Seoulmates (Seoul 2)

There’s a place for me here in this city. I don’t know exactly what it looks like or how it’s shaped, but I am not a moomyeong, a person of no name or no identity.

When everyone arrives, they try to crowd into the kitchen with me, much to Mrs. Ji’s and my dismay. Lightly, lovingly, but determinedly, I push them out. “Go sit at the table.”

“But I want to see what you’re doing,” protests Yujun.

“We’re washing up.”

“There’s food over there.” He points over my shoulder.

“And it will be on the table quicker if you leave.” I manage to shove him out and quickly close the door.

Mrs. Ji delivers the banchan while I remove the last of the fries from the oil and give them a tiny sprinkle of sugar and a large dose of salt. She returns and helps me carry out the sandwiches. My three friends look ready to pounce.

“There are three different kinds. One is pulled pork with apple pear chutney spiced with gochujang. This one is sliced pork tenderloin with provolone and caramelized onions with kimchi slaw. This last one is sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin with chive kimchi and fried onion bits. Finally, we have french fries.”

“And banchan from Mrs. Ji,” adds Wansu, looking serene and pleased at the head of the table.

“Definitely. The kimchi is Mrs. Ji’s, too.” She told me that she made all of it herself every winter. I clap for her, and after a surprised pause, everyone joins in. Mrs. Ji blushes and beams before disappearing into the back kitchen. The attention might be too much for her, or her scrub brush is calling.

Sangki has half of one of the pork melts already devoured by the time I sit down. “Ah, this is so good. Masitda.”

“Did you make these, too?” Wansu asks, a french fry speared on the end of a fork.

“I did.”

“These are better than Shake Shack,” Bomi declares.

“This doesn’t taste like samgyeopsal.” Yujun holds up a sandwich and peers at the thin slices of pork layered inside the crunchy baguette.

“No. It’s loin and shoulder. Yang Ilwha used these pieces in her pork balls because they were cheaper.”

“This is true. Seoulites either eat samgyeopsal or gopchang. Nothing else.” Yujun opts for the pulled pork.

“Loin is leaner,” I point out.

“But usually so dry.” Bomi makes a face. “Like cardboard.”

“The pork balls weren’t.” This attack on Yang Ilwha’s food seems personal.

“Everything that’s fried tastes good,” Sangki chirps.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Yujun intercedes before Sangki and I argue more. “This is great, Hara. The best meal I’ve had.”

My gaze flies to Wansu. “He means recently.”

“He means it is the best meal he’s had. I do not cook, Hara. Do not be worried about my feelings, but thank you.”

This is the best meal that I’ve ever had, too, not because the food is good but because everyone sitting at this table is a person I care about and they are enjoying food that I made. There’s something immensely satisfying about this. There are some things in life that cross borders and boundaries, that are not limited by language. Music is one, but food—food is another.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Winter has fallen on Seoul. The pollution has been driven away and cold winds are keeping many people inside. The food truck is closed, and most days I’m in the back kitchen, experimenting with different pork dishes. I’m contemplating making bacony things. Yujun is down in Busan today and the snow is keeping him there until morning.

Wansu is with Sae Appa, as she always is this time of the night, so it is a surprise to me when I see her at the doorway of the kitchen.

“Is everything all right?”

“Would you come out and sit with me? I made some tea.”

Immediately, I turn off the stove and dump the syrup I was making into the trash. Something is wrong. Wansu doesn’t make tea. Mrs. Ji makes the tea. “Is Yujun okay?”

I reach for the phone to see if there’s trending news. Wansu’s hand covers mine. “Yes. He’s upstairs with his father.”

“He’s upstairs? I thought he was in Busan and couldn’t leave because of the weather.”

“He came home because I asked him to. Please.”

I don’t make her repeat herself. When I’m seated, she pours steaming tea into a celadon-colored cup, a traditional color and style with no handle. It reminds me of the tea rites they performed at Chuseok when Yujun poured the soju into the brazier. I make no move to drink mine and Wansu leaves hers untouched as well.

“Yujun’s father has not been well for many years, and Yujun and I believe it is time we let him go.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She takes a deep shaky breath. “Before we cease all life-support activities, I am divorcing him and taking back my family name of Na. I will also be leaving IF Group.”

“What?” I nearly shout I’m so shocked.