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Seasonal pie baking contest in Seoul yields its 6th winner

by LEE CHAN

For nearly a year and a half, the Korean Food Society (KFS) has held a seasonal pie baking contest in Seoul to spark innovation in the latest culinary trend sweeping across the nation: pie baking.

Although pie baking is an age-old tradition in many households across the western nations, it has only recently seen a surge in interest in our very own peninsula. Inspired by the well-loved Tartine Bakery and Pie Cafe, which now boasts 6 locations across Seoul, and the growing popularity of ASMR baking on YouTube, the Korean Food Society has decided that we, too, belong to the cream of the crop in world of pastries. Every season, a pie baking contest is held to bring Korean flavours and sensibilities to this popular baked treat.

The contest was held for bakers of all ages and backgrounds, regardless of expertise and experience. “We hope to keep this event as fun, stress-free, and accessible as possible,” said Choi Seungcheol from the Korean Food Society. “We don’t want people to feel intimidated to sign-up.”

Each pie had to be made from scratch, and was scored on overall appearance (crust, consistency), taste (flavour, mouth-feel, crust), and overall impression (creativity, originality, memorability).

This autumn, the winner is Kim Mingyu. His prize-winning apple pie features a sweet apple filling packed inside a delicious flaky pie crust. The star pie maker had previously participated in the KFS pie baking contest, and with this victory under his belt, Kim Mingyu now holds 3 wins in total.

“I think your pie’s the best,” Joshua declares. The conviction in his voice is offset by how soft-spoken his tone is, but the firm hand he claps on Seokmin’s shoulder offers mild comfort. “Seriously, Seokmin-ah.”

Next to him, Jeonghan nods. There’s a gentle pity on his face and in the set of his lips, and Seokmin wants to curl into it as much as he has the sharp desire to hide and wallow alone. Of all his friends, Jeonghan knows.

“Take it from Shua,” Jeonghan adds. His hand comes up to sweep Seokmin’s hair back, tucking it behind his ear in a delicate gesture. He pokes at Seokmin’s cheek, right over his beauty mark. “I mean, look at it this way, you have an American on your side. He’s a pretty qualified judge, isn’t he?”

“I guess,” Seokmin says miserably. He lets himself bask in the pity from the two hyungs for a minute—better than their teasing, though he knows they wouldn’t ever tease him over this—only until he spots an annoyingly familiar face heading in their direction. All at once, Seokmin straightens up, though he doesn’t shake off Jeonghan’s arm from his shoulders, knowing Jeonghan would be offended, and sets his face in a placid smile.

Kim Mingyu saunters over to them. There’s already a smile on his stupidly handsome face, more of a smirk than anything, and Seokmin would love nothing more than to wipe it off his face. He stops right in front of Seokmin, annoyingly tall and broad as always. In his hands, Mingyu holds a small plate, nearly dwarfed by how much bigger his fingers are in contrast, and to Seokmin’s horror—a tiny sliver of his pie lays flat in the middle. It used to be Seokmin’s favourite part of the contest, getting to try the other contestants’ bakes afterwards, but he’s avoided it this season. “Hey,” Mingyu says.

It’s said innocently enough, but Seokmin knows better. Like with most things that come from Mingyu’s mouth, there’s a smugness in the undercurrent of his words. Seokmin tries not to seethe.

He’s been raised as a nice, polite boy though, so rather than glaring at Mingyu like he sorely wants to, he keeps the placid smile on his face. Seokmin feels it when Jeonghan’s hand tightens around his shoulder. For as long as he’s known him, Jeonghan could usually tell when Seokmin was annoyed.

“Hi Mingyu,” Seokmin forces out, pleasantly enough.

The expression on Mingyu’s face doesn’t waver. “Nice pie,” he continues, and makes a big show out of forking out a slice before he shovels it into his mouth.

A wave of irritation washes over Seokmin and his heart pounds a little faster as he’s forced to stand there and play spectacle to Kim Mingyu eating his pie in front of him. He doesn’t know what kind of mind games Mingyu is playing, and Seokmin doesn’t think he’s interested in finding out. Just as he’s about to cut in—politely, of course—to make his escape, Mingyu swallows and a thoughtful expression appears on his face. Seokmin has seen this face before: Mingyu trying a slice of Seokmin’s cherry pie after his first loss, rolling the flavours on his tongue like he’s trying to decipher what went wrong.

“You’re pretty new to this, right? I can tell.” Mingyu had said in a mild tone, as if he was commenting on the weather and not the entirety of Seokmin’s heart poured into a pie pan. “We should talk about your crust.” Mingyu assessed the rest of the bakes on the display table, and then left the most scathing critique that Seokmin never asked for.

It’s the same face that Mingyu makes now, parsing out the balance of flavours and textures, and Seokmin hates himself a little bit for how much it gives him pause. A masochistic part of him wants to hear what Mingyu has to say this time. His heartbeat ticks up as he waits.

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, and takes another thoughtful bite. It’s irritating, his face is irritating. Then, through a mouthful of crumbs—rude—Mingyu says, “Not as good as your last bake, Seokmin-ssi.”

Seokmin’s heart drops. Again—a familiar feeling whenever he runs into Kim Mingyu.

Mingyu continues, either oblivious or determined to be an absolute dick. “The flavours in the summer were better, and you’re still not much better at presentation, are you? Your toppings lack finesse. But you’ve definitely gotten better though. Good flavour with the filling. You’ll get there eventually. Probably.” Mingyu smiles at him, and Seokmin stares down at his little snaggletooth like focusing all of his energy on the tiny pointed fang will prevent him from reaching over and slapping the man right upside the head. “Well done.”

Seokmin prickles.

You’ll get there eventually. Probably. God. What an asshole.

Next to him, he can hear Jeonghan’s subtle intake of breath and the awkward shuffle from Joshua, where his arms swing around at his side like he no longer knows what to do with them. Good. It means he’s not being too sensitive, maybe. But Mingyu continues smiling at him as if he’s done nothing wrong, and the sight only makes him angrier.

He grits his teeth. A thousand comebacks float through his mind, ’no one asked you, you motherfucker’, or ’focus on your own bake’, or most preferably, ’shut the fuck up, you fucking dickwad’. Seokmin breathes in deep and slow, and then exhales. He says none of those, because he’s never learned how to let his anger take full charge.

“‘Kay,” Seokmin says instead, simple and pointed, and doesn’t let the guilt settle in his stomach when he brusquely shoulders past Mingyu. His friends follow, although Joshua pauses to politely say goodbye to Mingyu before he scurries after him and Jeonghan.

He doesn’t look back. Kim Mingyu can go fuck himself, Seokmin decides.

Seokmin hates him. He hates him and his condescending smile and his stupid self-confidence.

“What’s his problem?” Seokmin mutters to Jeonghan and Joshua when they’ve gained some distance between them and Mingyu. He speedwalks back to Jeonghan’s car, only pausing to smile and briefly greet the other contestants he recognizes from seasons past. Jeonghan drops his arm from Seokmin’s shoulder as he struggles to keep up with Seokmin’s pace. Guilty, Seokmin slows down a tad and shoots an apologetic look towards Jeonghan.

Joshua looks torn. “Maybe he didn’t mean it that way,” he suggests.

“What? You mean be a dick?” Seokmin says, a little incredulous. “‘You’ll get there eventually’? ‘Probably’?”

“Ah.” Joshua winces, and his hands come up in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t know—he’s just been pretty nice, you know, like when I talked to him in the summer contest. When he lost, he seemed gracious about it.”

Seokmin had lost that round too, but he had come third after Mingyu. The first-place winner was someone named Do Kyungsoo, who Seokmin hasn’t seen since that one contest.

“Maybe he’s just a dick to me then,” Seokmin concludes. “Great. What now? He’s still a jerk, Shua-hyung.”

He must hear the bitter notes in Seokmin’s voice because Joshua starts to backtrack. “Sorry, Seokminie. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say to you, you’re right. You’re just doing this because—” Joshua pauses, only half a second long, but long enough that it makes Seokmin’s stomach roll a little. He glances at Jeonghan, and then back at Seokmin. “—Well, he should probably mind his business, I mean.”

Jeonghan loops his arm around Joshua’s and Seokmin and tugs them in closer. “Let’s not think about this for now, Seokmin-ah,” he says gently. Jeonghan sounds calm, but Seokmin’s known him long enough to recognize the worry in his eyes. “C’mon, hyung will treat you to dinner. Kim Mingyu-ssi isn’t important. Don’t let him get you down.”

There are words unsaid, but Seokmin hears them nonetheless: Don’t forget what is important. And it’s not Mingyu—or at least it shouldn't be.

The first time he ever entered the seasonal pie-baking contest, Seokmin had only done it to prove something to himself. He’s not the best baker in the world, lacks the training and experience, and he’s well-aware of that. His forté lies elsewhere, but he’s trying his best, and for Kim Mingyu to saunter in, obnoxious just because he possesses more technical skill—and God knows what experience—than the other amateur bakers in the competition, rubs Seokmin the wrong way.

It sparks a competitive edge in him that normally doesn’t exist. Seokmin has always been his own worst critic, too focused on his own shortcomings to worry about other people. But Kim fucking Mingyu...

He’s going to win the next seasonal baking competition, Seokmin decides. He just has four months until their winter competition to perfect his recipe.

And Seokmin’s determined to win.

Seokmin loves his restaurant.

All things considered, he’s not doing bad for himself. Business is slow during the weekdays and picks up only marginally during the evenings, but Soonyoung tells him that they’ve earned a regular or two in the time that has passed, and Seokmin lets himself be happy enough with that. He’s built his connections and has confidence in his suppliers and his sommelier, and he’s getting better and better with the bookkeeping and marketing aspects everyday. Business isn’t booming, but it’s not dying either.

For now, it’s good enough.

He hasn’t had Chunja’s Pizzeria for long, at least not in its physical form—with his newly built commercial kitchen, exposed brick interiors lined with paintings he bought wholesale, strategic clusters of smooth wood tables and plush chairs around a frameless gas fireplace, and the diffused golden warmth of his hanging lights strung across the dim restaurant. At the end of the restaurant, tucked close to the wine case, are two large swinging wooden doors.

Over the months, Seokmin has gotten used to the sound of Soonyoung pushing the door open and the exuberance of his voice as he greets the kitchen, heard loud and clear even through the din of the bustle. And on the other side of the doors—his side—hardly audible to the customers, echoes the shouts of orders, hot behind!, can you run?, heard that!, the sizzle of meat and oil on the stove, the slap of the dough underneath his palms, the heat of the oven, the low baritone of Wonwoo, the disgruntled noises that Jihoon makes when he’s irritated.

When he was younger, Seokmin used to dream of musical theatre. He doesn’t do so anymore, but sometimes he wonders if it’s because operating a restaurant feels so much like how he imagines choreographing a theatrical piece would be. The frenetic pace of their backstage, in the wings—the coordination of a fine-tuned team to translate the work of their hands into a fleeting, but ephemeral food experience for customers. Nothing creates a bond like the rhythm of a kitchen, the rare in-betweens of a dinner rush, and the occasional bad customer.

Seokmin thrives in it.

Operationally, Seokmin may have only had this for a short while. In his heart, in his dreams, however, Seokmin’s had his restaurant for years.

It’s a Wednesday evening—a slow night—when Soonyoung bursts through the swinging doors with a bubbly greeting, as he always does. This time, though, he has an unusual glimmer in his eyes. Seokmin doesn’t notice at first, his back turned away from the door and tending to their pizza oven.

“What’s with your face?” Jihoon says. It’s only when he hears the note of suspicion in Jihoon’s voice that Seokmin turns to face his team.

“Guess what?” Soonyoung’s lips curl up, sweet and kitten-like.

True to Jihoon’s observations, Soonyoung has an expression on his face as if he’s won the lottery, or received a compliment for his service—sometimes Seokmin thinks he’d act the exact same way to both. His cheeks are scrunched up into a boisterous grin and his hands are on his hips, a proud little power pose, one that makes Jihoon’s eyes narrow further. By the food prep counter, he sees Wonwoo place down his knife before he, too, turns to look at Soonyoung.

With Soonyoung, you never have to wait long for the suspense to burst, always too honest in his emotions to hold them back. Bouncing back on his heels, Soonyoung’s face brightens. “Table 12 stopped me after he paid and he said—” Soonyoung vibrates a little in excitement, his legs doing a little shimmy.

Sometimes, he makes Seokmin think of middle school science classes, for some reason, and learning how water boils—water molecules moving too quickly and with too much energy to stay liquid. He told Soonyoung this once in passing, and received a blank stare in return.

“What is it?” Jihoon snaps.

“He said that this is the best pizza he’s ever had in Seoul,” Soonyoung lets out in one quick breath, his voice dropping hushed as if the customer at Table 12 could be listening into their conversation. Seokmin blinks in surprise as Soonyoung continues. “Seriously. He said something about crust flavour and tomato sauce, I forgot what he said, but it sounded very nice—and then he tried to give me a tip.”

Wonwoo quirks a brow. “A tip?”

Soonyoung nods eagerly, and then latches himself onto the closest person to him. It’s Jihoon. Like always, Jihoon elbows him off but Soonyoung only seems to be even more delighted, giggling a little. “A huge one! Way more than what foreigners would try to give me back at my old restaurant. He seems Korean though, I wonder if he’s from Americ—”

“Did you accept?” Seokmin interrupts, a little worried. It’s not in their policy to accept tips, not that anyone has tried since the opening of their restaurant.

Soonyoung shakes his head. “Of course not, big boss—”

“Please don’t call me that,” Seokmin pleads, but Soonyoung continues speaking right over him.

“But he must be loaded. Seriously loaded. And so handsome too. Tall, with nice broad shoulders—” Soonyoung sighs a little wistfully, staring off into the distance. “He looked like a model. Like he could be the lead role in a tvN drama or something. I had to crane my neck all the way up just to look at him, Wonwoo-yah, isn’t that so cool? A handsome man in our restaurant!”

Wonwoo frowns at that. “He sounds suspicious.”

Soonyoung scowls at him and punches Wonwoo’s shoulder lightly. “I’m serious! He looks like someone who has it all: money, looks, great taste in food.” His eyes light up and he nudges Wonwoo again. “Hey, do you think he’s a member of a chaebol family or something? Samsung, maybe? No—Lotte?”

