The customers in 56804 fell silent at Sihoo’s words and actions. Their gazes carried their thoughts:
Serving food to a jerk like that?
The boss sounds pissed—his voice is ice-cold.
What a waste of rice for that guy.
Unaware of their thoughts, Ddakddaguri, Kim Cheolsu, stared at the porridge bowl on his tray with a puzzled expression.
Sihoo’s voice cut through. “Eat it before it cools.”
Cheolsu, catching Sihoo’s look, replied instinctively, “Wow, okay.”
His stream’s chat exploded as his face reappeared:
- Guri, what were you doing? Screen switch?
- Where’s that? Who’s messing with our Guri?
- Nah, Guri screwed up. Get the situation?
Cheolsu didn’t read the chat. Clink. He picked up the organic wooden spoon and carefully scooped the porridge. Sip. “Urgh—hot!” It was so scalding it felt like his mouth’s roof peeled. He set the bowl down, staring at it. A self-proclaimed taste expert, he sensed a subtle flavor in the white rice porridge. Was I wrong? He took another bite. He’d forgotten he was streaming, lost in the taste.
The chat called out:
- Guri, Ddakddaguri? You forgetting us?
- Porridge? They’re feeding you porridge for being late?
Even absurd comments appeared, but Cheolsu didn’t notice. Eyes closed, he savored the porridge. This sweetness… I’ve tasted it before. He couldn’t place it.
“Excuse me, boss!” Cheolsu called Sihoo, unable to recall the flavor.
The customers’ glares sharpened. What’s he saying now? Trying to start something? Just eat and shut up.
Sihoo, busy in the kitchen, stepped into the dining area. Ignoring the customers’ thoughts, Cheolsu asked seriously, “There’s a hidden flavor in this porridge. What is it?”
Sihoo was slightly surprised. Only a sharp palate could detect the trace amount. “You’ve got a keen sense of taste. It’s shrimp.”
“Shrimp?” Cheolsu asked.
“Yeah, I added a spoonful of clear shrimp broth while cooking,” Sihoo explained.
Cheolsu was puzzled. Shrimp broth in porridge?
Reading his thoughts, Sihoo said, “Like adding egg for egg porridge or milk for tarakjuk, you can add any variation.”
Sihoo returned to the kitchen, bringing out a tray of food. Cheolsu’s eyes widened. It was a shrimp feast: shrimp sashimi, shrimp pancakes, clear shrimp soup, various side dishes, and rice mixed with millet. Freshly roasted chestnuts, served whole, sat beside an organic rice bowl. Sihoo opened a bamboo steamer, stirred the chestnuts, and scooped steaming rice into the bowl. Click.
Cheolsu was breathless. Sihoo’s every move drew his eyes. When the chestnut rice bowl was placed before him, an inexplicable feeling enveloped him. “Shrimp… just shrimp, and you made all this?”
His stream went wild:
- Shrimp? A whole spread from just shrimp?
- Is that a Korean restaurant? I thought it was Western!
- Honey, take me there!
Sihoo glanced at Cheolsu, picked up a chestnut, and opened his mouth. “Eat well.”
Turning, Sihoo headed back to the kitchen. Cheolsu, staring at the food, recalled a distant memory.
Customers kept coming even after the Ddakddaguri incident. Hayoon took the last order, and the final customer left at 2:50 p.m. Swipe, swipe. Clink, clink. The diner buzzed with cleanup.
Hwijun spoke up. “Lucky he didn’t pick a fight over the food.”
Hayoon shook his head. “He was quiet here, but he took food to go. Who knows what he’ll say at home.”
Sihoo, finishing kitchen cleanup, tossed something to Hwijun from the changing room. Whoosh. Hwijun caught it, eyes widening. “What’s this?”
“CCTV footage and audio,” Sihoo said.
“When did you…” Hwijun stared, stunned.
