Chapter 3

“How could I forget? I know you don’t really like seaweed soup, but it’s your birthday, so I made it anyway.”

My father inhaled the faint scent that lingered in the kitchen and asked curiously,

“You didn’t buy that from somewhere, did you?”

“Why? Is it that good?”

I shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, and my mother smiled softly in agreement.

“I was curious, so I had a spoonful. It’s better than mine. The flavor is deep, like it’s been simmering for hours.”

“Right. She never used to eat seaweed soup at all, but today she kept taking spoonful after spoonful.”

“Really? I’m glad it suits your taste.”

My father looked at me for a moment, suspicion flashing in his eyes.

“Strange. You’re acting different today. Did you do something wrong?”

“Come on, no way.”

“If you tell me now, I might let it slide. So, out with it.”

I laughed and shook my head. My mother sighed and gave him a light smack on the back.

“You should try doing something nice for once too.”

“I bought a cake, didn’t I? That should be enough.”

He muttered as if unfairly accused. I scratched my head awkwardly.

“Funny thing is, I bought a cake too…”

“Oh my, seems like it’s my lucky day. Come on, the soup’s getting cold. Let’s eat.”

At her words, my father wisely fell silent.

Before we began, I carefully transferred the tteokbokki my father had brought home onto a plate.

Whenever my parents came back from closing the shop, they’d always pack up the leftover tteokbokki, and our family would share it for dinner.

As a child, I sometimes complained, tired of eating it every day.

But now, seeing my mother’s tteokbokki again after so long, I only felt warmth and nostalgia.

As I set the dish down, I murmured under my breath,

“Wow, this looks good.”

“What’s this? You used to hate tteokbokki, said you were sick of it.”

My mother looked at me in surprise, and I shrugged naturally.

“Well, after coming back from the army, everything tastes good. Makes me think of old times too.”

My parents exchanged smiles, clearly pleased. Then, together, they each took a spoonful of the seaweed soup I’d made.

My mother was the first to speak.

“How is the broth this rich? The stock must’ve come out perfectly. No bad smell either, it’s clean and clear. Just like your grandmother’s soup.”

“Wow. My son could open a restaurant serving this.”

My father raised his thumb in admiration, and I couldn’t help but feel proud.

Before long, both of their bowls were empty.

I refilled their soup and quietly watched them eat.

The image of my aging parents from my previous life flashed through my mind, their faces marked by years of exhaustion and hardship.

It felt unreal, seeing them now so full of life before my eyes.

In the past, I had taken these ordinary dinners for granted.

I never once stopped to appreciate how precious such simple moments were.

But now, even this plain evening meal felt invaluable.

I wanted to keep seeing my parents healthy and smiling for a long time.

As those thoughts filled my mind, I reached for a piece of tteokbokki.

It had been so long since I last tasted my mother’s cooking that my mouth watered with anticipation.

I took a small bite.

“…”

Huh?

It was different.

The taste spreading in my mouth wasn’t the flavor I remembered.

The spicy, slightly sweet sauce was there, but the depth that had made it unforgettable was missing.

I tried another bite just to be sure, but it felt familiar in a dull way, almost bland.

It wasn’t that my mother had lost her touch. By all means, it was good. The sauce was well seasoned, perfectly absorbed into the rice cakes.

But to me, it tasted ordinary, lacking the special something I once remembered.

Maybe it was because I’d gained too much culinary experience.

Or maybe my memories had romanticized the past. Or perhaps my palate had simply changed.

As I looked at the tteokbokki in front of me, I suddenly recalled the hard times when my parents’ shop had struggled.

There came a point when customers began craving stronger, bolder flavors.

But my mother had always stuck to her simple, mild recipe.

That might have been what led to their decline.

The spicy tteokbokki craze began in the early 2010s, when the “Yeopddeok” trend started.

At first, I thought it wouldn’t last, that such an intense taste would fade quickly.

But the popularity of spicy flavors exploded through convenience store snacks and delivery food, and it never slowed down.

Because of that, my parents’ snack shop, unable to keep up with the changing times, eventually lost customers and was forced to close.

People’s palates became accustomed to stronger stimulation, and my mother’s mild, homey tteokbokki inevitably felt lacking to them.

At that time, I was studying at Le Cordon Red in France, chasing my dreams, too busy to notice what was happening back home.

But things were different now.

This time, I could help them.

