My Culinary Adventure During 14 Days in a Korean Quarantine Facility

Throughout the past year, we've all faced some level of isolation due to the COVID-19 pandemic—whether mandated by the government or chosen personally. My most intense experience of solitude was a combination of both: 14 days in quarantine in South Korea, enforced by the country’s strict travel regulations, after visiting my parents in December 2020 for the first time in seven years.

At a quarantine facility in Pohang, approximately 170 miles southeast of Seoul, I was provided a room with an ocean view, but it was sparsely furnished with only a chair, a desk, and a small refrigerator. I had to sleep on the floor and couldn’t step outside, even for exercise. The thought of hugging my parents in two weeks made it tolerable, as did the unexpectedly amazing and plentiful meals, which were placed on a chair outside my door three times daily. A phone call, rather than a knock, signaled their arrival.

Here’s my account of the mundane, exhausting, yet oddly delicious 14 days spent in this Korean quarantine facility, where I coped by devouring my feelings one generous dosirak at a time.

Day 1: The Journey Begins

After a 13-hour flight, my sense of time is fading, but there's still much travel and processing ahead. I go through a temperature check and a mountain of paperwork requiring my quarantine address and contact details. The staff calls the facility number to ensure my phone is working, in case they need to reach me. Everyone arriving in South Korea today must download a quarantine app that also allows officials to track my location, ensuring I remain within the facility during my quarantine.

After navigating more forms, phone calls, and interviews, I finally exit the gate, but I must wait another hour for a designated bus to the train station (foreign travelers aren't permitted to use public transport to prevent local coronavirus transmission). I decide to grab a quick dinner at the airport to recharge for the journey ahead. I indulge in the Korean cockle bibimbap set, beautifully served in copper bowls, accompanied by three banchan and a soup. The cockles are perfectly seasoned with generous pieces of peppers and scallions, and I catch a whiff of sesame oil as I mix them with steaming rice. This is exactly what I need to feel truly in Korea. I snap a photo of this stunning copper dinner set and send it to my parents with a trio of crying emojis.

After the bus ride, I’m led to a separate holding area until it's time to board my train to Pohang. This city is in North Gyeongsang Province, about 169 miles south of Seoul. Again, I’m reminded of how far away I am from my parents.

On the high-speed train to Pohang, there's just one other traveler quarantining with me, and we have an entire car to ourselves. A police officer, fully clad in protective gear, stands guard the entire time, turning away any locals who attempt to sit near us. I feel like a walking contagion. While I'm grateful for the strict precautions, the palpable caution I've sensed from everyone I've interacted with over the past 24 hours is more tiring than I anticipated.

Upon finally arriving at Pohang station, I’m met by a local health department staff member, also dressed head-to-toe in protective clothing, who verifies my information. Then, I spot my dad, who has been waiting for me to come home for so long. All I want is to rush over and give him a huge hug, but that's not allowed. Instead, I can only wave at him from 10 feet away, a disappointing substitute.

My parents and I exchange awkward smiles as the staff guides me to the car that will take me to my final destination. This seemingly endless journey is nearly over. It’s been more than 30 hours since I left my New York apartment, and I feel grimy and exhausted. Finally, at 2 a.m. — after signing one last form stating, “You aren’t permitted to leave your room during quarantine” — I check into my home for the next 14 days, a tiny studio with just a desk and a TV. I’m buzzing with energy, wide awake until 5 a.m., pondering what my first meal will be the next day.

Day 2: Dosirak

The first thing in the morning is a COVID test. I should have been tested before checking into the quarantine facility, but I had to wait until the next day due to my late arrival. My mom arranges for the local health department to pick me up. When a driver arrives, I feel quite important, even if the reason for this special treatment is that I might pose a national health risk. After a slightly uncomfortable nasal swab, I receive a complimentary bag of hand sanitizers and KF-94 masks. When I return to my room, I find a gift waiting for me: my very first meal, wrapped in a white plastic bag, sitting on the designated meal-depositing chair in the hallway outside my room.

At the onset of the pandemic, the Korean government drew global attention with its comforting food packages for those in quarantine, featuring tasty items like instant noodles, canned tuna, ready-to-eat soups, rice, and more. This was a far more appetizing option compared to the meals given to other quarantined individuals, such as those unfortunate NYU students who were stuck with sad salads and lukewarm orange juice. Instead of opting for an Airbnb or a government hotel, I chose to quarantine at a resort owned by POSCO, my dad's employer, which had been repurposed as a quarantine facility with a cafeteria I can't access.

The food rules are straightforward: meals are delivered three times a day in bento boxes known as dosirak in South Korea, placed atop the chair outside my room. Staff will call me when the food is ready, and that's the only moment I’m permitted to open my door during quarantine.

