At Least Double - 2
Maybe it was because, just a few hours ago, I'd been in a grand mansion in Hannam-dong where the ultra-rich lived, but my own house felt both smaller than ever and endlessly comfortable at the same time.
It seemed impossible to feel two opposite emotions at once, yet that was exactly what was happening. Even as I thought my house was the best, I caught myself mildly surprised at how small it actually was.
When I'd stayed at Moon Sung-il's Hannam-dong home, the single room I'd used was bigger than my entire house. That probably explained it.
They had a whole staff living there, after all.
People who moved silently from the moment the household woke, lifting you by your heels and working beneath your feet. Maids who cleaned the house and polished the windows. In the kitchen, a dedicated Korean-cuisine chef and his assistants bustled about constantly.
Thanks to them, every meal was a lavish feast. Honestly, there was no denying that the life of the upper class was comfortable and enviable.
But it was also deeply uncomfortable.
With a house that big, you had to walk — a lot. If it were a stroll, it would have been exercise and a way to clear your head, but that wasn't what it was. Just the distance from the dining room to my room after a meal was considerable. Crossing the courtyard to the annex for a meeting was a whole ordeal. And when mealtime came around again, you had to trudge all the way back to the dining room.
Over and over, I found myself retracing the same routes through that enormous house. Even getting a glass of water made me sigh. There was always an employee working wherever you went, so you could ask for water — but it never felt quite right.
They weren't openly watching me, but they weren't not watching me, either. I was being observed in that polite, measured way, and I had to live deliberately ignoring the fact. It was unavoidable, I supposed. A big, expensive house decorated with pricey paintings and ceramics required staff to maintain it.
Some might say I was being ungrateful — living in a grand home with round-the-clock service and complaining about it.
It just wasn't for me.
That was the truth of it. I was not a man built for rich people's games.
Rich people's games. Back when only landlines existed, the wealthy traded stocks from VIP box seats at Premier League matches, holding phones the size of bricks. Ordinary people marveled at the sight. How cool was that? The idea that you could leave your office and make money while watching soccer seemed like pure fantasy.
Then cell phones became commonplace and everyone carried one, so the rich pivoted to draping themselves in luxury brands and jewelry. People wanted to imitate them, a luxury boom erupted, and even fairly ordinary folks started buying a designer bag or watch each.
Nowadays, the wealthy won't wear flashy logo-covered luxury goods. Instead, they hang a painting worth billions of won in their home, snap a photo, and quietly post it on Byulstar with no caption at all. The implication being: if you can recognize how expensive that is, you've got a discerning eye.
And there the hierarchy split yet again. Do you own your own museum? Do you hold nationally treasured ceramics? Do you have connections with global A-list celebrities, or with tycoons worth trillions of won?
I imagine it was the same in the Joseon dynasty. And before that, too — even in the primitive age, people flaunted status with necklaces made of seashells, parading their wealth through rank. That's why expensive artwork and artifacts still command astronomical prices today.
The antique business will never fail as long as rich people exist. The only problem is that it's stuff you leave behind when you die. Which is exactly why I have no interest in wasting precious time on rich people's games.
No matter how much money you have, you can't buy time.
Not that I'm saying I'll never buy luxury goods or drive a Ferrari.
I intended to buy what I wanted to buy and drive what I wanted to drive. I simply refused to waste five minutes of my time just to go fetch a glass of water. Being observed like that even in my own house? Equally unacceptable.
My satisfaction would be the first consideration in every choice I made. I planned to live doing only the things that pleased me and made me happy.
And what I wanted to do right now was—
"Chai, hand me that pork tenderloin over there."
I'd stopped by a supermarket on my way down from Seoul to stock up. I figured Chai had probably devoured every ingredient left in the fridge while I was gone. Sure enough, even the eggs the hens had laid that very morning were wiped clean.
"Are you actually going to make tonkatsu?"
"Yep. I'll score the tenderloin, bread it, and fry it up in the cauldron. You love tonkatsu, Chai."
"Too much work. If we cook, Chai has to clean up."
Chai, who was always deadly serious about food, pouted and grumbled for once today.
"Are you feeling sick?"
