Chapter 10

The gleaming SUV hit the road before its engine had even had time to cool down. The only thing that had changed was the person behind the wheel. It was Do Do-un now, not Han Eden.

Watching the chef’s face in the rearview mirror, Do-un cautiously broke the silence.

“Are you really sure you don’t need to go to the hospital? If we turn left up ahead, the emergency room is right there.”

Eden had been staring out at the darkness streaming past the window. At that, he turned his gaze toward Do-un.

“Is this how Koreans are? They go to the hospital over something this minor, and they’re quick to touch someone else’s body under the pretext of applying ointment?”

“…Excuse me?”

“Do they really put an extra spoon on the table to feed a complete stranger, then throw themselves into someone’s arms and cry without a second thought?”

“Did you… go through a lot today?”

At Do-un’s cautious question, Eden let out a faint, amused chuckle. His gaze had already returned to the pitch-black window.

“A lot, yeah.”

Eden leaned back languidly in his seat. Beneath the firm line of his jaw, which tilted naturally with the angle of the headrest, his Adam’s apple shifted slowly, as if preparing to voice his next thought.

“What a devil of a woman. Seriously.”

What was that supposed to mean now?

Curious, Do-un glanced at the rearview mirror, but Eden already had his eyes closed.

He hasn’t had much time to rest lately. No wonder he’s exhausted.

Do-un switched the music to something soothing and adjusted the volume.

From: Eden Han

To: Do Do-un

Subject: (No subject)

A cooking studio with a bedroom and bathroom.

A car with plenty of cargo space.

One year earlier.

That had been the entire reply to the first email Do-un had sent him.

Do-un’s email had been long. He’d sent it to help Eden settle into life in Korea as smoothly as possible.

Was there a particular area where he wanted to live?

What kind of accommodation did he prefer: an apartment, a mixed-use residential building, a house, or a hotel?

He’d asked about everything from the type and color of car Eden preferred to his interior design concept and furniture brands. He’d even included the fill power of the goose-down comforter.

And the reply? A single line. That was it.

Honestly, Do-un had been surprised.

From what he’d learned, even among the personal managers in New York, who dealt with countless demanding clients, Han Eden had a reputation for being particularly difficult to handle.

Apparently, even a simple latte run—a task New Yorkers supposedly found easier than crossing the street—became a formidable challenge when it involved him.

The coffee beans’ country of origin, the milk’s fat content, when the beans had been roasted, the milk’s temperature, and even the texture of the steamed milk all had to be exactly right.

Otherwise, Eden would reject the drink again and again.

His heightened senses were so acute that he could identify the scent of hand cream worn by an employee standing dozens of meters away. He couldn’t even find an ordinary toothpaste he liked, so he blended two or three different toothpastes on a single toothbrush head.

For Do-un, who had spent years handling VIPs, that had been a revelation.

“…Are you sure this is really enough?”

Even after securing an empty studio with a kitchen the size of a decent restaurant’s, Do-un still couldn’t shake his unease. Seeing his worried expression, Chairman Jang Gwan-cheol laughed heartily.

“If you’re that worried, just hand him a card and tell him to buy whatever he wants himself. The most important thing is making sure that friend of ours, Han Eden, doesn’t get poached by Chairman Yang. Got it? Just keep an eye on that.”

Do-un followed the orders of the man who paid his salary as though they were divine revelations.

He managed Eden’s entire schedule and, whenever possible, investigated everyone who came into contact with him. If someone had any connection to Chairman Yang, even through three or four intermediaries, Do-un reported it immediately.

After a year of this, Eden’s every move had become etched into Do-un’s mind, along with his social connections and behavioral patterns.

Up close, Han Eden was a workaholic in the truest sense of the word. To him, there was no such thing as a boundary between work and life.

How could anyone devote every waking hour and every ounce of energy to just one thing—cooking? Who on earth lived like that?

The equipment and tools Eden had brought over from New York filled two entire trucks. There hadn’t been enough room for everything on the plane, so some of it had been shipped by sea.

The kitchen in the cooking studio, which Do-un had initially worried might be excessively spacious, was transformed into Eden’s personal research lab in no time.

The island counter was large enough for someone to lie down on. Sometimes it served as a dining table; other times, it became a desk. The eight-person dining table, sofa, and TV that Do-un had brought in just in case were all cleared away. In their place stood a Smith machine and a treadmill, looking rather forlorn.

On the evening the Smith machine arrived, Do-un stared blankly at the metal equipment as he asked,

“Shouldn’t we speak to the chairman and hold at least a small welcome party? If you don’t like this place, we could arrange another venue…”

“A party? Why?”

