CHAPTER 14
“YOU’RE IN CHARGE of the private party tonight.”
I’m shocked into silence.
Chef stares at me, his hands in his pockets. It’s his way of putting his trust in me, scrutinizing my creativity and skills. This is the first time since I restarted at Nove. There must be a VIP coming in today. My excitement billows, like the first time I held a knife in Grandmother’s kitchen.
“What are the mains?”
“You decide.”
I’m surprised.
“The person who reserved wanted you to put together a menu.”
This is rare. If customers are this familiar with the restaurant, they reserve through the desired cook.
“Who is it?”
“The bass is fresh and the duck is nice, so do what you want.”
I don’t say a thing.
“You’re a cook.”
“If you don’t tell me who it is, I’m not doing it.”
I hear the tap-tap-tap of rain. For a gloomy day like this, duck is better than sea bass, and a hearty cut of steak served after thick, steamy pumpkin soup is best. My mind is already whirring but I don’t back off. I have to know who it is. Chef and I stand facing each other, hands in our pockets. We keep our hands deep in our pockets, worried that they smell. A knife is an extension of our fingers, so unless it’s a special occasion our hands are safer inside a pocket.
“It’s Lee Se-yeon.”
I’m stunned.
Whenever Se-yeon rented out the restaurant to throw a party, I thought she must be a gourmet. Anyone who easily brings people together is surely a gourmet. But she isn’t a born gourmet. A natural gourmet appreciates beauty but doesn’t steal something that belongs to someone else. It’s not surprising that she’s coming to Nove for a meal. But who is she coming with?
I can’t help but ask.
“What does that have to do with you in the kitchen?”
“If I’m to make the food it has to do with me.”
“With Han Seok-ju. They’re going to have dinner with their parents.” Chef says it quickly as if it’s an annoyance, his brow furrowing.
Han Seok-ju. I almost ask, Who is that? “So…”
“Yeah, she asked that you take care of their table.”
I don’t say anything.
On rainy days I want to eat a bowl of something warm, not too much and not too little, and lie in my bed. If he is next to me, I want us to slide into making love, feeling each other’s wet tentacles like snails in the rain. What I don’t want is to go into the kitchen to be smothered by smells. I really don’t want to cook for the woman my man fell in love with. If I pushed my face into the rain nobody would hear my laughter. Not even Chef, who stares into my eyes, reading me like a book. It feels like blood is pooled at my temples, stretched taut.
“I’m going home,” I announce.
“Get into the kitchen.”
“Let me go home.”
“Hurry up and make the menu.”
“Chef!” I glare at him as if he’s Seok-ju.
Are you going to back down? He glares back. Don’t be stupid.
“What they want is the best Italian food they can get. That’s why they’re coming here. And they want you to cook it. Isn’t that acknowledgment that you’re the best cook? If I were you, I would want to go straight into the kitchen.”
“I’m not that crazy to think that.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“Am I being made a fool?”
“It’s simple. Just cook.”
“I don’t do it for just anyone.”
“They’re customers.”
“They’re not just customers to me, Chef.”
“Yeah, they’re very special customers.”
I’m quiet.
“Make something special.” Chef points his chin at the rain pattering on the window. “Or make salad with that,” he says, awkwardly, like he’s trying to make a joke. A long time ago, with the same expression, he told me about a gourmet Chinese emperor who held a contest to select his personal chef. Chefs from around the country presented various delicacies but couldn’t excite the rarefied taste of the emperor, whose eyes had been opened to great food at a young age. The emperor was disappointed. But one chef made a raindrop salad and a raindrop omelet, followed by a raindrop roast, and finished with raindrop ice cream. The emperor ate everything happily, exclaiming at its deliciousness, and gave unprecedented praise. Then, to ensure that nobody else would ever eat such a special meal, he executed the chef.
“Go ahead, go into the kitchen. You’ll find what you want there.”
What I want. What is that?
“I might fail.” I look out the window to the road, slippery like the back of a whale, the cars gliding by and the rain slashing across the inky sky. I want to go somewhere far. Would bass be good, or duck? I want to disappear without a trace. Se-yeon likes bass and Seok-ju likes duck. Cooking is the last thing I want to do. Even the most delectable food vanishes in an instant. Did we really love each other? What can I be certain about? If I didn’t know how to cook, what would I have left? The sound of rain awakens my ears, hundreds of small fists pounding on the windows.
There isn’t much time before they are to arrive. It’s just as important to prepare food on time as it is to make tasty dishes. And to bring out the completed dish in a relaxed and leisurely way, without appearing rushed. Food disappears in the blink of an eye but taste lasts for a long time, the taste that explodes on the roof of your mouth and the tip of your tongue. The memory of that taste bobs to the surface when you least expect it. When a certain taste enthralls you, there comes a time when it’s difficult to free yourself from it.
As if drawing a gun, I carefully take my hand out of my pocket and lift it up. The hand that moves coldly and quickly when dealing with fish, hot and passionately with meat, infinitely gentle and secretive when touching him. I have this hand even if her body is beautifully perfect.
I brush the blade of the knife with the tip of my fingers. The blade is still sharp, alive. You need a sharp knife to cut evenly, to slice without harming an ingredient’s cell structure. A dull knife pierces the ripe cells of meat or fish, lessening its taste. I’m satisfied with the blade. I grab the duck. After turkey it’s the second-largest bird, with a grand and intricate taste. I will stuff it with chestnuts and brush its surface with olive oil and herbs and roast it in the oven. With the handle of my knife I gently tap the duck’s head, lying limp. It’s my fate to love and cook. Loving and cooking are different but also the same. I raise my knife high and bring it down precisely on the duck’s legs, spread neatly across the chopping block.
Okay, come on in. I’ll make you such good food that you’ll want to kill me.
APRIL
Warm food, pie, and cake were presented on forty plates, along with a variety of poultry. But a poor goose laid an egg on the table, out of fear.
CHAPTER 15
UNCLE TREATED WOMEN with various problems. One woman was so sensitive to smell that she couldn’t eat a thing. Another woman was fine when she spoke, but when she opened her mouth to chew, pain shot up her neck and shoulders. One woman had a fit when she heard the word carrot, and yet another woman ate only clementines. Uncle talked about them as if they were suffering from different diseases but I thought they shared the same illness. They had never eaten a good meal or they didn’t know how food tasted or they didn’t know what to eat and how to eat it. But it wasn’t that simple to Uncle. Uncle’s job was to cure these women, and of all his patients, he fell in love with the one who ate only clementines.