Chapter 5

* * *

While chatting with Gaeul’s family that evening, I lost track of time.

When I returned home, I went straight to my room and opened the website for Seoul Hotel Culinary College. I carefully reviewed the application guidelines and the submission deadline.

Unlike most culinary schools, this one placed far greater weight on the practical test than on the interview.

Other schools also valued cooking skills, but this particular college was known for being exceptionally demanding.

That was fine by me.

For someone who had already reached the peak of the culinary world, such an exam was merely a formality.

If anything, the heavier emphasis on hands-on skill worked in my favor.

The deadline was set for the end of October, which felt both distant and close at the same time.

I decided to apply, and in the meantime, help out at my parents’ snack bar.

But before that, I needed to organize my thoughts about the problems with their food.

As I’d noticed before, the current tteokbokki at my parents’ place was too ordinary.

There’s nothing wrong with a mild flavor, but it lacked the edge needed to capture the modern palate.

Right now, it was 2014, right when the spicy tteokbokki craze had started to sweep the nation.

Yeoptteok, which first launched in 2009, had taken the country by storm with its intense heat, spreading fast through social media and word of mouth.

After that, the trend didn’t stop at tteokbokki. It extended to ramen, fried chicken, and even convenience store snacks, all advertising their “extreme spiciness.”

This wave of fiery flavor had gone beyond being a passing fad. It had become deeply rooted in Korean taste preferences and would remain popular for years to come.

Personally, I had never been a big fan of spicy tteokbokki.

Still, looking at how long that trend endured, I couldn’t deny its market value.

So I decided to create a spicy version myself.

In fine dining, what matters most is originality and refinement, not necessarily mass appeal.

But for restaurants or franchises, popularity is everything.

The goal is to offer a flavor that everyone enjoys and can easily access.

However, changing the flavor of my parents’ tteokbokki too drastically didn’t feel right. Loyal customers who loved the familiar taste of “Chani’s Snack Bar” might feel betrayed.

So the best approach would be to keep the original flavor while expanding the variety for new customers.

In my mind, I started designing a new menu.

What if we offered three base flavors like original, spicy, and rose, and let customers choose toppings such as perilla leaves, peanuts, or cheese?

That way, old customers could enjoy the same comfort, while new ones would find something exciting.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual and got ready to head out.

It was nine o’clock, two hours before the snack bar opened.

When I stepped inside, my mother looked up in surprise.

“You’re up early. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m planning to help out at the store for a while.”

For a moment, she looked startled, but soon smiled warmly.

“My son’s all grown up. Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.”

“I’m fine. Actually, can I use the kitchen for a bit?”

“The kitchen?”

She blinked in confusion, and I nodded with a small grin.

“There’s something I want to try making. Just take a short break, Mom.”

Leaving her still puzzled, I went straight into the kitchen.

I began taking out ingredients one by one, arranging them neatly on the counter.

I was going to make a tteokbokki that could appeal to everyone.

Spicy, flavorful, addictive.

When I had worked in France, I noticed that the French generally avoided overly spicy foods.

Their cuisine focused on subtle harmony, acidity, umami, and natural sweetness.

The same went for other European countries like Italy and Spain, where herbs and oils defined the flavor.

That was probably why I had never been fond of intense heat myself.

As a chef, one must be able to distinguish subtle layers of taste, and once the palate becomes desensitized by spice, it’s easy to lose that precision.

But this was Korea, and this was a snack shop.

Cooking for customers means cooking for their tastes.

Flavor is the foundation, of course, but beyond that, efficiency matters.

When targeting a wide audience, consistency and quick service are essential.

To succeed, you need both, the customers’ hearts and their appetites.

That’s why maximizing efficiency was important. Preparing sauces in advance each morning and pre-cutting ingredients like fish cakes and green onions helped maintain quality while saving time.

Soaking fish cakes briefly in broth before use kept them from drying out, and storing chopped green onions in airtight containers or under damp paper towels helped them stay fresh.

Once the prep work was done, I rolled up my sleeves and began cooking.

