Brisket-Topped Doenjang Noodles
Without a moment’s hesitation, Karem flipped the cutting board over the pan.
Slap! — Sizzleeeeeee!!!
The moment the heap of thinly sliced brisket hit the pan that had been quietly smoking, it erupted in a furious blast of pure white steam.
The pile of brisket, stacked so high the bottom of the pan vanished completely, shrank at astonishing speed amid the billowing steam, rendering out its fat…
Borgo’s unibrow twitched.
He did not like what he was seeing.
“Hmm… Coming from the man who lent you the pan, this may sound a bit off, but—”
“Is something bothering you?”
“Is this truly the proper way to cook it?”
Excessive greed in a dungeon only invited death.
With his own two eyes Borgo could clearly see the mountain of brisket trapping its own heat, steaming itself from within and weeping out its juices.
“If one of my greenhorn underlings had done this, I would have thrown him out of the kitchen on the spot.”
“And if a veteran had done it?”
“I’d have cracked him over the head with a pot first, then asked for an explanation.”
“There’s a reason for this too.”
“Hm?”
Karem understood exactly why Borgo was reacting this way.
Moisture was crucial in cooking, in more ways than one.
Too little and a steak turned dry and chalky, vegetables chewy and tough. Too much left behind and the steak steamed instead of seared, the vegetables melted into mush.
No cook started out as a master.
Karem himself had made plenty of mistakes in his previous life. Heaping on far too much beef in greed only to produce a grotesque boiled-beef monstrosity. Failing to control the fire and the amount until steaks turned into rubber bricks.
But brisket was different.
“Hmmm. Ah, I see. Because it’s thin—”
Borgo’s brow settled back into place.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—
The juices that had been bubbling up with moisture had already evaporated. The moment the brisket began to crackle, submerged in its own rich rendered fat, Karem immediately began flipping and scattering the pieces.
Thanks to having been clumped together, the still-raw slices now separated completely and sank into the oil, searing and frying in an instant.
Meanwhile, at the very bottom of the pan—the deepest “stratum” of the brisket mountain—the slices had lost every drop of moisture, shrinking past mere shrinkage into full-on curling.
Before it was too late, Karem swiftly scooped everything out.
“Hah.”
Borgo let out a breath of pure admiration.
Each individual piece of cooked brisket was smaller than before, yet the mountain piled on the plate looked even more massive than the raw one had.
Every slice that made up the mountain had taken on a different form.
The ones that had been at the very bottom were crushed under their own weight, fried until every last bit of moisture was gone, curled and darkened to a deep blackish-brown, connected only by delicate threads of fat.
And then there was the complete opposite.
The pieces that had sat on top, exposed to the hot oil last, were still fried, yet their fat remained pure white and the meat itself held a pale gray sheen.
Wedged in between were the slices that had kept the savory depth of the meat while still frying just enough—looking almost exactly as they had when first tasted.
He could hold back no longer.
Sensing that hunger, Karem held the plate out to Borgo.
Borgo started to spear a piece with a grilling fork, then stopped short and switched to a cooking spoon instead. He scooped up a full third of the brisket mountain and dumped it straight into his mouth.
Only then did Karem also shovel a mouthful of the mountain until his cheeks bulged.
“That’s right. Meat’s meant to be torn into by the mouthful…!”
Crunch! Crisp! Snap!
The first pieces to enter—those thoroughly fried under pressure—shattered, mingling their juices and fat and amplifying the distinctive nutty savor unique to brisket.
Then came the fat of those well-fried slices. With every chew the remaining thread-thin strands of fat crackled against the teeth and released more oil.
Hot on their heels came the endlessly soft, yet chewy-and-soft brisket.
The tenderness unique to thinly sliced beef.
The characteristic chew of brisket.
The crispness of bacon.
Flavors that ought to have belonged to three completely different cuts, cooked three completely different ways, now swirled together inside his mouth.
“Hmmmmm. Good heavens.”
