A Bowl of Jajangmyeon
"Hmm..."
But that intense flavor and aroma can sometimes be a drawback. The first couple of bites might be delicious, but keep going and eventually, that slight moment of cloying fatigue hits. Gunmandu are especially prone to it. One or two while they're piping hot go down easy, but once they've cooled just a bit and you've polished off three, that's the real hurdle. The heavy meat juices start feeling inexplicably greasy. Can't be helped—they tossed in a touch of lard for that explosive juiciness. The hearty chives turn into pesky bits wedged between your teeth, and the pungent garlic aroma suddenly turns your stomach.
Maybe I've gotten older, after all.
And usually, by then, your stomach feels bloated, making it impossible to eat another bite. Back in my student days, I'd clean my plate no matter what—leftovers or not. Surprisingly tough now.
But unlike those physical-prime student years, I've got experience and wisdom on my side these days.
Vinegar, a splash of lemon juice, and some pepper...
Time to tackle the remaining three pieces, each with a different twist. First up, the classic... no, better to go light to heavy here. Condiment one: vinegar and pepper. Nothing else. A drizzle of vinegar, a sprinkle of pepper. The pepper's sharp spice wakes up your palate, while the vinegar's acidity refreshes your tongue. Greasiness and heaviness? Useless against this perfect duo.
A bite of gunmandu lands on your vinegar-soaked tongue. The heavy juices try to seep in but get flustered by the pooling saliva and slip straight down your throat. The garlic clings to the roof of your mouth, scheming for survival, but the pepper overpowers it outright and shoves it down. Swallow like you're chugging water, and the well-chewed wrapper and chives make a final stand under your tongue—but they can't withstand the saliva glands burst open by the vinegar!
Ha. Perfect. A totally different vibe from soy sauce. I picked up this combo from a food drama years ago, but it's been my simple go-to for over three years now.
Second combo: the true classic. Soy sauce, gochujang, and a touch of vinegar. Soy's deep salty umami, gochujang's robust heat, vinegar's sharp tang. At a glance, it might seem to overlap with the gunmandu itself. But surprisingly, this devilish classic elevates it. It creates overlapping elements that spark competition, pushing both sides to peak condition—the ultimate pairing!
Soy's sophisticated saltiness with the meat's heft? Proven in countless dishes. Hearty chives and garlic punch, mixed with vinegar and gochujang? A pro-wrestling tag-team match. The more you eat, the more you get hooked, craving that escalating thrill!
Delicious. Too delicious to handle! With this combo, I could down another bowl... no, half a bowl easy...
"...Better not get cocky."
But pause here. Regrettable, but no more gunmandu. Still some jajangmyeon left. Order more gunmandu, and you'd leave the jajangmyeon; finish the jajangmyeon, and your belly's too full for extras. Play it smart... smart. Drop the last gunmandu into the remaining jajangmyeon. Scrape up the sauce with its wing, shove it in crunching, and the jajang's sweetness washes away the soy-vinegar flavors like a distant memory.
Then, the final bite—the one you'd saved. The most satisfying finish I can manage right now.
...But it's missing 2%.
"Just a little unsatisfying..."
One more piece. Just one, and I'd be good. My stomach's at gold rank right now—gold tier, two points shy of diamond. High rank, sure, but those missing points mean settling for lesser rewards. The joy of a good haul overshadowed by that nagging regret.
Should've ordered double portions? Nah, that would've thrown off the balance. Better not to order gunmandu at all—gone with something else? Regret breeds more regret. That mere 2% shortfall toying with my entire mood—
"Knew it. Here."
"Oh. This is..."
"Made extra for the delivery kids. Service."
A few pieces of tangsuyuk. Not sauce-on-the-side or pre-separated—the real deal, stir-fried sweet and sour pork you rarely see these days. Glancing over, the delivery guys are devouring piles behind the chef. Jajangmyeon, jjambbong, fried rice... a feast.
Even with my belly nearly full past 8 PM—nearing 9—my appetite stirs. ...Wait, eating now? Then again, dinner rush is peak for delivery folks. Late meals make sense.
"Full? Leave it. It's service—no one's gonna complain."
"...Thank you."
The chef grunts indifferently and shuffles toward the delivery crew. He stuffs them silly while his own meal is just rice and veggie stir-fry...
Trouble. That looks tasty too. Next time, order the veggie stir-fry.
"Unexpected service..."
Tangsuyuk, huh. Properly stir-fried like this? Haven't had it in ages. Sticky rice versions and delivery styles dominate now—stir-fried is a rarity. Places claim authentic Chinese, but finding tangsuyuk this stellar? Instant regular.
"...Whoa."
Hold on—this is "service"? A quick dip in sauce confirms it. Not service. Service, but the kind you can't call service... Ha. How to explain? Yeah, this tangsuyuk was made separately just to serve me as "service."
"More tangy than sweet. Crispy but not overly so. Really... this is..."
The allure of stir-fried tangsuyuk. That crunch despite sauce saturation. Only fresh-fried—expertly fried—pulls it off. Sloppy frying leaves pork soggy and mushy. Overdone? Sauce and batter separate. Ideal is sauce-infused yet snapping lightly on contact. No quick practice gets you there. You need fire mastery, batter expertise, and sauce-batter interplay knowledge.
Sticky rice and delivery tangsuyuk are great, but peak is stir-fried!
Its charm? Tailored perfectly to my taste. Master chefs tweak recipes by guest mood, weather, their condition, ingredient freshness. This is that pinnacle bite from a true artisan. Sweetness clings delightfully but risks cloying. Tang drives endless bites but botches harmony if overbearing. That exquisite balance—clinging yet urging more, making even a stuffed, dulled palate devour forgetfully. That's the true essence!
"Finally, that missing 2% is filled. Can't get more satisfied than this..."
The 2% gap closed. Human hearts are sly. Half-satisfied at 98%, but fill it and satisfaction explodes fivefold, tenfold. Rollercoaster? Satisfaction's rollercoaster. Plummeting despair soaring back to the peak—that rush!
"This is why I can't quit this place... Huh?"
"Ufufu..."
"...Huh?"
I set down my chopsticks in bliss when a ghostly wail echoes. Hallucination? No...
"Hehehe..."
"Ah."
The chef's back—hunched and quivering. Shoulders shaking, elf ears flushed crimson—
"...My god."
Then it hits. My god. My thoughts leaked out loud!
Thinking back, yeah, I mumbled to myself while eating solo. Habit. Super tasty food disarms you, spilling inner monologue like babbling under anesthesia when too comfy...
No, excuses. Anyway, the chef overheard. Even the extra tangsuyuk...
...Embarrassing. Age dulls shame? Nah, you just ignore it. But this is too blatant to brush off.
Ha. Gonna remember this every visit. My face burns as red as the chef's elongated, satisfied ears.
Time to fix this habit...