Crunchy Chicken
"...Ah."
Something I'd forgotten while devouring it so deliciously. Right. Eating chicken and I forgot this.
"Excuse me, one cola please."
"In a glass or a PET bottle?"
"...You have glasses?"
"We have 500cc, 1,000cc, various sizes."
One cola. Looking at the menu, they've got cans, bottles, glasses—quite the variety. A glass, huh. Glass... yeah. Might as well try it in a glass.
"Then, one 500cc glass, please."
"Sure thing."
I've almost finished the chicken anyway, no need for a ton. Just a glass to rinse my mouth should be plenty.
"Here's your cola."
"...Oh."
Pitch-black cola in a sparkling, crystal-clear beer glass. White bubbles bubbling up vigorously. Just looking at it feels refreshingly cool.
"...Mm!"
The glass is ice-cold. Even if the carbonation fades, the chill won't. I take a sip right away.
"Ugh."
My throat stings. The carbonation is intense. Isn't this just regular cola?
"...Ah."
Glancing behind the counter, they dispense it from a machine. Mixing carbonated water and syrup at a set ratio—makes sense it'd taste a bit different from the usual stuff.
Behind that fierce fizz, the thick cola syrup flavor hits hard. Sweet. Sweeter than the convenience store kind. But the strong carbonation keeps the sweetness from feeling cloying.
Good call ordering it in glass. That subtle balance you can't get from a PET bottle or can—it's perfect.
The carbonation's so potent, a burp rises up. But belting one out here would be embarrassing... I swallow it down, letting just a little leaked gas slip out quietly.
Cola down, back to the chicken. Mm. It's gone completely cold. But thanks to the fizz, it still goes down smooth.
"Whew... that was delicious."
So good. I ate really well. Smart move living true to my desires. Could've spent years regretting it otherwise.
...I finish paying and step out. The sun's set, darkness fallen. It was still light when I went in, surely. But the street's plenty bright regardless of the sky.
Someone once said the stars leave the outskirts for the city lights to make a living. Some nameless poet... wait, no, that was my high school social studies teacher.
Teacher's face pops into my head after all these years.
A city that never sleeps. Walking streets as bright as day at night has a strange allure. Folks driven more by instinct than reason, hard to spot in daylight. Drunk on booze and vibes, yelling, crying, laughing their heads off—it sparks all kinds of thoughts.
Back in the day, I'd sit on a motel bench in some alley, people-watching for hours. Not so into it now, but man, it was fun then.
"Anyway, time to head home... Huh?"
...A street vendor. Did I just spot one?
My nose twitches. Sweet, spicy chicken skewer scent wafting from somewhere. Fish cakes, bungeoppang... what a variety.
"Hard to find spots like that these days..."
...Just look and go? Sucked into the night's magic, I find myself heading toward it.
Ah, yep. Chicken skewers, gizzard skewers, fish cakes, tteokbokki... quite the selection for a cart.
The stall's cramped inside. Greedy little operation.
"...Dakgangjeong, huh."
...Was just gonna browse, but desire surges up.
Fried boneless chicken chunks, sauced up. Dakgangjeong.
Plenty of places sell it. Search nearby, you'd get dozens within 50, 100 meters. But cheapo dakgangjeong like this? Not so much.
Talked about desire before. Easier to suppress when the goal's distant, harder up close. And if what it wants is right in front of your nose?
Arm's reach. Miss it now, won't be back for ages.
Yeah. In moments like this, reason gets talked down by desire. No struggle—even blink, and suddenly I've got a big cup full of dakgangjeong in hand...
"...When'd I buy this?"
Whatever. Already bought it, nothing for it. Right?
The urge to scold myself softens endlessly. Can't do anything about it now. Gotta eat.
"This cheap taste hits different."
Dakgangjeong's tricky—balancing batter and meat. Meat lovers want thin batter; crunch fans want thick. Extremes lead to batter so thin it falls off fresh from the fryer, or pure flour bombs with no meat feel.
This cart's version? Batter's on the thick side... or rather, the meat chunks are tiny.
Local spots usually cut meat bite-sized—one piece fits easy, two stuffs your cheeks.
But this? Bite-sized meat sliced into thirds or quarters. Pre-fried chicken bits snipped smaller, double-fried, slathered in store-bought sauce.
Naturally, some bits have thick batter, others none. The battered parts are still moistish; bare spots overcooked to tough, even crunchy-hard.
Good thing they drowned it in sauce. Kids' days, places skimped to save pennies.
Coated, drenched, swimming. The sauce amount makes or breaks it—stir-fried level varies wildly.
Me? I love it swimming deep. Tender meat, crunchy batter, thick chewy syrup-sweet sauce that crunches like sugar.
This it? Nah. No way.
Cart dakgangjeong: tough meat, uneven batter, sticky store sauce.
Batter's not crisped right—overcooked hard, so sauce soaks in without softening. Not crispy, more crackly.
That subtle texture gap. But right now, this subtly cheap vibe tastes insanely good!
Why? Rebel thrill? Street food's iffy hygiene, low-rent rep. Maybe the deviance spikes the pleasure?
Could be.
"But you can't feel it without the taste."
Dakgangjeong's hard to mess up flavor-wise. Looks like a disaster, still hits. Even thrill needs baseline satisfaction.
This clears that hurdle easy. Psychological resistance? Leapt long ago.
Wanna grab seconds. But no.
"Chicken, then more chicken. Kinda heavy..."
Fell for dakgangjeong temptation—breath's short now. Tasty, but whole bird plus this? Overkill.
Stand a sec, catch my breath—
"Excuse me, you done? Mind moving if you are?"
"Ah, sure."
"Thanks... hey, one dakgangjeong please!"
"...Coming right up!"
Huh? Snap to—long line behind me. Peek around: ten-ish from cart back. All flushed faces—drunks of all stripes.
"All for dakgangjeong...?"
Drunks lining up where I got mine.
...Hidden gem? Makes sense—prime spot means decent skill minimum. Other items look solid too.
Such a find. If belly wasn't stuffed, would've grabbed more.
Anyway, focus on finishing this cup. Bottom: sauce-puddled dakgangjeong sunken deep.
Overcooked-hard ones shine now. Soft ones soggify in sauce; these tough guys hold.
A bit damp, but crunchy... no, snappy... or crackly. Crunchy-crackly texture.
Faint meat whiff in maxed-out fried batter savoriness explodes crisp in my mouth.
Peak harmony from cheap ingredients. Toothpick-skewerable snack—super accessible, love it.
"Whew... delicious."
Dip toothpick in leftover sauce twice, toss cup in bin by cart.
"Huh?"
Turn—line's even longer now.
...Did I nail the timing? Hit when emptiest, snagged it quick...?
Feels good thinking that. Lucky streak. Things'll go smooth from here.