Chapter 2

* * *

I was a fine dining chef who specialized in European Cuisine.

A chef who deeply studied the cooking techniques and styles of France, Italy, Spain, Germany, and other European countries.

After graduating from Le Cordon Red, I focused for a while on mastering traditional French cuisine.

The delicate balance of sauces, the aging process of meat, the precision of each garnish.

Learning the essence of perfect harmony in French cuisine became the foundation of my craft.

But that alone wasn’t enough. I wanted to go deeper.

At some point, I began studying the dishes of each European country, exploring their unique flavors and cooking methods in depth.

The more I explored European cuisine, the broader my understanding of food became, and my skills as a chef continued to grow.

But even as I mastered different cuisines, a quiet emptiness kept growing in my heart.

When I first went abroad, I was filled with vague excitement.

Dreams of becoming a world-class chef, a desire to learn countless new dishes, and the thrill of facing challenges in a new environment.

But as time went on, what tormented me the most was unexpected loneliness.

Strange language, strange culture, strange people.

There, I was nothing more than an outsider.

Even after spending long, exhausting days in the restaurant, when I came back alone to my small room, that still silence would press down on me, and loneliness would sink in.

On nights like that, I thought of Korean food.

Not the fancy French sauces, nor the refined Italian pasta, nor the rich stews.

But spicy, hearty kimchi stew, and warm freshly steamed rice.

Dishes like tteokbokki with chewy rice cakes.

The taste of home. The comfort and warmth of familiar food.

I wanted to let others feel that same comfort.

To me, as a Korean, Korean cuisine meant more than just food.

Just as French and Italian dishes were loved all around the world, I wanted Korean cuisine to be recognized and respected globally too.

So I constantly wondered how to make foreigners enjoy Korean food without hesitation.

Seaweed, for instance, was one of the most iconic Korean ingredients, yet it was one that foreigners often struggled with.

To them, its slippery texture felt strange and uncomfortable.

I began researching how to make seaweed into a texture that foreigners could accept easily, while also blending in the delicacy of French cuisine.

That’s how Miyeok Velouté was born.

I finely ground the seaweed and emulsified it with cream, turning it into a smooth, rich sauce like a classic French velouté.

The dish received great praise even in France, and it gave me a new sense of confidence.

But I didn’t stop there. With that confidence as my stepping stone, I began to study Korean cuisine more deeply.

I believed that only by truly understanding Korean food could I naturally integrate it into Western cuisine.

Of course, it wasn’t easy to study Korean cooking in depth while living abroad.

Even so, I devoted myself to learning its fundamentals and connecting them with Western techniques.

And with that thought in mind, I did my very best to make seaweed soup.

It might seem like a simple dish, but what I wanted to express through it was anything but simple.

That was how the seaweed soup was completed.

Boiling softly.

A deep, rich aroma spread from the pot, where beef and seaweed simmered together in harmony.

When I checked the clock, it was 4 p.m.

My parents wouldn’t return from work until seven.

All the better.

I still had time to take care of something before then.

I quickly put on a jacket and stepped outside.

* * *

Park Sunhee carefully turned off the lights in the shop and stepped outside with her husband, Kang Seongbok.

After being surrounded by the smell of frying oil all day inside their tiny snack shop, the night air felt wonderfully refreshing.

She tilted her head toward the sky, gazing at the stars for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“I wonder if Chani’s eaten anything today.”

“He always took care of his meals. He’s out of the army now, he’ll be fine on his own.”

“Still, he’s leaving for France soon. I just want to make sure he eats well before he goes.”

Sunhee muttered softly, her expression tinged with sadness.

It hadn’t been long since her son came home from military service, and now she already had to send him abroad. The thought made her heart ache.

The two began walking home slowly. Sunhee sighed quietly, still unable to ease her worries.

“I just hope he adjusts well out there, in a place with no friends or family. I wonder if he’ll be able to eat properly. He loves Korean food so much.”

“He’s not as weak as you think. You know how competitive he is. Remember? Since he was a kid, he entered every cooking contest and took home every prize. Sure, they were small local ones, but still.”

Sunhee smiled faintly at her husband’s words.

“You’re right. I still remember when he could barely handle a knife, and then one day, his cooking just suddenly improved. His teachers used to call him a genius.”

The couple’s conversation carried warmth as they walked.

Though Sunhee’s face still showed traces of concern, her eyes were also filled with pride.

