnic, and cultural differences. In English specifically, these food metaphors also often transmit and perpetuate racist attitudes.3 Food metaphors might be applied to individuals or groups–e.g. “banana” to discuss East Asians who act “white”–but also to describe processes of immigration and assimilation more broadly as in the much critiqued metaphors of the (fondue) melting pot, salad bowl, and stew.4 This latter type of metaphor to describe immigrant and multicultural relations persists beyond the U.S. and Anglophonic world. For example, some South Koreans turn to bibimbap and jjamppong (a “spicy mixed-up seafood noodle soup,” with origins in Chinese foodways) as metaphors for mixing multiple ideas and objects. While both dishes communicate ideas of mixing, jjamppong denotes a seemingly indiscriminate mix of different kinds of ingredients into one dish whereas bibimbap emphasizes an intentional process of bringing disparate concepts together.5

That said, it is worth noting that Edward Lee’s use of bibimbap differs from these food metaphors. Lee’s assertion of “I am bibimbap” does not make generalizations about groups or attempt to tidily reconcile multicultural relations, but honors Lee’s own lived experience and expression of his bibim identity through his making of bibimbap. Although the bibimbap metaphor may not have been received positively on a universal level by the show’s judges, Lee offers a refreshing approach for thinking about Korean diasporic subjectivities and their broader position in society as cross-cultural mediators. As a Korean American man born and raised in New York City who received training in the world’s cuisines, and embraces the regional influences of Washington D.C. and Louisville, Kentucky where he lives, there appears a capaciousness in the material and symbolic affordances of bibimbap. That is, even as Lee takes cheffy license to stray from traditional definitions of bibimbap, his interpretation of this dish remains a celebration of mixedness. And, arguably, Lee’s bibimbap and concept of bibimingan demonstrates the way this chef uses food to make sense of his subjectivity, both ideologically and on the plate. Mixing, as a culinary instruction so key to bibimbap, is made into a way of being.  


R. Claire Bunschoten studies food and its relations to power. Her work often grapples with food’s material-semiotic and sensorial qualities as they relate to concepts of identity in the twentieth century United States. She is at work on her first book project which investigates vanilla as a flavor, fragrance, and racial signifier in the United States. She holds a PhD and MA in American Studies from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and a BA from Bard College. Her writing has appeared in Food and Foodways, Aeon, Social Text, and more. 

Ben D. Lee was raised in Christchurch, New Zealand as a 1.5-generation Korean New Zealander, whose studies took him to Australia and the United States. He is a medical anthropologist with a PhD in Occupational Therapy, embodying bibimingan in an academic context. Ben studied the lived sensory experiences of people living with schizophrenia and left academia in May 2025 for a career in consulting.


  1. Hae Kyung Chung, “The Meaning and Symbolism of Korean Food Culture,” Asia Review 5, no. 1 (2015): 97-121. (in Korean, translation by B.D. Lee) ↩︎
  2. Eun-Gyung Mun, Young-Eun Lee, and Youn-Soo Cha, “The Globalization of Bibimbap: Focusing on the Diversity of Modernization of Bibimbap,” Journal of Ethnic Foods 10, no. 1 (November 1, 2023): 39. ↩︎
  3. Irene López-Rodríguez, “Are We What We Eat? Food Metaphors in the Conceptualization of Ethnic Groups,” Linguistik Online 69, no. 7 (September 26, 2014). ↩︎
  4. Xaviera (Mei Mei) Xiao, “Ingredients of Discourse: Analyzing the Language of Food in Discourses of Multiculturalism,” Food Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 7, no. 2 (2017): 1–9. ↩︎
  5. As some food metaphors mark racial difference and inferiority in the U.S., there are some potential negative connotations in jjamppong’s characterization as an indiscriminate mix especially considering its origins in China. We look forward to scholars exploring this further in work on Korean food metaphors. ↩︎

Tales from the Archives: Was There a Recipe for Korean Ginseng?

By Daniel Trambaiolo


As all of us continue to watch the COVID-19 vaccine rollout, and wait with cautious optimism for a time when we can heal and recover, I’d like to take a moment to revisit another medical breakthrough that required patience of its own. In this post from our archives, Daniel Trambaiolo recounts an exchange between a Korean and Japanese doctor as they “discussed” best practices for preserving and transporting the Korean wonder drug ginseng to Japan. I hope you enjoy our return to this tale of recipes, distribution logistics, and healing, no super-chilled storage freezers required.  -Joshua Schlachet


Ginseng_in_Korea

Ginseng, one of the best known drugs of the East Asian herbal tradition, can be purchased today almost anywhere in the world, but in the early modern period its availability was much more limited. The roots of Panax ginseng could be harvested only from its natural ecological range, in a region stretching across Manchuria, Siberia, and the Korean peninsula. In countries like Japan, where doctors relied on Chinese styles of herbal therapy but did not have direct access to herbal drugs that grew only on the continent, the roots had to be imported at high cost.