It’s a pleasant surprise to hear compliments from customers. Most people have been polite enough, and if they haven’t, Soonyoung’s usually pretty good at defusing the situation—but this is the first time they’ve ever had anyone make a concentrated effort to praise their food. A blossom of warmth unfolds in his chest and Seokmin bites down on his smile. “Did he say anything else?” Seokmin asks Soonyoung before he can meander further down that path.

Once, he remembers Wonwoo offhandedly mentioning that Soonyoung loves watching dramas. At that time, Seokmin wondered how Wonwoo knew that tidbit, but watching Soonyoung swoon now, he supposes he can see how.

“Oh,” Soonyoung puffs his chest out. “And he said I was a great server!”

“Sure he did,” Wonwoo mutters, his frown deepening for some reason.

Seokmin would think that it’s a great thing—he is proud of the team he’s built after all, but he ignores Wonwoo’s strange response. “That’s good,” he tells Soonyoung earnestly. Seokmin can’t help but return Soonyoung’s smile when Soonyoung looks so pleased. “Did he say anything else about the food though?”

“He didn’t say much, but he said that all elements are perfect,” Soonyoung tells him. He crosses the distance between him and Seokmin in the kitchen, and loops his arm around Seokmin’s elbow. “Hey, you should be proud, Seokmin-ah. He seemed really, really happy with your food.”

When he first met him, Seokmin might have found it odd for Soonyoung to be touchy, but he’s quickly learned since then that whatever emotions Soonyoung has, he translates it through his body. Now, Seokmin sags a little into Soonyoung’s hold, a sense of relief after another long day in the kitchen.

A ribbon of happiness curls its way around Seokmin’s heart. He feels warm. Content. “I’m glad,” he says to Soonyoung. “I’m glad that someone likes my cooking.”

This is why he loves his restaurant. Pride shines on Soonyoung’s face, even as he returns to work, and though Wonwoo and Jihoon are more reticent, he can tell they’re happy too. Jihoon turns back to his pastry with a hum under his breath as he works the dough, while Wonwoo traipses after Soonyoung. As they walk away, Seokmin can hear them speculating on the identity of the customer despite Wonwoo’s earlier protests, their voices echoing back and forth through the kitchen until they both disappear through the swinging doors. In the brief moment that the door opens, Seokmin thinks he can hear the faint, nearly inaudible sound of chatter and the clinking of forks and knives.

He turns back to their pizza oven, where he had been cooling it down. The familiar scent of wood and fire brings a smile to his face.

Baking pies might not be his thing, not yet. But this—this is Seokmin’s dream. And he’s lucky enough to have it.

This time, it only takes Seokmin a full week after the baking competition to lick his wounds. By the following Monday, he’s ready to return to his home kitchen and test new recipes for the winter bake-off. He has four months to perfect a new recipe.

“What do you think?” Seokmin says, and furrows his brow in thought as he holds up two hefty pears. “Pear juice is a popular hangover drink, right? Maybe I can appease the judges with a pie version?”

Minghao looks up from his phone and studies the pears for a quick second before he places them back onto the bin. “You know they wouldn’t turn out well in a pie.” He glances back down at his phone and types something unseen. “You’re still coming to the wine-tasting this weekend right? My friend will join us. He’s mooching, he doesn’t have a restaurant or anything. He just likes wine—I think you’ll get along with him.”

“Yeah,” he says, but his eyes are fixed on the pears. “I’ll be there.” Then, Seokmin sighs and drops his hands. “I know. I’d have to use the European varieties, I guess.” Local pears have high water content—way more delicious than the pears he tried the one year he visited Shua-hyung in LA with Jeonghan, not great for baking into pies—but Seokmin’s been grasping all threads for inspiration. He wants to wow the judges, something perfectly seasonal and delicious.

And he wants to shut Kim Mingyu up.

“You shouldn’t buy fruits from here anyway. It’s cheaper when you buy it at the stands run by aunties,” Minghao nags, as if Seokmin isn’t more than familiar with the best places to source ingredients, but it’s always somehow endearing when it’s Minghao. “But I thought you wanted, I mean, your grandma’s—”

Something inside of him deflates. Seokmin tries not to let it show on his face. Instead, he shrugs, “Well, you remember how that went for me,” Seokmin says lightly. He thinks about his notebook, filled with measurements and quantities and half-a-dozen of scribbled ideas and variations. He thinks of failed attempts, the resignation and frustration. Seokmin needs to get better first. “I thought it’d be better to just create my own recipe. I went to culinary school, it’s not an issue.”

Minghao studies him a little with a contemplative expression that makes Seokmin have to restrain himself from squirming under his gaze. Compared to Jeonghan and Joshua, who he’s known since high school, Minghao’s a newer friend—but it always feels like he can see right through Seokmin nonetheless. He hasn’t told Minghao much about his pie recipe, but somehow Minghao seems like he might know anyway.

He only relaxes when Minghao’s gaze softens. “I know,” Minghao says. He bumps his shoulder against Seokmin’s. “You’re an amazing chef, you know I think that. Whatever you’re hoping to make, you’ll find the perfect recipe for it.”

His words fill Seokmin with warmth. Minghao speaks with conviction, a level of seriousness that lets Seokmin know that Minghao believes in him—really believes in him. It’s sweet, and somehow, feels more than what Seokmin deserves. Still, Seokmin reaches out and grabs Minghao’s hand, and squeezes with gratitude.

When he first met Minghao, it was when Soonyoung marched him into the restaurant, hand-in-hand, and announced to Seokmin that he found him his sommelier. “Trust me,” Soonyoung had declared boldly, tugging Minghao forward. Seokmin hadn’t been expecting an impromptu introduction—though he had told the crew that he was looking for one—and Minghao didn’t either, judging from the alarmed look on his face. “You won’t find a better sommelier than Xu Minghao!”

“Um,” Seokmin had said, hesitatingly. “Who is...this?”

He hadn’t been sure whether or not Soonyoung had just dragged some poor guy off the streets and into Seokmin’s restaurant. At the time, he still didn’t know Soonyoung well enough, beyond the fact that he seemed like a whirlwind in energy—funnily enough, in retrospect, he now knows Soonyoung would be far too shy around strangers to do anything of the sort.

It turns out that Minghao was an old friend of Soonyoung’s who had only recently moved back to Seoul, and was looking for work as a sommelier. Despite his initial reservations, Seokmin had taken him up on the offer, and has not once regretted it since. Minghao’s skilled, knowledgeable—and more importantly than that, he has ever since became an important friend to Seokmin.

Though he used to think that Minghao and Soonyoung couldn’t be more different as people, Seokmin’s learned that they’re more similar than they initially appear. It’s the sincerity to which they carry their emotions—always holding strong to their values above all else. And with that comes loyalty to their friends.

Seokmin isn’t sure what he’s done in life to deserve to be surrounded by people who love him, but he’s glad.

Minghao squeezes his hand in return, and then drags him in the direction of the dairy section. “Of course, Seokmin-ah,” he says. “Now c’mon, I need to pick up some stuff for charcuterie night tomorrow with my friend. He’s choosing the wine. You can think about your recipe while I pick out the cheese.”

After closing on Saturday night, Seokmin heads across the Han River to the Minghao’s wine bar.

Seokmin has been to two of these before—the first one having been a private showing, to discuss with Minghao about wine pairings for his restaurant, and the second one mostly to just socialize. This time around, Minghao had proposed the idea of wine tasting events at the restaurant. It’s an idea he’s still mulling around; they’re not quite fine dining, not that wine tastings have to be, but Seokmin isn’t sure that’s how he wants his restaurant to be perceived.

The dining room is dim apart from the warmth of flickering tea lights across the bar. About half a dozen wine glasses are lined in a row, with two stainless steel pittoons set at either end. In the corner, right behind where Minghao is standing, are a cluster of wine bottles with flowers delicately placed in them, decorated with a string of fairy lights that cast another soft glow into the room.

Minghao is already there, and so is his friend. As Seokmin makes his way over to them, all he can see is their dark silhouettes; his friend seems tall, even while sitting down, his head tilted towards Minghao as his broad shoulders shake in laughter. They must be close.

Clearing his throat, Seokmin steps up towards the bar. “Minghao-yah,” he says warmly. When Minghao turns towards him, his mouth quirks up into a smile and he reaches over to draw Seokmin for a hug.

“How was work?” Minghao says, his hand trailing down Seokmin’s arm to grab his hand. He tugs Seokmin onto the chair next to the stranger. “I hope it’s okay that my friend’s here.”

“It’s totally fine,” Seokmin reassures Minghao. He sits and turns to face Minghao’s friend. “Hi, I’m Lee Seok—” The words die on his tongue. His heart leaps—and not in excitement.

“Lee Seokmin-ssi,” Kim Mingyu says. There’s an infuriating smile on his face, his face lit by the warm glow of Minghao’s tea lights. Seokmin hates it on sight.

Minghao quirks an eyebrow. “You know each other?”

“Ah.” Seokmin tears his eyes away from Mingyu and clears his throat. He forcibly shoves down the instinctive irritation that bubbles up at the sight of Mingyu’s grin, and resigns himself to a much poorer night than he’d initially imagined. Apparently, this is Minghao’s friend, and despite his misgivings, Seokmin intends to play nice. “Not really.” He hopes Minghao can’t tell how forced his smile is. “Only in passing.”

“Aw, I think we know each other better than that!” Mingyu interjects. “He’s my nemesis at the pie-baking competition.” He flashes a grin at Seokmin. “He’s never beat me before though.”

“I suppose I don’t need to introduce you two then,” Minghao says.

What a jerk, Seokmin thinks and smothers the eye roll that threatens to escape. Kim Mingyu has to be one of the most unpleasant people he’s ever had the displeasure to meet. It’s a wonder how he’s friends with Minghao, who doesn’t seem like the type to put up with bullshit and pretension.

Outwardly, though, Seokmin maintains his smile. “Haha,” he forces out, and the syllables sound flat even to his own ears. If Minghao notices anything, it certainly doesn’t show. “We’ll see about that.”

“I didn’t know you were baking again,” Minghao says to Mingyu—to Seokmin’s surprise. The impression he got from Mingyu is that he dedicates his life to it. The knowledge that he might not have been as seasoned of a baker only irritates Seokmin further. Of course it’s just natural talent. Of course.

The question draws nothing but a sheepish chuckle from Mingyu. “Oh, well, you know.” He gestures vaguely. At that, Minghao shoots Mingyu another look. Seokmin can’t decipher it and he tries not to be nosy about it. He doesn’t want to have Kim Mingyu on his mind more than he needs to be.

Seokmin leans forward on his elbows and refocuses his attention on Minghao. “So,” he says brightly. He staunchly refuses to look over at Mingyu when he feels Mingyu lean in as well. “What do you have lined up for me?”

Minghao draws himself up, and Seokmin can see him falling neatly into the role of sommelier. With practiced hands, he lines up his wines and picks up the first bottle, pouring a generous splash in both Mingyu’s glass and his own. Minghao gives a few swirls with an elegant flick of his wrist to aerate it before sliding it back over to them.

“Is that your youngest Sauvignon Blanc?” Mingyu says, his long fingers wrapping neatly around the stem of the glass. He lifts the wine glass up to his nose, his mouth open just slightly as he breathes in. “My favourite, dry and crisp. I quite like it.”

This time, Seokmin can’t hold back the eye roll. He hides it by turning his head into the glass for a slow sip, letting the clean, citrus notes sit on his tongue. Wine isn’t really his choice of beverage, but Seokmin has learned to appreciate it under the tutelage of Minghao.

Of course, however, Kim Mingyu can’t let him have an ounce of peace. Next to him, he makes an affronted noise as he levels Seokmin with an assessing look. “Wine is meant to please every one of your senses,” Mingyu says to him, his voice low and lofty. “You can’t appreciate the nuances of its scent like that.”

Never in his life has Seokmin ever felt such an urge to throw something at Mingyu, perhaps an entire glassful of wine. There’s a look on his face that Seokmin thinks could be eagerness and anticipation—as if Seokmin should be impressed by his knowledge and he’s just waiting for the acknowledgement. Fat fucking chance.

“Hm,” Seokmin says instead, too agitated to deign Mingyu with a proper response. That does draw Minghao’s attention, his sharp eyes flickering over to him and then back to Mingyu, his eyebrows raised slightly. He treats Seokmin with a searching stare, and whether he’s waiting for Seokmin’s response to the wine or to Mingyu, he’s not sure. But Seokmin knows it’s not like him to be so dismissive of someone. He just can’t help it.

There’s nothing he’d enjoy less than entertaining a conversation with Mingyu. Self-consciousness prickles at him a little too; Seokmin is only passingly familiar with wine and not at all as passionate as either Mingyu or Minghao. It dampens the usual enthusiasm he might give Minghao as feedback for the wine.

A second passes and when Seokmin remains silent, Mingyu’s expression shifts into something less enthusiastic. He stares at Seokmin—just long enough for a shade of guilt to settle in the pit of his stomach. Not enough to apologize, though.

Minghao snaps up. “Right,” he says smoothly, and picks up the next bottle. “Moving on...”

Later, he’s sure Minghao will ask him about it. He’s not the type to let something go. For now, though, Seokmin lets out a sigh and settles himself in for a tiresome night.

Damnit Kim Mingyu.

Review: Chunja’s Pizzeria

Seoul Gourmet Weekly

Saddled between narrow alleyways and eclipsed by skyscrapers, Chunja’s Pizzeria feels like a rare diamond in the rough. I had to walk through the bursts of afternoon lunch chatter and civil servants hugging their purchases of exorbitantly priced coffees and croissants to reach my destination. Once I entered the restaurant, I found myself reluctantly impressed.

Chunja’s Pizzeria is low-ceilinged, with a colour palette that’s burnished in browns and greys, and mottled with a beige that should feel drab and dreary. Instead, it’s filled with warmth; a flickering, golden flame from a fireplace centrepiece, plush armchairs that feels more befitting of one’s grandmother’s home than a new restaurant, and a close intimacy for the space provided. The restaurant is small, but it works rather well for what the restaurant tries to do. It’s dimly lit, but even through the low-light, the exuberance of the server who greeted me shines brightly.

