Spicy and Sweet
Vincent Clerc looked at the prop pistol Miss Ya-ong held out to him.
It was a gun with a matte black barrel and an unremarkable design—ambiguous enough that one could hardly claim it had been modeled after any particular make.
Hmm. Even if we shoot with this in hand, it shouldn’t feel too out of place.
Today’s studio was dressed as an abandoned red-brick building, so a firearm would actually suit the concept rather well, he thought.
Come to think of it, when we cast Mr. Ryu the director had prepared some reference about a survival game…
Vincent Clerc had chosen Ryu Yeon-woo simply because the young man’s appearance best matched the design language he was pursuing. Aggressive marketing toward the Asian market was also on the calendar, and the fact that Yeon-woo was an actor of considerable renown across Asia certainly helped. But he had never watched Survival Island.
He had overheard people talking about an interesting new series on Netflix, yet he had never been fond of the crude violence of guns and brawls. A thorough pacifist, he had dismissed it as the sort of mindless spectacle only Americans would enjoy—and so he had never bothered to watch.
“Okay. Let’s give it a try.”
Vincent took the pistol from Miss Ya-ong, stepped into the frame himself, and handed it to Yeon-woo.
“Your stylist suggested it. Can you pose with this?”
“Of course.”
Yeon-woo nodded and closed his fingers around the grip.
“All right—resuming the shoot.”
At the staff’s call, Yeon-woo, already standing inside the camera frame, sharpened his focus once more.
A pistol, huh…
Lee Ye-eun would not have handed him a gun without reason. There was no way she knew his true identity, so if he thought back over his recent work, only one motive remained.
She must have wanted the special-agent image that came through in Survival Island.
Yeon-woo lifted his head and looked straight into the lens. Through the sway of his hair, those clear, intense eyes met the monitor that was receiving the electrical signal in real time—and, beyond it, the eyes of everyone on set.
Vincent’s own eyes lit up at the challenge in that gaze.
A complete one-eighty from every image he’s shown so far…
Ryu Yeon-woo standing before the camera in a dark charcoal suit was undeniably striking. Vincent could now understand perfectly why the young man currently ranked first in recognition across the Asian market. The visual alone was enough to draw admiration, and it sat perfectly with the Armand suit he wore.
Hmm…
But that was all. The look was satisfying, and it aligned with the image Armand was chasing these days—yet would a customer riding the escalator in a Parisian luxury house like Le Bon Marché or Printemps Haussmann find their gaze stolen, as if entranced, by a massive photograph hanging on the wall? Vincent doubted it. Having flown halfway around the world to Asia, expectations had piled up in proportion to the distance; the bar for true satisfaction sat high.
“Cut—okay.”
The approving signals kept coming, yet Yeon-woo was no novice who could miss the undercurrent in the air.
They’re feeling that something’s still missing.
No one looked gloomy, so the results were clearly good—just a hair short of complete satisfaction.
Looks like we still don’t have an A-cut.
A staff member called out, “We’ll break for a moment and pick it up again.”
While the cameras paused, Yeon-woo glanced down at the pistol in his hand.
A gun…
He surveyed the space. It was a factory-style studio finished so that weathered red brick showed through on every wall.
What belongs here isn’t the restrained special-agent look.
A place has its own power. People talk about matching TPO when they dress—Time, Place, Occasion. There is a solid reason Place is one of the three.
A special-agent concept seems like it should fit this location, yet it sits just slightly off-kilter.
Simply holding a pistol, wearing a suit, and striking a cool pose did not make every image the same.
Ye-eun noona was hoping for James Bond, but today that isn’t the direction.
Not Britain. America. And not just any America—New York right after the Second World War.
“Can we resume?”
At Yeon-woo’s call the crew returned to their marks.
There were many film locations across the country, yet Yeon-woo knew exactly what kind of movies were usually shot here.
A studio for noir films…
Whenever a dark atmosphere and organized crime appeared on screen, people casually labeled it “noir.” The word itself was French for “black.” After the eighteenth century, British crime and thriller literature crossed into France and those novels came to be called roman noir—that was where the term began. The genre dealt mainly with the underworld, with gloom and decadence, yet from that very darkness sprang a paradoxical beauty that had earned it a devoted following.
Yeon-woo decided James Bond did not belong in this place. And then his eyes changed. No—the very air around him seemed to change.
……!
Both the photographer and Vincent Clerc, watching through the lens, stopped breathing for an instant. Their hearts dropped.
