Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

At lunch, I take myself to the fried-pork food truck because that’s my comfort food. It takes me back to Iowa, where cheese and pork and corn all exist in perfect harmony. Even before I order, I sense something is wrong.

“Imo-nim, are you feeling well?”

Sweat lines her forehead and her usually smiling expression is strained and weary. “Ne. Yes.” She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. The hand trembles.

“You’re sick. Could you close early and go home?” I don’t know if she can afford to.

She shakes her head, but even that’s too much for her and she stumbles, catching herself against the stainless steel counter. There are three other people behind me who are straining to see what the holdup is.

“I’m taking you up on your offer to teach me to cook.” I walk around to the back of the food truck and open the door. Yang Ilhwa watches silently as I swipe a plastic face shield from a shelf and fit it over my face. “Do you have hairnets?”

She points to a tackle box. Inside, I find hairnets and food-safe gloves. I gear up and push her aside. “How many?” I ask the next customer.

At first, he’s a little confused by my appearance, but his stomach reminds him why he’s at a food truck and he reels off an order. I don’t catch it all, but Yang Ilwha does.

“Two orders pork balls. A corn cup. One Milkis. Put pork balls in batter, then eggs, then crumbs. Fry. I tell you when to take out.”

I follow her lead. There are thin patties of meat separated by plastic. She palms one and then flips her hand over, stuffing a square of mozzarella inside. In another two moves, the meat is wrapped around the cheese and pinched into a circle. She repeats this move two more times. The finished balls are dipped in an egg wash and then rolled through a seasoned crumb mixture. From there, the breaded pork is fried, left to drain, and then fried again. After the second frying, three are speared onto a bamboo stick. She motions for me to pour the sauce into the small paper cup she uses as a serving container.

I squirt some in. She nudges me to add more. I continue filling the paper cup until she is satisfied.

“Good,” she announces. “More pork.”

I burn the first few batches, and a couple of the customers are ready to curse me out. We give them free food and drinks to pacify them. By the fourth customer, I have the hang of it, which is good because Yang looks like she’s going to die.

And for the next four hours, almost without a rest, I pound bread, stuff thin pork fillets with cubes of mozzarella, drench vegetables in tempura batter, and dump them all into different vats of hot oil. Despite being ill, the older woman serves and takes orders and processes cash in a whirlwind of efficiency.

During a lull, I text Bujang-nim and tell him that I’m sick. He doesn’t respond right away, so I call Bomi.

“Have you gone to the hospital?” she asks with worry when I explain that I need to take a sick day.

“I’m not actually sick. Yang Ilwha is and she needs my help.”

“Yang . . . Il . . . wha?”

“The pork food truck lady.”

“You’re . . . helping her?”

“Yeah. She needs it. I think she needs to go to the hospital, actually. I have to run, but will you make sure that human resources or whoever needs to know that I’m not coming back this afternoon?”

“Your text to your manager is fine.”

“Great. I have to go now. There’s a customer.” I work hard through the lunch hour, and around two, the steady stream of lunchgoers has ended. I sit down next to Yang Ilhwa with a Milkis.

She pats me weakly on the back. “Good job. Good job.”

“Thanks.” I stretch out my legs. “This is tiring. I need better shoes.” My little flats weren’t meant to be stood in for four hours straight. Yang is wearing sneakers with thick soles. I eye them with envy.

“You a good worker. What you do?”

“I work for IF Group.” I point off in the direction of the building.

She shakes her head. It’s not a company with which she’s familiar.

“You have boyfriend?”

“Y-ye—” I start to say and then stop. Yang Ilhwa is the perfect person to ask about Yujun and me. She’s an impartial party who doesn’t know who I am, what my place in the world is. She doesn’t know Yujun or Wansu and will give me an honest cultural perspective. “Imo-nim, do you remember earlier in the summer, in June, the young couple that made an extreme choice because they were from the same clan and their families refused to allow them to marry?”