Starting from the service, you can’t get better than this. A small-town friendliness in a big city leaves you feeling attended to by someone familiar, an easy warmth in their voice as they take your order. Readers of my previous reviews will know I rarely place any importance on service—but if you’re looking to be taken care of, you will feel right at home here.

It is, however, their food that wins my vote of confidence. Their menu favours Italian bistro classics like fresh pastas, risottos, absolutely divine gnocchi, and crostonis made of housemade focaccia with avocado mousse, prosciutto, and pickled onions. But the biggest seller is the pizza, and for very good reason.

Bubbling hot pizza, molten on top and charred on the bottom; tomato sauce, roma tomato, fior di latte, basil. Written on paper, it’s hard to explain its highlights and what sets it apart from the countless Italian restaurants springing up all over the city. The ingredients are fresh, but so they are at other restaurants. You can taste the char of a wood-fired oven, but so can you at other fancy pizzerias—The Kitchen Salvatore Cuomo in Gangnam comes to mind.

But at Chunja’s Pizzeria, all the elements come together with a level of homemade finesse. Anywhere else, this may sound like an insult. It’s not. Eating at Chunja’s Pizzeria is like coming home after a long day and putting your tired feet up. The chef cooks with the love, familiarity, and comfort of a well-cherished home. Like the decor, it’s unpretentious, and yet, made to perfection.

Food here is uncomplicated. Its few ingredients are assembled into an expression of joy, transforming your food experience into brief moments of delight with each bite. I find myself at a loss for words to adequately express the experience of eating at Chunja’s Pizzeria, but I reach for “warming” and “well-rounded”. And if there’s a word that’s defined by the feeling of being at peace, at home, eating food made with love and tender care—you would find Chunja’s Pizzeria written underneath it in the dictionary.

Even now, days after my meal at Chunja’s Pizzeria, it is still hard to comprehend how food can taste this good.

The back of house is raucous the day after the article is published.

“Wow,” Wonwoo says, right after he reads it off of the phone that Soonyoung shoves under his nose. “Who’s the writer?”

It’s Jihoon who answers, to Seokmin’s surprise. “Doesn’t say. Just says it’s the Seoul Weekly Gourmet. Does anyone still do anonymous food crit? Seems a little outdated.”

“I think it’s romantic, don’t you think, Seokmin?” Soonyoung declares loudly. He smiles down at the phone, his cheeks round with happiness. “How thrilling. I wonder who it could’ve been.”

“It’s exciting,” Seokmin agrees. He feels like a little kid again, in a way that he hasn’t in a long time. His own face hurts from smiling so hard. He’s so damn proud of his team. “Wow. Was it someone we had recently?”

Everyone is in a celebratory mood, especially Soonyoung, and Soonyoung’s good moods are always infectious. Seokmin is not immune—and in fact, he admits he’s probably the greatest enabler when he’s feeling the excitement, thriving directly off of Soonyoung’s energy and giving it right back.

Seokmin tries not to be too loud, but the happiness bubbles right out of his chest.

He sings jaunty tunes at the top of his lungs all throughout the morning inventory check and harmonizes with Soonyoung on some ballads he heard in a drama recently. Jihoon even joins in for a bit, his voice surprisingly sweet for how gruffly he seems to carry himself sometimes. In contrast, Wonwoo stays mostly quiet, but when Soonyoung stands next to him during their staff meeting, Seokmin sees him whisper “well done” under his breath.

For some reason, it turns Soonyoung’s face pink. Soonyoung always seems to turn shy at the most random of times, Seokmin thinks.

But he doesn’t dwell on it, and neither does Soonyoung—because they both bounce right back to tackle the modest lunch rush with more energy than Seokmin has ever seen from his team. An impressive feat, given that they have Kwon Soonyoung in the wings.

But even the heat of the oven and the ache of his feet from standing all day seems to have no bearing on Seokmin’s mood. Instead, a deep sense of satisfaction rolls through him and settles at the base of his spine. His mind constantly flits back to the article.

”If you’re looking to be taken care of, you will feel right at home here.” A thrill of satisfaction flares in his chest as he recalls those words. Seokmin doesn’t always know how to feel proud of himself, even as he consistently strives to do good work. Meaningful work. Sometimes, it feels as if he’s chasing after an intangible goal—but today, tonight, Seokmin thinks he knows what that sense of fulfillment feels like between his hands.

”The chef cooks with the love, familiarity, and comfort of a well-cherished home.”. He’s been making food ever since he was a child and teetering after his grandmother in the kitchen while his sister was at hagwon or out on a date with her boyfriend. Seokmin looked after her—and she cared for him, teaching him how to peel garlic and letting him taste hot spoonfuls of soup until he craned his neck way, way up and would say, “Halmoni, it’s perfect!” His grandmother instilled a love in food for him, in eating and making food for people to eat.

Even now, as an adult, that is what endures: the hot soup between his lips, the love of cooking, and knowing that those who share the food made from his hands can walk away happy. Sustenance, in its physical form, but love—to Seokmin—also sustains itself through the sharing of food.

The feeling is more abstract than not when working in a kitchen. He’s at the back of house all day, and if he’s not, he’s talking to suppliers and filling out paperwork for payroll, ensuring that the building itself is maintained. With long hours on his feet, it’s not always easy to remember what that love feels like, even if he always feels a sense of gratitude towards his restaurant.

“Being at peace, at home, eating food made with love and tender care.” Seokmin remembers. He doesn’t want to let himself forget.

With a startling sense of déjà vu, Soonyoung bursts through the swinging doors with his eyes wide. “Guess who’s here again?”

Jihoon sighs and puts down the piping bag stuffed full with whipped cream. “Not the nosy auntie who always orders her pasta with no sauce. Please say no.”

“Oh no,” Seokmin winces sympathetically. He dusts his hands off on his apron and straightens up, and winces as his lower back twinges from stiffness. “She’s back again? It’ll be the third time this month.”

Wonwoo looks pained. “You should tell her you don’t want to date her granddaughter. Maybe tell her you’re dating someone else. Have you tried that yet?”

“I think she’s just lonely,” Soonyoung says with a pitying expression, but then he shakes his head and perks up again. “But that’s not it. That’s not who’s here.” And then to Seokmin’s amazement, Soonyoung’s face turns a little pink. “It’s him. The hot rich one. He’s back. And he remembers me!”

It takes Seokmin a moment to remember who Soonyoung is referring to—and he probably wouldn’t have, if not for how excited Soonyoung had been that day. Surprise rolls through Seokmin. “The one who loved our food?”

Soonyoung nods, his head bobbing with the movement. “The one who looks like Kim Bum.” He sighs, a dreamy note taking over his voice. “I wonder if he’s his cousin or something. Hey, Wonwoo-yah, do you think he’s his cousin?”

At this point, Jihoon visibly loses interest in the conversation and turns back to the passionfruit cake that he’s frosting. He half-expects Wonwoo to do the same as well, but the sous-chef only frowns. “He’s probably just a regular dude that likes eating good food. He doesn’t have to be anything special.”

Seokmin beams. “You think our food is good?”

Ignoring him, Soonyoung works his mouth into a pout. “No way. He’s hot and probably rich. He probably even models in his free time. He has the body for it.”

“Of course your food is good, Seokmin-ah. It’s made by you, after all.” Wonwoo reassures him, kind as ever, before his tone abruptly switches as he turns back to Soonyoung. “I bet he’s weird. There’s probably something about him, like he’s a— a cop or something.”

Soonyoung frowns deeply at Wonwoo. In his corner, Jihoon snorts. “What is he? A narc?”

Seokmin edges up towards Soonyoung and Wonwoo. “What did he order? Did he say anything, hyung?”

“Our gnocchi. He said our pasta is divine,” Soonyoung tells him absentmindedly, barely sparing him a glance before he returns his attention to Wonwoo. “If he’s hiding anything, it’s probably that he’s a secret idol trainee or something. He’s probably an SM trainee, with those looks. Maybe he’s even an idol.”

“If he’s as hot and rich as you say, then he’s probably way too old to be a trainee,” Wonwoo says, and although the tone of his voice is dismissive, there’s a delighted glint in his eyes as if he’s having the time of his life. A smile curls at the corner of his lips, barely noticeable. “You can forget it.”

“Hey, hey” Seokmin cuts in, even as a fond laugh escapes from him, “Is that all you’re here for? Get back to work, you dummies.”

Soonyoung huffs and turns away. “We’ll see—if he comes in again next time. I’ll find out who he is.” But he must not be too agitated either, because Soonyoung bumps his hip against Wonwoo and then smiles up at Seokmin. “He said ‘compliments to the chef,’ by the way. Way to go, boss.”

“Don’t call me that,” Seokmin says reflectively, but he catches himself smiling even as he pats Soonyoung on the arm as he bustles back out to the front of the house. Wonwoo quiets down after that, focused on food prep once again. The kitchen is a bustle of activity, as it always is, but Seokmin feels the glow of happiness reverb in his chest.

Someone thinks his food is good. Good enough that they came back a second time. After the Seoul Gourmet Weekly and this, Seokmin revels in the knowledge that his cooking has apparently touched the hearts of two people.

Seokmin lets himself feel proud. He wonders whether his grandmother would be too.

In the end, Seokmin turns to persimmons.

His grandma used to harvest them during the fall. Seokmin has a distinct memory of sitting with her on the porch, too cold for t-shirts but still too warm for coats, as she would hang freshly harvested persimmons right in the window where the sunlight would graze upon it during the day. The fruits would hang for weeks. Seokmin used to track the days that would meander into winter by watching these fruits, and know that once the powdery exterior would form on the outside of the fruit, winter has met them at their doorsteps.

“If the dried persimmons taste good,” Seokmin’s grandmother would say, “it means that the cold winter has come.”

And she was always right: she would always know when the persimmons were ready. One of Seokmin’s earliest memories is of biting into his grandmother’s dried persimmons, and the burst of sweetness and jam.

Seokmin doesn’t make his own dried persimmons. But he does pick up a bag of fresh ones from the fruit stand just a few blocks away from his restaurant. The old lady who runs the stand recognizes him now, and shoves a few extra pouches of walnuts into his hands despite his protests. “They go well together,” she insists—and maybe Seokmin’s always been a sucker for kind, elderly aunties who take care of him well, because that’s enough of an inspiration for him.

That’s not just it either. Ever since the review published on Chunja’s Pizzeria, Seokmin has taken to reading all the articles written by Seoul Gourmet Weekly. He’s unsure whether there’s one or two or more writers, but whoever they are, they know food. They get food. And it makes Seokmin want to live up to their words.

And so, bolstered by the string of good news with his restaurant—and, maybe, partially motivated by his lingering desire to prove Kim Mingyu wrong—Seokmin uses his next day off to test another recipe for his next bake. A new recipe, but an old taste. The main ingredients are simple: persimmon, walnut, and honey. The rest lies in the bake of his pastry, the flavour of his honey crème patissiere, and the warmth of the spices in his persimmon compote.

From his years of cooking, Seokmin isn’t new to recipe testing. The repetitious nature of it gets tiring, but he’s used to it and has trained his patience from his own culinary training. But Seokmin isn’t a professional pastry chef—far from it, really—and he’s only been doing this for the past year, just shortly after his grandmother passed away. When he gets down to it, baking isn’t so different from cooking—and yet somehow, they still feel like worlds apart.

Like cooking, Seokmin enjoys working with his hands. They’re clumsier when it comes to this, the delicate lamination of flaky pie or the weaving of intricate plaits of a lattice crust. But it’s the practice of it that’s familiar; kneading and rolling the dough, mixing the fillings with his hands, and the pursuit of the perfect flavours. Not unlike pizza, Seokmin finds the act meditative.

But there are differences too. At the restaurant, even with lulls, there is always something Seokmin needs to do. The energy runs high and frenetic and a part of that is necessary to keep the team running, to keep them energized even while they’re standing on their feet and in constant, perpetual motion—something that Seokmin thinks he’s learned to do exceptionally well, and something that Soonyoung excels at as well.

With baking, it feels as if it’s an attempt to drag time into slow motion. The tactility of the process allows him to be mired in his own thoughts. Sometimes they’re his to-do list for the restaurant or for other errands, sometimes they’re plain daydreams of a Michelin star or starring as a celebrity chef in a new and upcoming variety show.

More often than not, Seokmin internally sorts through ingredients and flavour profiles, and sifts through his memories to recapture the taste of his grandmother’s cooking from his childhood. He tries to remember the last recipe that she made him, and that he never got to eat, with the persimmons and honey and walnuts that he remembered tasting on his tongue before her hands were wrinkled and mottled with age. Seokmin tries to remember them through his hands.

He tries his very best.

The pie finishes baking just a quarter after 4 p.m. There’s always a moment of trepidation with each baked good pulled from the oven, the aromas of spices and sweetness wafting from heat, and crisped, bronzed imperfections. Nervous anticipation always strikes him as he waits for the pastry to cool. And when it does—his heart stutters in his chest as he grips a knife and fork. It’d be arrogant to compare himself to the work of a surgeon, but in some ways he imagines that’s how it feels: anxiety at the first incision, even with practiced hands, and the sigh of relief as he slices through.

And then the first bite.

Each week, Seokmin aims for perfection. He takes a bite and lets the sweetness of persimmons and honey burst on his tongue, almost candied in taste. The sugar is cut through by the toastiness of walnuts and rounds off the flavour in balance for the most part. Still a little too sweet. And more than that—there’s still something off. It’s not right.

His mind wanders back to the article, the words: “its few ingredients are assembled into an expression of joy.” The words share a sense of kindness—or perhaps it's a sort of perception, of food and cooking being seen by the consumer in the way that the chef wants it to be consumed. The author has a way of words, enough for Seokmin to continue reading their other articles, and Seokmin tries to turn that perception back to the pie that sits in front of him. He wants this pie to be an expression of joy.

But to him, it’s still not perfect.

He sighs and slides the pie back onto the counter. He’ll wrap it up later and give some to his friends. No use letting it go to waste again.

There’s still light through the windows and Seokmin has another four persimmons remaining. He stands up to wash his pan. Another attempt. This, too, is now practiced.

Seokmin’s chasing after ghosts with all the efforts of Sisyphus.

The next day, Seokmin divides his pie into three equal portions and packages them into the cake boxes he had pilfered a stash from Jihoon a couple months ago. Both Joshua and Jeonghan are coming over for dinner later, so he keeps their slices in the fridge for safekeeping. The third one is taken with him into his car for the trek back across the other side of Seoul.

