Chapter 1

Halfway up Mount Worak, where there was hardly a soul in sight, the only sound around them was the relentless pounding of rain.

“Haa, ha….”
“…….”

The man looked down at the woman sprawled on top of him, his gaze dark and unreadable.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her breathing was ragged. Clumps of wet, sticky mud clung to her small hands and feet.

Cutting through the deafening roar of rain that shook the trees, he heard the sound of ice collapsing inside a glass.

Clink.

That tiny sound alone struck the man’s senses, already stretched taut to an almost unbearable degree.

“See….”
“…….”
“You should’ve just eaten obediently, you know.”
“Mr. Han Eden, that’s not what I—!”

Whoosh—!

Just then, a gust of wind laden with rain swept into the depths of the workshop. The yellowish light bulb swayed violently, as though it might slam into the ceiling.

“Ah…!”

The woman cut herself off and flinched, her shoulders jerking at the sudden gust. The man quickly raised a hand to shield the back of her head.

After confirming that she was safe, his gaze returned to her face. Her eyes, usually indifferent no matter what he did, now held a faint trace of fear. Through their chests pressed tightly together, he could feel her heart pounding rapidly against his.

Ah. They say you’re a bastard if you get pleasure out of something like this.

She hadn’t even blinked in front of the blazing kiln, whose temperature exceeded 1,000 degrees. Yet seeing her tremble at a mere gust of wind and rain gave him a strange thrill.

It was like discovering a tiny gap in an otherwise impregnable fortress. The man swallowed the laugh threatening to escape between his teeth.

“If you don’t like the food, should I feed you something else?”
“…Pardon?”

The woman was so innocent, so utterly pure and untainted, that she couldn’t even understand an implication this blatant. Several strands of hair had slipped down her sweaty nape, sticking to her skin. The man traced their slight curves with his fingertips as he continued.

“Since the straightforward approach isn’t working, I’m saying I’ll even resort to seducing you with my good looks.”
“If you’re going to keep saying weird things, p-please stop now….”

The man caught the woman’s hand as she tried to push herself up from the floor. Perhaps because of the clumps of mud wedged between their fingers, their hands stuck together as though someone had smeared them with glue.

The scent of their bodies mingled with that of the earth. The unexpectedly light weight of her body pressed against him.

“For now, let’s try a little of everything before we decide.”

The fingers that had been toying with her hair flowed down to cradle her chin.

“Whatever you ask for, I’ll bring it to you and lay it all at your feet.”

Her cheeks were still flushed. Her breathing was still ragged. Through the slight gap between her parted lips, the tip of her small, rosy tongue moved restlessly. The lips that had drawn close enough to touch radiated a faint warmth.

“This time, too, just say yes. Yes.”

Instead of answering, the woman squeezed her eyes shut. The man let out a chuckle and tilted his head.

One year earlier. Manhattan, New York.

A long silence settled over the kitchen of The Eden, a two-Michelin-star restaurant in Manhattan. It was so cold and oppressive that even the steam rising from the pasta pots seemed liable to freeze.

It was just before the Friday dinner service was due to begin. In the stillness before the storm, there was only one sound.

Clink.

The sound of a plate being set down in front of Han Eden, the owner-chef.

Every dish scheduled for that evening’s course had been laid out together on the spacious silver counter. Among them was a filet mignon¹ grilled personally by the sous-chef.

The kitchen, clad entirely in stainless steel, looked more like an operating room. Pots and pans crowded every burner, their handles aligned at precisely forty-five-degree angles without the slightest deviation. Even the linen and napkins at the end of the counter were arranged with ruler-straight precision.

Who in their right mind would install floor-to-ceiling glass walls in a kitchen where oil vapor hung in the air and wine and sauce splattered the walls?

That lunatic was none other than Han Eden.

It was a sterile space where not a single speck of dust or an unnecessary drop of moisture was tolerated. The suffocating kitchen looked more suited to producing semiconductors than food, and it was his trademark.

Han Eden slowly picked up a knife and cut into the meat.

Red juices spilled out too hastily.

Eden’s brows drew together ever so slightly. At that fleeting change in his expression, the ten chefs watching him held their breath.

“Again.”

A low, chilly voice. The sous-chef, Michael, opened his mouth, looking flustered.