I adore dosirak, and my first meal is absolutely heavenly. I expected just rice and a few banchan, but this dosirak is top-notch: it comes with four banchan, two main dishes, a bowl of rice, and a soup. By the time I return from my test, both lunch and breakfast have already been delivered, so I merge them into a quarantine feast featuring braised pollock, spicy chicken, seasoned spinach, fish cakes stuffed with rice cakes, spicy raw squid jeotgal, egg, dumpling soup, soy-braised potatoes with chicken, crispy spring rolls, seasoned dried squid, garlic stems, yuzu radish, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup—all just for me.

The dosirak sets have been on the chair for a few hours, so they’re lukewarm when I finally dig in. But I don’t mind at all. I feel indulged with so many options. I dive right into the braised pollock for my first bite of rice. The fish soaks up the spicy, tangy sauce, making it a perfect match for the rice. Without hesitation, I then grab some spinach, one of my favorite banchan, followed by sharp, spicy kimchi, and the hearty beef and radish soup.

Given that most government quarantine packages typically contain instant, pre-packaged food, I feel incredibly grateful to be enjoying something that tastes like home-cooked meals. It’s only the first day, yet I start to feel emotional. Twelve more days seem like a lifetime. I just wish my family could be here with me.

Day 3: The Care Package

It’s only been two days since I began my quarantine, but who’s keeping track? My morning routine starts with taking my temperature and logging it into the app. Even though I’m in Korea, just thousands of miles from my family, it doesn’t quite feel that way. I still connect with my parents through FaceTime, just like I do when I’m back in New York.

My parents decide to visit, even though it just means I can shout to them from my second-floor balcony. They ask if I want anything from the market. I have a long list in mind, but I simply respond with, 'Anything that looks delicious!'

Families are permitted to drop off care packages at the front desk of my quarantine facility, and the staff delivers them to my room. When I get the call that my package has arrived, I open the door expecting a few items, but this is typical of Asian parents. Abundance is their love language, and I find an enormous bag fit for a family of ten waiting for me.

I hear my mom yelling from outside, 'James! Let me see my son’s face!' I rush to the balcony and shout back, 'Mom! Why did you get me so much? How am I supposed to eat all of this?' We both know I’ll manage to eat everything she brought, but it’s fun to banter. After snapping countless pictures and videos for our family group chat, we shout, 'I miss you!' My mom shakes her head in disbelief. 'Just 12 more days,' I call out. 'You waited seven years for me to return to Korea, so 12 more days should be easy!'

I head back inside to start unboxing the care package. The first mysterious black plastic bag contains kkwabaegi, a Korean twisted donut coated in sugar. It’s warm and chewy, a delightful reminder that I’m indeed in Korea. You can't find this aroma or flavor in New York. The next bag holds tangerine preserves for tea. Triple-wrapped in another plastic bag are bundles of kkaetnip, or perilla leaves. There are at least 50 leaves of kkaetnip and lettuce, which I plan to enjoy with my dosiraks, along with a package of jokbal (Korean braised pig feet), a whole napa cabbage, a bag of Korean gyul (tangerines), eggs, crackers, and even beer.

I didn’t specifically request any of these items, but it’s my mom—she just gets me. After that, I receive the call to pick up my dosirak. It’s always thrilling to discover the variety of banchan, but I save it for later to fully enjoy my jokbal feast. The collagen-rich, chewy jokbal comes with fermented salted shrimp, ssamjang, a wasabi-laden soy sauce, napa cabbage, kkaetnip, and lettuce, just like at a restaurant. This particular jokbal is sliced diagonally, so I dip a piece in the wasabi soy sauce to savor its extra chewiness. My favorite way to eat jokbal is to make a large ssam, so I grab a big lettuce leaf, add a few pieces of jokbal, and top it off with ssamjang and fermented salted shrimp. I wrap it all up into a big pouch and shove it into my mouth. My butt feels warm from sitting on the heated floor, and I’m devouring big jokbal ssams while watching Korean TV shows. In this moment, I think, This quarantine isn’t so bad after all.

Days 4-7: Timelessness

Let me share more about my quarantine room. It’s a typical Korean studio with minimal furnishings—no bed, no couch, just a floor (thankfully heated, since it’s 28 degrees outside). There’s no separate kitchen, just a small fridge. In Korean culture, it’s common to sleep on the floor, especially for my parents’ generation. I later realize the quarantine facility removed the beds to simplify cleaning after each individual leaves. At least there’s a stunning ocean view.

Each morning, I wake up to watch the sunrise and listen to the soothing sound of the ocean waves. Despite the freezing temperatures outside, I fling open the balcony doors. The view of the ocean makes me feel like I’m in a luxurious vacation home I could never afford, rather than a cramped room I can’t leave. I’m incredibly grateful; some government-run quarantine facilities don’t even have windows.