Borgo let out a nasal moan of pure delight, his Kaiser mustache fluttering. While he continued to chew slowly, humming in bliss, the cook who had been boiling spaghetti cut into kal-guksu-style noodles shouted over.
“Boss! We’re all working and you’re eating by yourself?!”
“What the hell?! The boss is grilling meat just for himself and the guest!”
“I was tasting the meat you’re all going to grill for lunch! Look at this—does this look like a full meal? Quiet down! Is everything ready?!”
At that, the cook stirring the doenjang stew dumped a reckless handful of red witch’s-finger powder into the pot and yelled back,
“Almost finished!”
“Then get ready—stop playing around and line up!”
“Do we need plates?”
“I’m just going to pile it on top—bring the iron griddles, no, the baking trays!”
While Borgo dismissed the protests and set a wide baking tray over the brazier, Karem peered into the large cauldron of doenjang stew.
In the deep amber broth seething with orange foam, chili powder and vegetables swam thickly alongside slices of brisket.
Looks damn good.
Karem was honestly looking forward to it—more than the first time, even.
Soups and stews always tasted better when made in large batches; the samgyetang he had eaten in the training camp of his previous life had proved that beyond doubt. No matter how unskilled the cook, if you threw in a huge amount of ingredients and simmered them long enough—assuming the seasoning was at least halfway decent—it was almost impossible for the result to taste bad.
The cook dumped in the pre-boiled noodles.
As the noodles stole moisture and released their starch, the stew that had been lightly bubbling thickened dramatically, the noodles now swimming among the solids.
A doenjang stew-noodle dish denser than any stew.
Doenjang noodles.
Just looking at it made his mouth water with saltiness.
“You should probably join the line soon yourself.”
“Oh—ah, wow. When did that many people get in line?”
Dozens of cooks were already approaching, each carrying a massive bowl. Karem hesitated only a second before grabbing the nearest empty bowl and heading to the very end of the line that had somehow formed right beside him.
There were plenty of people, but the serving speed was so fast that even standing fairly far back, Karem received his portion in no time.
Bowl heaped high with doenjang noodles in hand, he followed the person ahead of him.
In front of the baking tray, Borgo was piling and searing brisket into mountains.
The amount of pre-prepped brisket waiting was staggering—an entire mountain range of thin meat that looked ready to feed dozens with ease.
Even so, every time a few cooks passed by, the tray emptied down to the metal, leaving Borgo with no chance to look away from the fire.
“Ah, there you are. So, have you tried that bean-paste stew with spaghetti in it yet?”
“No. Everyone suddenly started lining up the moment they heard it was ready, so—”
Thud.
A mountain of brisket landed atop his bowl—so high the stew and noodles completely disappeared.
“Uh… this looks like more than what the guy in front of me got.”
“You’re still young. Even if you’re only having a light lunch, you need at least this much to fill up, don’t you?”
“No, but this is still way too—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. The noodles will go soft soon enough anyway.”
And before Karem quite realized it, he had been gently shoved out of the line.
Fork in one hand, bowl of doenjang noodles (completely buried under brisket) in the other.
He set the bowl on a table and stared down at the mountain of meat.
“A moment ago it just looked salty—”
Now it looked greasy.
Yet somehow the sight didn’t put him off at all.
What was brisket for, after all?
Exactly for that deep savor mixed with rich fat.
He worried a little about the oil seeping down into the noodles below, but decided to think about that later.
Karem forked up a huge mouthful of the piled brisket the way one would attack a rice bowl and shoved it in.
Something he had only ever daydreamed about in his previous life.
A luxury he had never once actually indulged in.
The sheer decadence of still having brisket left after packing his mouth full, plus the guilty thrill of shoveling beef without restraint, made satisfaction explode inside him—body and soul.
Up top, a light seasoning of pepper gently highlighted the deep beef aroma; his tongue and the base of his tongue were flooded with the juices and oil that burst out with every chew.
A flood of meat juice and fat.
Greasy? He had been craving exactly this kind of greasiness.
Only after repeating the process several times did he finally get a clear look at the doenjang noodles beneath.
