In elementary school, Sihoo stumbled upon a theft.
He saw Hwijun, a classmate, slipping a wallet from another friend’s bag.
“Hwijun, you should return that wallet,” Sihoo said quietly.
“You! Snitch, and I’ll make you regret it. Get lost, punk,” Hwijun spat, his words sharp with venom.
Sihoo’s calm words were met with verbal assault. “Me? Why should I leave? It’s not me! Sihoo’s framing me!” Hwijun’s brazen denial left Sihoo speechless.
“What’s framing about telling the truth?” Sihoo muttered.
“Got proof? Huh?” Hwijun sneered.
Sihoo froze. The word “proof” silenced him.
“I thought words would be enough… but proof?” he thought, biting his lip, glancing at the friend who lost the wallet. They looked away, avoiding his gaze. No one around believed Sihoo’s story.
After that, Hwijun marked Sihoo. The incident sparked a slow, creeping ostracism. At first, Sihoo brushed it off. It’s fine. I’ll be done with elementary school soon and never see him again.
But at the middle school entrance ceremony, as Sihoo stepped into his assigned classroom, there sat Hwijun.
“Yo, Kang Sihoo! Same class, huh?” Hwijun grinned, flanked by the same kids from elementary school. “Let’s get along, yeah?”
Sihoo had hoped graduating elementary school would free him from Hwijun. A naive thought, a delusion. Being in the same school, the same class, led to one outcome: isolation from his peers. Ostracism escalated into school bullying.
Among kids, he was shunned. At home, only cold air greeted him. He didn’t want to tell his parents—didn’t want to worry them. His mother, a nurse in the ICU at a university hospital, had irregular shifts. His father, a clinical pathologist, had a schedule that rarely aligned with hers. Since starting middle school, the bullying—the “king of outcasts” label—gnawed at him. He knew if his parents learned of it, their hearts would ache.
Sighing, Sihoo trudged home after school.
Creak.
He opened the front gate, stepping into the courtyard. The aroma of food wafted through the house, accompanied by the clatter of kitchen sounds.
“Mom?” Sihoo called.
“Oh, son, you’re home!” his mother replied.
Glancing at the living room clock, then at his mother’s face, Sihoo started, “Why are you so…”
“Early?” she finished, reading his expression. “My shift replacement came early, so I got home to eat with my boy.”
Relief washed over Sihoo. He stood, gazing at his mother in the kitchen.
“Come wash your hands!” she urged.
Her words nearly brought tears to his eyes. He quickly washed and sat at the table.
Bubble, bubble.
A steaming clay pot was set before him—rich, savory doenjang jjigae. The modest spread included scrambled eggs, gochujang pickles, and a few side dishes. Sihoo lifted his spoon, scooping a mouthful of the stew.
“Ahh,” he sighed, the warmth and hearty flavor swirling in his mouth. As it slid down his throat, a gentle wave of calm washed over his heart. His eyes misted, the day’s school troubles fading. The warmth, the comfort—it melted his exhaustion.
“Son, eat slowly. Is it good?” his mother asked.
Sihoo nodded, hiding the moisture in his eyes. The wounds of bullying and isolation began to heal, soothed by the meal. His spoon and chopsticks moved slowly at first, then quickened. His throat tightened. His mother’s cooking was a balm, seeping into the scars of his heart.
Realizing his mother’s warm food could mend his heart, cooking became Sihoo’s sole hobby. At first, it was purely to help his busy mother.
In the fall of his third year of middle school, Sihoo was preparing dinner.
“Dad’s home!” his father announced.
Sihoo stepped out from the kitchen. “Welcome back!”
The house was filled with the aroma of kimchi jjigae. His father sniffed the air and grinned. “What’s that smell?”
“I made kimchi jjigae,” Sihoo said.
“Really? Let’s eat together.”
“Okay, I’ll scoop the rice.”
Sihoo sat across from his father at the table. His father took a bite of the jjigae, eyes widening. “You made this? Not store-bought?”
Sihoo shook his head.
His father’s genuine amazement spilled out. “Wow, our son’s a chef! This could be sold at a restaurant!”
The table held simple dishes: kimchi jjigae, scrambled eggs, and his mother’s leaf-wrapped pickles. Sihoo had made the jjigae and eggs.
“Man, this is amazing, Sihoo. I should come home early to eat your cooking!” his father said.
Creak.
“I’m home!” his mother called.
“Mom’s here,” his father said.
