Chapter 30: You’re Not Korean If You Don’t Know It

“Surprised, huh?”  

Im Jeongmyeong’s words broke the silence.  

“Yes.”  

Irim had only seen scenes of corporate tycoons with bodyguards and chauffeurs in dramas or movies.  

Experiencing it in real life was a first.  

“That guy’s an artist, quite the eccentric.”  

“An artist?”  

“He paints. He’s got a private gallery in Chuncheon that’s open 365 days a year. You should visit if you get the chance—it’s free.”  

“I’ll definitely do that.”  

“By the way, Irim, this is just my thought, and you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but… that perilla oil makguksu you made today—how about adding it to the menu?”  

The unexpected suggestion caught Irim off guard.  

Adding it to the menu meant selling it to customers for money.  

In other words, Im Jeongmyeong recognized its value.  

Irim smiled, delighted.  

“I’d be honored.”  

“You’re thanking me even though doubling the menu means double the work? Heh heh.”  

“How much should we price it at?”  

Im Jeongmyeong rubbed his chin before answering.  

“Let’s set both dishes at 3,000 won.”  

“Uh… are you sure that’s okay?”  

“I’m not running this place to make big money. As long as I earn enough to pay your salary, that’s fine.”  

Irim didn’t press further.  

After all, he was just an employee, and Im Jeongmyeong was the boss.  

It would be overstepping to question his decision.  

Still, Irim couldn’t help but wonder why Im Jeongmyeong had opened the restaurant in the first place.  

***  

“Hyungnim! I’m here!”  

That evening, Park Cheolho, the junkyard owner, visited the restaurant.  

He dropped a large sack he’d carried on his back into the kitchen.  

Irim, who was cleaning the kitchen, met his gaze.  

“Hello, young chef!”  

“Hello, sir.”  

“Cleaning up?”  

“Yes. I started at lunch, and I’m just finishing now. Haha.”  

Park Cheolho glanced around the kitchen.  

“What’s there to clean so much?”  

He’d visited a few times before and occasionally poked around the kitchen, but it never seemed like there was much to do.  

Yet, the kitchen Irim had touched was noticeably different.  

It was hard to pinpoint exactly what had changed.  

Perhaps it just exuded a brighter, fresher vibe?  

Irim had studied cooking extensively, worked in various establishments, and even tried running his own.  

His eye for kitchen details surpassed most.  

He cleaned every hidden speck of grime or dust that others might overlook, making the kitchen feel more inviting overall, even if the changes weren’t immediately obvious.  

Park Cheolho nudged the sack on the floor with his foot.  

“This is zucchini, green onions, chives, young radish, and napa cabbage from our field. Make something with them.”  

“Thank you.”  

“Keep up the good work, chef. Hyungnim! I’m off!”  

“Stay for dinner.”  

Im Jeongmyeong approached the kitchen.  

“Gotta water the field. Even if I start now, I’ll barely finish before sunset.”  

“Thanks as always, brother.”  

“Thank me? Oh, and I might close the junkyard.”  

“I knew you’d shut it down someday. You leave it empty so often—how’s it supposed to run? What’ll you do for a living then?”  

“Live off the farm. I think doing what you enjoy is the way to go.”  

“Why not open a small vegetable shop? I’ll be a regular.”  

“I’m actually thinking of converting the junkyard for that. Alright, I’m off.”  

Park Cheolho hurriedly left the restaurant.  

Im Jeongmyeong stepped into the kitchen and said to Irim, “Why don’t you call it a day? You must be tired.”  

“I’m done. It’s dinnertime—let’s eat.”  

“Alright. Don’t think about cooking anything fancy this time. Just grab some side dishes.”  

“Will do.”  

***  

A modest dinner was set on the table.  

Steamed white rice and cucumber cold soup were the main dishes, accompanied by side dishes: braised baby potatoes, stir-fried fish cakes, kimchi, stir-fried anchovies, and seasoned soybeans.  

Sadly, Irim couldn’t taste any of it.  

He focused on the textures, trying to recall flavors from memory.  

Im Jeongmyeong looked at him with pity.  

To live without the joy of eating, one of life’s great pleasures, was heartbreaking.  

Poor guy.  

Im Jeongmyeong knew the basics of why Irim had lost his sense of smell and taste.  

If it weren’t for that accident, he could’ve made it big in this industry.  

Throughout the meal, he thought about ways to help Irim regain his senses.  

“Well eaten.”  

The table was cleared in no time.  

Irim quickly tidied up, and Im Jeongmyeong took over dishwashing.  

Meanwhile, Irim organized the crops from Park Cheolho’s sack in the kitchen.  

Among them, he found an unexpected watermelon.  

He cut half into wedges for dessert and cubed the other half, storing it in the freezer.  

Having finished the dishes, Im Jeongmyeong sat across from Irim and picked up a watermelon wedge.  

The red, ripe flesh looked incredibly sweet.  

“Let’s see.”  

Im Jeongmyeong took a bite.  

Crunch.  

The juicy flesh filled his mouth with sweetness, like it had been dusted with sugar.  

“Nice.”  

It was cool, likely straight from the field and chilled in the fridge.  

Im Jeongmyeong chewed and swallowed the seeds without spitting them out—a habit he picked up after hearing on a TV show that watermelon seeds aid digestion.  

Irim ate a piece too.  

Though he couldn’t taste the sweetness, the cold, juicy flesh, like a water-soaked sponge, felt refreshing.  

“Why’d you put the rest of the watermelon in the freezer?”  

Irim smiled at the question.  

“I’m going to make something delicious tomorrow.”  

