A Bowl of Jajangmyeon
Having smoothly wrapped up the contract in the Trienta Dimension and heading back home, it looked like he could finally crash at his place for once. Sure, Trienta was great for recuperation and tourism, but whenever work got tangled up in the mix, it always left him drained.
"Departure at 4:32 p.m.... That gives me about two hours to kill."
He'd left Trienta Jungle City early to dodge the rush hour commute, only to arrive way too soon. Well, no helping it now—might as well grab a coffee at one of those franchise cafes inside the dimensional airport. Every dimensional airport had them. The coffee was decent enough, but the sandwiches were notoriously overpriced and tasteless. The bagels weren't half bad, but he wasn't really hungry anyway.
Trienta desserts are calling my name, though...
He took a sip of the coffee, which tasted like scorched bean water. Bitter and thick. No matter how much syrup he dumped in, it never got sweet—just stickier and more cloying. Still, it had a way of sharpening the mind.
"The foundation of Chinese cuisine is jajangmyeon."
"Nah, these days it's jjamppong."
"Hm?"
As he nursed his coffee, a sudden argument erupted from the table behind him. Jajangmyeon versus jjamppong... Were they debating the true cornerstone of Chinese restaurants?
"When people think Chinese food, it's jajangmyeon. Ask a hundred folks, and a hundred'll say jajangmyeon."
"I'd buy that ten years ago. But jajangmyeon these days? Tastes like crap."
"That's just 'cause you haven't hit up the good spots—"
"That logic cuts both ways, you know."
Their loud voices drilled the childish spat right into his ears.
"Jajangmyeon's hit peak mediocrity these days, right? They hype it up as 'premium' with all that watery black bean talk, but half the time it's just soggy sauce that separates, or 'dry-style' that's basically extra raw onions tossed in. And don't get me started on those 'vegan' versions—no meat, sure, but they can't even mask the veggie funk!"
"Well..."
"Meanwhile, jjamppong's leveled up across the board! Super versatile with ingredients, so it never gets old! Yeah, jajangmyeon was the star of the show back in the day, but now? It's the era of jjamppong!"
"Urgh... Can't... argue with that..."
Ah, yeah. There was definitely something to that. The days when jajangmyeon and tangsuyuk were the benchmarks of skill had passed. Now it was glutinous tangsuyuk and mala tang. ...Wait, had mala tang gone out of style too? Hard to say.
"...Still, I'm team jajangmyeon all the way. Real jajangmyeon has that glossy sheen from the oil, but it's not greasy—a sauce where finely chopped pork gives that perfect chew. Cucumbers and peas that divide opinions but balance everything out when fresh, with onions adding their mellow sweetness under the chunjang's bold sweetness. And that thick, clinging satisfaction between the chewy noodles? That's the essence of jajang!"
"Urgh...! Throw in some chili powder for a spicy kick to cut the richness, and it's perfection...!"
"Top it with a fried egg! One fried egg and—"
"Wait. You guys put fried eggs on jajangmyeon?"
"...Dimension 073 doesn't?"
"No, why the hell would jajangmyeon have a fried egg on it?"
"Isn't that standard?"
Oh, and just like that, team jajangmyeon was staging a comeback? No, hold on. It appealed to the tongue and nostalgia, but logically, it couldn't topple team jjamppong. Emotional pull, sure, but not a knockout finish—
"Damn, now I'm starving. Hey, let's grab jajangmyeon on the way back."
"Jjamppong for me. Been craving one with abalone."
"Gyunmandu on the side?"
"Mini tangsuyuk."
Classic! Like that saying about how fights end in mutual respect once the rain stops. Not a bad cliché at all. Except...
...What should I eat?
Overhearing that debate up close had suddenly ignited a fierce craving for Chinese food. Alright. Chinese it was for dinner tonight.
Three hours later, back in Dimension Central.
"Who'd have thought there wouldn't be a single Chinese joint near the airport..."
The closest one to Trienta Dimension airport was a 30-minute public transit ride away—and it was closed for the day. Once he got back to Dimension Central, he checked the airport options, but the ratings were abysmal. Watery jajangmyeon where the noodles reeked oddly and clumped up in broken chunks. Was that even food?