Seongbok gently placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring pat.

“Chani will definitely be recognized, even overseas. We both know how passionate he is about cooking. Let’s just work hard and support him so he can achieve his dreams.”

Before they knew it, they had arrived home. The couple opened the door and stepped inside.

“Chani, we’re home.”

The house was quiet.

“Is he out somewhere?”

Just then, a gentle aroma drifted through the air. The smell of seaweed soup.

Seongbok stopped and looked around with a puzzled face.

“What’s that smell?”

Drawn by curiosity, they walked toward the kitchen.

On the stove sat a large pot, filling the air with the savory scent of seaweed soup.

Sunhee glanced at her husband.

“Honey, did you make this?”

“I was with you all day at the shop. How could I?”

She stepped closer to the pot and lifted the lid. The fragrance of slowly simmered seaweed soup spread thick through the room.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face.

“Seaweed soup… who could’ve…”

At that moment, a thought came to her. The only person home was Kang Chan.

Realizing that her son had remembered her birthday brought tears to her eyes.

Her quiet, stoic son had done something so thoughtful.

Emotion welled up inside her.

Seongbok, watching her, looked equally surprised.

“Chani made this?”

He stood there, speechless.

Sunhee gazed at the steaming pot for a moment before picking up a spoon.

* * *

Truthfully, Sunhee had never liked seaweed soup.

She made it on her husband’s and son’s birthdays because she had to, but she rarely ate it herself.

There was a reason for that, one she could never talk about.

Whenever she saw seaweed soup, she was forced to face a memory she never wanted to relive.

Not long after Chani was born, the IMF financial crisis hit.

Countless men lost their jobs overnight, and small business owners sank into endless debt.

Sunhee and Seongbok were no exception.

Their snack shop was new, business was already slow, and the IMF crisis hit like a bomb.

They could barely afford rent, let alone plan for the future.

Fearing her family might starve, Sunhee thought of one thing, seaweed.

It was cheap, and it filled the stomach.

She cooked seaweed soup every day, with not a single piece of meat in it, and fed it to Chani.

The reality of having nothing else to offer her growing son but a bowl of soup without rice or side dishes crushed her heart.

Each night, when she saw her small, undergrown child, guilt ate away at her.

That was why she could never eat seaweed soup again.

Every spoonful brought back that guilt.

But now, her son had made seaweed soup for her birthday.

Holding back tears, Sunhee lifted the spoon and took a sip.

The hot broth touched her tongue, and a deep, rich savor spread across her mouth.

Her eyes widened.

It was hard to believe.

The soup her freshly discharged son had cooked tasted exactly like her late mother’s cooking.

Maybe it was just her imagination.

She took another spoonful. The familiar flavor lingered on her tongue.

Her heart ached.

She tried to bow her head to hide her tears, but they fell anyway.

* * *

When I came home with a cake in hand, the first thing I saw was my parents’ shoes by the entrance.

They’re home already?

I hadn’t expected them to come back this early. I hurried to the kitchen.

There they were, standing in front of the seaweed soup I’d made.

“You’re home early?”

At my voice, my parents turned toward me. My mother’s eyes were red.

“There weren’t any customers, so we closed up early.”

When I met her damp eyes, she quickly looked away.

I had planned to set the table before they got back, but things didn’t go quite as I’d expected.

Since it had turned out this way, I decided to just go with it. I took the bouquet I’d been hiding behind my back and held it out to her.

“Happy birthday, Mom.”

“Oh goodness, why’d you waste money on something you can’t even eat? Flowers just wilt anyway.”

She grumbled, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

My dad chuckled beside her.

“Look at you, buying flowers. Guess you’ve finally grown up.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

I scratched my head awkwardly.

In the past, I’d thought my mom disliked flowers. She used to say there was no point in spending money on things you couldn’t eat.

But now I knew the truth.

Those words had just been her way of hiding embarrassment.

She always complained, yet she’d put the flowers I gave her in a pretty vase and smile at them every morning before work.

That bright, girlish smile was something I’d never forgotten.

From now on, giving her and my dad little moments of happiness like that didn’t seem like a bad idea.

“Mom, Dad, you must be hungry. Please sit down.”

I guided them to the table, served warm rice, simple side dishes, and the seaweed soup I had carefully reheated.

My mother’s eyes widened as she looked at the birthday meal before her.

“Chani, when did you prepare all this? I thought you’d forgotten.”