Im Jeongmyeong couldn’t fathom what Irim planned to make with frozen watermelon.  

***  

“See you tomorrow.”  

“Take care.”  

Irim left Jeongmyeong Restaurant and headed home.  

The quickest route from the restaurant to his house was through a neighborhood alley lined with fields, rather than the main road.  

He turned into the alley.  

The scene before him was half dilapidated mansions, half sprawling fields.  

It was 7 p.m.  

As the sun began to set, the midsummer heat was giving way to cooler evening air.  

Yulmunri, his neighborhood, had a rustic, countryside charm.  

Irim breathed in the cooling evening air and strolled slowly.  

As he passed an old mansion, he heard a child crying from inside.  

“Waaah! Waaaaah!”  

It was a plaintive, sorrowful cry.  

Did they get scolded by their parents?  

Irim thought little of it and continued walking.  

But even after he passed, the crying lingered for a long time.  

 ***

Back home, Irim showered, changed into pajamas, and drank a glass of Connection Water.  

Wearing the Connector, he closed his eyes.  

His consciousness synchronized with his character, Rice, in the virtual reality game Real.  

Every time he logged in, Irim was in awe.  

The vividness of the world in Real felt too real for a virtual game.  

He stood in front of the armor shop in Tirko Village.  

He was wearing the stylish gloves and cape he’d bought there.  

“Mio~”  

At his call, Mio appeared on the ground.  

Miooo~!  

Excited to see Irim after a while, Mio let out a long meow.  

But there was a blue box tied to its back.  

“Huh? What’s that?”  

As Irim asked, a system message appeared.  

[While Rice was away, Mio retrieved 3 items.]  

It retrieved items? 

Oh! 

This must be its collection skill.  

Mio had a passive skill called Collection.  

It could fetch one to three items per day that were useful for the player’s profession.  

Irim picked Mio up and grabbed the box from its back.  

The lid popped open with a bang!, and three items floated in the air.  

Irim checked them.  

[Gochujang 200g]  

[Potato Starch 200g]  

[Cooking Oil 500ml]  

Jackpot.  

These were cooking ingredients still rare in this world.  

Irim stored them in his inventory and scratched Mio’s chin.  

“You little thing, you’re a total lucky charm, aren’t you?”  

Mio~  

Enjoying his touch, Mio rolled over, exposing its belly and purring contentedly.  

Irim placed Mio on his head and started walking.  

It was time to leave the village for good.  

As he crossed the plaza toward the north gate, he spotted the blacksmith’s shop in the distance.  

Through the open wooden door, he saw Ferguson sitting in a chair, deep in thought.  

His face was heavy with worry, and a yellow question mark floated above his head.  

It’s something I can’t solve.  

Irim tried to ignore Ferguson and move on.  

But then, Yoo Soonjae came to mind.  

Ferguson’s father had lost his sense of taste, unable to enjoy food, and turned to alcoholism.  

Yoo Soonjae had struggled with the same loss.  

Their situations were strikingly similar.  

And Irim had made a dish that satisfied Yoo Soonjae.  

Food isn’t just about taste.  

Sometimes, the memories tied to food act as the best seasoning, and some foods, like tea, are savored more for their aroma than flavor.  

Maybe…  

Could approaching Ferguson’s quest similarly lead to a solution?  

His real-world experience offered a clue to solving this in-game quest.  

Irim headed toward the blacksmith’s shop.  

Hearing footsteps, Ferguson lifted his head.  

“Rice?”  

Startled, he jumped up and stepped outside.  

Irim got straight to the point.  

“If it’s not too late… can I take on that request?”  

[Profession Quest – Lost Sense of Taste] 

Clear Condition: Make a dish that satisfies Ferguson’s father.  

Reward: Ferguson’s father’s treasure, significant increase in Ferguson’s favor.  

Failure: Significant decrease in favor with Ferguson and his father.  

“Really? You’ll help my father?”  

[“I’ll give it a try.” / “I don’t know, it seems difficult.”]  

“Yes, I’ll give it a try.”  

With Irim’s response, the quest was accepted.  

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Rice!”  

“Where’s your father?”  

“He’s upstairs. Follow me.”  

Ferguson led the way, and Irim followed.  

Ferguson climbed a staircase on the side of the building to the second floor and opened a closed door.  

Beyond it was a cozy room, just the right size for one person.  

Inside, a scarred, bronze-skinned man with strong muscles sat in a rocking chair, drinking.  

“Father, stop drinking.”  

Ferguson scolded him.  

Irim checked the name floating above the man’s head.  

It was ‘Paltau.’  

“I brought a guest.”  

“A guest?”  

At the word, Paltau’s gaze turned to Irim.  

“Who’s this?”  

“I’m Rice.”  

Ferguson added, “He’s a chef. He’s here to cook something you’d like.”  

Paltau scoffed.  

“Something I’d like? Even if the Demon King himself descended and all the chefs turned into fools, how could anyone make that?”  

“He’s an outsider who came through the dimensional rift. His cooking skills are incredible.”  

Despite Ferguson’s words, Paltau didn’t seem convinced.  

“Hey, outsider chef. Are you really that good?”  

“Is there a dish you’d like to eat?”  

“No matter what I eat, I can’t taste a damn thing!”  

With a curse, he hurled his glass, which hit the floor and crumpled with a crash!  

His eyes, filled with resentment, quivered as he spoke.  

“But if you insist on trying… let me ask you one thing. Do you know a dish called fried chicken?”  

||  

Of course he did.  

If you don’t know fried chicken, you’re not Korean.