"It's not that. Chai wants delivery food too."
The worst and, ironically, the best thing about country life was that you couldn't order delivery. If you wanted jajangmyeon, fried chicken, or pig's trotters, you had to drive into the township. Craving delivery food and not being able to get it was the downside; eating less greasy junk and getting healthier was the upside.
Still, with Chai practically chanting jajangmyeon like a mantra, I couldn't exactly pretend not to hear him.
"Then how about we eat something quick and go out for a team dinner? We haven't had one just the three of us since Jeongsoo joined."
"We did, at the village chief's house. We said cheers then."
"Ah, you want to do that again."
"Chai wants to eat out."
"Yeah. I get it."
Before working for me, Chai had labored alongside other Thai workers at the farm of the former village chief of Ugok 2-ri. The pay wasn't great and the work was hard even then, but at least there were plenty of people to unwind with after hours. Sometimes he'd head into the township with the Thai crew, share a few drinks, talk about home, and blow off steam together.
Nowadays, his entire social life was going to Grandma Mak-sun's place to watch dramas with her. Living under the same roof as his boss — me — probably had its fair share of awkwardness too.
"Alright, Chai. Today we'll go into the township, get dinner, and hit the coin karaoke."
"Wow, really?! Boss, you really mean it?!"
Chai was so excited he could hardly contain himself. Bang Jeongsou, apparently quietly looking forward to it as well, was chuckling to himself.
"Really it is! But we have to finish our work first, so let's grab a quick lunch and get to it."
"Should I make kimchi fried rice?"
Bang Jeongsou had run restaurants with Han Mija for years. COVID had eventually buried them in debt and forced them to close, but he claimed he could cook just about anything, rolling up his sleeves.
Sizzle! He lit the fire in the stove, flipped a cauldron lid onto the burner like a griddle, and started stir-frying kimchi.
Didn't we agree on something quick and simple?
Bang Jeongsou clearly had no such intention. He finely minced the pork tenderloin I'd bought, seasoned it, pushed the kimchi off to one side of the lid, and fried the pork together with scallions. As the scallion oil soaked in and the pork cooked through, he began folding the pushed-aside kimchi back into the mix.
The tangy, savory smell of stir-fried kimchi made my mouth water on its own. I figured the next step would be tossing in cold rice to fry with the kimchi—
"Wait, why are you taking the kimchi out?"
Bang Jeongsou scooped out the perfectly fried kimchi and coated the surface with more oil.
"You have to fry the rice separately to get the grains nice and bouncy — that's what gives you good texture. If you fry it with the kimchi, it goes mushy."
I owe you an apology for never realizing this before.
I swallowed hard, drool pooling in my mouth, and lit the small burner.
"What are you doing?"
"Toasting some seaweed. I like crumbled seaweed on top of kimchi fried rice as a garnish."
"You and Chai have the same taste."
Bang Jeongsou grinned and began frying the rice, working the grains with a long-handled ladle in a dazzling display of technique. Apparently that's how you get each grain to fry up springy and separate. Once the individual grains were dancing across the hot steel, he added the fried kimchi and mixed it all together.
But he wasn't done. Two spoonfuls of kimchi brine went in, followed by a generous drizzle of sesame oil.
This man is a genius!
I swallowed my drool, toasted the seaweed over the flame, and crumbled it all over the kimchi fried rice in a fine snowfall.
"Dig in."
I took one mouthful of Bang Jeongsou's kimchi fried rice and speech left me entirely.
"Ohhh... this is really, really good."
"I'll handle lunch from now on. Actually, I can make jajangmyeon too."
"Seriously? You ran a Chinese restaurant as well?"
Bang Jeongsou shook his head.
"Just Korean food and a tonkatsu place. The kids loved jajangmyeon, so I kept making it for them at home until I got good at it."
"You really are a wonderful father."
"I've been a failure, is what I've been — all I've ever done is make my kids suffer. Now that I've got a good job, I intend to work hard."
Bang Jeongsou looked me straight in the eye. Only then did I notice the sweat beading on the bridge of his nose. His temples were damp, too. He'd poured everything into making me a delicious kimchi fried rice, and the effort had soaked through.
