Sighing, Sihoo trudged up the hill to his house, his steps heavy and unsteady.
Step, step.
He recalled Kanghoon’s words. Japanese cuisine. Hayoon had piped up, “Hyung, you’re loaded! Going to Japan to learn Japanese food? Gonna make sushi later?”
Kanghoon laughed, brushing off Hayoon’s teasing tone. “Who knows? If I start cooking again someday, maybe.”
Avoiding Hayoon’s gaze, Kanghoon looked elsewhere. Sihoo’s fist clenched at their exchange. If Kanghoon was going to Japan to study cuisine and sell 56804, Sihoo had no counterargument. Honestly, he’d likely make the same choice.
Creak.
The iron gate opened, and Sihoo stepped into the courtyard. As autumn deepened into winter, the small garden patch brimmed with cabbages and radishes he’d planted for kimchi.
“Soon, I’ll need to pull these and make kimchi,” he murmured, glancing at the plants before entering the house.
The empty house felt warm, as if a gentle breeze stirred within. Noticing the bedroom door ajar, Sihoo realized he’d forgotten to close it. The basement beneath his parents’ room came to mind. As he approached, a warm draft brushed his skin. He paused, eyeing the dresser by the basement stairs. If I’m going down there often, I should clear some space.
Creak. Thud.
“Whoa!”
As he moved the dresser, a drawer shot out. Before he could react, his parents’ clothes and items spilled onto the floor. Sihoo quickly set the drawer aside and began gathering the scattered contents. Amid them, a large square box tied with a pretty ribbon caught his eye.
“A gift?” he wondered, assuming his parents had prepared it for someone.
Then he noticed a small card tucked into the ribbon. To our beloved Kang Sihoo.
His nose stung, eyes welling up at the familiar handwriting.
Rustle.
He opened the envelope, revealing a letter.
To Sihoo.
He read slowly, heart trembling.
Sihoo, this is a gift from Mom and Dad to our amazing son.
Seeing you earn your Korean cuisine certification and sweep awards at cooking competitions, we wondered, “What does our boy need?” A chef should have something you didn’t yet have. So, Mom and Dad put this together.
Your internship is almost over, right?
When we eat your food, our hearts feel at peace, and all our worries melt away. We looked forward to coming home after work, excited for the meals you prepared.
We think others who eat your food would feel the same joy we do. Imagining guests at your restaurant savoring your dishes and leaving happy—it fills us with pride. Is that too presumptuous of us?
It’s your life, so we won’t push. But your food was so good, we wanted to share it. It’d be nice if you cooked for us forever, but… we’re proud of you.
Sihoo recalled his parents’ joy as they ate his cooking. “We’re proud of you…”
They’d wanted him to open a restaurant, to share that joy with others. “I loved seeing you happy eating my food,” he whispered.
He finished the letter.
Sihoo,
We’re always grateful for you. More than anything, thank you for being born to us, for growing up kind and healthy. We’ll always cheer for you and love you. Our Sihoo! Fighting!
Tears blurred his vision as he unwrapped the gift. A set of chef’s knives.
“Oh…”
He lifted one, startled. Engraved on the bolster, where blade met handle, was his name: Kang Sihoo ♡.
He understood the name but sighed lightly at the heart. It felt like receiving a gift from his late parents. He gripped the handle, feeling the weight of the blade and sheath.
Lowering the knife, Sihoo clasped his hands, murmuring as if in prayer, “I’ll make delicious food with these. Thank you, Mom, Dad.”
He swiftly tidied the dresser, eager to test the knives. Grabbing the giant potato from the basement field, he used a peeler from the set.
Scrape, scrape.
The skin came off smoothly. He sliced the potato with a chef’s knife.
Chop, chop, chop.
“These knives are amazing,” he marveled, heart swelling. Glancing at the clock, he cleaned the kitchen and headed to the bus stop, his mind a mix of emotions.
The next day, Sihoo arrived at work with a plastic bag of potatoes and sweet potatoes from the basement field. Opening 56804’s door, Kanghoon greeted him.
“Hey, Sihoo’s here!”
