“Sure, but you’ve got the diner menu down, right?” Hayoon asked.
“Kanghoon hyung gave me his recipe notebook, and I trained under him before,” Sihoo replied.
Hayoon nodded, picturing the two in the kitchen. Training under him? Feels like I’m seeing someone in a red cap.
He shivered slightly, recalling Sihoo and Kanghoon.
“Hey!” a voice called.
They turned. The owner from next door, Sihoo thought, puzzled.
A short woman with a bulldog-like face snapped irritably, “Where’s the owner? Just you youngsters here?”
“What’s the matter?” Sihoo asked.
“Can you get the owner out here?” she pressed.
Hayoon glanced at Sihoo, who stepped forward. “I’m the owner starting tomorrow. What’s the issue?”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed condescendingly. “What? You’re the owner? The previous guy quit?”
Sihoo spoke politely but met her gaze coolly. “Yes, he passed the diner to me. And, though I’m young, your tone is disrespectful, ma’am.”
“What?” Her voice rose.
Sihoo’s tone turned icy. “I said it’s disrespectful. Please state your business.”
Sensing his edge, she got to the point. “We sell pasta and risotto next door. You’re selling the same, so change your menu. I told the previous owner, Yoon, but he wouldn’t. Since you’re redecorating, I figured the owner changed, so I’m telling you to fix it.”
Sihoo was dumbfounded. Hayoon’s expression mirrored his disbelief.
She glanced at her shop, continuing, “You’re young, so you get it, right? Remove those items. Good luck.”
With that, she slipped back to her store. Sihoo stared at her retreating figure.
Hayoon looked at him. He’s pissed.
Sihoo’s face turned cold, a cynical edge replacing his usual faint smile. When angry, he looked like an ice statue. Oblivious to Hayoon’s gaze, he recalled a teacher’s lesson.
This must be what she meant.
In a class by a teacher nicknamed “Noodle King,” her low alto voice addressed the students. “When a restaurant does well, copycat shops sprout up, right?”
“No,” the students replied in unison.
She projected photos of a famous Seoul restaurant, before and after. “Look closely at this place and its surroundings.”
Sihoo, studying the images, had an epiphany. The teacher explained: when the restaurant thrived, nearby shops mimicked its menu. The owner faced jealousy and pushback but stayed true to their craft, serving customers with care. Their business grew, while some copycats benefited from spillover, and others failed.
Sihoo’s eyes grew cold, one corner of his mouth curling. In middle school, he endured bullying silently, hating conflict and emotional drain. If I just take it, it’s fine, he’d thought. Cooking became his escape. In high school, he stopped avoiding or enduring, facing challenges head-on after competing. Now, he wouldn’t dodge a fight.
Glancing at the neighboring shop, he muttered inwardly, Spillover or failure? I bet the latter.
A sigh broke his thoughts. “Phew,” Hayoon exhaled, finishing the dining area cleanup.
Sihoo stared at the neighbor’s shop.
Newly renovated, 56804 was swamped with orders by lunchtime. The top sellers were tofu steak and Napolitan, made with field-grown tomatoes. Unlike regular tomatoes, known for antioxidants and heart health, these had a sweet-tart depth that made the Napolitan irresistible, earning gasps from curious diners. Some high school girls even snuck out during lunch to eat.
Chomp, chomp. Juha and Saessang, two high school girls, ordered tofu steak and Napolitan before the rush. Juha wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Wow, Gisu oppa’s recommendation was spot-on. This is amazing.”
“Right?” Saessang replied.
“But that oppa in the kitchen looks familiar,” Juha said.
Saessang glanced back. “Him? He’s super famous at our school.”
“Famous? For cooking or being cute?” Saessang asked, chewing tofu steak.
“Both. Got a girlfriend?”
Juha shook her head. “Guys like him? Married to work. Definitely not dating material.”
Hayoon, serving, nearly dropped his tray overhearing their dialect-laced gossip about Sihoo. Gotta tell him later.
Ding. A bell from the kitchen signaled a finished order. Hayoon grabbed the tray and approached a couple. The woman ordered spicy shrimp pasta, the man a three-dish bapsang.
“Your spicy shrimp pasta and three-dish bapsang,” Hayoon said.
The man’s eyes widened at the bapsang. “Cod soup? Perfect after last night’s drinking. Thanks!”
Hayoon smiled politely. “Our chef tailors the soup to each customer.”
“That’s tough, isn’t it?” the man asked.
Hayoon shrugged. “Enjoy your meal.”
As he left, the couple snapped photos. “This shrimp pasta’s plating is gorgeous. The shrimp are so plump!” the woman said. “Other places use one big shrimp for show, but here’s two, and it’s cheap. Tastier than anywhere else, plus soft bucket bread.”
The man nodded, sipping the cod soup. This is hangover-curing bliss. The vegetables’ freshness and cod’s mildness—so soothing.
They devoured their food. “So good!” the woman exclaimed.
“This bapsang saved me,” the man said. “The eggplant’s flavor is unreal. I’d pay more for this.”
“Really? I’ll try it next time,” she said.
“Eggplant this season?” she asked.
He shrugged, unsure.
In the kitchen, Sihoo caught his breath after the rush. Creak. Opening the fridge, he pulled out a barley tea bottle from home. Pour. Golden liquid filled a glass.
Gulp, gulp. Thirsty, he drank without pausing.
“Give me some,” Hayoon said, entering.
Sihoo poured him a glass. “So refreshing. This is barley tea? So nutty,” Hayoon said.
“Tasty, right? Brought it from home for work,” Sihoo replied.
Hayoon held out his glass for more. Sihoo refilled it.
“What about the neighbor?” Hayoon asked.
“What?”
“They complained about overlapping menus.”
Sihoo’s face turned icy, one corner of his mouth curling. “At school, teachers told us stories. I’ve got a plan for pushback.”
Hayoon felt a chill at Sihoo’s expression.
Jingle. The door opened. Hayoon set down his glass and approached the new customers.
Sihoo’s expression softened, seeing a mother and young son enter. The mother seemed to be coaxing her sulky child, who looked upset, head bowed. She’d likely brought him to cheer him up.
The sight stirred memories of Sihoo with his own mother. Smiling faintly, he waited for their order.
“Sihoo, one three-dish bapsang and one tofu steak, but make the bapsang’s kimchi mild,” Hayoon called.
“Got it.” Sihoo paused. “Hyung, is the tofu steak for the mom and the bapsang for the kid?”
“How’d you know?”
Sihoo grinned, glancing at the boy, and began cooking. For the bapsang, he included eggplant and leafy greens, grilled tofu, potato jorim, and less rice for the child. He stir-fried the kimchi to reduce its spice.
Placing the bapsang tray and tofu steak on the serving rack, he rang the bell. Ding.
Hayoon grabbed the trays. As Sihoo watched, his eyes met the boy’s.