Hayoon scolded Sihoo. “Man, you’re hopeless with directions. You’d get chewed out by your army seniors!”
“Hyung, I probably won’t go to the army,” Sihoo replied.
Hayoon’s eyes widened. “Oh, right. You submitted a diagnosis for mental trauma from the accident that took your parents when you were a minor, plus multiple injuries.”
He paused, then asked, “No enlistment notice yet?”
“Not yet,” Sihoo said.
Chatting, they headed to Yoon Sukhee’s restaurant. “Wow, a hanok!” Hayoon marveled at the tiled-roof building tucked deep in an alley. It was delivery day, so the street was empty.
Crossing a wooden gate, they entered a small garden. “Incredible,” Hayoon murmured. Passing another small wooden gate, they stepped inside.
Creak.
A faint scent of orchids and ink tickled their noses. A staff member in elegant hanbok approached. “Welcome. Reservation name?”
Sihoo and Hayoon exchanged glances. Reservation? Panicked, Sihoo handed over the invitation. The staff member checked it, slightly surprised. “Honored guests of Master Yoon! This way, please.”
With a respectful gesture, she led them to a private room. Inside, a wide table dominated the space, cushioned seats on the floor, and hanji wallpaper exuding subtle Korean charm. Sihoo and Hayoon couldn’t help but gasp in awe.
As they admired the room, the staff returned, placing water glasses before them—ceramic with a soft blue glaze, filled from a matching jug. Sihoo felt warmth in the glass. Sipping, he tasted the nutty depth of barley tea. The staff smiled and left.
Hayoon leaned in. “Even the water has this richness… How much would a reservation cost?”
Sihoo thought for a moment. “At least 200,000 won to start.”
“What? That expensive?” Hayoon gaped.
Sihoo chuckled, recalling his own shock when a teacher explained it. “Hyung, futurist Alvin Toffler said the future lies in the third taste. First is salt, second is seasoning, third is fermentation. The world’s moving toward that third taste.”
He sipped the barley tea again. “Korean cuisine is the essence of that third taste—jang, the flavor of fermentation. You’ve heard of it, right? That’s why it’s pricey.”
Hayoon nodded, intrigued.
Sihoo continued, “Jang comes from clay pots with breathing pores. Like humans, they inhale air and release moisture, crafting that complex umami.”
As he spoke, Hayoon felt Sihoo transform. This guy’s so passionate about Korean food. I thought he was just skilled, but…
Sihoo elaborated, “High-temperature-fired clay pots have pores that breathe, shaping jang’s flavor over time.”
A deep female voice interrupted. “Good jang creates the finest flavors. Time-infused jang brings the subtle umami that perfects Korean cuisine.”
Yoon Sukhee entered, her elegant hanbok flowing with graceful movements. Her seasoned voice hinted at her age. Sihoo stood, bowing deeply. “Hello, Master.”
Her eyes held a mix of emotions. “It’s been a while, Sihoo.”
His pupils widened—she remembered him. Hayoon, who’d risen with Sihoo, sat as Yoon Sukhee gestured. “Please, sit.”
Settling in her hanbok, she turned to Hayoon. “And you are?”
“Joo Hayoon, ma’am,” he said, bowing.
She nodded, then fixed her gaze on Sihoo. “I’ve heard much about you, Sihoo.”
“Ma’am?” Sihoo’s face betrayed curiosity.
With a kind smile, she said, “Let’s start the meal. I’ll bring the food. Please wait.”
She glided out. Hayoon exhaled. “Why the sigh, hyung?” Sihoo asked.
“Just… nervous,” Hayoon admitted, raking his hair. Seeing Yoon Sukhee had tensed him up, but now he relaxed. “Can I even eat properly?”
“Enjoy it. I’m excited for her food,” Sihoo said.
Hayoon tilted his head. “Excited?”
“Master Yoon’s dishes aren’t something even chefs can just eat,” Sihoo explained. “Each plate carries her care and intent. I can’t wait to taste them.”
As he finished, the door opened, and dishes streamed onto the table. Sihoo’s eyes sparkled. A surasang.
The food, served in lacquered bowls and plates, was a masterpiece, like a painting. Once arranged, the staff said, “Master Yoon will bring dessert herself. Enjoy slowly.”
Click. The door closed.
Hayoon stared, wide-eyed. “What’s all this? Doesn’t look ordinary. Sihoo, know anything?”
“It’s a surasang,” Sihoo said. “A royal table from the Joseon era, or palace cuisine.”
He explained each dish, eyes tracing their beauty. Noticing two lacquered spoons—one for rice, one for porridge—he recalled debates about their use, most agreeing it showed care for guests.
Picking up a porridge spoon, he tasted the jook. Milled with high-quality sea salt. The nutty aroma filled his mouth, faintly sticky. “Wow, I’ve never had porridge this good,” he said.
Hayoon echoed, “Seriously amazing.”
Next was a translucent mandu, its filling visible through delicate skin. Sihoo lifted it with a spoon, popping it into his mouth. The soft texture and fish filling surged like a wave. Palace fish mandu. This potato-flour skin, the fish filling… exquisite.
He savored each dish—gujeolpan, sinseollo, yukhoe, steamed and grilled dishes—slowly, analyzing flavors. Hayoon watched, intrigued. He’s tasting and analyzing? And what’s with that notebook?
Sihoo, finishing the meal, began jotting notes, even examining the lacquered utensils. The staff cleared the empty bowls, leaving the table bare.
Knock. The hanji door slid open. Yoon Sukhee entered with a wooden tray, placing persimmons, pears, and yakgwa before them. “Did the food suit your tastes?”
Hayoon bowed, saying it was delicious. Yoon Sukhee nodded, satisfied, then turned to Sihoo. “What did you think of the surasang?”
Sihoo felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. Her gaze held weight. His lips parted. “I felt your philosophy of Korean cuisine in this surasang.”
“Philosophy? Why?” she asked.
Sihoo hesitated. Was he an ordinary guest or someone special to her? After a long pause, he admitted, “I’m not sure yet.”
Her faint smile returned. “Honest. Knowing what you don’t know is valuable.”
She glanced at his notebook. What’s written there? Sihoo, following her gaze, hid it, embarrassed.
“Shall I guess what’s in it?” she teased. “Notes on this surasang, menu ideas, and how to connect with customers?”
Sihoo’s hair stood on end. Closing his eyes briefly, he nodded. “Exactly as you said.”
Handing her the notebook, he watched as she flipped through it. Rustle. Her eyes widened, quietly impressed.