Hayoon’s eyes narrowed at Sihoo. This guy… holding a grudge? Hwijun didn’t know, but Hayoon knew Sihoo’s deep attachment to 56804. Giving Hwijun the CCTV file was a first—a calculated move.
Sihoo waited as they changed. Locking 56804’s door, Hwijun looked between Sihoo and the USB. “What do I do with this?”
Sihoo shrugged. “If Ddakddaguri’s stream gets too spicy, speak up. I’ll handle it.”
Hayoon and Hwijun felt a chill at Sihoo’s expression. Bzzz. Sihoo checked his phone. “Huh?”
“What?” Hayoon asked.
“School’s canceled today. Professor’s got something,” Sihoo said.
“No classes then?” Hayoon asked.
Sihoo nodded. “Hyung, wanna come to my place after class? Let’s have dinner.”
Hayoon shook his head. “Nah, I’ll read or rest. Don’t play chef for everyone.”
Sihoo pouted. “You’re just busy, huh?”
Hayoon checked his schedule. “Yeah, after class, I’ve got writing at the study café. And I’m done being your palace chef.”
Sihoo turned to Hwijun. “You? You said you’re free.”
“Yeah, but I gotta edit that USB,” Hwijun said, dodging.
Sihoo’s ‘palace chef’ comment made Hwijun want to pass. Sihoo nodded slightly. “Fine. See you tomorrow, hyung too!”
“Get home,” Hayoon said.
“Go home,” Hwijun echoed.
Sihoo waved overhead and walked off. Soon, he paused, something clicking. He headed to a nearby traditional market, 30-40 minutes away.
The market’s nostalgic, greasy smells hit him—hot dogs, fish cakes, tteokbokki from a middle-aged woman’s cart, and a grandma selling spinach and ferns in red basins. Hasn’t changed, Sihoo thought.
He spotted middle schoolers lining up. Kids at this hour? Curious, he peeked. Dalgona. His mother’s words came back: In Gyeongsang-do, it’s ‘jjokja’ or ‘bomgi.’ Up north, ‘dalgona.’
He recalled her joy. “Watch, Sihoo. You do it like this—carefully poke the shape with a needle.” She’d wet the needle with saliva, delicately carving the dalgona’s indented shape. Poke, poke, poke. The shape held, only the edges cracking slightly. Her focus was intense, a childhood memory she’d shared while laughing. At the end, she’d cheered, “I did it! Sihoo, look, isn’t it pretty?”
Seeing the kids, Sihoo smiled. “Ugh, it broke! One more, mister!”
“Damn, almost got that carp candy.”
The kids handed over cash, focusing on new dalgona shapes. Sihoo watched the vendor melt sugar, eyeing the giant carp candy prize. They’re aiming big.
He moved on, thinking, Gotta hit the bike shop. He wanted to explore the field properly, and a bike would help. At the nearby Sacheonri bike shop, a distinct new-bike smell greeted him. “Welcome,” the owner said, smiling.
“Boss, can I see electric bikes?” Sihoo asked.
“Who’s riding?” the owner asked.
Sihoo pointed to himself. The owner led him to the electric bikes, explaining models in detail. Sihoo picked a new one. “Good eye, student. Riding it home?”
Sihoo shook his head. The owner explained usage and handed over a helmet. “New traffic laws—wear this, or you’ll get fined.”
“How much is the helmet?” Sihoo asked, trying it on.
“Free with the bike. I’ll deliver it. Address?” the owner said.
Sihoo gave his address, paid, and walked home, rubbing his itchy eyes. Can’t rub them. At a pharmacy, the pharmacist sent him to a hospital. After a visit, Sihoo collapsed on his couch. The clock showed plenty of afternoon left. Should I check the field now?
He believed the field had an owner, but so far, he’d only seen otherworldly animals. Even found a sea. Changing into comfy clothes, he descended to the basement. Entering the field, he squinted. “What’s that? A quad bike?”