One downside: there’s no microwave. If I don’t eat the dosirak immediately, I have to eat it cold. This was fine at first, but now I really miss hot food. The joy of warm aromas, the comforting steam, even the quick burn from sipping hot soup—these sensations get me excited for each bite, and none of it comes from room-temperature meals.

However, the banchans are delicious enough, and I’m thankful to have anything this good, so I make it work. I typically don’t have a big appetite at 9 a.m. when breakfast arrives, so I often combine my breakfast and lunch dosiraks into a huge midday feast. One combo is particularly amazing: soy-braised garlic scapes, seasoned salted squid, spicy chicken with rice cakes, braised tofu, sesame shiitake mushrooms, dried squid strips, spinach, spicy stir-fried squid, kimchi, and spicy beef and radish soup. Among these, the seasoned salted squid shines. It's jeotgal, a type of salted seafood dish, and I could eat it with bowls of rice. With plenty of kkaetnip from my mom, I make big ssams with all the banchan. I place three or four kkaetnip leaves in my palm, along with a scoop of rice, spicy chicken, spinach, and kimchi. I tend to overfill them, so my kkaetnip ssam looks as plump as a tennis ball.

My schedule has become quite unusual as I work remotely for my New York office. I usually start my computer around midnight and work until about 8 a.m. in Korea. I take a break to rest and enjoy a large lunch around noon. By 5:30 p.m., it's time for dinner, and if I'm lucky, I manage to sleep by 6. I wake up at 11 p.m., and my strange routine begins anew. Despite its oddity, this schedule gives my days a sense of order.

However, I can feel my mind and body starting to falter. When a banana, individually wrapped in plastic, shows up in my dosirak on day four, it feels like a jackpot. It's the first piece of fruit I've received, and tears of joy spring to my eyes. I'm not sure if I'm genuinely thrilled about a banana or if I'm just losing my sanity. It's likely the latter.

To combat the loneliness, I start FaceTiming my mom during lunch. We don’t need to talk much; just sharing a meal together lifts my spirits. She shows me her simple lunch of rice, napa cabbage, doenjang, and seaweed. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying 12 varieties of banchan, six entrees, and three soups. My mom feels happy that I'm eating well, but I can't shake the guilt as she has just rice and cabbage without any meat. I can't wait to feast with her once my quarantine is over.

Days 8-12: The Air Fryer Revelation

I’ve finally crossed the halfway mark of my quarantine, and my shelf, which I’ve dubbed the pantry, is overflowing with cold rice, a few cold soups, heaps of instant coffee, and various half-finished dishes. Since I'm stuck indoors, the trash cans are on my balcony, where I stack up clean dosirak containers. The higher that stack grows, the closer I am to finishing my quarantine. I find myself longing for hot meals, daydreaming about a bubbling pot of soondubu jjigae, a spicy silken tofu stew, and a steaming bowl of rice that fogs up my glasses. I can almost feel the burn from hot pork belly as I rush to eat it.

Then, a lightbulb moment hits me. If I can’t use a microwave, why not an air fryer? I reach out to the staff to see if it’s permitted. There’s some initial confusion and a long pause on the line, but finally, the receptionist confirms, “Yes, you can use an air fryer.”

I call my mom, tears streaming down my face.

My parents have a small air fryer that they never use, and it feels like destiny. They bring it over that weekend, along with another care package filled with treats to help me through the next few days.

Along with the air fryer, my mom sends an adorable oven mitt wrapped in a silky red cloth, fearing I might burn my hands. She also includes delightful goodies like an assortment of fried treats, including shrimp, squid, and potatoes. There are steamed buns, juicy Korean strawberries, tender persimmons known as hong si, and eggs.

I pop the fried delights into my air fryer and dig in. Sure, I burn my mouth, but I’ve never felt happier about it.

To celebrate my new air fryer, I indulge in delivery Korean fried chicken and Korean pizza. I crack open the can of beer I saved from my last care package. While I’ve enjoyed my daily dosirak, it’s such a joy to savor delivery food. The first bite of Korean fried chicken wipes away all my exhaustion from the journey and odd schedule. It’s a taste of home that no other Korean fried chicken outside the country can match. The chicken is crispy, juicy, and spicy, bringing back memories of enjoying Korean fried chicken with my brother. The “Chicago deep-dish pizza” features fried shrimp, pineapple, red onions, and a sweet sauce that gives it a distinctly Korean twist.