Minghao’s wine bar isn’t open for the evening yet when he pulls up onto its street. He fumbles his parking job a couple times before he feels satisfied enough to park the car, eternally grateful that no one is around to witness his driving skills. Seokmin grabs the box from the car seat. The door is unlocked, as Minghao had told him through text earlier, and Seokmin slips in through the entrance.

The bar is small enough that Seokmin spots Minghao as soon as he enters. He’s sitting at one of the three booths lined against the far wall on the opposite side of the wine counter that they sat at last time, but he’s not alone. Next to Minghao is a round-faced boy with high cheekbones that he doesn’t recognize—and next to him, to Seokmin’s horror, is Kim Mingyu.

Again.

The last time Seokmin had seen him was at the wine-tasting, where Seokmin had bore through with sheer pettiness and determination until it was acceptable for him to make his leave. Already, this is two times too many. He and Minghao must be better friends than Seokmin had realized, a fact that befuddles him a little given how mismatched their personalities seemed to be. Maybe it’s a miracle he hasn’t run into Mingyu before then.

It was annoying enough while he was at the wine-tasting, but it sets off a fresh sense of dread at the thought of Mingyu being present while he hands off another failed creation to Minghao.

Still, his grandmother raised a polite boy. Seokmin pastes a polite smile on his face as he waves his hand in greeting, and tries not to read too much into Mingyu’s reaction when he does a double-take upon seeing Seokmin.

He shifts on his feet uncomfortably. “I didn’t know you were with friends,” Seokmin says to Minghao, his fingers wrapped tightly around the box. He thinks about lifting it into the air to show Minghao, but decides against it. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you you if I had known,” he adds, careful not to let his true emotions leak too much into his voice.

“You’re not disturbing us,” Minghao says, and he smiles up at Seokmin. If Seokmin didn’t know better, he would think that a flicker of something akin to guilt flashed across Minghao’s face. His eyes flicker down to the cake box and then sideways at Mingyu. There’s a brief pause, eyes lingering, before his gaze lands on Seokmin again. “Mingyu and Seungkwan just came for lunch before I opened up. Wanna join us?”

Spread out on the table are takeout containers from SUIKA. Seokmin has never been there before, but he’s been wanting to ever since he read the review by Seoul Gourmet Weekly the week before. He eyes the spread of deep-fried lotus root stuffed prawns by Minghao’s elbow hungrily. “No, it’s fine,” he forces himself to say. “I’m just dropping this off and then I should head back and start preparing dinner for Shua-hyung and Jeonghannie-hyung.”

“Are you sure?” Minghao says, furrowing his brows. Seokmin thinks he sees a hint of relief on his face and has to stop himself from jumping to conclusions before he hurts his own feelings. Minghao's a good friend of his, there's no reason to think that.

"It's really good," Mingyu adds before Seokmin can respond. To Seokmin's surprise, it's the first time he's spoken since Seokmin entered the bar. He hardly knows Mingyu, but even to him, the quietness feels uncharacteristic. "You should try some, the restaurant won Critics’ Choice."

Seokmin hesitates, his own sense of self-satisfaction of never giving Kim Mingyu the time of day warring with his desire to try the dish. The food writer had described the dish as “game-changing” and Seokmin had never tried renkon no hasami-age before.

In the end, the latter reigns victorious. He reaches out and carefully plucks one of the deep-fried lotus roots sandwiches off of the plate. From the corner of his eye, he catches a look of surprise on Minghao’s face before it schools back into a neutral expression. He wants to comment on it, but Seokmin feels hyper-aware of Mingyu and his friend, Seungkwan.

He files it away to ask Minghao later. The small sandwich proves distracting enough. Fat and round, fried till dark and crisp, the crispness of the lotus root has a satisfying crunch to it as he bites through; the umami of the ginger, soy sauce, sake are a perfect marinade for the prawns inside. It’s well-seasoned, not too overpowering, but lasts with a deep flavour that has Seokmin hungry for more.

“Wow,” Seokmin says eloquently, blinking with his eyes wide. For a moment he forgets that Mingyu is his sworn enemy. “That’s really good.” He takes another careful bite, wiping away the residue of oil on his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wow. It’s like—” his brain immediately goes back to the article he read last week, when they reviewed the restaurant, “—it makes you feel like you’ll never want to eat lotus root in any other way. I read a review on it just last week from my favourite food writer.”

There’s a pause. Mingyu’s eyes are wide. “Oh. What, um, which critic?”

Seokmin hesitates. “Seoul Gourmet Weekly?” As soon as he drops the name, Seungkwan chokes on the sip of water he had been drinking and smacks at his chest. Seokmin frowns in concern as Mingyu seems to freeze next to him. Geez. He could show more concern for his friend. “You okay?” Seokmin asks.

“Sorry,” Seungkwan wheezes out, his face red as his eyes dance between Seokmin and Mingyu. “Went down the wrong way.”

“You read that?” Mingyu says, seemingly unconcerned about Seungkwan choking his lungs out on water aside from the strain in his voice. There’s an indecipherable look on his face that instantly puts Seokmin on edge.

He glances at Minghao, who avoids Seokmin’s eyes. Seokmin frowns, and this time, he does feel hurt. “I like their writing,” Seokmin says awkwardly, though he doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself. It’s just that it suddenly feels as if the rest of them had been given a script and Seokmin had somehow veered sideways and no one has told him. “They really seem to understand food.”

Mingyu still has that strange expression resting on his features. “Oh.” He stares at Seokmin with an intensity that throws Seokmin off. “That’s...good to hear.” His mouth falls open a bit, like he’s about to say something, but then he snaps it close again. Instead, Mingyu exchanges yet another secretive look with both Minghao and Seungkwan. It’s inscrutable, as if they can’t believe Seokmin would read food writing.

It irks Seokmin. He tries not to be unreasonable, but he hates feeling like he’s being intentionally left out of a joke, and he hates feeling like he’s being made dumb. Seokmin might not have a way with words, but he’s trained in culinary arts. He’s sure that Minghao can’t be doing it on purpose, but he’s not doing anything to mitigate it either. Seokmin feels a little bruised by it.

He knows Minghao can tell when Seokmin averts his eyes and hands the cake box over to him. “I gotta go. Thanks again,” Seokmin says, and gives a polite nod to both Mingyu and his friend. “I’ll see you next time, Myungho-yah.”

Minghao takes the box but his other hand grabs Seokmin’s. He hesitates, glances at his friends out of the corner of his eyes, and then seems to think better of it. “I’ll text you,” he promises. Already, Seokmin can hear the note of an apology in his voice.

Seokmin nods stiffly but he doesn’t offer a response. He can’t be irritated by Minghao for long, and he’ll probably receive an explanation later when Minghao texts him about it. Still, he only spares them another cursory glance—the most that he can muster. “See you,” Seokmin says.

On the weekend, the wait times for a table at Seokmin’s restaurant drag into 15 minutes, then 20, and then 30. So far, they haven’t crossed the threshold beyond a 30-minute wait, but before this week, Soonyoung hasn’t had to tell any customer that they couldn’t have a table immediately.

“There are three parties waiting,” Soonyoung says in the middle of an unprecedented Wednesday dinner rush as he sweeps into the kitchen to run the food. A tuft of hair sticks up at the back of his head as if he’s been running his hand through it. He sounds the most frazzled that Seokmin has ever heard him, and a shard of guilt embeds itself in his chest that Soonyoung has to manage their front of house alone. Their restaurant only has enough space for four tables. It has never been an issue before. Thankfully, he collects himself with a slow breath in and an exhale as Wonwoo hands the plated dishes over to him. “Thanks, Wonwoo-yah.”

“Wait—” Wonwoo leans over and smooths down Soonyoung’s wayward hair. “There you go. Dummy.”

Soonyoung sticks his tongue out, and somehow, it seems to have a calming effect. His face smooths out and he smiles. “Shut up!” And then he’s out the door again.

In his little corner, Seokmin hears Jihoon mutter something but it escapes his ears. Regardless, Seokmin’s too busy with working the pizza oven to pay attention. He has six pizzas to make for Table 8, and then he has to help Jihoon with glazing the pears for his tart.

They had an easy start to the day, the same as always. Each night, though, the restaurant has seen a slow, yet steady increase in foot traffic. Earlier, Seokmin had to even send Jihoon out to help mop up spilled water from a crying baby, and then to grab the plates from an awkward pair who clearly had a terrible dinner date together, just to provide Soonyoung with more relief while he ran the dishes and took orders. For once, Jihoon didn’t even complain.

He must’ve given Soonyoung a pep talk or something—or knowing Jihoon, it was a look and a silent shoulder squeeze—because he returned to the kitchen a little more calm.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to make of the sudden traffic. Though they have a small team, it’s usually more than manageable—but Seokmin can see the exhaustion in their eyes by the end when they drag themselves over into their closing hours. Not just them, but Seokmin too. There’s an ache in his feet that’s a little satisfactory, the bone-deep gratification of seeing his restaurant thrive over the weekend, but Seokmin worries a little too. He wonders if he should hire someone new to help Soonyoung in the front of the house.

Once the weekend ends, however, the restaurant seems to return to normal. Whatever sparked the dizzying rush of people over the two days subsides on its own. It’s a breath of relief for them, to be able to handle the flow of customers and orders, but Seokmin knows it’s ultimately not as good for the restaurant.

On a slow night, Seokmin catches sight of Wonwoo and Soonyoung huddled together right outside of their freezer. He exchanges a glance with Jihoon, who rolls his eyes.

“Soonyoung was sulking because that customer hasn’t returned this week.” Jihoon sighs when Seokmin shoots a confused look at him. “You know. The sugar daddy one.”

“Oh,” Seokmin brightens up. “The one who likes my food!”

“They’re trying to figure out his identity,” Jihoon explains, his mouth twisted into a purposeful frown, but when Wonwoo lets out a loud laugh at something that Soonyoung says that echoes through their kitchen, Jihoon adopts a look of begrudging fondness. “Two idiots.” He shakes his head. “Wonwoo is going through a list of models that walked the runway or something.”

Fondness bubbles up in his own chest. Seokmin bites down on a smile. “Huh. He’s putting a lot of effort into that, isn’t he?” He looks at their heads bent together. “I thought he didn’t care?”

“Wonwoo likes to prove that he’s smart,” Jihoon comments drily as he wipes his hands dry on a rag. He wipes his work station clean. “He likes a puzzle. And Soonyoung is...”

“Soonyoung,” Seokmin finishes for him.

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon agrees.

He looks over at them. From where he’s standing, Seokmin can’t see either of their expressions clearly, but his eyes track over the way Wonwoo seems to lean into Soonyoung, and how Soonyoung’s head tilts up to catch Wonwoo’s gaze. They’re giggling and hunched in on each other. For all intents and purposes, they look more like high school students than working professionals. As their boss, Seokmin thinks he should probably reprimand them to get to work and to stop leaving poor Jihoon from doing all of their cleaning. He knows some of his mentors in culinary school would shake their heads in exasperation over how he runs the kitchen.

But then Jihoon throws down the rag—literally throwing in the towel—and trudges over to them and pokes Soonyoung in the ribs by way of greeting. Soonyoung’s “Jihoon, listen—” is louder than it should be, but instead of making Jihoon wince, he simply listens instead. Whatever Soonyoung says makes Jihoon shake his head and turn to Wonwoo, and says something likely snarky in nature, judging from Wonwoo’s smile and the outraged cry from Soonyoung.

Looking at the three of them together, it’s clear that they’re close. Even from a distance, Seokmin can sense the easygoing camaraderie between them, the joy, and in another time, Seokmin thinks he would have felt left out.

He waits for the feeling to come. It doesn’t. Seokmin is proud of the team he’s cultivated here.

Seokmin smiles when Jihoon abruptly turns around to find him. He’s levelled with a flat stare, but it’s contradicted by Jihoon’s gesture, his fingers folding towards him as he beckons Seokmin to come over. Come here, Jihoon says silently.

Seokmin goes.

The next recipe testing doesn’t go well for Seokmin either.

He sighs and slips his apron back over his head, letting it fall onto his kitchen table as a crumpled mess. Seokmin runs his hand over his face and groans to himself. Though his crust has gotten better, flakier and with a nice bake at the bottom, the flavours still feel flat on this tongue. He’s missing something, and he doesn’t know what.

His phone vibrates. Seokmin startles, jolted out of his thoughts by the sudden noise. A glance at the screen shows that it’s a text from Jeonghan to their group chat to warn them about the cold weather outside. His eyes latch onto the time displayed in the corner of the screen—it’s already past 8 in the evening, and Seokmin had gotten so focused on his baking that he forgot to eat dinner.

“Ugh,” Seokmin mutters to himself, typing a response to Jeonghan as he checks on his fridge at the same time. He has some chicken and prawns in the freezer, and some vegetables from his last grocery store trip, so he could stir fry something pretty quickly. But Seokmin isn’t in the mood to cook for one person again.

It’s never as satisfying—making food for just himself.

Seokmin pockets his phone and thinks for a few seconds, before he gives up and decides to grab a hat, mask, and his wallet and keys. There’s a new restaurant that opened up only about 15 minutes away from his apartment that he’s been meaning to try out. He might as well go.

The restaurant is busy when he gets there. The cold weather must be driving everyone inside, and the ox beef bone soup that the cozy restaurant boasts is admittedly alluring. He doesn’t see any available tables. Rather than wait, Seokmin decides he’ll order some to take out instead and he can just eat it back at home.

He turns to find a restaurant worker—and then freezes when he spots a familiar face.

The universe has to be playing a joke on him. He stares incredulously at Kim Mingyu. Again.

At this point, Seokmin has had far too many chance encounters with Kim Mingyu for it feel like a coincidence at this point, and his stomach pulls downwards at the sight of his handsome side profile yet again.

Mingyu has snatched a small table with seats for two right along the far left wall, right next to an obtrusive and obnoxiously large clock. There’s no one else at the table, and from Seokmin’s position, it looks like Mingyu is here alone. No other phone, no used utensils, no bag or coat draped over the second chair to indicate that someone might be in the washroom or just stepped away for a minute.