As I was lost in thought, my mother’s gentle voice pulled me back.

“Chani, what’s wrong? Doesn’t it taste good?”

“No, it’s delicious. I just thought of a recipe that might suit younger people’s taste buds better these days.”

My parents exchanged curious glances.

“Really? What kind of recipe?”

“Now that you mention it, fewer students have been coming by lately. Maybe they don’t like the food anymore.”

I smiled confidently.

“I’ll think it through a bit more and tell you later. For now, it’s your birthday, so you need to blow the candles first.”

My mother wanted to try more of the cake I’d brought, and my father pouted, though he didn’t say anything.

I placed the candles on the cake and lit them carefully.

“Happy birthday, Mom.”

“You must have so much on your mind, yet you still remembered. Thank you, Chani.”

She smiled brightly and blew out the candles. My father clapped beside her, a teasing grin on his face.

I watched them for a moment before asking suddenly,

“Mom, is there anything you want from me?”

“Hm? Something I want? Well, not really. I just want you to stay healthy and finish school safely. That’s all I could ask for.”

Her simple answer reminded me of the application I had torn up earlier.

After thinking for a moment, I spoke quietly.

“Mom, Dad, I’m not going to France.”

“What? Why the sudden change?”

My father frowned in confusion, and I shook my head calmly.

“I think I’ll be fine studying here instead.”

My mother’s bright face darkened a little, and she asked with worry,

“Chani, is it because of money?”

The moment I saw their anxious faces, I regretted how I’d phrased it.

When I tore up the application to Le Cordon Red, I hadn’t planned on going to school again.

After reaching the top of the culinary world, I didn’t feel the need to study more.

Having judged countless competitions and given lectures, sitting in a class again with beginners felt unnecessary.

And now that I wanted to spend more time with my family, the idea of leaving for a foreign country no longer appealed to me.

But my parents had their own unfulfilled dreams.

They had never been able to attend college because of financial hardship.

That was why they had always wished I could, no matter what.

They didn’t want me to go through the same feeling of limitation they once had.

Maybe it was a form of vicarious satisfaction for them.

But that didn’t matter. If that’s what they truly wanted, I wanted to grant it.

Still, if I was going to study again, it had to be at a school with real credibility, even if not as prestigious as Le Cordon Red.

“It’s not because of money… I’m thinking of going to Seoul Hotel Culinary College.”

“Seoul Hotel Culinary College?”

It was one of the most prestigious schools for culinary arts in Korea, producing many renowned chefs.

Even Chef Hwa Sun, later known as the Queen of Chinese Cuisine, and Chef Yoo Il, who became a Michelin 3-Star Chef, were alumni of the school.

If I studied there, my parents would feel reassured, and it would still be a solid new beginning for me.

“Yes. I’m a bit nervous about studying abroad, and Seoul Hotel Culinary College has excellent instructors too.”

The more I thought about it, the better it sounded.

When it came to Korean cuisine, no culinary school could rival it.

If I could deepen my understanding of Korean food, I could move closer to the direction I truly wanted to pursue.

“Seoul Hotel Culinary College… isn’t that where Daniel Choi teaches?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I see. It’s not an easy school to get into, but it’s a good goal.”

Just as I expected, their expressions brightened after hearing the school’s name.

They had always known how passionate I was about cooking, and they understood what kind of school it was.

My mother let out a relieved sigh and mumbled, half joking,

“Looks like I won’t be getting rid of that face anytime soon after all.”

“Admit it, you’re happy about it,” my father teased.

Embarrassed, my mother handed me one of the cake boxes. It was the one he had brought.

As I looked at it curiously, she smiled meaningfully.

“There’s no way we can eat this much cake. Take one over to Gaeul next door.”

“What?”

At the sound of that familiar name, my heart skipped a beat.

Yoon Gaeul.

My future wife, and my childhood friend.

We had known each other since we were seven.

We met the same year my family moved into this apartment complex.

At first, our mothers became friends, and naturally, Gaeul and I started seeing each other often.

I had always been shy and quiet, but Gaeul, bright and outgoing, reached out to me again and again, always kind and warm.

Before I knew it, we had become inseparable.

Because of her, I came out of my shell and made more friends.

She was the one who stayed by my side, even at the very end, when everyone else had left.

“Go on now.”

Urged by my mother, I took the cake box in my hands and slowly stepped outside.