“Well now. The first time I tried it I was pretty disappointed…”
How would it taste now?
It still couldn’t beat MSG, but he was a little hopeful.
Flavor drawn from ingredients enough for dozens of portions.
Broth made even richer by the addition of noodles.
Even without MSG, it was nothing to sneeze at.
Broth first. Karem brought the rim of the bowl to his lips and tilted.
A hotter, denser, heavier broth pushed into his mouth and cleanly swept away the coating of meat juice and oil.
Far better than the last time he had tasted it.
Just as he was thinking “large batch really does make the difference,” the greasy oil from the brisket followed right after.
With that mountain of meat, of course some of the fat had settled into the stew—but before the greasiness could fully register, the spicy heat of the broth covered it.
Still, the brisket was also in the broth itself.
For now the meat still held a slight edge over the soup.
Karem’s hand moved naturally to the noodles.
He twirled the thick strands once with the fork and slurped them in without restraint.
A whole mouthful of the yellow, thick noodles delivered that deep, unique satisfaction only carbohydrates can give.
Salty, spicy, and greasy oil.
Above all, beef and carbs simply belonged together.
Feeling with aching clarity why people clung so desperately to rice, bread, and grains, Karem savored the texture of the noodles against his palate and throat. After that came the lingering finish of the doenjang broth that had clung to the strands.
“…Something’s still missing.”
Even after all that, it still felt incomplete.
Not as disappointed as the first time, yet still left wanting.
No—the taste itself ranked among the better doenjang stews he had eaten countless times in his previous life. What was lacking was that final note on the tip of the tongue.
Specifically, that last two percent of savoriness.
Maybe I should have used a different stock than kelp. Bone broth, or a proper meat stock…
“Well, it’s still tasty, though.”
“Whoa there. Satisfying enough? You look somehow unsatisfied.”
“It came out the way I expected, and it tastes good. Just… a little unsatisfied, I guess.”
“Ah. I know that feeling well.”
Borgo, who had brought over his own bowl of doenjang noodles, shoveled a huge handful of brisket into his mouth and chewed.
“Hmm. Cooking has always been about endless improvement until you reach a recipe as close to perfect as possible. No need to rush.”
“True. Even finished recipes get torn apart and rebuilt.”
“And more importantly, this is the first time you’ve ever made this bean-paste stew, isn’t it? For a first attempt, this level of completeness is excellent. Personally I wonder if a stock base from pork or beef bones might work better—”
“We’re thinking the same thing. Something’s missing.”
Having comforted Karem by declaring they could simply improve it further, Borgo finished every last piece of brisket on top of his noodles, then downed the broth and noodles in one go.
“Hey, maybe slow down a little?”
“Spaghetti like this is just too frustrating if you eat it slowly. Besides, it’s only lunch—we’re just lightly filling our stomachs. We can eat something heavier later.”
“Mm.”
Well, noodles were originally that sort of food.
Thinking so, Karem looked down at his own bowl.
Somehow the noodles and solids had vanished, leaving only broth.
It had tasted good, yet he felt no urge to make it again.
Or rather—not absolutely never, but at least not until he could get his hands on some white rice to eat with it.
Well, there’s always oat rice… wait, that’s crazy talk.
Dismissing the thought himself, Karem drained the remaining broth, stood up, and stacked three empty bowls on a tray. Watching him, Borgo smacked his lips and asked,
“One bowl wasn’t enough? Well, noodles do tend to be like that.”
“No. There are some people I need to show this to before it runs out.”
“Ah, the companions who came with you?”
“…People who are present wherever you go in Iceland, really.”
After all, the one who had contributed most to fermenting the meju deserved the first share.
With a reverent heart Karem picked up the tray and rejoined the line.
And then, right in front of him, he heard something appalling.
“Somehow the texture still feels lacking. Hmm… that’s it! Cheese would be perfect.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
That, he could not tolerate.
— Brisket Doenjang Noodles —
This is a picture drawn by ChatGPT.