He hasn’t noticed Seokmin yet. In fact, Mingyu hasn’t looked up from the table since Seokmin walked in half-a-minute ago. His eyes are trained on his bowl, his forehead wrinkled in thought or distress—Seokmin honestly cannot tell—as he slowly chews through eat bite of food slowly, almost agonizingly slow, as if he’s trying to pick apart each molecule, rather than enjoy his food like a normal human being. As he swallows, Mingyu taps something into his phone, his face still scrunched up terribly.

Just as Mingyu appears to be on the cusp of starting the cycle all over again, an older lady wearing an apron walks up to Seokmin. “What do you want? Take out?” She’s speaking in a dialect, somewhere from a province in the southwestern region.

He glances at Mingyu. Sitting alone in the corner, with his face turned down towards his meal, it strikes Seokmin suddenly that he looks...lonely.

The last time he had seen him was at Minghao’s bar, and even since then, he’s only had a few conversations with Minghao—one of which was an apology for the awkward note that Seokmin had left on. To Seokmin’s relief, Minghao had clarified it as a misunderstanding, that he and Mingyu were both familiar with the critic on a personal note and had simply found the coincidence startling. Aside from that, Minghao had no further mentions of Mingyu.

As Seokmin studies Mingyu, he waits for the familiar annoyance to settle along the pit of his stomach, and he’s surprised when there isn’t. Much.

Maybe it’s the troubled expression furrowed in Mingyu’s brow and his tiny frown tugs at the strings that hold Seokmin’s capacity for sympathy together. Food, for Seokmin, should always be enjoyed; a nourishing experience in more than one way.

“Excuse me!” says the restaurant auntie, impatience bleeding into her tone. “Mister, what would you like to do?”

Seokmin flushes. “Sorry, um.” His eyes flicker back to Mingyu. “I’ll sit with my friend there.” She follows his gaze over to Mingyu’s table. From her face, Seokmin knows she’s unimpressed with him and he winces. Seokmin bows politely. “I’ll have seolleongtang too, please. Thank you.”

When she turns away, Seokmin breathes out. He may have just committed himself to a mistake.

Still, he forces his feet forward until he’s standing at the edge of Mingyu’s table. Mingyu looks up, and surprise flashes across his features.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Seokmin tries to joke, a little awkwardly. He rubs at his arm and then scratches his ear. “Uh. Got room for two here?”

To his credit, Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. The surprise rolls smoothly into a friendly expression, and though Seokmin knows he’s being unfair because he was the one to approach Mingyu this time, it’s a familiar enough smile that it puts him on guard.

“Oh, Seokmin-ssi!” Mingyu says, and gestures with his hand for Seokmin to sit. He knocks into his cup in the process and water spills all over the table. There’s a few seconds of pause where both he and Seokmin just stare blankly at the growing puddle of water soaking the table, before Seokmin quickly jumps up and pulls some napkins to dab at the water.

“Your phone—”

“Shit.” Mingyu yanks his phone off of the table and pockets it. His face is sheepish. “Sorry— here— let me...”

Seokmin lets Mingyu take the napkins from him and sits back down instead. He stares dubiously at the sopping wet napkins in Mingyu’s hands. “Your phone okay?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says, and laughs feebly. He looks embarrassed. “Thanks for that. Long limbs.”

Mingyu looks forlornly down at his own hand as if it betrayed him, and to his surprise, it’s a silly enough face that it draws a small laugh from Seokmin. Mingyu looks pleased at his reaction.

“Baker extraordinaire, but can’t control his limbs?” Seokmin says, a little teasingly, “That’s a surprise.”

“Hey, I’m not always clumsy!” Mingyu says, but then cowers a little. “You should’ve seen what happened with my last bake. I accidentally elbowed my entire pie plate off the counter.” He swipes through his phone quickly, and then brandishes it at Seokmin. “Look at that. I was lucky the glass didn’t shatter.”

Seokmin takes in the photo and makes a small noise. The photo is...impressive. “Is that batter on your ceiling?” He throws his head back with another laugh when Mingyu nods. “And you still won the last competition? Maybe you did deserve the victory then.”

“The fear and horror of having to restart my entire process made my soul depart from my body. It was like I was a man possessed,” Mingyu says, nodding solemnly. He puts his phone back down on the table. “The worst part—that’s not even the first time it’s happened.”

Seokmin shakes his head. “Should I report you to the judging committee for cheating?” he jokes, “Sounds like an unfair advantage. You know, being possessed and all.”

“I still might not have my soul back,” says Mingyu. “You laugh, but you might just be talking to an empty husk right now.”

“Great. Give me a chance to win next time.” Seokmin’s only half-joking, but Mingyu takes it well enough—he laughs, showing off a row of white teeth. He has two pointed teeth that look a little like fangs. Seokmin’s noticed them before, and has always thought of them as irritating as the rest of him, but it makes Mingyu look a little puppy-ish now, after seeing how clumsy he could be.

Mingyu is looking at him again, with the intent stare he wore the last time he saw him. “I don’t think I have to give you any chances.” And for a moment, Seokmin wonders whether Mingyu’s being dismissive again, that he thinks Seokmin’s not worthy of consideration at all—but then Mingyu continues on. “Your baking is really good. There’s no way the judges don’t see that.” There’s another moment of hesitation, then: “I tried some of the pie you gave Minghao. I hope that was okay, I—asked him. It’s—” he pauses, his words stilling in his mouth as he looks at Seokmin. For some reason, Mingyu looks down at his phone, and back up again. “It was delicious.”

It makes Seokmin draw back with surprise. “Oh,” he says, floundering for a response. All of a sudden, Seokmin feels disarmed. “Wow. Um, thanks.” He stares back at Mingyu, his mind racing as he wonders whether Mingyu was about to say something else, his mouth parted in surprise—and maybe in preparation for something else, a question maybe, or a comment. For the first time since they’ve interacted, Mingyu’s been...pleasant. Seokmin doesn’t know what to make of it.

Mingyu doesn’t seem to notice. In the next second, the same restaurant worker swings past their table and places down Seokmin’s order, and leaves with only a curt nod after Seokmin thanks her. The broth still simmers away in dolsot, the aroma of bone broth whetting Seokmin’s appetite. His stomach growls.

He looks back up at Mingyu, who’s digging back into his own soup again, his metal spoon clinking against the stone bowl. Seokmin looks back down. It hasn’t been bad so far, and he’s got a table despite how busy it is in the restaurant.

Maybe, he thinks, the questions can wait for next time.

“So.” Minghao props his chin onto the palm of his hand. “Mingyu told me that you grabbed dinner together last week.”

Seokmin does not let Minghao intimidate him. “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Seokmin says lightly, eyeing Minghao as he dabs his mouth primly with the napkin. “We happened to eat at the same restaurant at the same time.”

“You sat together.” Minghao raises his eyebrow. “Finish your lunch. Wonwoo-hyung will secretly sulk if you don’t eat his food.”

Seokmin obediently takes another bite of pasta. “There were no other tables,” he says while chewing through a mouthful. “But fine, maybe we did eat together. It wasn’t really on purpose though.”

To this, Minghao doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes cast over the modest wine gallery behind the bar in absentminded thought.

Sometimes, Seokmin gets the itch to fill silences. It took him a while to learn how to get used to Jihoon and Wonwoo’s quiet natures when they first started to work together. With Minghao, though, the silence never feels heavy nor awkward. It feels just right.

Eventually, Minghao levels a stare at Seokmin again. Seokmin’s seen this look before—it’s the same searching stare that Minghao gives him whenever there’s something he’s been dying to say, and only now has felt like it was appropriate. He braces himself with an inkling of what Minghao’s thinking, and he’s proven right when Minghao says, “You don’t like Mingyu, do you?”

He always concedes easily when it comes to Minghao—and besides, Minghao is too astute for him to hide much at all. “Not really,” he says. Seokmin is more honest with Minghao than he dares to be with most people. Still, he knows Mingyu is close to Minhao, so he adds: “But I guess he wasn’t bad last time. It was fine.”

Minghao nods, as if he had been expecting Seokmin’s answer. “May I ask why?”

“A terrible first impression,” Seokmin tells him, thinking back to their very first meeting, all of those months ago, and the words from Mingyu that still have not left him. “It was right after my grandma died. And honestly, not very many good follow-ups either. He just...” Seokmin hesitates, but Minghao’s understanding nod encourages him. “He says things, and they just rub the wrong way. I don’t know.” He worries his bottom lip as a sudden guilt settles in. “Maybe I’m being judgy. He just hasn’t been—that nice. I guess.”

He ends up confessing to Minghao how their first meeting went, all of those months ago at his first baking competition, and how he had entered anyway to find some ground with making food after his grandmother had passed away. Mingyu’s words had burrowed into his chest like a dagger, and worsened yet by how Mingyu seems oblivious to it.

A part of him waits for Minghao to refute him, or to give him a look as if Seokmin’s evil and mean, but Seokmin knows that’s not something Minghao would do. It still brings him relief when Minghao only nods again, slowly and consideringly.

“He has a hasty heart,” Minghao says carefully, “and a hasty mind. Not a bad one—but I understand how he came across that way.” He toys with his food a little, twirling his fork. “He is a good guy.”

“I know. You wouldn’t be friends if he wasn’t.”

Minghao nods. “I wouldn’t. But—I understand, Seokmin-ah. I don’t think you’re wrong to feel how you do. Sharp words leave cuts.” He looks saddened by this. “I hope that Mingyu can show you his other sides too.”

Seokmin thinks back to the previous week. Mingyu hadn’t been too bad then, though he’s not sure if it’s enough to bring his guard down around the other man entirely. He still smarts when he thinks back to Mingyu’s condescending comments—and it’ll take a lot more than just one dinner to convince him otherwise.

Soonyoung comes to steal his spot soon after, just in time for Seokmin’s lunch break to end. The restaurant has gotten busier again, nearby workers coming by to eat during their lunch breaks or after work, with a steady uptick in traffic that Seokmin wonders whether the review published a month ago had any hand in.

It’s easy to get lost in the flow of the kitchen again, and he only resurfaces when Soonyoung bustles in another half an hour later.

“Wonwoo,” he hisses. “Wonwoo, I have—big update —”

That, in itself, is not technically abnormal. Soonyoung moves between the front and back of house with a sort of permeability that Seokmin admires, and he and Wonwoo have been whispering in corners together ever since a month ago. This time, Seokmin only notices because of the wild glance Soonyoung sends his way—which is new—before he tugs Wonwoo by the elbow and into the freezer.

Seokmin exchanges a glance with Jihoon, who only shrugs. “Don’t wanna know,” he says, which is a bald-faced lie because Jihoon secretly loves knowing gossip more than anyone else on their team.

He seems genuinely clueless though, so Seokmin squashes down his curiosity. “Should I be worried?” he muses.

“We’ll find out eventually,” says Jihoon, sagely. “Whether we want to or not.”

Review: Morak Seolleongtang

Seoul Gourmet Weekly

Since the cold weather hit, every week I’ve thought about seolleongtang. Typically cheap and accessible and warming to the soul, I spent more time with seolleongtang during my college days—especially after late nights out—than I care to admit. These days, as I grow older, I find myself becoming more and more like my father. On the coldest of days, I seek it out; milky soup made of simmered bones and meat, and a purity of flavour.

Morak Seolleongtang checks off every box for me. I don’t need to describe the taste of a good seolleongtang. If you’re reading this, then you already know. It’s a sensation that I can only describe as unostentatious, a sum of its parts, and it draws out the pure essence of its ingredients. Each sip of hot broth fills me to the core with deep comfort, sustaining me far more than just my belly.

Although perfectly delectable on its own, I recommend that foodies dip their spoons at Morak Seolleongtang with company. Good food aside, the anticipation, conversation, and shared enjoyment of the chilled atmosphere at Morak Seolleongtang only enhances the experience. This was evident by the tables occupied by boisterous families and whispering couples, even the delicate balance of politesse and rowdiness from after work dinners. You’ll find them all flocking to this restaurant, and it all adds to the dining out experience that I find the most special.

And when eaten with someone else, I find that I don’t want to eat in a hurry. Its ingredients and its fanfare remind me undeniably of home and coziness, brought forward further through the joy of eating with someone you like. And with more time, the comforting characteristics emerge the most from Morak’s seolleongtang—the broth warms the chest, the tender meat is gentle on the stomach.

So far, nothing has worked. Frustration eats away at Seokmin as he pushes his pie plate away with a heaving sigh that immediately makes him feel overdramatic. At this point of recipe testing, Seokmin usually feels like he has a breakthrough—maybe not with his grandmother’s recipe, but with something new, just for the baking competition.

Some of his experiments with other seasonal fruits have worked. His older sister and brother-in-law were enthusiastic about the pie he made them last week, with fig and honey crème patissiere and bokbunja jam. Seokmin knows it’s good, even if he doesn’t know if it’s a winner. Worse yet, it does little to placate frustrations.

Each time afterwards, though, he keeps reaching back for the persimmons.

In the late hour, Seokmin gets tempted to give up. It’s a chase after a ghost. He wants to make someone proud—never himself—but what does it mean if the person isn’t here anymore? Maybe it’d be easier to accept failure.

But then the words from the article come back to him, that Seokmin “cooks with the love, familiarity, and comfort of a well-cherished home.” He shakes himself, broadening his shoulders, as if physically removing the frustration from his body. There’s only another month and a half before the next competition, and this time, Seokmin is determined to get something right.

His eyes fall down to the empty crate where he has used up the last of his persimmons. The fruit stands run by his favourite aunties won’t be out there at this time of night.

Seokmin breathes out. The supermarkets are open.

HomePlus Mart always feels like a liminal space at this hour. Bright lights glare down upon aisles, an assortment of homeware greet him as he pads through the automatic sliding doors, the tired voice of someone who’s just started their first hour of a long graveyard shift drones over the PA system.

Seokmin passes by a couple university students, at least one drunkard who’s stumbling in for late-night grocery shopping with the air of someone who had to go to a company dinner, and a few people who likely just night-owls. He’s been here enough that he automatically heads towards the produce aisle.

He’s lingering over the sign for Fuyu persimmons when there’s a startled noise from behind him.

“Seokmin-ssi?”

He knows who it is before he turns around. Seokmin catches sight of Kim Mingyu’s sheepish smile and lets out a sigh—more from exhaustion than irritation, this time. “You again?” he says, though it comes out more playful than he intends. Or maybe he’s too tired to keep up a front. Seokmin doesn’t know.

