Western Garden is the Korean equivalent of a red-checkeredcloth pasta place, comfortably broken in.

At the tables in the center of the room, couples spoon up doses of hot beef-rib stew or dip into bowls of bibimbap.

While the squares of pork belly were sizzling on the legal-paper-sized grill, my tablemate and I distracted ourselves with the panchan, or side dishes.

First a sharply pickled green bean, then an oval of summer squash dressed in sesame oil, then a piece of kimchi, until we made our way around the table.

After 20 minutes, the pork squares had shrunk to half their initial size, the meat had become burnished and crisped around the edges, and the surfaces had bloomed with microscopic bubbles.

I’d then pick up a piece of curly-edged green lettuce and cradle it between my thumb and index finger, swab a piece of samgyeopsal across a tiny plate of sesame oil and coarse salt, and gently lay it on the leaf.

I’d then pick up a piece of curly-edged green lettuce and cradle it between my thumb and index finger, swab a piece of samgyeopsal across a tiny plate of sesame oil and coarse salt, and gently lay it on the leaf.

I’d then pick up a piece of curly-edged green lettuce and cradle it between my thumb and index finger, swab a piece of samgyeopsal across a tiny plate of sesame oil and coarse salt, and gently lay it on the leaf.