“I’m thinking about quitting…” Hayoon said.
Sihoo’s mind reeled. If Hayoon left, he’d be alone—prepping ingredients, cooking, serving, handling payments, cleaning. All by myself? That’s tough. He shook his head.
“Hyung, you’re quitting?” Sihoo asked, voice tinged with worry.
Hayoon grinned mischievously. “When did I say I’m quitting? I said I’m thinking about it.”
Relieved, Sihoo exhaled, hand on his chest. Hayoon’s playful tone eased his nerves.
“Besides, didn’t I tell you before? I won’t leave you or 56804,” Hayoon added, his expression softening into a calm smile.
Buzz.
“Hold on,” Hayoon said, stepping aside to take a call.
“Okay,” Sihoo replied.
After the call, Hayoon returned. “My junior’s here. Oh, right—Kanghoon hyung told me to give you this.” He handed Sihoo an envelope and hurried off. “See you later!”
“Later,” Sihoo called, opening the envelope. His eyes widened. It was an invitation to a prestigious Korean restaurant run by a master chef, Yoon Sukhee—a place where money alone couldn’t secure a seat without the owner’s approval. Seeing Yoon Sukhee’s name, Sihoo’s heart raced.
Rustle.
A note tucked behind the invitation read: [Hope this helps with menu planning. Go with Hayoon tomorrow.]
Sihoo grabbed his phone and texted Kanghoon: [Hyung! Thanks for the invitation!]
Moments later, a smiling emoji buzzed back.
In the living room, Sihoo reclined on the sofa, flipping through a book on restaurant management. Flip. The sound of pages turning filled the quiet space. His eyes scanned diligently until he sighed, exasperated. “Ugh, why is running a diner so complicated?”
Closing the book with a thud, he stepped into the courtyard to clear his head. The chilly air enveloped him as he shuffled in slippers. Whoosh. A cold breeze tousled his hair. His gaze landed on a homemade fire pit in the corner, and he chuckled. “Man, I struggled to build that…”
He recalled watching YouTube videos of baking sweet potatoes in a fire pit, inspiring him to design one. Opting for a standing pit over a seated one, he’d bought clay bricks with his allowance and filled the gaps with mountain soil. The pit’s opening reached his waist, about a meter wide.
Gurgle.
His stomach rumbled, evoking winter’s classic snack. “Baked sweet potatoes, maybe?”
Sihoo fetched firewood from the storage and lit the pit. Crackle. The dry wood caught quickly in the crisp weather. Watching the flames, he saw white smoke curling skyward like flowing hair. “Been a while since I used this.”
Muttering, he headed to the kitchen, wrapped field-grown sweet potatoes in foil, and returned. The fire had burned down to embers. Small flames—perfect. He placed the foil-wrapped potatoes among the coals and went to his room.
Even in winter, his house stayed warm without the boiler, thanks to the open bedroom door. The field’s warmth heats the whole place. Saves on bills.
Glancing at the bedroom, Sihoo sat on the sofa, resuming his book. Later, he retrieved the sweet potatoes. Peeling one, he blew on it and took a bite. Crunch. The creamy, sweet warmth filled his mouth. Sipping barley tea, he smiled. Didn’t someone say cider pairs best with sweet potatoes?
A memory surfaced—his father bringing home roasted sweet potatoes when Sihoo was eight. Clank. The gate creaked.
“Son?” His father, spotting Sihoo awake, pulled a yellow paper bag from his coat. “They were selling roasted sweet potatoes at the bus stop. Got some to share.”
He handed Sihoo a warm potato. “Blow on it like this—ho, ho—it’s hot, okay?”
Sihoo mimicked him, biting into the sweet potato. “Wow, Dad, it’s so good!”
His father fetched kimchi from the kitchen, placing a few pieces on a plate. “Sweet potatoes taste better with a bit of kimchi.”
Sihoo’s wide-eyed stare made his father laugh, slightly embarrassed. He ate a kimchi-topped bite. “You’re too young to get the sweet potato-kimchi combo, huh?”
His father savored it, clearly delighted. “Here, I peeled it for you. Hold it carefully.”
The potato’s warmth in Sihoo’s small hands felt comforting. Now, staring at the sweet potato, he murmured, “Tastes just like Dad’s.”
Sweet yet tinged with longing, the flavor stirred his emotions. His nose stung. “Sweet potatoes… maybe I’ll make sweet potato mattang for 56804 tomorrow.”
Deciding to prepare the candied snack before work, he devoured three sweet potatoes, finishing with barley tea. “Ah, so good.”
Sated, he dove back into his book, menu planning alongside it. Suddenly, the content clicked. Was I just hungry? Brain works better on a full stomach.
Seizing the moment, he jotted down Korean menu ideas. Pulling out Kanghoon’s invitation, he tilted his head. “How did hyung get this? Yoon Sukhee’s place is impossible to book.”
Yoon Sukhee, hearing her nephew’s request, was incredulous until she heard the name. “If it’s the Kang Sihoo I know, that’d be great.”
Smiling faintly at the voice on the phone, she said, “I see. Then it’s probably the student I know. Send him over. Take care, and visit sometime.”
Hanging up, Yoon Sukhee sighed lightly, recalling Kang Sihoo. Meeting him at culinary school, she’d been stunned. His knife skills and flavor analysis rivaled chefs with a decade of experience. She often saw him at competitions, sweeping awards as the rising star, Kang Sihoo. “Hope it’s him,” she mused.
Sihoo decided to use Kanghoon’s invitation, coordinating with Hayoon. He dressed in black slacks, a white polo, and a black winter coat. Rustle. At the bus stop, a bus approached. “Don’t feel like taking the bus…” he muttered, realizing his lingering anxiety about public transport. Determined to overcome it, he boarded.
Beep. “Boarding,” the machine announced.
Thump, thump. Heart racing, Sihoo kept a neutral face, scanning the bus. Spotting empty seats, he sat. Nearby high school girls stole glances, whispering.
“That guy’s the chef at the Korea Uni diner, right?”
“No way, where’s that?”
“You don’t know? You’re from Busan, huh. It’s famous on 505. You’re on Instagram—look.”
One showed her phone, displaying 56804’s menu and reviews. The other, surprised, glanced between Sihoo and the screen. “That’s the place? So he’s the chef?”
“He’s kinda cute, no?”
Her friend sighed, whispering, “He’s decent, but who cares? Not our oppa.”
Sihoo, oblivious, stared out the window. Buzz. Hayoon’s text: [Where you at? I’m here.] Sihoo replied and prepared to disembark.
“Next stop, Pildong,” the bus announced. Sihoo pressed the bell.
Creak. Stepping off, Hayoon approached. “Whoa, Kang Sihoo, all dressed up?”
Sihoo grinned. “You too, hyung.”
Hayoon scratched his cheek, sheepish. “Kanghoon hyung told me to dress like this.”
“What? Kanghoon hyung?” Sihoo asked.
Hayoon faltered, realizing his slip. “Uh, yeah. I mentioned we’re going to the master chef’s place, and he gave me the dress code.”
Sihoo nodded, convinced. With Hayoon, he entered an alley toward Yoon Sukhee’s restaurant. “This the place?”
“Hold on, checking the map,” Hayoon said.
Unfamiliar with the area, they wandered. Hayoon glanced around. “Didn’t we just pass here? Let me see the phone.”
Sihoo handed it over silently. Hayoon paused. “Wait… you don’t…?”
Sihoo’s eyes darted, avoiding his gaze.
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