The cost of Korean ginseng became a source of concern in Japan during the final years of the seventeenth century, as the need to pay for the drug contributed to a steady outflow of Japanese silver that was used to pay for foreign products. During the early eighteenth century, the Japanese shogunal government encouraged doctors and herbalists to develop a domestic substitute, either by finding a native plant with similar medicinal properties or by discovering a way to cultivate Korean ginseng plants on Japanese soil.

Panax ginseng did not grow natively in Japan, but the related species Panax japonicus appeared similar and promised to have similar medicinal properties. However, the roots of the native Japanese species had a distinctive segmented appearance that led to Japanese doctors calling it “bamboo-segment ginseng”; their flavour was also more bitter and less sweet than the imported Korean product–a concern for many doctors, who believed that flavor was closely related to therapeutic efficacy. Some drug sellers claimed to possess secret methods that could transform the native herb into an equivalent of the imported drug, but how could these claims be evaluated?

Korean doctors were one obvious source of authoritative information on ginseng, but it was difficult to discuss the matter with them because the shogunal government had enacted strict policies limiting the movement of foreigners into Japan. Among the rare exceptions were the Koreans who travelled to Japan on diplomatic missions. Starting in 1682, these missions included a “medical expert” (K. yangǔi, J. ryōi 良醫) whose functions were to provide medical care for the members of the embassy and to allow Japanese doctors the benefit of Korean medical knowledge.

"KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu" by I, PHGCOM. Licensed under CC 表示-継承 3.0 via ウィキメディア・コモンズ - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu.jpg#/media/File:KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu.jpg
An early modern Korean embassy to Japan.

Neither the Japanese nor the Koreans could speak each others’ languages, so they communicated by writing down questions and answers in classical Chinese, a form of conversation known as “brush talks” (K. p’ildam, J. hitsudan 筆談). The records of these conversations were often preserved in manuscripts or books printed for wider dissemination, and they can offer us insights into the styles of cross-cultural communication that these embassies facilitated–as well as into the ways Korean and Japanese doctors tried to derive benefits from each other without giving away too much in return.

The following exchange on ginseng took place between the Japanese doctor Kawamura Harutsune and the Korean doctor Cho Hwalam during the Korean embassy of 1748. (The translation is based on the published version of their conversations, which was distributed by the prominent Edo bookseller Suwaraya Mohei.)

Kawamura: In our country there is a type of ginseng whose stem, leaves, flowers and berries are just as described in the Materia Medica; its roots are similar in shape to what Zhang [Zhicong] calls “bamboo-segment ginseng.” It is very bitter in flavor and unsuitable for use, so people customarily boil it with licorice root or process it with honey water. But although the bitter flavor departs and a sweet flavor emerges, it is not the original flavor.

However, my father found a processing method that is quite acceptable; it does not rely on the flavors of other drugs, but the bitter flavor departs and a sweet flavor emerges. When my father consumed [imported] ginseng, he would always see blood in his phlegm. When he consumed the ginseng that he had processed himself, he would also see blood in his phlegm. Looking at it this way, is its efficacy similar to the ginseng from your country?

Cho: While I was in Osaka, I already heard people talk about your country’s ginseng. Although when you see the stem and leaves it looks similar, after tasting its flavor and inspecting its form it is clearly not genuine. You can perform all sorts of marvelous transformations to alter its bitter flavor, but how could you use it? There is no method for processing ginseng: you should use it just as it is naturally. Don’t be confused about this!

Kawamura: Your explanation is sufficient to dispel doubts. However, among several pounds of ginseng from your country, some roots have a burnt yellow color and seem to have undergone processing. Moreover, during [the embassy of] 1711 the Korean doctor Ki Tumun transmitted a processing method to a disciple of my grandfather. However, the paper has been eaten by insects and is now difficult to read. I will briefly write it down here, but I beg you to enlighten me further.

[Thereupon, he told me the method for processing ginseng. It is marvelous, and I have submitted it to the authorities. I do not record it here, but I have recorded it elsewhere and keep it in my home.]

Unfortunately, there are no surviving records of what Cho transmitted to Kawamura, so it is impossible to know whether it was a genuine recipe used by Koreans for processing ginseng or merely one he invented on the spot to deflect Kawamura’s questioning. Kawamura may have decided to omit the recipe from the published version of the brush talks in order to profit by selling ginseng processed according to a “secret Korean recipe.” However, his opportunities for doing so would probably have been quite limited. A few years before the meeting between Cho and Kawamura took place, a different group of Japanese herbalists succeeded in cultivating Korean ginseng from seedlings smuggled into Japan from Korea. As this new source of cultivated ginseng became commercially viable, the demand for “processed” ginseng dwindled rapidly and the recipes for such processing were gradually forgotten.

Was there a recipe for Korean ginseng?

By Daniel Trambaiolo

Ginseng_in_KoreaGinseng, one of the best known drugs of the East Asian herbal tradition, can be purchased today almost anywhere in the world, but in the early modern period its availability was much more limited. The roots of Panax ginseng could be harvested only from its natural ecological range, in a region stretching across Manchuria, Siberia, and the Korean peninsula. In countries like Japan, where doctors relied on Chinese styles of herbal therapy but did not have direct access to herbal drugs that grew only on the continent, the roots had to be imported at high cost.