"Yes. Let's work hard together, all of us."
We'd grow the soybeans well and craft delicious doenjang and cheonggukjang. We'd roast green coffee beans and sell them online. And when my company, Ugok's Yard, grew into a mid-sized enterprise, the happiness wouldn't be mine alone.
Bang Jeongsou and his family. Chai and his mother back in Thailand. And every last neighbor here in this village — the very place where Ugok's Yard was headquartered — would share in it too.
Yes. This is exactly the life I want.
I heaped a big spoonful of kimchi fried rice into my mouth, chewed, and let out a groan of pure satisfaction.
"This is honestly incredible. Thank you, Bang Jeongsou — for making us such a wonderful lunch."
"G-go on, eat up. Plenty more."
Bang Jeongsou was so moved just watching me enjoy his cooking that he stumbled over his words.
"Chai will eat well too!"
"Good."
A dazzlingly beautiful spring day. We sat huddled together in the backyard, eating happiness. It's the kind of line that gives you goosebumps, but no expression could be more accurate.
"Well then, bellies nice and full — shall we get to work?"
I slathered on sunscreen and pulled on a hat. Without full protection, the sun wouldn't just turn my skin jet-black; it could damage my corneas and even cause cataracts. I pulled on my rubber boots, stepped out toward the field, and muttered to myself.
"If there's anyone else out there with over two hundred billion won heading out to till a soybean field, step right up."
That person was me.
But it's fun, though?
Humming a tune, I started by inspecting the soybeans growing on Grandma Mak-sun's land. Mixing in the premium topsoil I'd hauled over from Grandpa Hosik's plot had been worth it — the plants stood straight and even, with blossoms of just the right size dotting the stems.
"Now let's take a look at Grandpa Hosik's land, shall we?"
There was simply no comparison with the soybeans on Mak-sun's plot. No wonder Mr. Woo Jang-ho called this soil black gold. If the plants kept growing like this, I'd be harvesting beans fine enough to write a new chapter in the history of organic soybean farming.
"Let's give it our all!"
I yanked the starter cord on my pruning machine. Vrmmm! The engine turned over, and the saw-bladed attachment began moving on its own. Cutting the growing tips like this would send the plants branching sideways, producing more blossoms — and ultimately, more beans.
Whirrr! Startled by the whine of the blade, grasshoppers scattered in every direction. The scent of crushed greenery rose up as soybean stems fell neatly away.
We had kimchi fried rice that delicious for lunch, and now dinner is... jajangmyeon.
I could have sprung for premium Hanwoo beef or sea bream, but Chai had been singing a nonstop ballad about craving the jajangmyeon from the Chinese restaurant in the township. What could I do? Of the three of us, Chai had the most farming experience and worked the hardest.
In other words, I couldn't afford to sour the mood of our ace. That's how you win the game of farming.
"Chai ate so much, so delicious! Boss, you're the best!"
Seeing Chai beam, I relaxed and teased him a little.
"Next team dinner, we'll order whatever Jeongsou wants. You can't pick the menu every single time, got it?"
"Of course! Jeongsou hyung is my co-work-crew-leader now, same as Chai."
"That's right."
Chatting happily, we headed for the coin karaoke. I'd worried Bang Jeongsou might hate the idea of a karaoke joint — but lo and behold, he ended up singing the most songs of any of us.
When he said he couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself cut loose like this, I felt exactly the same way.
This is way too much fun.
I belted out song after song at the top of my lungs. We'd been at it for a good long while when we finally spilled out of the coin karaoke—
"Well, well. Who do we have here?"
It was Son Gu-chul, the owner of Ugok Marsh Snail Hangover Soup — the same thug who'd declared he'd buy up the entire old Chinese restaurant block in Ugok 5-ri when it went to auction. I'd been wondering about him lately, and now he just happened to show up right here? I walked over with a smile.
"Funny, I was about to say the same. Who do we have here... Mr. Marsh Snail owner?"
"Tch! It's not 'marsh snail' — it's the owner of Ugok Marsh Snail Hangover Soup!"
"Right, right, that's what I said. So — when was that auction scheduled again?"