Soul Food: Sundaeguk

Sundaeguk (순대국) is, without question, one of Korea’s true soul foods. I was in my late twenties when I first tried sundae—Korean blood sausage. At first, the taste of blood felt unfamiliar, even a little off-putting, but I couldn’t admit that to my colleagues. I didn’t want to seem like an out-of-touch Korean American who had lost her taste for Korean food. So, I smiled, nodded, and ate.

To my surprise, my colleagues mistook my politeness for enthusiasm and kept taking me back for more. By the third visit, something unexpected happened—the dish grew on me. The flavor that once felt foreign began to taste like home. Sundaeguk became more than a meal; it became a reminder of comfort, history, and quiet resilience—served in a steaming bowl.

Traditionally, sundae was born out of scarcity. In the old days, when meat was a luxury reserved for the aristocracy, peasants made the most of what was left behind. They used scraps, organs, and blood to create sausages, then stretched the meal by boiling it into a hearty soup—sundaeguk. Despite its humble origins, even sundae itself wasn’t cheap to make, so other leftover cuts of pork were often added to the broth. It was a dish of necessity that carried the warmth of survival and ingenuity.

Today, the story has come full circle. What was once a poor man’s meal has become a beloved classic—and ironically, not inexpensive. Perhaps it’s a sign of the times: rent, wages, and inflation have driven up prices, and the limited amount of usable meat from a pig makes the dish rarer than one might think. Yet, as the cost rises, so does its popularity. There’s something timeless about a food that can fill not only the stomach but also the spirit.

For me, sundaeguk is a bowl of comfort I return to whenever I’m feeling down, under the weather, or simply in need of warmth. I always order the set, so I can enjoy a generous portion of sundae. Hidden beneath the surface of the milky broth lies a spoonful of seasoned chili paste—waiting to be stirred in. As I mix it, the soup transforms into a deep, comforting red. I add a touch of salted shrimp to enhance the flavor, and the first spoonful always makes me pause.

The taste is rich yet familiar, humble yet proud—just like the history behind it. Every bowl of sundaeguk reminds me that food, at its best, connects us not only to our hunger but also to who we are and where we come from.