Oh yum. Tonight my friend Martin invited Rodd and I over to his fiancee’s family’s Korean barbecue restaurant. It was fantastic. Twenty-five bucks for all-you-can-eat and everything was delicious. The table had a built in grilling pit and the waiter kept us supplied with glowing red charcoal. We threw on marinated beef and pork and ribs and baby octopus. We piled plates with kimchi and vegetables and strange salads of every description. We washed everything down with ice cold beer. It was the perfect meal for a balmy summer night. (The place is called Seoul Restaurant and it’s on Punchbowl Road in Belfield, if you’re interested and in the Sydney area.) As we were leaving, I tentatively said one of the few Korean phrases I know: “Kamsahamnida” (“Thank you”). Our hostess, Martin’s future mother-in-law, looked at me surprised. Martin rattled off something in Korean of which I caught the word “grandmother” and guessed that he was explaining my heritage. His mother-in-law looked me up and down – I was about two feel taller than her – and laughed. Yeah, that’s the usual reaction.