My first lesson in Korean math came when I headed to a hole-in-the-wall eatery in downtown Seoul, ordered one meal and got served lunch good for three. “Excuse me, but I Just wanted one please,” pointing to my beef bulgogi, which was surrounded by half a dozen side dishes. The owner, a poufy-haired woman in her 40s, wiped her hands on her apron and in a jumble of English and hand gestures, explained that everything else—the pickled veggies, the baby omelets, even the cluster of spiced squid tentacles—were part of any and every Korean meal. I sized up the food, picked up the stainless steel chopsticks, and went to work. Little did I know that it would be the first of many times I would explore uncharted territory with my taste buds during my short stay in the city.

I found myself lost in Seoul thanks to a frenetic business trip. Cab rides and brisk walks to whole-day conferences gave me little time to sit down for a drawn-out meal. On the other hand, being constantly on the go meant the perfect chance to sample the smorgasbord of street food that this East Asian city had to offer. From teatime at sleepy noodle shops to sweet and savory snacks at the night market, Seoul’s urban delicacies stir the senses like nothing else. After my first bulgogi and the several bowls of banchan—side dishes like sweet anchovies and fiery kimchi that are a must with every meal—I wandered to nearby Dongdaemun market. A haven for bargain goods, this wholesale market offers rolls of silk to large jars of ginseng to posters of Korean boy bands. The cool autumn weather drew me near the steamy carts of street vendors plying fare such as smoked squid and deep-fried potato skewers. But the obvious bestsellers were hotteok, small, piping-hot pancakes filled with sugar and cinnamon, and, for the more adventurous, cups of boiled silkworm larvae. I hesitantly ate one bug—it was surprisingly soft with a nutty flavor—while school kids popped them like candy.

Walking a few blocks further, the din and clatter of cheap haunts and yelling hawkers gave way to the beats of bubblegum pop and singing store girls of Myeongdong district. Here, the trendy youth of Seoul come wave after wave through the doors of international brand outlets and designer boutiques, then step out dressed like Koreanovela characters. After browsing for some Wonder Girls CDs (a friend fervently insisted I buy him one), I joined other hungry office workers at a tiny canteen that served various dumplings and meat buns. A lanky teenager taught me my second lesson in Korean math when I randomly pointed to squiggles of hangul (the local alphabet) on the menu board, hoped for light merienda, and he handed me four meat buns, a platter of vegetable dimsum, noodles, and even more banchan. Buns were either stuffed with minced beef mixed with shredded spring onions or the smoldering red of sour, spicy kimchi—an inescapable fact I was quickly getting used to. Several minutes (and glasses of water) later, I plunged back into the sea of shoppers for another round of sightseeing.

The flavors of east and west mix at cosmopolitan Myeongdong and all over Seoul: Halloween ghost cutouts haunted the windows of a New York-style bakeshop that served local twists on bread, like red bean and green tea doughnuts. Elsewhere, college students sipped java at a Starbucks with its iconic green logo swapped with bold hangul strokes. At the food court of a glitzy shopping mall, traditional boxes of flower-shaped moon cakes were sold next to French macarons and swirling cupcakes. On a corner near my hotel, university students and company salarymen lined up for chunks of deep fried yachae tweegim (think Filipino ukoy or Japanese kakiage), nibbling them on their way home. My personal comfort food turned out to be cup dak, a messy cup of spicy chicken fingers, chewy rice cakes, and potato wedges smothered in mustard.

On the last day of my trip, I traded my leather soles for sneakers and made my way to Gyeongbokgung palace, once home to Korea’s royalty. These days, tourists roam its vast, dusty courtyards and pose with spear-wielding royal guards who sport glued-on goatees. I stood next to one and after the photo was taken, he relaxed his shoulders, whipped out a cell phone, and discreetly checked for new text messages. For more culture, I took a stroll to nearby Insadong, the heart of Seoul’s budding art scene. There, nestled among kitschy souvenir shops and antique stores, old couples made and sold batches of chewy rice puffs and aniseed. Behind one stall was an alley that led to rows of quaint traditional Korean restaurants. Finally away from other tourists, I sat down to my first formal meal in days.

It began with banchan as usual, this time with little saucers of bean sprouts, kimchi, and tofu. I celebrated my last few hours in Seoul with a bowl of yakisoba topped with dried shavings of bonito that danced in the rising steam. The main course was barbecued pork and balls of sticky, white rice scattered on a fan of lettuce leaves. The food was sumptuous; the lunch, longer than it should have been. Customers came and went while I sat at my corner, gingerly wrapping food in leaves with the same calm as folding origami. I relished the hefty lunch good for two or three friends, and left, still hungry for more—my third and last lesson in Korean math.