Winding through the streets of downtown LA, my son watched carefully for the narrow alleyway between the area’s darkened and tightly packed office buildings. Disguised as a driveway to some unknown loading dock behind the buildings, those who didn’t know the city’s Korea Town would never suspect the alley was there.
Finally my son spotted the entrance, navigated the dark, narrow alley, then hit the brake as a valet popped out of the darkness and held up his hand. Both men chuckled as I gaped in amazement. Before us was a paved courtyard strung with twinkling lights and lined with tiny shops selling jewelry, handbags, and flowers. Laughing children, parents, grandparents, dating couples, girlfriend groups, and young men in twos and threes strolled through the courtyard and gathered in front of restaurants featuring Korean food.
The sights, sounds, and language of the Korean community swirled around us as we got out of the car and made our way toward a restaurant owned by a local folk hero. My son and I joined the group waiting in front and leaned into the smoky scents of Korean barbecue–literally a dozen different cuts of grilled beef and pork–as we waited for a table. When we finally got inside, we were seated at a round table with our own grill in the center. Servers in black t-shirts and jeans, bluetooth devices forming an almost Borg-like connection between them, swarmed around the table to grill the meats we selected and surround us with metal bowls of soups, stews, vegetables, wasabi, a saffron rice accented with lychee nuts, and a different dipping sauce for each offering.
Blissfully, I tried everything. One new flavor after another burst across my tongue, and I grew bolder with my choices and faster with my chopsticks.
Eventually, though, I put down my sticks, signaled for a cup of tea, and sighed with happiness. How often, I wondered, is there so much light hidden within darkness?
















