Twilight seeps in through painted glass to bathe the tables and chairs of the Korean restaurant. It's quiet. They haven't even switched on the big flatscreen with the Korean soaps yet.

Dinner won't begin for a couple hours for most Capitalinos here in Mexico City, long after the autumn sun has set. But before I'm halfway through my banchan, parties of Koreans start to trickle in.

One man motions to the hostess, describing the size of his group. "Yeodeol!" she shouts to the hybrid staff of Korean and Mexican servers, gathering eight menus in her arms. "Ocho!"

                                                                   ***

With so much of the world rushing to learn English, it's easy to overlook cultural mixtures that don't include the Anglo ingredient. Especially for Americans, brought up believing we live in the world's one true melting pot.

In fact, there've been Koreans in Mexico since long before English submitted its claim to global lingua-franca status. Those fleeing Japanese occupation arrived as early as 1905. World War II and the devastation and aftermath of the Korean War provided further impetus to emigrants, many of whom made their way to Latin America.

Many descendents of these early Korean immigrants, living primarily in northern Mexico, are firmly established in their new homeland and consider themselves true Mexicans.

Mexico City's Korean community, however, didn't really get going until the '60s and '70s, when South Korea's economy began to boom. So here in the D.F., culture and traditions intertwine. Nook-and-cranny supermarkets, video pool halls, PC bangs. You're almost as likely to catch the wafting scent of bulgogi as tacos al pastor in this enclave in the western half of the Zona Rosa.

                                                                    ***

Newly arrived and craving something familiar, I stop into one of the dimly lit marts on Londres in search of some authentic ramyeon. Of course, I find myself dropping a host of other Korean treats into my basket, including an un-priced plastic-wrapped tray of tteok—glutinous rice cakes.

"How much is it?" I query in Korean to the lady behind the register, a pure force of habit. "50 pesos," she answers in Spanish. We both laugh.

I wasn't expecting to find this in Mexico City. It's a cultural intersection that, quite frankly, I couldn't have imagined before. But that makes me all the more excited to explore it further.

And I wait eagerly to find what, for me, would be the holy grail of this amalgamation: kimchi enchiladas.