The Yeon-woo reflected in their eyes was unmistakably different. The strong, resolute gaze had loosened into something languid. The body that had held itself with crisp discipline now shifted its weight casually onto one leg. The look was indifferent on the surface, yet beneath it seethed a disordered violence—decadent, predatory. Not a trained shepherd dog, but a wolf prowling for an opening.
Vincent understood at once what the actor had altered.
…Not London. New York.
Not James Bond. The Godfather.
Mario Puzo’s novel The Godfather, and the film of the same name, were still regarded as the textbook of the noir genre.
“…Let’s look at that last cut.”
The photographer nodded hard. He would have checked it even without being asked; the moment the shutter clicked he had felt it—this is the one.
When the frame appeared on the monitor, admiration rippled through the set.
“Wow—and that’s without any retouching…”
Someone murmured it; another staffer beside him nodded.
“We’re still going to grade the color and do post. The final product’s going to be insane.”
“Anyone can see this is the locked A-cut.”
Vincent’s own mouth fell open at the result.
“Oh mon dieu!”
Vincent Clerc no longer regretted coming all the way to Korea. Of course he had never shown it, but at first he had felt a small dissatisfaction that a designer of his stature should have to travel in person. It was not arrogance or pride; normally the model came to the shoot. The customary form was an “ambassador invitation.” Yet what could he do? The one who needed something more was the one who made the journey.
After seeing the results, not a trace of that thought remained.
“Bravo—perfect. Coming here was the right call. This season ends with this photograph.”
Once the work was satisfyingly in the can, the tension drained away and hunger rose naturally in its place.
“Mmm, I could use something to eat.”
Just then a local Korean staff member approached him.
“Designer, the food Mr. Ryu’s fans sent is ready outside. Why don’t you come taste a little?”
“Food? You mean catering? I’ve heard of it, of course, but Korean fandom culture is truly fascinating—fans preparing separate catering for a shoot…”
The staffer scratched his head.
“Well… it’s a bit different from regular catering…”
Vincent followed him out of the studio. At once a scent of spicy-sweet sauce and savory broth brushed his nose and drew him in. Instinctively he turned toward the source and found a truck parked there, its large signboard unreadable to him. Beneath the Korean lettering, however, a small English line was printed.
Boonsik Car
“Boonsik?”
“In Korean pronunciation it’s ‘bunsikcha’—a street-food cart.”
Yeon-woo had come up behind Vincent.
“You should try some. I think you’ll like it quite a bit.”
Looking at the foreigner facing the bunsik truck, Yeon-woo was reminded of his friend in LA, the brilliant music director Chrissy Monroe.
Chrissy loved Korean street food too. I wonder if it’ll suit a French palate as famous for being particular as his.
They walked up to the cart together.
“Oh, what’s this? It looks just like Italian farfalle pasta…”
“That’s a dish called tteokbokki. The name’s probably hard to pronounce. Do you handle spicy food well?”
Vincent nodded.
“We use a fair amount of peperoncino when we cook. I’ve heard Korean food is spicy. Since I arrived I’ve only eaten hotel buffets, so I haven’t experienced it yet—let’s try.”
He heaped a plate high with the intriguing red pasta-like mounds. Yeon-woo quietly added a second plate of sundae and sat down beside him.
“That looks interesting as well.”
“This is called sundae. Among French dishes you could think of it as similar to boudin noir.”
Yeon-woo had recalled the French sausage made with intestine, then noticed with a private smile that its name, too, contained the word “noir.”
Meanwhile Vincent lifted a long, round piece of the red “pasta” to his mouth.
He said this is called tteok…
He speared it with a fork, chewed, and the flavor of the red sauce bloomed.
……!
It was hot. A sweet note rode along, yet the fundamental heat pricked his tongue. Still, when his teeth bit through the thing called tteok, the chewy spring of the broken surface and the spicy-sweet sauce coating it captivated him completely.
Hah—it’s spicy, yet I keep wanting more.
It was exactly like the performance Mr. Ryu had given at today’s catalog shoot—sweetness and heat alternating without warning.
Beside him Yeon-woo quietly pointed to the sundae.
“Try dipping this in the same sauce.”
As if entranced, Vincent moved his fork, coated a piece of sundae in the tteokbokki sauce, and put it in his mouth.
……!
He looked at Yeon-woo, then back at the bunsik truck behind them.
“…I love Korea.”