“We really do need to stop meeting like this,” Mingyu says. He gives Seokmin a close-lipped smile. Not unfriendly—but reserved, maybe even shy. It seems uncharacteristic of him, but Seokmin is too tired to read further into it. “Should I be worried you’re stalking me?”

Seokmin lets out a bark of incredulous laughter. “If I had been intending to see anyone at this time, I certainly wouldn’t show up looking like—” he waves a self-deprecating hand over himself, an all-encompassing gesture towards his darkened eye bags and unattractively greasy hair that’s minimally covered by the beanie he jammed onto this head on his way out of the door. “—this.”

Mingyu gives him an assessing look. “I mean, I don’t mind—” he pauses, and then looks flustered with himself. “So what’s up?” Mingyu switches gears instead. He eyes the persimmon clutched in Seokmin’s hand. “Pretty late for a grocery run.”

Seokmin looks down at the persimmon. “Ah, yeah,” he says, a little glumly, and places the persimmon back down into the crate. Seokmin wonders if he should lie, whether he’d be inviting more unsolicited remarks from Mingyu if he told him the truth of what he’s doing. But Minghao’s words filter into his mind, he’s a good guy, and Seokmin can’t help but remember their dinner together too. “Recipe testing,” he admits. He nods at Mingyu’s basket. “You?”

Mingyu’s basket is filled with at least three different family packs of ramyeon, and one pack of instant tteokbokki. There’s not a vegetable in sight. Seokmin can sympathize—ramyeon always hits a spot for him that sometimes no home-cooked food ever does—but Mingyu looks embarrassed as he shifts his basket behind him, as if hiding it from sight.

“Oh, this. Uh, I was just hungry. Didn’t feel like cooking,” Mingyu says. He smiles sheepishly at Seokmin. Somehow, it humanizes Mingyu. He feels more fallible—more grounded. Not even the great Kim Mingyu wants to make his own food sometimes.

Seokmin glances back at the persimmons. “I guess I can relate,” he says, as he finally hauls one of the boxes on sale into his cart. He feels more tired than he did when he left his apartment, and is rapidly losing steam to return to his kitchen. Seokmin doesn’t feel any more inspired than he did earlier.

The resignation must show on his face, because Mingyu edges a bit closer. He tilts his head. “Are you— are you okay?” Mingyu shrugs, a seemingly effortless gesture. Just a couple weeks ago, Seokmin would have thought that he was being a dick, trying too hard to be cool and suave. He wonders, now, if Mingyu is maybe just a little awkward. “This is the...pie that you gave Minghao?” Mingyu continues, curious.

Seokmin bites his lip. There’s some lingering hesitation still, but he nods anyway, remembering that Mingyu had complimented it the last time he ran into him, at the restaurant. Couldn’t hurt at this point, he supposes. “Yeah. Just— reworking it. Again.”

He still expects Mingyu to nitpick, or make a comment that rubs him the wrong way, Instead, Mingyu hums and his nose screws up in thought. “Recipe testing,” he says with commiseration. “Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

His response throws Seokmin in for a loop, just a bit.

But back at the restaurant, Mingyu had been kind enough. Polite, and maybe at more of a distance than he’s behaved previously; no longer overfamiliar and irking Seokmin’s boundaries. In an abstract way, Seokmin had felt reassured to hear that Mingyu complimented his pie. It seemed uncharacteristic at the time for Mingyu to dial it back, and he wonders now if maybe Minghao had spoken to him.

He knows that Mingyu likely could have said more. Even to himself, the pie feels unfinished, and Seokmin knows more than anybody else in the competition just how sharp and precise Mingyu’s palate is. More likely than not, Mingyu held himself back.

And then—a thought comes to him, unbidden. Seokmin wonders, suddenly, if he should ask Mingyu for his opinion. It makes him feel a little insane, like maybe his own exhaustion is eating away at his own will and determination, or as if he’s betraying himself and his own innate sense of competition that he doesn’t always like to admit.

But if Seokmin is being honest with himself, he’s aware that Mingyu knows his stuff. Whether he can still be considered an amateur baker or not, Mingyu is considerably skilled and possesses great technical knowledge.

Maybe Mingyu could help. Seokmin doesn’t know if this is surrender, or bravery.

“Mingyu-ssi?”

Mingyu meets his eyes. “Yes?”

“Could I— maybe—” Seokmin can feel the back of his neck burn. He has to look away, averting his eyes. His grandmother always told him he’s more prideful than he thinks, and asking for help from who he considers—considered?—his enemy, is embarrassing. There’s only one way to ask, and he says the next words like he’s ripping off a bandage: “Could I get your thoughts on it sometime?” Seokmin winces at himself. “I mean, if you’re okay with it.”

Mingyu blinks a little, surprise colouring his features. But then he smiles, a toothy little grin that makes him look younger, more unassuming. “Sure,” he says, “I’d love to.”

Mingyu doesn’t return with him to his apartment that night—which is good, because Seokmin is still reeling over his own gall—but they do exchange numbers. The whole situation feels surreal. As soon as he steps out of the grocery store, he’s hit with mild regret. They’re technically rivals, and he briefly entertains the idea of sabotage before he forcibly dismisses it. Despite his own reservations, he thinks he trusts Mingyu at least with food knowledge and skill set.

It doesn’t stop being surreal even after the first time Mingyu comes over, nor the second. There’s always a spot of awkwardness each time, right when Mingyu crosses the threshold, as if neither of them know what to do with each other in Seokmin’s space. But if there’s one thing, it’s that Mingyu’s a professional.

Baking with him isn’t terrible.

There are times, though, when Seokmin can’t help but get irritated with Mingyu. The first couple of times Mingyu tries to rearrange Seokmin’s work space to his own liking, Seokmin eventually gives up on his polite veneer and simply moves Mingyu aside to work over top of him. They get into little arguments about it, minor ones that erupt and wear away at Seokmin’s already thinning patience. Mingyu’s competitive, and maybe just as petty as Seokmin sometimes, and strangely enough, these traits make itself known when it comes to work space organization.

“I get it,” Seokmin says a little forcefully on the third time it happens, more frazzled than usual with Mingyu’s fussing. “You like everything neat and organized. Just— maybe not now.” At that point, Mingyu usually seems to take the hint and backs off.

In some ways, it’s a relief. The petty parts of himself feel less awful, less guilty about his initial judgment about Mingyu—and the same parts of him aren’t ready to entirely let go of said judgment either. It’s a sort of vindication, that Seokmin isn’t a terrible guy for thinking Mingyu is annoying.

Other times, though, Seokmin thinks he can start to understand what Minghao sees in him.

Despite his penchant for overstepping, Mingyu is good. He’s better with his hands than Seokmin is, and he has little tips and tricks to help with plaiting or getting the cleanest edges for the pie crust. Apparently he also reads food science textbooks for fun—though Seokmin isn’t so much impressed by it than he’s convinced that Mingyu does so for the mere sake of claiming he does. Even when he was in culinary school, Seokmin did not do the readings.

But it pays off. Mingyu uses fraissage to achieve his flaky pie crusts, while Seokmin tends to stack the dough. They combine the two methods together, and Seokmin nearly cries when he bites into the layers once the first experimental batch comes out of the oven.

They make slight recipe changes too. Mingyu tells Seokmin that he mixes apple cider vinegar with cold water in his own recipe, then shows up the evening after with a batch of homemade gam-sikcho that Seokmin incorporates into the next bake. The difference is nearly negligible, except for the slight aroma of persimmon that it imparts into the crust. Mingyu swears it elevates the overall flavour and fragrance. Seokmin is surprised by how much he trusts him in this regard.

When he’s not being annoying, he is surprisingly encouraging. He urges Seokmin to try again, and is studious and focused when Seokmin tries to explain the recipe he wants to improve, and the techniques he’s tried so far. He’s calm in the face of Seokmin’s frustration, and even when their first night of baking eats away at them in the dead of the night, Mingyu sticks around.

Despite how offputting he finds Mingyu’s presence at first, how self-conscious and hyper aware he feels of himself and his own hands, around him, he slowly grows used to it too. And once he does, it’s easy for Seokmin to find comfort in not being alone. When Mingyu tries his pies, it’s with careful deliberation and thought—and now that he’s braced himself to receive critiques, hearing Mingyu’s input is useful, even if not always perfectly wonderful.

(Seokmin still has his pride after all.)

But it’s a reminder, too, of why he bakes. Seokmin isn’t sure if he’s making the right strides in honour of his grandmother’s memory, but when Mingyu eats his pie and eats well, Seokmin can’t suppress the dim glow of happiness in light of it all.

Slowly, Seokmin learns more of Mingyu too. He reveals to Seokmin that he used to work at Tartine Bakery. Not as one of the pastry chefs, but as their barista—as a side job while he was putting himself through school.

“One of the pastry chefs taught me,” Mingyu admits, while he presses butter into flour with smart movements, careful not to melt the small cubes. “Uh— an ex, actually. Kinda ruined my relationship with baking for a while. Dumb, isn’t it?”

It’s not until then that Seokmin recalls Minghao’s surprise when he had found out that Mingyu was baking in the pie competitions. He had forgotten about it quickly afterwards, too caught up in how annoyed he was with Mingyu, but at the time, he had briefly wondered whether there was a story there. Mingyu’s reason is more mundane than he expected—but in some ways, it’s a silly reminder of just how human Mingyu is as well.

“I thought you were trained,” Seokmin tells him then, “I was a little annoyed that a professional would enter a baking competition. It feels like cheating.”

That startles a laugh from Mingyu, and a stupid, little smirk. “Well, I do want to be the best after all,” he says. “I guess that’s how I started in these competitions. It was a petty sense of revenge, and then I grew to enjoy it.”

It elicits a snort from Seokmin, who can commiserate more than he wants to admit, and he elbows Mingyu in the side. “You’re so annoying,” he says. Seokmin means it—but he also doesn’t. Somehow, Mingyu’s more charming than he expected him to be, once he got used to him. “So, what do you do now?”

Mingyu pauses, the small pea-sized pieces of butter and flour falling from his fingertips. “Oh,” he says, sounding startled, “I went to school for journalism.” He dusts off his hands, wipes it off on his frilly apron. “You— Minghao said culinary school?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin says, and fondness wells up in him as he recalls his memories of school. He smiles at Mingyu. “I was going to go into business, but I was convinced otherwise.” Seokmin hadn’t been certain of his future, but his grandmother had encouraged him to give cooking a try; she had said she’d stop making Seokmin’s favourite pear jam for him if he didn’t. “I loved it. Mostly.”

Mingyu nods. “It makes sense,” he tells Seokmin, with an answering smile of his own. “No one can made food like that unless they love it.”

And for some reason, that makes Seokmin’s heart sing.

In the end, the slow grind gets to Seokmin. With just two weeks left to spare, exhaustion wears right down to Seokmin’s bones.

On Tuesday, Jeonghan comes over to help him out, though he mostly eats food and cheers Seokmin on; it helps to lighten his spirits, as Jeonghan’s presence always does. The restaurant is thriving more than ever. Jihoon’s been helping him with the operations, and Soonyoung has been interviewing candidates for more serving staff. He sees Mingyu twice that week, once for an impromptu dinner because Mingyu was in the area, and then the second time for another recipe testing session.

It’s on that day that Seokmin breaks down.

“I can’t,” Seokmin spits out, and he drops his plate back down onto his table with a loud thud. The abrupt noise makes Mingyu jump. His wide eyes stare up at Seokmin, fork still halfway up to his mouth. “I can’t do this.”

He slumps into the chair opposite of Mingyu, feeling both emotionally and physically drained. Exhaustion and frustration hits him all at once. Seokmin closes his eyes and rubs his hands against his face.

“Hey, hey,” he hears Mingyu’s voice, hushed and more gentle than he expects. The sound of a chair scraping against the kitchen tiles echoes through his apartment, and a moment later, he can feel, more than hear, Mingyu squatting in front of him. “What’s going on, dude?”

Seokmin knows he’s overreacting, pulled in by the tide of his own emotions, and the embarrassment of feeling too much washes over him. Yet, he can’t stop himself either. He can’t stop himself from the blossom of anger and resignation that blooms in his chest. “It’s still not right,” Seokmin hears himself say, his voice slightly muffled from his hands. “Fuck. I can’t get it right.”

Over the past couple of weeks, working with Mingyu has helped. The flavours of the persimmons comes through stronger, delicately balanced by the hint of acidity and sharpness from an improved dried persimmon jam, honey, and a cinnamon walnut crumble on top. It’s more cohesive, in both appearance and taste. Seokmin knows it has improved.

But still, it’s not right. This recipe isn’t it either. It tastes like something Seokmin would bake. He would serve this at his restaurant, maybe, if Jihoon approved of it. But Seokmin can’t imagine his grandmother baking this, can’t imagine the burst of honey, persimmon, cinnamon on his tongue from the food she used to give him.

The thought scares him. Seokmin doesn’t know if he’s starting to forget her food, the love she gave through her hands.

He doesn’t want to forget.

Mingyu grabs him by the shoulders and squeezes comfortingly. “Seokmin,” he says, his voice steady. “I got you, I’m here.” His arms wrap around Seokmin’s shoulder, bracketing him in a reassuring warmth. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll deal with it together. Okay? We’re a team.”

It’s weirdly irritating to hear him sound so confident here as well, and somehow, it’s the annoyance that grounds Seokmin. Somehow along the way, it became an irritation mired in fondness. A small laugh escapes from him, shaky. “Shit, are we a team?” Seokmin says, and he scrubs his hands over his face, screwing his eyes up. He breathes out, slow but unsteady. “Ugh.”

“No, you’re my rival,” Mingyu answers him. He squeezes him again before he pulls away. “And I want to beat you in the next competition. But we’re kinda a team too, you know?”

It doesn’t matter how often Mingyu has acknowledged Seokmin’s skills with baking at this point—it always feels like the very first time, whenever he admits that Seokmin is worthy of competition. He wonders what it says about him that this is what calms him down the most, what brings him back to a plane of reality where it doesn’t feel like he’s betraying his grandmother’s memory with his own failures.