“Chef, the resting time was perfect. The sear was flawless, too….”
“Michael.”

Eden lightly tapped the very center of the meat with the tip of his knife.

“Regardless, the steak is wrong.”
“…Pardon?”
“It isn’t cooked evenly at all.”

CRASH—!

The moment he finished speaking, the plate flew through the air and smashed against the wall, shattering into pieces. The chunk of meat rolled mercilessly across the floor.

“What good is a perfect-looking exterior when the inside is a complete mess?”

Eden wiped his fingers with a napkin and snapped coldly.

“There is no such thing as ‘good enough’ in my kitchen. I’d rather close the restaurant than serve garbage to my customers. Cook it again.”
“Yes, Chef!”

The chefs’ voices rang through the kitchen as they echoed his command. Just as Eden irritably wiped his fingertips, a leisurely round of applause came from the kitchen entrance.

“Wow. Now that’s brutal. Absolutely brutal.”

It was Chairman Jang Gwan-cheol, an elderly gentleman dressed in an immaculate gray double-breasted suit. He nudged the shards of the broken plate with the tip of his shoe and flashed a sly smile.

“Chef Han Eden, take it easy. You’re going to scare the daylights out of the kids.”
“I believe I told you not to enter the kitchen. For hygiene reasons.”
“My, aren’t you a prickly one? Besides, starting tomorrow, this won’t even be your restaurant anymore.”

At Chairman Jang’s words, the chefs’ busy hands faltered for a moment. Eden said nothing and continued wiping his fingertips.

The old man wasn’t wrong. Tonight’s dinner service would be Eden’s final shift at The Eden in New York.

“I’ve booked your plane ticket. First class, of course.”

Chairman Jang gave Eden a light pat on the shoulder and whispered, “Time to go build the best restaurant in South Korea, don’t you think?”

Whether the chairman spoke or not, Eden merely looked down at the steak rolling across the floor, his expression indifferent.

He couldn’t tolerate anything less than perfection.

Whether it was the food, the plate it was served on, or anything else.

One year later. Hannam-dong, Seoul.

A year could feel long or short, depending on how you looked at it.

The restaurant Moesan, perched on a hill in Hannam-dong.

Driven by the ambition to turn it into a new holy ground for South Korea’s culinary scene, Eden had personally designed every last detail, from the flooring to the angle of the lampshades.

Thanks to Chairman Jang Gwan-cheol’s generous financial backing and his seemingly limitless connections, Han Eden had been able to bring everything he imagined and desired to life.

As a result, everything appeared to be perfectly prepared.

Except for one thing.

“Get rid of it.”

Eden’s brief command fell.

In front of him sat a collection of the finest Limoges porcelain imported from France. The ornate plates, edged in gold, gleamed brilliantly under the lights. Yet Eden frowned as though he’d seen something he wished he hadn’t.

“Chef… this is already the tenth sample.”

Do Do-un, the general manager, spoke with a pained expression.

“Each one of these luxury plates costs over 500,000 won. Chairman Jang had them specially prepared for you….”
“My cooking is based on Korean cuisine. And you expect me to serve sauces made with doenjang and soy sauce on plates that reek of butter?”
“Then how about these? They’re Japanese Arita ceramics, with an elegant Eastern aesthetic….”
“Didn’t you hear me tell you to get rid of them?”

Eden finally swept the plates off the table with the back of his hand. Do Do-un stumbled backward, stifling a scream.

CRASH!

Shards scattered across the floor.

The scene was an exact mirror image of what had happened in the New York kitchen a year earlier. Only the location had changed.

“No, seriously, what on earth do you want?”

Do-un finally lost his patience and demanded an answer.

“If you hate everything expensive and high-quality, where exactly are we supposed to find plates? The opening is right around the corner!”
“…Damn.”

Eden roughly swept his hair back.

He was frustrated, too.

The interior was perfect. The menu development was complete. The staff had been trained to the highest standard.

And yet, they still lacked the very thing that was supposed to bring it all together: the plates.

It was like having a dragon ready to paint, only to discover that its eyes—the final, crucial touch—were missing.

Every plate he’d seen so far was either too smooth, too ornate, or too lightweight. None could do justice to the memory lingering on his tongue…

The taste of Korean food—rough around the edges, yet filled with warmth.

They all fell woefully short.