The Ullmyeon Wasn't Spicy at All
The ullmyeon wasn't spicy at all. After washing my face and coming out, Wang Hong was standing in front of the kitchen with her arms crossed.
"All done?"
"Yeah."
"Then let's get started."
Her voice was flat. No emotion, no nagging—just the tone of someone with work to do.
Wang Hong stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge door.
"Prepping lunch ingredients is the main task today. Onions, potatoes, meat, noodles, stock ingredients. Watch me do it once, then you take over."
"Got it."
"I saw how quick your hands are yesterday, so I'll keep the explanations short."
Wang Hong picked up an onion with quiet precision. She sliced it in half without waste, trimmed the root, and cut it into even thicknesses.
"This thickness. Too thick and it won't cook through when stir-fried; too thin and it'll mush."
"Got it."
"Potatoes need the edges blunted so they don't break when boiled. You know to soak them in cold water, right?"
"Yeah."
Wang Hong glanced at me.
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Figured it out on my own."
She didn't ask more. She pulled a slab of pork from the fridge and set it on the cutting board.
"Cut meat against the grain so it doesn't get tough when chewed. Jjajangmyeon and tangsuyuk thicknesses differ. Jjajangmyeon like this." She indicated the width with her finger. "Give it a try."
I picked up the knife. My hands moved first. Before my brain could think, my hands remembered. Back in my cook days, I'd gotten smacked upside the head by seniors more than once for cutting with the grain. That memory was etched into my fingers.
Wang Hong picked up the sliced meat and checked it. A moment of silence.
"Good. Same thickness for the rest."
That was praise.
Prepping took a little over two hours. Onions, potatoes, meat, green onions, cucumbers, oil temperature for frying Chunjang. I followed silently each time Wang Hong pointed something out. Her explanations were brief. Show, do, summarize in one sentence. Like how army seniors taught tasks. It actually made it easier.
"You'll handle serving at lunch too."
Wang Hong said while wiping her hands.
"I used to do it all alone, and it was getting tough. You can take orders and bring food out, right?"
"Yeah."
"Put on an apron when you come out of the kitchen."
I grabbed the apron hanging in the corner and tied it on. Just before noon, customers started trickling in. Office workers from nearby companies, it seemed. Women in their early to mid-thirties filled the tables in groups of twos and threes.
I went out to take orders.
"Two jjajangmyeon."
"One jjamppong, one fried rice."
As I jotted down the orders and turned, a voice called from behind.
"Hey, didn't this place never have a part-timer before?"
Looking back, the bob-cut office worker was propping her chin, staring up at me.
"You a student? What school?"
"Anything else you need?"
"No, I mean, your face is way too pretty. Seems a waste working here."
Giggling came from the next table.
"Can I get your number? I'm not a bad person."
Before I could answer, a voice rang out from the kitchen.
"Customers, you're here to eat, right?"
Wang Hong stood at the kitchen entrance, rag in hand. She wasn't smiling. Not angry exactly, but her mere presence shifted the air.
"Can't have you bothering our part-timer."
The bob-cut woman smiled awkwardly and bowed her head.
"Oh, sorry. Just... he's so pretty..."
"Your orders will be out soon."
Wang Hong went back into the kitchen. I quietly moved to the next table. No one tried talking to me after that.
Through the peak hours, I took orders and carried food. Up and down the narrow dining area, setting down and clearing plates in repetition. I wondered if this frail body would hold up, but it did better than expected. No, it wasn't holding up—it just moved on its own. There are jobs you do without realizing how hard they are. Ones where stray thoughts don't creep in while you're at it. It was like my cook days. From four in the morning prepping meals, I didn't think of Yoo Sea-ah or my mom. Hands moved, food got made. Today felt the same.
Around one-thirty, customers thinned out. I wiped the remaining tables and sorted dishes. From the kitchen came the sound of Wang Hong prepping leftover ingredients. I wrung out the rag, hung it up, and went in.
"Need a hand?"
"No. Take a break."
Wang Hong said without lifting her eyes from the cutting board. I perched on a low stool by the kitchen entrance. Silence stretched. Only the steady rhythm of the knife.
"No family?"
Wang Hong asked abruptly.
