Pork Soup, Busan Style
Busan.
Rachel’s table sat before her, arranged with the pristine precision of a Michelin-starred restaurant. The pork soup remained in its original state—not a single grain of rice, not even a spoonful of the spicy paste had been added.
“What the hell? You’re putting salt in pork soup?”
“This idiot doesn’t even know how to eat pork soup.”
“Why’s the broth so damn bland?!”
“Eek!”
From a local’s perspective, it was enough to make anyone furious. She simply had no idea how to eat dwaeji gukbap.
Thud!
He demonstrated himself. In went a bowl of rice, followed by a spoonful each of the spicy paste and salted shrimp. The broth lost every trace of its original clarity, turning cloudy and thick. Rachel’s face twisted as if she might actually be sick.
“Busan folks mix every tasty thing they’ve got right into it, you know.”
“Ah, but…”
“What?”
“I don’t think we need to add the vegetables…???”
It wasn’t over. She had just stepped on another landmine. The locals’ eyes spun; they looked ready to start a riot.
“You gone crazy? Eating the chives separate?”
“Th-that’s…”
“Hey, everybody get over here! This one’s picking the chives out and eating them alone!!”
“What kind of idiot doesn’t dunk the chives?”
“You mix the chives in. Damn, this one’s hopeless~.”
Jeongguji. That was what Busan called chives—an indispensable side dish when eating pork soup.
And this is Busan, after all.
Mixing was encouraged. Just as one followed Roman law in Rome, Busan pork soup had to be mixed and eaten.
Thud!
An entire plate of seasoned chives went in. The broth turned a vivid, aggressive red; chili flakes, sesame oil, and floating chives bobbed on the surface. That visual alone was pure shock for Rachel, a woman for whom fine-dining meals were the everyday norm.
She let out a small sigh of relief, thinking it was finally finished.
“I-I think we can eat it now. Yes, thank you.”
“This one still doesn’t know how to eat pork soup!”
“Pardon?”
“You get three free refills from the ajumma, dump the whole damn pot into the soup, and mix it hard like this—then it’s finally right.”
“???”
The true path of gourmet dining stretched long ahead. The locals proceeded to teach her, from one to ten, exactly how Busan people enjoyed their pork soup.
Eating it the hometown way really does matter.
Thanks to Rachel, he had learned it all without lifting a finger. Her bowl finally reached its ideal form.
Thud! Thud!
Seasoned chives ×3. Loaded to the brim. A few vigorous stirs with the spoon completed the masterpiece. What sat before her no longer looked like pork soup so much as pork-and-chive stew.
Rachel wore the expression of someone staring at a twisted, hellish offal hotpot.
“You’ll never find a taste like this anywhere else, you know?”
“Hurry up and eat! It’s killer!”
“Eat! Eat!”
There was no escape. Surrounded by locals who were having the time of their lives with a pork-soup novice, she had nowhere to run.
Gulp.
The hand holding the spoon trembled. She steeled herself and brought a spoonful to her lips, chewed, and swallowed. Then, wearing a smile no Michelin restaurant had ever drawn from her, she declared:
“It’s delicious.”
She raised a firm thumbs-up. Only then did the satisfied locals return to their own seats.
People just get the urge to meddle sometimes.
There had been no malice in it. Even he would feel the urge to slap someone if they announced they were making cocktails out of kimchi.
It actually happened. If you didn’t eat a region’s food the proper way, the locals felt genuinely slighted.
“Why would anyone do this to delicious food…?”
“That’s Busan for you.”
“Don’t tell me you mix other dishes too?!”
“Good thing we didn’t order the squid rice bowl.”
Outsiders could find it just as frustrating. There were clean, tasty ways to eat it, after all.
That’s how fusion cuisine gets invented in the first place.
Local methods mattered. Origins mattered. But they were not absolute gospel. Meal kits were eaten by people from other regions too; you had to invent ways everyone could enjoy.
Thud!
That was a problem for later. First, finish the meal. The side order of boiled pork slices arrived.
“D-do I have to mix this too?”
“Hey! You gone crazy?”
“Eek!”
A little PTSD had set in; Rachel froze solid. Nobody mixed boiled pork slices.
Well… maybe somebody does.
He didn’t know Busan that thoroughly. In general, though, no.
He lifted a single slice, topped it with chives, onion, and a dab of salted shrimp. Perfect.
“Eat it like this?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing more, right?”
“You been living your whole life getting scammed or what?”
A harmony played out inside the mouth—savory pork as the base, chives, onion, and salted shrimp ringing out in bright little notes.
This place is good.
Japanese tonkotsu ramen had the same issue: that distinctive pork-broth funk. The better the restaurant, the better they tamed it.
“It’s delicious.”
“Right?”
“It’s ordinary.”
“Enough to make you cry?”