Sihoo stood, scooping another bowl of rice and setting out a spoon, jjigae, and white rice for her.
“What’s this?” his mother asked, stepping to the table.
“Honey, Sihoo made kimchi jjigae, and it’s incredible. Wash up and try it!” his father urged.
His mother sat, tasting a spoonful. Her eyes rounded. “Sihoo, did you buy this?”
“No, I cooked it,” he replied.
“Honey, I told you, it’s amazing, right?” his father said.
Nodding, his mother’s eyes softened as she looked at Sihoo. “You really made this? Really?”
Sihoo nodded shyly.
Her admiration burst forth. “Wow, our son’s a better cook than me! How’s your touch so perfect?”
“Seriously, it’s delicious from the first bite,” his father added.
They devoured Sihoo’s jjigae and eggs with gusto. “When did our son get this good?” his mother marveled.
“Truly delicious, Sihoo,” his father said.
Their smiles erased Sihoo’s emotional fatigue. A warm, fuzzy feeling bloomed in his chest—happiness, if he had to name it. That day, Sihoo felt happiness vividly for the first time.
“You’re a natural, son. You could open a restaurant!” his father said.
“Really, it’s amazing. Our son’s the best!” his mother added.
Their words lingered in his mind. That day’s happiness, unforgettable. The sight of them savoring his food…
After middle school, Sihoo enrolled in a culinary vocational high school, eager to hone his cooking skills. None of his middle or elementary school peers followed him there, a small relief.
From his first year, Sihoo stood out in culinary classes.
“What’s with that guy? How’s he prepping ingredients so fast?” classmates whispered.
“Wow, is he human? He’s acing Korean cuisine!” another said.
After a Korean cooking class, the instructor called him over. “Sihoo, ever thought about entering a cooking competition?”
“A competition?” Sihoo asked, hesitant.
“I think you’d win a prize,” the teacher encouraged.
He’d heard no first-year had ever won a competition. Anxiety and nerves swirled, but this was different from the bullying days. It was bolstered by his parents’ belief in him, a unique kind of confidence.
Sihoo entered the high school Korean cooking competition and, unsurprisingly, won. He continued to dominate the Korean cuisine category, sweeping awards. His skill became unmatched in the school’s Korean food division. Even Korean culinary masters took notice.
Cooking fueled his growing talent, but his true joy came when his parents savored his dishes. His greatest delight was preparing home-cooked meals. When his parents came home late, he’d set the table neatly. Even at midnight or dawn, they ate with relish. Seeing clean plates filled Sihoo with pride and an indescribable warmth.
For their birthdays, Sihoo cooked, their joy mirroring his own pride.
During his third-year summer break, Sihoo’s curiosity turned beyond Korean cuisine. Korean food’s great, but I want to learn other dishes too…
His reason was simple: he wanted to cook approachable dishes for those close to him, not just Korean food. “I want to make tonkatsu, pasta, pizza for my parents,” he thought, his heart always with them.
As a minor, with his parents’ consent, Sihoo headed to a diner near a university, close to home. It was a well-known spot in the area, and he’d enjoyed their food when eating alone at night.
At the diner, 56804, owner Yoon Kanghoon greeted him. With a clean appearance and a low, warm voice, he asked, “You’re a third-year?”
“Yes,” Sihoo replied, handing over his documents.
Kanghoon scanned the resume. “Let’s see… Korean cuisine certification, and a cooking competition win?!”
He let out a whistle. “You’ve got all these awards?”
“Just… yeah,” Sihoo mumbled.
Kanghoon’s eyes softened, impressed. This kid’s got skill and a spark.
He approved Sihoo’s part-time job. “Start tomorrow. Twelve thousand won per hour.”
“Thank you!” Sihoo bowed, a small smile tugging at his lips. I’ll learn here and cook delicious things for my parents.
At 56804, Sihoo began his part-time job. During the summer, he learned much: customer service from Hayoon’s guests, phrases to say when serving food, and the diner’s warm atmosphere, which he loved.
Yoon Kanghoon, the owner, insisted on being called “hyung” and treated Sihoo kindly. His food was heartfelt, warming, reminiscent of Sihoo’s mother’s cooking from middle school. The first bite nearly brought tears.
Sihoo decided, I want to intern here.
After summer break, he handed Kanghoon an envelope from his culinary high school—a request for an internship. Kanghoon stamped it with approval.
Sihoo felt those simple, happy days would last forever.
If only that incident hadn’t happened…