He had no desire to sully his palate with that, so he'd wandered over to the bustling streets near System Industry HQ. Since he was already here, he wanted the best jajangmyeon he knew.
"Excuse me."
"Come on in."
Tucked in an alley near the subway station you hit after passing behind System Industry—there it was, the hidden gem: Manneokgak. Its sign, once decked out in red and gold, had weathered the years into faded blue and yellow. Beneath the cracked, peeling facade, he pushed open the sticky wooden door into a hall thick with the scent of oil and grease.
One side held a plastic crate stuffed with glass-bottled sodas and empties. Next to it, three orcs in rider gear killed time on their phones. Near the kitchen, the elf chef glanced up from his newspaper with a sour look, folded it, and stood.
"One bowl of jajangmyeon, please."
"One bowl?"
"...And gyunmandu on the side."
"Jajangmyeon and gyunmandu, one each."
The elf chef shuffled into the kitchen. Flames roared to life inside. The kind of blaze that blackened ceilings. Through the serving window, tongues of fire twisted like dragons.
Hellfire ready to devour all? But the elf chef impassively plunged his iron wok into it. The flames licked at the curved bottom and nipped at his knuckles, but he didn't flinch. Once hot enough, he ladled oil into the wok and snapped his wrist. The wok danced—no gimmicks, just skill. Oil coated every inch in one second flat.
A few more flips to spread it, then he dumped the oil, added fresh. Pork, onions, chunjang. The ingredients sizzled just right—not too little, not too much. A quick wrist snap for that wok hei, and he scooped the black bean sauce into a bowl before moving on.
Homemade dumplings prepped ahead. He deftly separated six in a row, tossed them into a frying pan. Deep-fried crisp in plenty of oil—less like classic gyunmandu, more like jiaozi. The noodles, meanwhile, came from a machine. Used to be handmade back in the day. When did they switch?
"Jajangmyeon. Gyunmandu. Enjoy."
"Thanks."
Ah, yes. This was the real deal. A proper Chinese restaurant spread: one bowl jajangmyeon, one plate gyunmandu.
The jajangmyeon looked utterly ordinary at first glance. Onions, pork, chunjang base. Topped with shredded cucumber and heaps of peas. But inspect each element, and the awe hits.
Onions perfectly cooked—pure sweetness, no spice, yet miraculously crisp. Ground pork so tender it doesn't catch between teeth, yet bursting with chew and that signature umami. And this wok hei flavor. Heavy, profound. Yet it goes down endlessly light.
The cucumber and peas on top—polarizing ingredients, but here they were the finishing touch. That first bite delivers dense satisfaction. But by the second or third, it could turn cloying, bloated. Then the cucumber and peas cut in, varying the profile.
Tasteless? No flavor at all? Green and grassy? Elsewhere, sure, flaws. But here, that's the secret weapon. That exquisite balance. An Easter egg you won't find just anywhere.
If he scored jajangmyeon from 1 to 10, old-school stuff was 7-8, modern takes 1-6. But this? He'd give it 11, 12, off the charts. Even at its best, it's just 2-3 times better than elsewhere—same for satisfaction. But the price? 0.6-0.8 times. Hell no reason to hate it!
He'd been a tad disappointed it wasn't handmade, but the machine noodles were more consistent than before. No need to cling to handmade when this works better. Less hassle means more focus elsewhere—efficiency wins.
"Now, the gyunmandu..."
Mm! Garlic and chives! These days, dumplings often pack glass noodles, but these were stuffed with meat and chives. Crunch through the fried skin, and garlic-laced pork fat and juices flood out, scalding the tongue.
First-timers always burn themselves. But once you taste that explosive umami beyond the sting, you'll crave it even with eyes closed.
So simple, yet why so damn good? Plain ingredients, but the jajangmyeon, the gyunmandu—why were they this perfect?
He bit into another gyunmandu. Crack. That subtle pop as the crisp-yet-chewy skin yields under teeth—pure bliss. No soy, no vinegar, no chili needed. This was what they meant by dumplings that eat themselves.