Rachel was clearly more than satisfied. Watching her eyes grow moist with pure admiration was a first.
This is exactly why she needs manners training every three days—or at least once in a while.
Her absurdly picky palate and endless TMI might have improved, just a little. At last they could eat in peace.
Hiss…
Good food without alcohol felt incomplete. He cracked open the bottle of makgeolli he had brought.
“Another Korean liquor?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I know that one. Makgeolli, right? I remember the taste being decent, but…”
It was a popular drink. Older generations loved it, and lately the retro wave had won over younger drinkers too.
The taste is definitely there.
But the flaws were just as clear: that sour edge, the thick, pasty texture, and the hangover that made you hesitate before the next sip.
“This one’s different.”
“If it’s from you, I can trust it.”
“Even if I spiked it you’d gulp it right down.”
“When are you going to prison?”
That was only because she had never tasted proper makgeolli. Every complaint came from the mass-produced stuff.
Haechang 12°
Makgeolli made the traditional way was an entirely different creature. He filled Rachel’s small cup to the brim. The liquid poured out thick and smooth—an opaque, milky white that refused to let light through.
“Looks just like my semen.”
“You really… have no common sense whatsoever.”
“I hear that a lot.”
It was that viscous. The first touch on the lips felt less like alcohol and more like milk mixed with roasted grain powder.
Gulp.
Yet it was nothing alike. Even when held full in the mouth, it vanished without leaving a single pasty trace.
“Apple acidity, soft grain sweetness… and a nuttiness of peanut and corn as well. The light sparkle that pricks the tongue gives a wonderfully pleasant finish.”
“Hey! You gone crazy?”
“Eek!”
Flavor and aroma both ran deep. It shared the same category name, yet it was a fundamentally different drink.
It starts with the ingredients.
Mass-produced makgeolli leaned heavily on wheat; that was the source of the pasty thickness. Traditional makgeolli used rice. Even though it was thicker than ordinary makgeolli, the taste stayed clean.
“This is excellent liquor.”
“Right?”
“It pairs beautifully with the food.”
Soju was the classic match for pork soup, but this makgeolli was something special—nearly twelve percent alcohol.
They finished the meal and stepped outside. The chilly sea wind off Busan’s waterfront was more than enough to clear the alcohol from their heads.
“About the question I asked before the meal… why would someone like you take on such menial work?”
“Because I feel like it.”
“I believe there must be a reason.”
The flush had left her cheeks. They had returned to their usual pale, almost translucent white. She wore the face of a haughty princess once more.
She really is a princess, after all.
Her obsession with efficiency was not mere personality; it was literally how she viewed society as a whole. She had judged his abilities and decided they held that much value. Rachel’s criticism was not wrong.
“Because it’s work worth doing.”
“Work like that?”
“No—all of it.”
“?”
By present standards, the pay he received was hardly small. Yet for him, it was still modest. He knew full well he had both the capacity and the ability to pull off far larger plays. Perhaps that was why she was interested—maybe she was already eyeing him as talent worth scouting.
“The company we visited during the day.”
“Osung Heavy Industries, correct?”
“The one that said they’d handle the meal-kit business.”
“Dulmart, was it?”
“All Osung affiliates.”
“What?”
That was small water. Unless it was on a national scale, everything felt lukewarm to him.
Korea isn’t called the Osung Republic for nothing.
It wasn’t only the companies that carried the Osung name. Relatives on both sides of the family ran Hansot, Guworld, DJ, Merit, Jungang, and more. There were even marriage ties with Helji. You could say he was blood-related to most of the major conglomerates in the country.
“I’ve heard Korea is a chaebol republic, but…”
“Beyond anything you can imagine.”
Building trust from the inside carried real weight. Progress was already well underway.
The first button is always the hardest.
That applied to Busan as well. In time the city would rise as a hub of global trade.
“You’re talking about the Arctic route, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Certainly, whether you look at location or politics, no city can replace Busan.”
Global warming. Climate change did more than alter weather; it rewrote the geopolitical value of the entire world. The Arctic route was one such rewrite. Busan would become a major port. And Korea—
was the center of global shipbuilding.
It looked weak now, but the industry would inevitably rise again. The era itself was flowing that way. Helping the shipbuilders—including Osung Heavy Industries—would become the fertilizer for the shoots that would one day break through the soil.
“It’s a rather pie-in-the-sky future, though.”
“Ahem!”
“Your perspective is fascinating. It’s as if you’re acting while looking at a distant future I cannot see.”
Regression. Because he already knew, he could prepare. It was less a grand design than simply the work that needed doing. Rachel seemed drawn to that quality. He might have run his mouth a little too freely.
“Ah!”
“Hm?”
“Drinking so mindlessly again… are you planning to stay the night this time as well?”
“It’s fine. I brought plenty of toys so you won’t get bored.”
“Toys?”
Proper training would take care of the rest.