"No."
"Parents?"
"Gone. Never had a dad, mom left when I was little."
Her hands paused briefly, then resumed.
"Living alone now?"
"Semi-basement nearby."
"Rent?"
"100,000 won a month... but I'm a month behind. Landlady gave me three days; now it's just over one left."
Wang Hong sliced the green onion root slowly.
"I grew up without parents too."
It came out of nowhere.
"Did deliveries in Chinatown from kid days. On a bike. Rain or snow. Somehow made it here."
Matte tone. Not bragging or complaining—just stating facts.
"Must've been tough."
"Didn't know it was tough. No other life to compare to."
The words hit home. Living without knowing it's hard. I got what that meant.
Then the door opened. A familiar silhouette entered. Baggy tracksuit. Swaggering gait. Min Chae-ah. Spotting me, her lips curved up.
"What, you're really working here?"
She grinned and plopped at a random table. I set down the rag and approached.
"What'll you have?"
"Uh, one jjajangmyeon."
Min Chae-ah eyed me up and down.
"Apron and all. Suits you, I guess."
I didn't respond, just noted the order.
"Hey, for real though."
Min Chae-ah crossed her arms and leaned back.
"Part-time here gonna cover rent? You do the math?"
"I'll do my best."
"'Best' how much? What's the hourly even."
She wasn't wrong. I knew it.
"Still, can't not try."
"Hey, at least cash in on that face. Smile a bit, women lining up to help."
"I'll put in the order."
I turned toward the kitchen. Min Chae-ah clicked her tongue behind me. Soon, footsteps from the kitchen. Wang Hong came out herself carrying the jjajangmyeon bowl. I stood reflexively.
"I got it."
"Nah."
Wang Hong set it in front of Min Chae-ah. Then reached into her pocket. Two 50,000-won bills, some 10,000s, some 5,000s. Stacked neatly on the table.
Min Chae-ah narrowed her eyes.
"What's this?"
"His part-time pay."
Wang Hong crossed her arms.
"200,000 won. Covers rent, right?"
Min Chae-ah looked at me, then Wang Hong.
"Why's the boss paying his rent..."
"Anyway, rent's settled?"
Min Chae-ah stared at the money a beat. Looked like she wanted to say something, then just pocketed it.
"...Fine."
Wang Hong headed back to the kitchen. I stood there a moment, then followed.
"Boss."
"What."
"You didn't have to. It's not even my earnings, and today's work was barely anything."
"Who said it's free?"
Wang Hong didn't turn.
"Advance. Deduct from pay. Work harder for it."
"But 200,000..."
"Quiet."
Firm. No arguing. I shut my mouth. Silence fell in the kitchen. Wang Hong lifted a pot lid, checked inside, then said casually,
"I'll make you meals on work days. Eat before you go."
I couldn't answer right away.
"...Thanks."
"No big deal."
She replaced the lid. Simple words. But they were big. Back at the orphanage as a kid, there was the director. Not a talker. Cared for the sick with what little we had, fed the hungry, scolded the naughty. That was it, but it was everything. Wang Hong reminded me of her. Warm without saying it. I bowed my head unnecessarily. Forced down the heat in my eyes. I'd cried once today. That was enough.
***
Coming out of the kitchen, Min Chae-ah was eating her jjajangmyeon. I cleaned the far side of the dining area. Min Chae-ah twirled her chopsticks, glanced at me. Han Gyeowol was looking toward the kitchen, lost in thought for a moment. Then, very faintly. He smiled. An awkward, small smile. Not forced through teary eyes, but natural, fleeting. Min Chae-ah stopped chopsticking at that face.
"..."
She stared long, then dropped her gaze back to the noodles.
"With a face like that..."
Her mutter leaked low.
"At least sell smiles. Why worry about rent."
Min Chae-ah grumbled, finished the rest quickly. Paid and left, glancing at Han Gyeowol once more. He was already wiping tables. She pushed the door open without a word. Rain sounds seeped in briefly from the closing door, then vanished. Inside Hongbok Banjeom, only oil smells and Wang Hong's knife sounds remained.
I rinsed the rag and looked out the window. The rain had stopped. Didn't know when. Just, at some point, it had.