It's a sensation I crave regularly, which explains why little Miran has come to blink on my radar like a happy red chile blip.
Not that Miran is a fancy place. It's a modest storefront BYO on a quiet block of Chestnut Street in West Center City, with 40 seats set around brown Formica tables inset with convenient do-it-yourself butane grills. At the touch of a button, a silvery ventilator hose shimmies down from the black ceiling like a vacuum snorkel when a plate of kalbi short ribs arrives, ready to be grilled.
There's nothing extraordinary about the setup here. And Miran, truth be told, isn't even the very best Korean restaurant where I've eaten in the Philadelphia area. My true favorites tend to be tucked away in the north, where both Kim's (on Fifth Street) and Seo Ra Bol (at Second and Grange) still light their in-table grills with glowing charcoal embers. For bubbling red soft tofu casseroles, pretty Jong Ka Jib on Fifth Street is a worthy destination.
But why should an avid bibimbapper have to travel so far from Center City for a fix in a region that apparently is so rich in Korean culture? Half (or more) of the sushi restaurants in town are owned by Koreans. But it's as if some ill-advised restaurant god deemed Center City to be a kimchi-free zone. Or nearly so.
There have been a handful of Korean eateries over the years, but few I found exciting. Most commonly, Korean restaurateurs second-guess their cuisine's true spirit when presenting it to a mainstream American audience, dulling the fiery spice, skipping the raw egg garnishes, and neutering the meal's fermented funk.