Still, the weight doesn’t lift off his chest. He slumps back into the chair and drops his hands to his lap. “It’s just—” Seokmin sighs and picks at his nails. “It’s not perfect. I want it to be perfect.”

Mingyu is silent for a moment. “Talk me through it.” His tone is encouraging, rather than demanding.

It’s difficult for Seokmin to gather the words. That’s the issue—he can’t pinpoint what’s wrong with the recipe. It just doesn’t taste the same, like what his grandmother used to make him. “It’s missing something,” Seokmin says instead. He feels like an idiot. “There’s just— I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel good enough yet.”

Mingyu gives him a contemplative look. “Can I tell you the truth?”

Seokmin nods.

“Your pie is really good, Seokmin,” Mingyu tells him calmly. He’s still kneeling in front of him, but he moves up to his feet now. “I mean really good. I think it’s better than mine—don’t give me that look, I’m not just saying that. And I’m not going to tell you that this is just a silly competition because I can see how much work you’re pouring into this.” Mingyu smiles a little. “I’d be the wrong person to say that anyway.” Then, his voice turns gentle. It makes Seokmin want to squirm. The compliment feels nice—stupidly nice—but it doesn’t change how he feels.“So, what’s wrong? Why are you pushing yourself this hard?”

And that’s it, isn’t it? Seokmin has never told Mingyu what the baking competition means to him, even if it’s a meaning he created for himself. He hasn’t told anyone, really, aside from his closest friends. He thinks saying it out loud will feel silly. Ridiculous.

Once upon a time, Seokmin thinks he would rather die than make himself feel ridiculous in front of Kim Mingyu. But maybe Mingyu really is better at this than Seokmin had thought he’d be—at asking the right questions, at seeing right through to Seokmin, at making Seokmin honest.

Seokmin looks down at his hands. A beat passes, and Mingyu waits patiently.

“My grandma,” Seokmin says, cutting into the silence with the softness of his words. His voice comes out hushed, almost confessional. “I bake for my grandma.”

Mingyu pushes himself back to his feet and drags the other chair closer towards Seokmin before he sinks down into it. And then he looks at Seokmin—really looks at him.

And Seokmin tells him. He talks to Mingyu about his grandma, how she had passed away not too long ago, and the memories he holds of her, of the recipes she would use and the treats she would feed him. How she always had the table set up for him to return home to. How it was her encouragement that pushed him to culinary school in the first place, and her love for cooking that inspired his own in turn. Seokmin tries not to say too much, but he thinks he holds too many feelings to restrain himself sometimes, and so he says it all; the persimmons, how he wants to win the baking competition for her, how he wants to succeed for her.

His grandmother never lived long enough to see him open Chunja’s Pizzeria. Seokmin named it after her, just like how he bakes in honour of her. He thinks he’s always seeking for the validation that he’s succeeded, as long as she’s no longer alive to witness it.

It still feels a little ridiculous, and he tells Mingyu that too. “It’s not as if she’s held these expectations of me,” he says, his eyes on his lap. “She just made food for me. She raised me and fed me. That’s it.”

Distilled into words, it feels bare bones. Too simplistic. When Seokmin thinks about food, he thinks about his grandmother. When he cooks, he remembers her. This, too, he tells Mingyu.

There’s a complicated mix of emotions on Mingyu’s face, a little sad, a little touched. And then—his eyes widen with something else that Seokmin can’t read. “Seokmin...” Mingyu sounds out the syllables of his name carefully. “Seokmin, the first time we met—” He cuts himself off, a troubled expression flashing on his face. “Our very first pie competition together. Afterwards—I tried your pie.”

Slowly, Seokmin nods. He’s not sure where Mingyu is going with this.

“I tried your pie, and I— I came up to you afterwards. And I—” His words come out a little more urgently. “I gave critique, didn’t I?”

Again, Seokmin nods silently. He tries to keep his face in neutral, but Mingyu must see something in his eyes because his shoulders slump.

“I was a dick, wasn’t I?” Mingyu says, and he shakes his head. “No, I know I was. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to be, Seokmin. I didn’t know you were— your grandmother—”

That sparks something in Seokmin. It’s not quite anger, not anymore, but there’s enough that it makes him want to be forthright this time. “You shouldn’t have to know,” he tells Mingyu, and he doesn’t mean it unkindly. “It was just a few months after she had passed. You were a stranger, and you came up to me with advice that I never asked for. Even if— without my grandmother—” Seokmin doesn’t know how else to word it, so he chooses to be blunt. “It was rude, Mingyu.”

There’s a pitiful expression on Mingyu’s face that resembles a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I was helping you.”

Seokmin sighs. “No, I guess you didn’t. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You didn’t know me. It wasn’t really right to give me feedback like that when you didn’t even know me.” And because he’s being honest: “I thought you were a dick.”

Mingyu looks appropriately chastised. “Sorry. I really am.” There’s a brief moment of hesitation, and then he adds, “Minghao told me you didn’t have the best impression of me. I thought it was maybe because of the wine tasting, when I was trying to imp—” Mingyu snaps his mouth closed.

“What?”

“I was too immersed into it,” Mingyu says, his eyes shifting away from Seokmin. “The whole wine tasting thing. Sorry. Minghao’s used to me, but...”

Seokmin has the feeling that wasn’t what Mingyu had meant to say, but he decides not to pry. He gets that maybe Mingyu doesn’t want to make this about himself. “I wasn’t too impressed with you then either,” Seokmin says, but this time he offers Mingyu a sheepish smile when Mingyu gives him the same puppy-ish look. “It didn’t help, that’s for sure.”

It’s not the perfect apology, but Seokmin doesn’t think that’s what he wants from Mingyu anyway. Maybe before, when he didn’t know what to make of Mingyu, but not anymore.

Instead, Mingyu listens. He’s a lot better at listening than Seokmin thought he would be, and in the end, it’s what he needs instead. Seokmin thinks that maybe he should stop making assumptions about Mingyu, that maybe in the privacy of his own mind, Seokmin has been unfair to him at times.

“I really am sorry.” Mingyu still looks—not upset with Seokmin, but worried. “It’s...I got caught up in my head. For work, it’s part of my job. But this wasn’t a job for you.”

And because it feels honest, Seokmin cuts in. He’s done being petty. “It wasn’t.”

They lapse into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. “Do you feel like you owe her?” Mingyu asks him, after a few seconds.

He shakes his head to that—but then he nods. “No. Yes, maybe a little.” Seokmin pauses to think it over. “I just—I want to honour her memory.” He picks up the fork that was left forgotten on the plate of unfinished pie and twirls it with his fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being dumb.”

Mingyu looks as if he doesn’t agree. “Why do you say that?”

“I’m chasing after ghosts, aren’t I? I’ll never get it perfect, will I?”

Silence falls between them again as Mingyu thinks over his words. He taps the table with his fingers, as steady as a heartbeat. “I don’t know what you will consider perfect,” he says to Seokmin. “Maybe you will always find fault with the recipe. Maybe it’s not about an ingredient, or a technique, not if you’re trying to commemorate your grandma.”

Seokmin nods, resigned.

“But Seokmin-ah, I don’t think you’re chasing after ghosts,” Mingyu continues. “To me, I think you’re preserving love.”

He stares at Mingyu. His heart slams into his throat at Mingyu’s words, stunned.

“That’s what these recipes are, aren’t they? I think it’s okay to not get it perfect.” Mingyu’s voice dips and softens. “What you’re doing—isn’t it already enough? You’re baking with your own kind love—a special, unique love.”

Oh. Seokmin has never thought of it in that way before.

Mingyu reaches across the table. His hands are big and warm where they twine around Seokmin’s fingers. He smiles, gentle and sweet. “For your grandmother, wouldn’t that already be more than enough?”

Oh, Seokmin thinks again, this time for a different reason entirely. Seokmin’s heart pounds in his chest. He can’t look away from Mingyu’s lips, and his brain unhelpfully notices the shine in Mingyu’s eyes and the handsome lines of his face as he smiles.

Seokmin wonders briefly when he has stopped holding his guard up around Mingyu. For the first time, he thinks about how it’s easy to be around Mingyu, now that he’s no longer on edge around him. He doesn’t need to be defensive around him, because there’s always an honesty to Mingyu’s words that draws Seokmin in too. Despite his own intentions, Seokmin enjoys talking to Mingyu. He enjoys being around him.

He enjoys being acknowledged by him.

Something warms within him as he smiles back at Mingyu. Without meaning to, Mingyu’s words remind him of the article, now written a couple months ago, about his restaurant. The words that Seokmin found solace in, the ones that reminded him most of his promise to himself, his promise to his grandma’s memory, of exactly why he makes food for others.

Food cooked with the love, familiarity and comfort of a well-cherished home, and assembled into an expression of joy.

It’s much colder outside than it was four months ago. They haven’t gotten their first snow yet, but the sky is bleary and blustering, just sharp enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if they soon see some flakes in the forecast. None of the heating stations set up strategically around the outside square, where all the contestants and guests mill around as they wait for the judging to finish, seem to help.

Seokmin shivers and bundles himself up in his padded coat.

Mingyu notices. “You should’ve dressed warmer.”

He casts a sideways glance at Mingyu, and eyes the thick purple coat that Mingyu’s swaddled himself in. Mingyu’s face is barely visible, between the coat zipped right up to his chin and the cream-coloured scarf that’s gathered around the lower half of his face. “You look like an eggplant,” he retorts, though it’s without any heat. It’s not his best comeback, if the snort from Joshua is anything to go by, but that’s fine.

“At least I’m warm,” Mingyu says with a flash of a smile. But then he untangles the scarf from around his neck, and before Seokmin can react—protest—he wraps it around Seokmin. A self-satisfied expression rests on Mingyu’s face as he takes a step back. “There. Wait.” He leans forward, and Seokmin hates that he notices just how much taller Mingyu is in comparison to himself, and adjusts the scarf so it sits differently. “That looks better.”

It sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering through Seokmin’s stomach. On the outside, he rolls his eyes at Mingyu’s fussing, hiding his smile behind the soft fabric. “Ugh, Kim Mingyu,” he complains instead.

Seokmin can hear Jeonghan whispering something to Joshua, and he staunchly ignores his friends. Seokmin already knows he’s not going to hear the end of this later. They already give him enough shit for being on ‘cordial terms’ with Mingyu now.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Seokmin fumbles awkwardly to pull it out, the gloves on his hands leaving him a little clumsy. It’s a text from Soonyoung; they’re going to be late. He has to peel the gloves off to text them back.

“Oh,” Jeonghan says, hooking his chin over Seokmin’s shoulder. Seokmin’s used to Jeonghan reading his texts and just bends his knees slightly to lower his height so that Jeonghan can be more comfortable. “It’s Soonyoungie. He’s coming?”

“Mm,” Seokmin confirms. It’s a relief when he can pull his gloves back on again.

“I like Soonyoungie,” Jeonghan says, and apparently bored, he unpeels himself off of Seokmin and drifts back towards Joshua. Seokmin has the feeling that it’s a subtle attempt to leave him alone with Mingyu. Although he hasn’t told Jeonghan about—his reactions—around Mingyu, his best friend has always been the most perceptive person he knows.

With the veneer of privacy, Mingyu sidles closer to Seokmin. “Nervous?” He says to him in a quiet tone. He nudges into his side with a sharp elbow, a small smile curling at his lips. When Seokmin nods, he laughs with fondness in his voice. “Don’t be. I bet your pie is the best one there. I mean, after mine at least.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. You accidentally added salt instead of sugar when you baked it the first time around.”

Mingyu looks flustered. “You distracted me. It’s your fault.”

In an attempt to return the favour, Seokmin had headed over to Mingyu’s apartment for the first time, to help him bake his pie. With all the time that Mingyu had poured into helping Seokmin with his recipe, it only felt right. Afterwards, he let Mingyu cook him up a dinner—which was delicious, but Seokmin also graciously did not provide any critiques over the sear of the scallops.

“I was just sitting there!” Seokmin says in protest. He really was, because Mingyu is still a bit of a control freak when it comes to his own work.

Mingyu still looks a little red, but he nods anyway. “Precisely,” as if it answers anything, and then looks incredibly embarrassed by his own response. The look he gives Seokmin afterwards makes him blush, but he’s not ready to read anything more into it.

“Mingyu’s right.” Joshua cuts back in and pats Seokmin’s arm encouragingly, his faith in Seokmin always warming his heart and making him feel confident in a way that he rarely ever does. “You’re Lee Seokmin, after all.”

Seokmin sucks in air between his teeth. “I don’t know if I can fully take credit,” he says. Though he was ribbing Mingyu earlier, he says to Jeonghan: “Mingyu helped me, you know that.”

Jeonghan scoffs. “Mingyu schmingyu.” He glances at Mingyu. “No offense,” he tacks on, sweetly.

“None taken,” Mingyu says, looking a little cowered in Jeonghan’s presence. It makes Seokmin feel a little gleeful.

He doesn’t get much time to revel in it. In the next second, the sound of a voice clearing over a microphone resounds through the small crowd, cutting in through the noise. Seokmin looks towards the front where the judging table is set up where a man now stands with a microphone in hand. He recognizes him as one of the representatives from the Korean Food Society.

“Good afternoon,” he says once the crowd quiets down. “Thank you everyone for waiting.” The man launches into a spiel about the baking competition and rolls through a quick introduction. Seokmin listens with bated breath, and can feel Mingyu doing the same next to him.

It’s a relief and a reassurance when Jeonghan wraps his hand around Seokmin’s, and Joshua whispers a tiny, little fighting in his ear. Each competition, Seokmin always feels a little silly for how seriously he takes it—but he’s glad he has his friends here with him, and that they take him just as seriously.

The man wraps up his introduction and smiles at the crowd. Seokmin knows what’s going to come next. He holds his breath. “And the winner of this season’s pie-baking competition is...” On his other side, Mingyu takes his other hand and entangles their fingers together. “Lee Seokmin!”

Seokmin is half-distracted, his mind on the weight of Mingyu’s hand on his own, when he hears Jeonghan let out a gasp of surprise. The grip around his fingers tighten, and in the next second, Mingyu’s arms come up to wrap around him.

“You did it,” Mingyu says, with genuine happiness in his voice. “I knew you would. I knew.”

His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest. Seokmin blinks in shock, his arms coming up to hold onto Mingyu as if he’s an anchor, before he’s pulled out of his embrace by Jeonghan and thrown into another one, this time burrowed under a tangle of arms between Joshua and Jeonghan.