Being in quarantine alone hasn’t been easy; I’ve unintentionally stayed awake for 30 hours, chugged coffee to avoid dozing off while working, and found myself unable to take a proper walk, only stepping out onto my narrow balcony to dispose of trash. The solitude has led to feelings of loneliness and insecurity with no one to talk to or distract me. I’ve spent hours critiquing my own face and body. While I’ve heard of some creative souls working out during quarantine, I’d much rather watch other people’s mukbang. Why do I feel so drained despite not moving at all? My mind is flooded with random thoughts, and not all of them are pleasant.

Yet, indulging in amazing Korean fried chicken and pizza, sipping on ice-cold beer in my pajamas while gazing at the ocean on a Sunday afternoon? I couldn’t be happier. Just a few more days until I can reunite with my family.

Days 13-14: Mukbang

As it turns out, 14 days is no joke. I’ve spent nearly half a month in this cramped room, spoiled with delicious dosirak three times a day. Now, after treating myself to some fried chicken and pizza, I have four dosirak saved up, stacked and ready for me to enjoy at my leisure.

I’ve tackled three dosiraks at once, but now I’m up for a challenge: four! (Anything for a bit of excitement.) I’m going to attempt to enjoy 16 side dishes, eight different entrees, and four types of soup. Since nothing is labeled, I decide to turn this into a guessing game as well. I’ve discovered that filming myself while eating and sharing the videos on social media takes some of the sting out of dining solo day after day, and this meal promises to be a feast worth showcasing.

Having an air fryer is fantastic for cooking eggs and reheating leftover fried chicken, but it falls short when it comes to warming rice or soup. There are days—like today—when I’m just not in the mood for cold dosirak, days when I crave hot noodles instead of rice. I catch myself grumbling about my situation instead of feeling grateful. Yet, I remind myself that many people are struggling to find food, let alone a decent meal, during these tough times. There are ajummas—an affectionate term for middle-aged Korean women—who prepare and deliver these meals for me multiple times a day. With a smile, I record myself devouring all four dosiraks in one sitting. I finish every morsel and once again feel grateful—for my metabolism, at least.

Just as I start adjusting to my new routine and the calls from the office to pick up my meals, it’s nearly time for me to leave. Before I can officially check out, one last test is required. The local health department arrives to pick me up, and I’m thrilled to step outside my room for the first time in weeks, even if it’s just to get to the car. The news is even better: as expected, my test results are negative, and I can finally reunite with my parents. One final night at the facility and one last dosirak feast stand between us.

For my final feast during quarantine, I crack open the cup noodles I’ve been saving.

My spread includes spicy pork bulgogi, stir-fried anchovies, kimchi, steamed cabbage, hamburger steak, radish kimchi, steamed eggs, and much more. To elevate my last quarantine meal, I finally indulge in the instant ramen noodles I’ve kept aside. I can’t even describe how much I’ve longed to slurp noodles. As I savor the hot, beefy, spicy broth of the cup noodles alongside rice, I feel a wave of emotion wash over me, reflecting on this unique experience of quarantining in my hometown, Pohang, where I’ve enjoyed incredible food and breathtaking ocean views every day for the past 13 days.

Self-quarantine presents challenges—both mentally and physically. Yet, these Korean dosiraks were true blessings, turning the monotony of my days into something special. Once I’m free, countless options await me, but nothing will compare to the warmth of those lukewarm dosiraks that brought me so much joy and happiness when it felt scarce.

Day 14: Liberation

I can hardly believe it's been 14 days in this room for my quarantine. I receive a call from the office informing me that I can finally leave. Soon after, my mom texts to say she has arrived. I take a final glance around the clean, empty room, reflecting on all the memories and emotions it holds. I think back to those sleepless nights spent watching Korean food mukbangs, the sluggish weekends that turned into dance parties, and the tranquil mornings where I watched the sunrise while listening to fishermen start their day. Every day has been special, filled with different dosiraks.

As I pull my luggage toward the elevator, there she is—my mom. I give her the biggest hug imaginable. I’m convinced no one has ever hugged another human this tightly. I express my gratitude to the staff for all their efforts, especially for providing the air fryer.

My mom and I snap countless pictures around the quarantine facility, announcing my freedom to the rest of the family. We make our way to a nearby seafood restaurant, famous for its spicy seafood stew topped with a whole crab, to celebrate our long-awaited reunion.

We gather around a spread of crab fried rice, jjamppong (spicy seafood stew), crispy pork, and plenty of smiles. These dishes have been on my mind since I landed at the airport. As steaming bowls of jjamppong arrive at our table, I take a sip of the broth right away. It’s spicy, tangy, and scalding hot. “I’m so thrilled to finally eat with you, my son,” my mom says, beaming at me. I return her smile and hand her my bowl of noodles. “You have to try these too, mom. They’re absolutely delicious.”