The cost of Korean ginseng became a source of concern in Japan during the final years of the seventeenth century, as the need to pay for the drug contributed to a steady outflow of Japanese silver that was used to pay for foreign products. During the early eighteenth century, the Japanese shogunal government encouraged doctors and herbalists to develop a domestic substitute, either by finding a native plant with similar medicinal properties or by discovering a way to cultivate Korean ginseng plants on Japanese soil.

Panax ginseng did not grow natively in Japan, but the related species Panax japonicus appeared similar and promised to have similar medicinal properties. However, the roots of the native Japanese species had a distinctive segmented appearance that led to Japanese doctors calling it “bamboo-segment ginseng”; their flavour was also more bitter and less sweet than the imported Korean product–a concern for many doctors, who believed that flavor was closely related to therapeutic efficacy. Some drug sellers claimed to possess secret methods that could transform the native herb into an equivalent of the imported drug, but how could these claims be evaluated?

Korean doctors were one obvious source of authoritative information on ginseng, but it was difficult to discuss the matter with them because the shogunal government had enacted strict policies limiting the movement of foreigners into Japan. Among the rare exceptions were the Koreans who travelled to Japan on diplomatic missions. Starting in 1682, these missions included a “medical expert” (K. yangǔi, J. ryōi 良醫) whose functions were to provide medical care for the members of the embassy and to allow Japanese doctors the benefit of Korean medical knowledge.

"KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu" by I, PHGCOM. Licensed under CC 表示-継承 3.0 via ウィキメディア・コモンズ - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu.jpg#/media/File:KoreanEmbassy1655KanoTounYasunobu.jpg
An early modern Korean embassy to Japan.

Neither the Japanese nor the Koreans could speak each others’ languages, so they communicated by writing down questions and answers in classical Chinese, a form of conversation known as “brush talks” (K. p’ildam, J. hitsudan 筆談). The records of these conversations were often preserved in manuscripts or books printed for wider dissemination, and they can offer us insights into the styles of cross-cultural communication that these embassies facilitated–as well as into the ways Korean and Japanese doctors tried to derive benefits from each other without giving away too much in return.

The following exchange on ginseng took place between the Japanese doctor Kawamura Harutsune and the Korean doctor Cho Hwalam during the Korean embassy of 1748. (The translation is based on the published version of their conversations, which was distributed by the prominent Edo bookseller Suwaraya Mohei.)

Kawamura: In our country there is a type of ginseng whose stem, leaves, flowers and berries are just as described in the Materia Medica; its roots are similar in shape to what Zhang [Zhicong] calls “bamboo-segment ginseng.” It is very bitter in flavor and unsuitable for use, so people customarily boil it with licorice root or process it with honey water. But although the bitter flavor departs and a sweet flavor emerges, it is not the original flavor.

However, my father found a processing method that is quite acceptable; it does not rely on the flavors of other drugs, but the bitter flavor departs and a sweet flavor emerges. When my father consumed [imported] ginseng, he would always see blood in his phlegm. When he consumed the ginseng that he had processed himself, he would also see blood in his phlegm. Looking at it this way, is its efficacy similar to the ginseng from your country?

Cho: While I was in Osaka, I already heard people talk about your country’s ginseng. Although when you see the stem and leaves it looks similar, after tasting its flavor and inspecting its form it is clearly not genuine. You can perform all sorts of marvelous transformations to alter its bitter flavor, but how could you use it? There is no method for processing ginseng: you should use it just as it is naturally. Don’t be confused about this!

Kawamura: Your explanation is sufficient to dispel doubts. However, among several pounds of ginseng from your country, some roots have a burnt yellow color and seem to have undergone processing. Moreover, during [the embassy of] 1711 the Korean doctor Ki Tumun transmitted a processing method to a disciple of my grandfather. However, the paper has been eaten by insects and is now difficult to read. I will briefly write it down here, but I beg you to enlighten me further.

[Thereupon, he told me the method for processing ginseng. It is marvelous, and I have submitted it to the authorities. I do not record it here, but I have recorded it elsewhere and keep it in my home.]

Unfortunately, there are no surviving records of what Cho transmitted to Kawamura, so it is impossible to know whether it was a genuine recipe used by Koreans for processing ginseng or merely one he invented on the spot to deflect Kawamura’s questioning. Kawamura may have decided to omit the recipe from the published version of the brush talks in order to profit by selling ginseng processed according to a “secret Korean recipe.” However, his opportunities for doing so would probably have been quite limited. A few years before the meeting between Cho and Kawamura took place, a different group of Japanese herbalists succeeded in cultivating Korean ginseng from seedlings smuggled into Japan from Korea. As this new source of cultivated ginseng became commercially viable, the demand for “processed” ginseng dwindled rapidly and the recipes for such processing were gradually forgotten.