Making tteokbokki isn’t difficult.

Mix gochujang, soy sauce, sugar, and chili flakes into a sauce, then simmer it with rice cakes and fish cakes.

But making great tteokbokki is another story.

The smallest choices, from ingredient quality to sauce proportions and the precision of heat, create an enormous difference in the final result.

That morning, I had prepared three sauces.

Original, spicy, and rose.

In Korea, rose tteokbokki became explosively popular around 2020. The creamy red sauce craze took over restaurants and franchises, selling out everywhere.

But I was years ahead of that curve.

My plan was to introduce it now.

* * *

Tteokbokki.

To me, it was the most familiar food in the world.

When I was young, my friends envied me for being the son of a snack bar owner, but to me, tteokbokki was just tiresome.

The smell filled our house every day, and the same red sauce covered our dinner table night after night.

I used to sigh just looking at it.

But once I moved abroad, I began to miss that taste.

No fine dining or Michelin-star dish could replace the comfort of that simple flavor.

One day, I decided to recreate it from memory.

I mixed gochujang, soy sauce, sugar, and chili powder, simmering rice cakes and fish cakes together.

The familiar aroma that filled the air made my nose sting.

Just as I was plating it, my foreign classmates noticed and came over curiously.

When I offered them a bite, they picked up a piece with their forks.

The moment they took a bite, their faces turned red.

“Spicy!”

They waved their hands, gasping for water.

I couldn’t help laughing, but it made me think.

How could I make tteokbokki enjoyable for people unaccustomed to spice?

What flavor would feel familiar to them?

Then it hit me, tomato sauce.

If they liked pasta, they’d surely find this comforting.

So I mixed tomato sauce with cream, adjusting the ratio carefully.

When I served it again, their reactions changed completely.

Their eyes widened, and soon, they were smiling in delight.

From that day on, they wouldn’t stop asking me to make it again.

They were hooked on the tangy yet creamy sauce.

Years later, after returning to Korea, I learned that this dish had become famous under a name, rose tteokbokki.

The term “rose” came from the Italian word rosa, meaning “pink,” referring to the soft pink hue formed by mixing red tomato sauce and white cream.

Ironically, Italians themselves disliked combining the two sauces.

When I was in Italy, I once made that same dish for my colleagues, recreating the tteokbokki from Le Cordon Red.

Their reactions had been less than enthusiastic.

“Chan, this is like breaking spaghetti noodles in half.”

“Mixing tomato and cream? What kind of flavor is that supposed to be?”

“This is way too strong. Do Koreans really like this?”

I could only smile awkwardly. Cultural taste differences were inevitable.

If Italians ever tried the Korean version of rose tteokbokki, they would probably be even more shocked.

In Korea, rose tteokbokki wasn’t made the same way as Italian rose sauce.

Instead of combining pure tomato and cream, Koreans took a spicy base and mellowed it with cream.

Even with the same name, the philosophy behind the dish was entirely different.

The more I thought about it, the more fascinating the culinary world felt.

As I reminisced, the sauce on the stove began to thicken.

I decided to add one final twist, apple jam.

It might sound strange, but apple jam helped smooth out the rough edges of the sauce, deepening the flavor and adding balance to the creaminess.

That would be today’s secret ingredient.

I scooped in a spoonful and stirred gently until the sauce turned glossy and rich.

The creamy softness and the faint spice of the gochujang blended beautifully, filling the kitchen with an inviting aroma.

Now it was time to complete the dish.

I quietly hummed an old tune as I poured the sauce over the rice cakes.

“Apartment, apartment…”

My mother tilted her head.

“Chan, what song is that?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

I smiled and focused on stirring, making sure the sauce coated every piece perfectly.

The three sauces simmered together on the stove, each glowing with its own color and scent.

When the texture reached just the right consistency, I turned off the heat and plated them.

For the finishing touch, I garnished the original flavor with perilla leaves, the spicy one with melted cheese, and the rose one with a sprinkle of parsley.

Each dish shone with its own charm.

Placing them neatly on a tray, I carried them out of the kitchen.