My 66-year-old father has an odd habit of keeping several giant bags of white rice in the pantry at all times. Like the desert dwellers of Exodus 16, he doesn't trust that manna will keep falling from heaven.

In war-torn 1950s Korea, he and his five siblings never had enough to eat. Dad used to daydream, he says, of eating a giant pot full of dduk, or "rice cakes," the ho-hum translation for a universe of delicacies made of sweet, glutinous rice.

From chewy, plain white squares brushed with sesame oil to fluffy, savory bars with beans and pumpkin, dduk as a snack or dessert pairs well with green tea or the watery substance that passes for coffee in old-fashioned Korean cafés. But the apotheosis of dduk is the spicy, saucy dduk-bokki, or "fried rice cake."

Dduk-bokki starts with soft, cylindrical rice cakes pan-fried to a slight crisp, then simmered in honeyed red chili sauce with thinly sliced napa cabbage, carrots, mushrooms and bell peppers, and odeng, a quenelle-like fish cake. I like to throw in a medium-boiled egg (and ramen noodles if I'm feeling adventurous or hung over). Each ingredient soaks up the peppery liquid while retaining its essence: the toothy rice cake, the spongy odeng, the creamy egg yolk and vegetal crunch; sesame seeds and scallion for garnish. It's a kaleidoscope for the tongue.

Dduk-bokki is versatile, a classic high-low food. Native to Seoul's vinyl-covered street stalls, it now appears on hip restaurant menus, all dolled up with artisanal pork fat. Whenever I start a humble batch and smell that gooey rice toasting in olive oil, I thank the heavens — and my dad — that I can save my fantasies for something other than dduk.