“Morning,” Sihoo replied, heading to the kitchen and setting the bag on a shelf.
Rustle.
Curious, Kanghoon peeked inside and gasped. “What’s this?”
“Potatoes… maybe?” Sihoo said.
“What kind of answer is that?” Kanghoon laughed, pulling out a potato and sniffing it. “Is this a potato? Why’s it so huge? Some GMO thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Sihoo replied.
“So, what’re you doing with these?”
Sihoo gently took the potato from Kanghoon. “I’m making staff lunch today.”
“With these?”
“Yup. Korean food’s my strength, you know.”
Sihoo changed into a crisp white chef’s uniform, tying a bandana around his forehead. He swiftly washed rice and set it to cook, then peeled a potato with the new peeler.
Scrape, scrape.
Using a chef’s knife, he julienned the potato for stir-fry.
Chop, chop, chop.
He placed potato slices over the rice in an electric pressure cooker. Kanghoon watched, eyes narrowing. Sihoo’s movements were precise, efficient—ingredients prepped, workspace spotless.
No wasted moves. His flow is impeccable, Kanghoon thought, impressed by Sihoo’s economy of motion.
As Kanghoon observed, the door opened. Hayoon entered, and Sihoo set the finished dishes on the table.
“I’m here! Whoa, what’s that smell?” Hayoon’s jaw dropped at the spread. “Sihoo, you made this?”
Sihoo nodded, fetching side dishes from the kitchen. Kanghoon nudged Hayoon. “Hurry and change!”
“Got it!”
Kanghoon sat, eyeing the food. Hayoon joined, staring at Sihoo. “What the—”
Words failed him. The table gleamed with enticing Korean dishes: glossy potato stir-fry, hearty potato soup brimming with dried pollack, and fluffy potato rice, perfectly blended. The basement potatoes elevated the visual appeal.
Kanghoon pulled out his phone. “Gotta snap this…”
Click.
Hayoon took photos too, sending them to friends via KakaoTalk. Sihoo spoke up. “Hyung, I thought about it. I’ll take over the diner.”
Hayoon, chopsticks in hand, gaped. Kanghoon nodded. “Let’s eat first, then talk.”
Kanghoon took a bite of potato rice. His eyes widened, trembling. What’s this? The potato’s softness, the rice’s harmony—savory, delicate, rich…
He sipped the soup. The potato’s subtle sweetness and savory depth melded with the pollack’s umami, igniting his appetite.
Hayoon, equally stunned, shoveled soup into his mouth, spitting words. “This is insane! Is this really potato? This flavor?”
Kanghoon glanced at Hayoon, then Sihoo. “Your cooking’s always been great since you overcame your aphasia, but today’s on another level.”
Pointing at the soup and rice, he asked, incredulous, “How?”
Hayoon devoured the meal, oblivious. “Wow, I’m stuffed. Sihoo, that was amazing.”
“Delicious,” Kanghoon agreed.
They savored the lingering joy of Sihoo’s food. Kanghoon closed his eyes, then looked at Sihoo. “You said you’ll take the diner?”
“Yeah.”
“Why, exactly?”
Kanghoon’s gaze deepened.
“Like I said yesterday, I love this place. I want to see people happy eating my food, up close. I want to serve dishes that say, ‘You worked hard today.’”
Determination shone in Sihoo’s eyes. Kanghoon nodded. “Alright. It’s yours.”
Sihoo hesitated, then spoke candidly. “Hyung, even with my savings and insurance money, I’m short. Can I sell Korean dishes here on weekends to raise funds?”
“Korean food?”
“Yeah, like today’s. I’ll use the profits for the takeover.”
Kanghoon crossed his arms, nodding. With his cooking…
“Fine. Don’t touch the insurance money. Don’t stress about funds—you can pay over time. Start next weekend, not this one. Plan the menu.”
“Got it.”
Sihoo glanced at their satisfied expressions. A ticklish warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thank you for enjoying my food,” he said, gratitude welling from his heart.
Kanghoon and Hayoon’s eyes widened slightly at Sihoo’s earnest expression.