“…Pardon?”

“I mean, why on earth would we do that?”

Was he genuinely clueless, or was he just pretending to be?

In fine dining, marketing was just as important as the food and service. Since these restaurants weren’t meant for the general public, social marketing aimed at an exclusive circle of influential people was all the more essential.

That was why Do-un had furnished the studio with a dining table in the first place. They needed to regularly invite critics, food journalists, and influencers renowned for their culinary expertise, building connections and encouraging them to spread the word about their experiences.

The more exclusive an experience was, the more people depended on someone else’s perspective to understand it. Who cared about a review of instant noodles or a bag of chips? You could just go out and buy them yourself.

“Obviously, we need to invite critics before opening and do some behind-the-scenes work to—”

As Eden listened, his expression turned cold. Sensing he’d said something wrong, Do-un hurried to clarify.

“B-by that, I don’t mean anything improper. It’s just that Korea’s fine-dining scene is so small that there’s a good chance some of the Seoul Guide’s inspectors are among them.”

Eden raised both eyebrows slightly, as if inviting him to continue. His gaze remained icy.

“Regardless, our goal is to earn three stars within three years, isn’t it?”

“Who’s questioning my abilities?”

“…Pardon?”

“You, Mr. Do Do-un, or Chairman Jang Gwan-cheol?”

The previous summer had been unusually hot. Even now, a year later, Do-un could vividly recall the chill that had crept down his spine that day.

Had Eden been holding a knife? If only. A knife in his hand would have meant that all his attention was focused on the cutting board.

Han Eden had merely looked at Do-un, spoken a few words, and quietly stood up. He hadn’t done anything else.

And yet, in the face of that hostile silence, Do-un had come to understand all too well what it meant to be an Asian man in a New York kitchen full of people from all walks of life, someone who had never once been physically or psychologically intimidated by anyone there.

“If it’s the chairman who doubts my abilities, I’ll go back to New York right now. He’s already tasted my cooking, after all.”

Eden’s Korean still wasn’t entirely fluent, so his pronunciation was soft, almost gentle.

“But if it’s not Chairman Jang and you’re the one who doubts me…”

“……”

“Then I’ll have to cook for you.”

“Excuse me?”

Eden surveyed the kitchen as though assessing what ingredients were available, then asked,

“Want to stay for pasta?”

The pasta Do-un had found himself eating that day was so delicious that it made him want to disown his entire past, during which he’d blithely declared, “Western food is all pretty much the same, isn’t it?”

And yet, he couldn’t digest a single bite.

It was because of the way Eden watched him, as though studying him.

“Building rapport with local foodies? That’s a waste of time. Worse than garbage.”

Do-un stopped chewing the perfectly al dente pasta and looked up at his chef.

“If the critics love our food but the food itself is bad, we’re finished. We won’t even need to wait for the Seoul Guide.”

“Chef…”

“Of course, if the critics hate it but our food is delicious, then they can go to hell.”

Do-un’s Adam’s apple bobbed stiffly, as though the half-chewed pasta were lodged in his throat. Eden opened a bottle of sparkling water and set it in front of him.

“Cooking is everything. Rapport? Parties? It’s all bullshit.”

From that day on, Eden did nothing but work, as if determined to prove his point.

Nothing but work. He lived and breathed it. For some people, mealtimes were a chance to rest. For him, all three meals a day were work and study, from preparing the food to eating it.

Whether Korean, Japanese, or Western, he visited every restaurant in Korea that had earned culinary stars, regardless of cuisine, and meticulously documented his experiences.

Then he returned to the studio and recreated each dish twice: once as faithfully as possible, and once reimagined in his own style. If he wasn’t satisfied, he’d make it again without hesitation.

The tasting sessions, which Do-un had once handled alone, gradually drew more and more people. The mere rumor that Han Eden, the chef who had conquered New York, had returned to Korea was enough to attract a flood of talented applicants. Letters poured in from all over the world from people volunteering to work as unpaid interns.

Those selected were granted the privilege of standing around the island counter, which was about the size of a single bed. There wasn’t a single chair, but no one complained. Eden would yell at them for something as small as holding a fork incorrectly, yet he listened attentively to their feedback on the food.

Every day, his kitchen rang with shouts and exclamations of amazement. Despite his intimidating presence, which could send a chill down anyone’s spine, not a single staff member ran away.

In short, over the past year, Do-un had come to know Han Eden as a man who was insufferably picky, sensitive, utterly serious, and intensely passionate.

Through the Korean staff, who endured Eden’s relentless demands day after day, expectations for Moesan Restaurant continued to rise throughout the industry.