🥘 Ingredients
- 4 of your favorite sausages (about 1 lb total) — e.g., pork bratwurst, garlic sausage, or spicy chicken sausages (check label for ingredients/allergens)
- 4 crusty rolls or small baguettes (about 6–8 inches each), split
- 1 cup well-drained kimchi, roughly chopped (preferably medium-spicy)
- 1/4 cup mayonnaise (use vegan mayo if needed)
- 2 tbsp gochujang (Korean chili paste)
- 1 tsp rice vinegar (for the gochujang mayo)
- 1 tsp toasted sesame oil (for the gochujang mayo)
- 2 cups thinly shredded napa or green cabbage (about 4 oz)
- 1/2 cup julienned carrot (about 1 medium carrot)
- 2 scallions, thinly sliced (white and green parts separated)
- 1 tbsp rice vinegar (for the slaw)
- 1 tsp soy sauce (or tamari)
- 1 tsp honey or sugar
- 1 tbsp neutral oil (vegetable, canola, or light olive oil) for cooking sausage
- 1 small red bell pepper, thinly sliced
- 1 small cucumber, thinly sliced on the bias
- 1 tbsp toasted sesame seeds
- 1 tbsp unsalted butter (optional, for toasting rolls) or olive oil
- Fresh cilantro or Korean perilla leaves (optional garnish)
- Flaky sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
- Lemon or lime wedge (optional, for brightness)
⚠️ Allergen Information
- Wheat/Gluten (rolls/baguette; some sausages or gochujang brands may contain wheat)
- Egg (mayonnaise)
- Soy (soy sauce; many gochujang pastes contain fermented soybean)
- Fish (many kimchis contain fish sauce; check label)
- Shellfish (some kimchi and condiments use shrimp paste — check label)
- Sesame (sesame oil and sesame seeds)
- Milk/Dairy (butter optional for toasting; some sausages may contain milk)
- Pork (if using pork sausage — not an allergen for most but noted for dietary restrictions)
👨🍳 Instructions
- Make the gochujang mayo: whisk together mayonnaise, gochujang, 1 tsp rice vinegar and 1 tsp toasted sesame oil in a small bowl until smooth. Taste and adjust heat or acidity as desired. Refrigerate until assembly.
- Quick kimchi slaw: toss shredded cabbage, julienned carrot, and the white parts of the scallions with 1 tbsp rice vinegar, 1 tsp soy sauce, 1 tsp honey (or sugar), and a pinch of flaky sea salt. Stir in 1/2 cup chopped kimchi (reserve the rest of the kimchi for topping). Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds and set aside to let flavors marry while you cook (5–10 minutes).
- Prep the remaining toppings: thinly slice cucumber, separate green scallion tops for garnish, and thinly slice the red bell pepper.
- Cook the sausages: heat a large skillet over medium-high heat and add 1 tbsp neutral oil. When shimmering, add sausages spaced apart. Sear, rolling occasionally so all sides brown, until cooked through (internal temp 160°F/71°C for pork; about 10–12 minutes depending on thickness). If sausages are already pre-cooked, brown them 4–5 minutes just to crisp and heat through.
- Sauté peppers for quick char: during the last 3 minutes of sausage cooking, push sausages to one side and add the sliced red bell pepper to the hot pan. Let peppers char slightly, stirring occasionally so they soften but retain a little bite. Season peppers with a pinch of salt and pepper.
- Lightly toast rolls: halve the rolls and spread a thin layer of butter or brush with olive oil. Toast face-down in another skillet or under a broiler until golden and crisp (about 1–2 minutes). This prevents sogginess from the kimchi and sauces and adds crunch.
- Assemble the sandwiches: spread about 1 tbsp gochujang mayo on both bottom and top roll faces. Place the hot sausage in the bottom half (slice lengthwise if preferred for easier biting), add a generous spoonful of the kimchi you reserved (not the slaw — use the chopped kimchi for bright, fermented punch), pile a handful of the kimchi slaw on top, arrange the charred red pepper slices and cucumber, and finish with green scallion tops and cilantro or perilla leaves if using. Squeeze a little lemon or lime over the veg for brightness, then close the sandwich.
- Finish and serve: press gently to compress, slice each sandwich on the diagonal (if whole), and serve immediately while sausage is hot and bread is crisp. Offer extra gochujang mayo and kimchi on the side for guests who want more heat or funk.
📖 Backstory
They say great dishes are born of necessity, serendipity, or a midnight snack gone feral — mine required all three and a small brass bell. Seoul on a Roll began as an earnest experiment in diplomacy: a bratwurst I’d rescued from a European deli, a jar of gochujang that had survived one too many travel delays, and a bag of kimchi someone loaned me as a peace offering after I mistook their pocket for a condiment. I toasted the rolls with the solemnity of a diplomat pressing palms together, glazed the sausages with gochujang like I was swaddling a sleeping dragon, and listened as the kimchi crunch announced itself with the confidence of an orchestra tuning up. It felt like history — slightly sticky, vaguely spicy, and very satisfying.
The sandwich was not instant celebrity; it had to be coaxed. I perfected the gochujang-mayo emulsion at 2 a.m. under the hum of a deli fluorescent light, after a heated argument with a slicer about the ethical thickness of sausage rounds. A passing street-food vendor from a half-forgotten alley in Seoul taught me the correct angle to flip a casing without causing a raucous; in return I offered him a lecture on the virtues of bratwurst restraint. Between us we negotiated an accord: European sturdiness would lend the sausage its backbone, Korean heat would supply its soul, and the roll — crusty, humble, and capable of holding its own in a crisis — would keep the peace.
I present Seoul on a Roll not as an appropriation, but as a treaty: a handheld manifesto that declares, quite loudly, that gochujang and kielbasa can coexist without either needing a passport. This is the sandwich I serve when I want to impress people I barely like and deeply confuse food historians. It’s perfect for street-food-minded lunchers, late-night philosophers, and anyone who believes that the only correct way to eat kimchi is when it’s been given a job label and a good leather-bound roll. Take a bite, and you’ll hear the crunch announce itself like a bell at dawn — the sound of two continents finally agreeing on something delicious.
The sandwich was not instant celebrity; it had to be coaxed. I perfected the gochujang-mayo emulsion at 2 a.m. under the hum of a deli fluorescent light, after a heated argument with a slicer about the ethical thickness of sausage rounds. A passing street-food vendor from a half-forgotten alley in Seoul taught me the correct angle to flip a casing without causing a raucous; in return I offered him a lecture on the virtues of bratwurst restraint. Between us we negotiated an accord: European sturdiness would lend the sausage its backbone, Korean heat would supply its soul, and the roll — crusty, humble, and capable of holding its own in a crisis — would keep the peace.
I present Seoul on a Roll not as an appropriation, but as a treaty: a handheld manifesto that declares, quite loudly, that gochujang and kielbasa can coexist without either needing a passport. This is the sandwich I serve when I want to impress people I barely like and deeply confuse food historians. It’s perfect for street-food-minded lunchers, late-night philosophers, and anyone who believes that the only correct way to eat kimchi is when it’s been given a job label and a good leather-bound roll. Take a bite, and you’ll hear the crunch announce itself like a bell at dawn — the sound of two continents finally agreeing on something delicious.