Fast Food That Night
"...I can't believe it's overtime after all."
"We're so sorry! One of our new hires made a mistake..."
"No, we share the blame too. Please don't hold it against us..."
A late-night video conference kicked off due to the overly considerate misunderstandings between the new hire from the client side and ours.
Dimension Central's time is a quirky point that deviates slightly from standard dimensional time. No matter which dimension calls, it's always synchronized with that dimension's local time here. If they call from their 10 a.m., we pick up at our 10 a.m.
Not knowing this, both new hires tried to be polite by sharing their local times and insisted on scheduling at a convenient hour for the other—ending up with both sides prepping for a nighttime meeting.
The one who actually set it up ended up hospitalized with gastritis from constant overtime. The company scrambled for a replacement and eventually dumped it on me.
Gastritis, huh. What's good for that again?
The meeting didn't drag on. We were on video, and since both sides had messed up, we compromised on quite a few points.
"Then let's adjust future contracts like this."
"Thank you. And we're truly sorry! We'll make sure it never happens again!"
"Don't beat yourselves up too much. We failed to double-check too, so if we make a big deal out of it—"
"Yes! We won't overdo it! Thank you!"
...That client's new hire must have a solid senior. Even if both sides slipped up, reactions vary based on the response. When they apologize so earnestly and promise to fix it, what can you even say? It just makes you think, 'Well, newbies mess up sometimes.'
By the time the video call ended, it was already 11 p.m.
"...Last train's gonna be tight."
I check the Dimension Central timetable online.
Oh no.
The last train home left ages ago. Taxi it is, or...
"...Guess I'll grab some late-night grub and crash in the lounge."
I'm beat. Too much work today; fatigue's no joke.
When you're thinking 'I'm dying here,' you push through by rushing home, showering, stretching, and collapsing—but when even exhaustion goes quiet like this, it's tough.
Might end up sleeping two days straight if I go home now. Since I already filed for overtime anyway, why not milk the company for all it's worth before heading out?
"What to eat for late-night... Ah, right."
Perfect spot for times like this. Quick, easy, tasty... and that seeping savoriness. Great after work or before.
"Pork soup it is."
Yeah. Pork soup.
...
Moments later, Dimension Central's restaurant district.
"Not many places open, as expected..."
Being the food strip, hardly any are lit up. Alleys have bars catching the eye, but they're mostly empty. The liveliest spot's some company's after-work party, and even that's winding down.
"Walking here this late feels kinda spooky."
Daytime, you'd bump shoulders without spotting who in the crowd; now, just a few stumbling drunks and folks sighing over taxis since transit's cut off.
Passing two or three pitch-black blocks, not a soul in sight. Just a discarded flyer fluttering.
Halloween's way off, but the chill makes it feel eerie.
Reach the far end of the strip, and suddenly it's blazing lights. The sleepless city. Beyond the eateries, the bar alley's just heating up.
"Night market, huh. Gotta hit this sometime."
Red lanterns, fish-shaped wind chimes, rainbow banners, even a sword-and-shield shop out of nowhere. Street food galore—cheap sauce sizzle, scorched rice vibes filling the air.
Merchants hawking, diners chatting loud, swelling into a deafening buzz. Every two stalls, my feet itch to stop. Body begging for a bite.
...But not tonight. I know exactly what I want. Resist the temptation, stick to the plan. Cave now, and regret hits hard.
"Around here... Ah, there."
Halfway through the market, a side alley reveals my target. 24-hour pork soup.
Personally love the flavor here.
"Welcome! What'll it be?"
"Pork soup, please."
"Sundae?"
"...A plate of sundae too, please."
"Got it~."
Straight to business the second I walk in. Order taken before I even sit—polished move. Elsewhere it'd feel pushy; here, it just clicks. And it works: place is packed this late.
Can't thrive like this without real chops.
Shoes stick to the floor. Cushions busted on the chairs, patched with thick stickers. I plop down, rest hands on the table.
Ugh. Sticky.
Forgot. Tables here are notoriously tacky.
"This table never gets easier..."
Yellowed wallpaper, booze and pork funk in the air. Glance around: dented kettle by the kitchen, beat-up wooden bar. Self-serve banchan sign scrawled big in marker; below, tubs overflowing with mixed veg and green chilies.
Scan the crowd. Folks with unkempt hair under ratty caps nursing pork soup with soju shots. Deeper in, someone's face-planted on the table, munching kimchi solo. Opposite, a guy's dozing over cooling soup, no signs of waking. Way back, someone's ranting a wild mashup of global politics, flour prices, stocks, and cults—like a drunk TED Talk.
Obvious drunks, obvious zombies. Am I the odd one out here? Eyes flick my way.
"Pork soup up."
But that's just the appetizer for savoring the main. Normally you'd squirm under suspicious stares, but no need.
"Mm."
Spoon up some broth. Guy across narrows his brow watching.
Then I heap shrimp sauce in—brow relaxes.
Another spoonful. Bigger this time. Side glances now.
Add chives, chili paste, perilla seeds.
Ah, a fellow foodie! Sorry for the mix-up. Eyes say it once, then drop. Confirmed comrades, back to our bowls.
Now I feel like one of them. Way cozier than standing out—and tastier too. That brief tension amps the flavor.
No off-putting porkiness, yet it screams pork. Crystal-clear broth... nah, muddied red-black from chili and perilla. Should mask any gaminess with herbs and spice, but this intense stock doesn't play nice. Pork essence condensed—no stink, but so rich it tricks you into tasting one. Some swear pork soup needs that edge; I say that's mistaking depth for funk. The richer the broth, the more that sticky savoriness fools you.
Meat inside? Perfection. Lean cuts, slow-stewed and chilled for that perfect chew.
Fish out all the chunks—time for rice.
Whoops. Forgot to crack the lid early.
Some places mix rice in from the start. Not here—soup and rice separate. Hot rice straight in dulls the taste. Best if rice cools a bit while slurping broth, soaking it up proper.
Open now? Nah, soup'd go cold.
So, stir rice in and dig.
Mm. Salty.
Broth and rice not meshing. Steam blocking full infusion.
Whatever. Still good.
"...Mm."
Almost done, but something's missing. Full, yet empty. What is it?
"Sundae~."
"Ah."
...Cleaned the bowl spotless, now the sundae arrives. Right, I ordered it.
Duh.
"Refill on broth?"
"Twice is fine~."
"Please."
"Digging in good! That'll stick to your ribs~."
Steaming potful of milky broth. Dip sundae in, eat.
...And it's sundae pork soup now.
No extras this round. Just a touch of shrimp sauce for balance. Spiced-up's great, but plain milky wins. Pure pig melted down whole. Divisive maybe, but that warm, oozing comfort...
Pork soup hits the spot. Easy, quick, hearty. Coming back for more.