Restaurant Review - King coal

Hae Woon Dae remains the standard-bearer for Korean barbecue in Atlanta

Did we really need to start with the kimchi pancake?

Not that Hae Woon Dae’s version is in any way inferior. We each swiftly scarf down a couple crispy-slouchy slices filled with notably mild vegetables that have none of the fermented tang usually associated with kimchi. But my tablemates and I know that this nibble we ordered is only delaying the main event. We gaze impatiently at the covered hole in the center of our table, and crane our heads to see what’s cooking in front of other customers around the restaurant.

We’re waiting for the Fire Bearer.

He emerges from the depths of the kitchen at last, headed in our direction. His bucket lands with a dense thunk. We instinctively lean back in our chairs. Out of the bucket he lifts a cauldron of lambent, ashy wood coals. He lowers it precisely into the center of the table’s metal pit, then covers it with a gold, perforated lid. I try to catch his eye to say thanks, but he disappears without a backward glance.

It’s only a job — a toasty and probably dangerous job — to this guy in a T-shirt with a baseball cap on his head. But to us it is the chivalrous ritual that signals our meal of Korean barbecue will now begin in earnest.

Our server with the fire engine-red lipstick swoops in with numerous plates of pan chan, the sides of vegetables that accompany the main course, which include cabbage kimchi (potent when not fried into a sphere of pancake dough), cubes of daikon radish kimchi, soybean sprouts, spinach and — perhaps in deference to American barbecue — a tussock of mayonnaise-y coleslaw. She retrieves baskets of fluffy lettuce leaves, and a small tray of sweet been paste next to raw slices of jalapeno and garlic.

Meanwhile, neatly prepared plates of raw meat have been lined up on a nearby empty table. First up on the grill: bulgogi, the classic marinated beef for Korean barbecue that literally translates as “fire meat.” Flashing a crimson smile at our excited faces, the server jettisons the meat into the center of the grill. The flames underneath leap greedily and the smoke delivers a primal scent that kicks my salivary glands into overdrive.

She returns with tongs and a pair of scissors to snip the meat into bite-size pieces. As the meat turns from sanguine to grayish-pink, she shuffles the cooked morsels to the outer rim of the surface. Our party of four has only one Korean barbecue novice, and we show him the system: You can eat the meat as is, or wrap it in a lettuce leaf slicked with a discreet amount of the bean paste.

Oh, wow. It’s been years since I’ve been to Hae Woon Dae, but right now I can’t imagine staying away longer than a week. The traditional marinade of soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar and garlic mellows over the fire and enhances the beefiness of the meat rather than masquerades it. And the ribald, smoky flavor! You just don’t get that from the gas grills most Korean restaurants use for tabletop cooking (if the restaurant opts to even cook the food with the table grill at all).

The rapturous bulgogi inspires a giddy bout of research. Of the 15 items available from the “Wooden Charbroiled B.B.Q.” menu, I do forgo the intestines and beef tongue but I don’t bypass the pork bacon. And guess what? It’s just bacon. No intrigue there, though Hae Woon Dae does stay open until 6 a.m. After an all-night bender, a little fire-licked bacon might be just the thing for an early breakfast.

Skip the shrimp, too. It doesn’t translate in the same deliriously carnivorous way as its cousins farther along on the food chain.

Kalbi — short rib meat cut from the bone — is the other popular choice for Korean barbecue. It has a silkiness that I actually prefer over bulgogi. When I sup here henceforth, I will never fail to order kalbi or the pork variation of bulgogi. With apologies to Texan epicures, pork is the ultimate barbecue meat, no matter from what part of the world the cooking method hails. It reacts in exactly the right ways: Some pieces become crispy and chewy, others sumptuously tender.

Unless you’re a habitué to this kind of dining and crave some variety, I also resolutely recommend the marinated meats over their non-marinated counterparts. The unseasoned meat has less ... everything. Less texture, less flavor, less savor — though a shallow dish of salted sesame oil is provided and does impart some gustatory warmth.

When you’re seated at Hae Woon Dae, amongst its eerie, Indiana-Jones-does-Asia splendor, you might be surprised at how large the menu is. And several things beyond the barbecue are indeed worth adventurous exploration (cue the John Williams score).

Despite my impatience at appetizer time, the three varieties of Korean-style pancakes offer their own unique pleasures: The kimchi pancake has a light crunch from its chockablock veggies and feels virtuous before consuming all that animal protein. Fresh seafood lightens another pancake, though the squeamish should know that bits of squid are discernible among the shrimp and scallops. Also be warned that the hot peppers in the third pancake ain’t no joke. You might be requesting a glass of milk.

On one visit I discover that jap chae noodles mingle nicely with the barbecued meats. The menu states that the noodles are made from rice, but I suspect they might actually be created from the starch of white sweet potato, which yields glossy, pleasantly gummy strands I’ve encountered in other Korean restaurants.

I tiptoe into the soup and stew offerings without much vehemence. If I want soon doo bu, the silken tofu stew that comes to the table in an angry roil that lasts for minutes, I’ll drive just up the street to Cho Dang Tofu, which specializes in that dish. Hae Woon Dae’s soon doo bu doesn’t have much spicy gumption, though its custardy nature tastes comforting enough between bites of meat.

Sigh. We’ve eaten our way through four different types of barbecue, and now our kindly but efficient server begins the crushing denouement. She scrapes the last of the bulgogi atop the grill onto a plate. The grill cover is blackened. It must be hell to scrub those things clean.

The Fire Bearer appears once more. Wearing a mitt that looks to be constructed from asbestos, he grabs the cover, flings it in his bucket full of water, then reaches into the pit and grabs the cauldron of coals. A cold metal lid goes atop the hole in the table. The vent stops whirring overhead. Game over. Please insert another coin.

We sit, feeling irrationally dejected, while we half-heartedly peck at complimentary wedges of watermelon and wait for the check. Hmm. Should we go grab some ice cream, or should we just start the whole meal all over again?