“What did I say?” Joshua crows against his ear. “Congratulations, bro.”

He sinks into the hug, can feel Jeonghan laughing in his ear, even as he automatically seeks out Mingyu, turning towards him like it’s the most natural thing for him to do. Seokmin is stunned to catch sight of Mingyu’s grinning over their shoulders. As if infectious, Seokmin can feel his lips curving into a smile through the daze he’s found himself in, and all he can see is the way Mingyu seems to glow brighter at him in response. His heart swells.

The sound of polite applause grounds him a little—this is just a small-scale, local competition and to anyone else, he knows this would hold no importance. But for Seokmin, it feels like everything. He can barely take it all in.

All of a sudden, someone barrels into his side. The sudden jerk back to reality pulls Seokmin back down to the ground, and he barely comprehends the sound of Minghao’s voice amidst his own confusion.

“You won?” Minghao sounds giddy in a way he doesn’t always let himself, in fear of looking too silly. Seokmin’s glad to see him like this; his smile is so wide, it leaves his face scrunched up.

“Yeah,” Seokmin says. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds dazed. “I think I did.”

He has to blink once, then twice to fully register his surroundings. Minghao isn’t alone; he’s with Soonyoung, Wonwoo, and Jihoon too. Soonyoung’s face is barely visible through his beanie and mask, and he’s wearing the same jacket as Wonwoo—Seokmin wonders briefly whether it’s a coincidence—and bundled up enough that it leaves only his eyes visible. Even then Seokmin can tell Soonyoung must be smiling. He’s clutching onto Jihoon’s arm, and Wonwoo’s hovering behind them.

A rush of warmth fills Seokmin up from head to toe. His closest friends are here, his team is here. They’re here for something that should be inconsequential—except they all know how much this means to him. He’s stunned to see all of them.

“Good job,” Wonwoo says, draping an arm around his shoulders. He pats him cordially.

Seokmin doesn’t get a chance to respond before Soonyoung cheers loudly. “Big boss!” he shouts into Jihoon’s ear, drawing a wince from him. “Oh,” he squeals next, “It’s Jeonghannie-hyung—”

“Don’t call me that,” Seokmin says on reflex, but Soonyoung’s already flocked over towards Jeonghan and Joshua.

“Big boss?” Mingyu questions. He pulls away from his quiet conversation with Minghao. “Cute. It suits you.”

For some reason, that draws Soonyoung’s attention again. Soonyoung jumps a little as if he hadn’t realized Mingyu was there earlier. His mouth drops open, and he gapes at Mingyu for a few brief seconds before whirling around to yank at Wonwoo’s arm. Seokmin hardly notices when Wonwoo peels off of him, nor their fervent whispering that ensues, too busy fighting off the blush that threatens to rise onto his face under Mingyu’s teasing.

“Shut up,” Seokmin says to Mingyu. The heat in his words gets lost when Mingyu clings to his arm again, and Seokmin reflexively grabs onto Mingyu’s bicep. He squeezes. “You are not allowed to call me that.”

“What can I call you then?” Mingyu asks impishly. He raises his brows.

Seokmin resists the urge to glower at him, if only to disguise the heat on his cheeks. “You are so—”

“I didn’t know you were already friends,” Soonyoung interrupts, popping his head over Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo moves to shush him, but Soonyoung just ignores him. “You should’ve told me that he’s your friend, instead of letting myself embarrass myself over a chaebol fantasy.”

It takes Seokmin a moment to realize that Soonyoung is referring to him—and Mingyu, who looks as confused as Seokmin feels. “Huh?” he says eloquently.

Minghao takes a step forward. “Ah, wait, Soonyoung—”

“You know, our favourite customer. The one who kept trying to leave a tip.” He nods at Mingyu. Then, as if belatedly coming to a realization, he makes a little oh and pulls down his mask. “I work with Seokmin. The server, the server!”

“Oh,” Mingyu says, and then in another tone, “Oh.” His eyes flit toward Minghao, then to Seokmin, and then finally returns to Soonyoung. He bows politely, but Seokmin sees the tension in his body. It takes a moment for him to realize that Mingyu is nervous. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

Soonyoung waves a hand dismissively. “No, no, it’s okay. Really! So you’re Seokminnie’s friend, huh?”

It clicks. But it also makes no sense. It sounds like Soonyoung is saying that Mingyu is the customer, the one that kept returning to the restaurant, the one that loved their food—his cooking—to the point where Soonyoung and Wonwoo couldn’t stop obsessing over him. Seokmin remembers the customer only for how loved his food had felt.

He’s confused. “That was Mingyu?”

This time, it’s Soonyoung’s turn to look baffled. “You didn’t know? I thought that’s why he’s here—because he’s your friend.”

Seokmin turns to Mingyu, just in time to catch the look of panic on his face. It only deepens his confusion. He’s about to ask, opens his mouth to say something, but then Soonyoung continues.

“Then does that mean you didn’t know?” Soonyoung says. He looks at Wonwoo, who shrugs unhelpfully.

Minghao looks pained—and then he starts to look panicked as well. “Soonyoung, wait—”

Seokmin blinks. “What?”

“Soonyoung—” Jihoon starts, looking between Minghao and Mingyu.

“He’s the food critic too,” says Soonyoung. He points at Mingyu, and then drops his hand when he realizes it’s rude. “The one that publishes Seoul Weekly Gourmet.”

Seokmin’s stomach swoops, along with his heart, and plummets to the ground.

“What?” Seokmin whispers. He stares at Soonyoung in shock. In the periphery of his vision, he can see Mingyu tense up.

Seeming to pick up on his mood, Soonyoung’s smile drops off his face. His eyes flick back and forth between Seokmin and Mingyu, and with growing uncertainty, he searches for Wonwoo as if seeking support. Wonwoo shakes his head minutely.

Soonyoung looks back at Seokmin. His face is stricken with apology. “Oh. Was I not supposed to...?”

The sound of clapping drags him back to reality. “Right, Soonyoung-ah.” Jeonghan says. He grabs Minghao and Joshua by their elbows and starts to drag them away, shepherding Soonyoung—and by proximity, Wonwoo—forward. “Why don’t we give them some space?” After a few seconds, Jihoon follows, but not before shooting Mingyu a suspicious look.

Seokmin hadn’t been looking for privacy, but maybe they needed it. Jeonghan’s always two steps ahead. He turns to Mingyu for an explanation, still mired in absolute confusion, only Mingyu looks resigned—not shocked.

“I...” Mingyu’s face is chagrined. “Can we talk?”

There’s a cafe right by Mingyu has parked his car that has little signs posted in various corners with a camera on them set up in small nooks and crannies that are dressed up to be photographed by their guests, and it’s just as expected that their coffee is far more expensive than it has any right to be. Seokmin and Mingyu bypass all of this with matching iced americanos ordered to-go, and fold themselves side-by-side into Mingyu’s car.

A part of him expects the air between them to be awkward, but it isn’t. Seokmin’s confused, and Mingyu seems to feel guilty about something—but mostly, Seokmin just wants to understand what’s going on.

It’s Seokmin who breaks the silence. “That was really confusing,” Seokmin says, curling his fingers around the heat of the cup. “I mean, you were all talking over each other. Let’s start at the beginning?”

Mingyu meets his eyes. “My name is Kim Mingyu,” he says, “I work as a food critic in Seoul and I run a publication under the name ‘Seoul Gourmet Weekly.’”

Seokmin nods. He gathered this from Soonyoung’s statement, though he thinks he still hasn’t fully processed that the writer that he’s been admiring, the one whose words gave him strength, is the same Kim Mingyu in front of him. In retrospect, it makes sense; Mingyu is smart and he knows food. More than anyone else Seokmin knows.

And it makes sense now, too, what Mingyu had meant when he recollected their first meeting. ‘For work,’ Mingyu had said to explain his thinking. Seokmin knows now what he means, and how he slipped into the mindset of a critic, and is ever the more grateful that Mingyu has since apologized.

“And you— knew that was my restaurant?”

“No—” Mingyu shakes his head, his fringe falling into his eyes. He brushes it out of his eyes. “I mean, not at first. I went to your restaurant months ago, just on a whim. Seokmin, I meant it when I said I could tell that you put love into your food. I could taste it in your cooking.”

Butterflies sweep through his stomach. Mingyu has a way of making him feel unseated. “So you wrote the article?”

“I wrote the article,” Mingyu confirms. “It’s just my job, but I meant what I wrote. At that time, I didn’t know it was you yet.”

Seokmin notes the past tense. “And you found out later. How?”

While his restaurant isn’t a secret or anything, Seokmin doesn’t think he’s ever had a chance to tell Mingyu about it—and the timeline feels muddled, entangled now. He wants to understand, straighten it back out.

“The wine tasting.” Embarrassment flashes across Mingyu’s face. “It was an accident. Minghao told me because he didn’t know we knew each other until that night, but he knew I was at your restaurant. He just mentioned it offhandedly.” He laughs. “It was a surprise.”

That explains the guilty looks that Minghao kept shooting him in the days and immediate weeks following that night.

“You came back, right? To the restaurant again. Was that before or after?”

Mingyu flushes a little. “After. I wanted to...try your cooking again.” Then, he ducks his head down. “And I wanted to see you. I was intrigued.”

“Intrigued?” Seokmin says, wonderingly. “By me?”

Back then, Seokmin still disliked Mingyu. There was no other opinion that he held, other than the fact that he thought Mingyu was annoying and condescending. Mingyu still is annoying and condescending at times, but Seokmin knows now that he has a heart that’s as big as his body and the desire to help those around him with a genuine sincerity that surprises Seokmin each time.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Mingyu always surprises him with how sincere he is. It’s no wonder that Seokmin had learned to like him so much.

That’s why he can’t help but be surprised that Mingyu had seemed—intrigued, by his own words—by Seokmin so early into their acquaintance. Somehow, it feels like an impossible idea.

Mingyu pauses for a moment, sipping at his coffee. His eyebrows furrow a little in concentration, as if he’s trying to think of what to say, and it endearingly reminds Seokmin of the day he saw Mingyu eating alone in the seolleongtang restaurant, the face he made then—that he now realizes was Mingyu on the job, writing a food review.

“When I was younger, I never meant to go into journalism.” Mingyu smiles at him, but the look in his eyes feels far away. “I fell into it, I guess. And I fell into food, after Tartine. I was good at it and I liked it. Luckily, I think it...grew around me, or grew to be a part of me. But that was it, you know?”

Seokmin nods. It’s not the same relationship for him, but he gets it. He’s not sure if he’d describe himself as someone driven by passion; rather, he’s driven by comfort. It just so happens that that’s food for him.

“I meant every word I wrote in that article when I first wrote it.” The faraway look disappears from Mingyu’s eyes and he returns the full force of his gaze to look firmly at Seokmin. “And I mean it even more now, Seokmin-ssi, now that I actually know you.”

The intensity of Mingyu’s gaze leaves Seokmin dizzy. He looks away, turning back to his coffee, and can feel when his cheeks burn, but something about Mingyu is addictive because not a second later, he flicks his eyes up again.

“‘And if there’s a word defined by the feeling of being at peace, at home, eating food made with love and tender care—you would find Chunja’s Pizzeria written underneath it in the dictionary.’ Funny how true that holds.” Mingyu smiles again, and it softens the focus of his gaze. “You have to know just how incredible I find you, Lee Seokmin.”

A warmth spreads through Seokmin’s body, makes his heart pound a little faster with a feeling he knows, he now recognizes and can put to name; Seokmin can taste the words he wants to say in response, can feel the heft of them, curling around in his mouth.

The funny thing about cooking is that the best in the field operate on instinct. Seokmin used to watch in wonder as his grandmother would taste a hot spoonful of soup, shake her head, and tell Seokmin that it lacked salt, or sugar, or that the kimchi wasn’t fermented to her liking, or that the heat wasn’t high enough. As a child, Seokmin could only taste what he tasted, and not know all that was missing.

He honed that instinct as he grew older, but only after he started cooking more for himself. In culinary school, Seokmin learned to keep an ear out for the sizzle of the pan, the burble of simmering soup, the precise moment when fragrance would hit his nose, and the balance of flavours on his tongue. He knows when a dish is good, is ready to be eaten; Seokmin cooks using his senses, not from a recipe book.

It’s why baking never came easily to him. Over time with repeated practice, Seokmin knows to trust the moment when he smells the aroma of pie more than he trusts the oven timer, or how flour and butter should feel between his fingertips—but still, there’s a precision that he can’t stray from. Cooking still comes most naturally to him.

And, perhaps, those years of honed instinct is why he heeds them now. Seokmin tries the words out on his tongue, and lets himself trust that they taste right.

“When I read your article, I thought ‘this is someone who eats my food the way I want it to be eaten,’” Seokmin tells him. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with Mingyu, who stares at him with so much emotion in his eyes, but he forces himself anyway. “If my cooking is done out of love, I can’t help but think that all the time you’ve spent with me in my kitchen is its own act of love.”

Mingyu doesn’t hide. “It was. It is.” He holds Seokmin’s gaze. “I used to think cooking was a lonely act before I met you.”

The plainness in his language makes Seokmin smile bashfully, and he ducks his head, filled to the brim from head-to-toe with a wonderful warmth. Mingyu’s making it easier for him. He always makes it easier for Seokmin to be honest.

So, Seokmin turns back to him. His own heart pounds furiously inside his chest, threatening to burst. “I like you.” And just to be sure, just to be clear, as much as he wants to hide his face and turn away, Seokmin reaches over and entangles their hands together. He squeezes, and hopes that it will convey more than he can possibly say out loud. .

When Mingyu smiles at him, the light in his eyes, bright and shining and far more beautiful than Seokmin thinks he can handle, he knows that his instincts are right and that Mingyu understands. The words still taste right on his tongue, and even more right when Mingyu pulls him in over the console. Seokmin goes willingly, lets Mingyu wrap his arms around him, and when he leans down for a kiss, Seokmin meets him halfway.

When they finally return to their friends, Seokmin and Mingyu find them sitting on a bench under one of the many persimmon trees that line the streets, its bare branches wrapped up carefully in straw for protection for the cold winter. The crowd has started to disperse, but many people still linger around, plates of pie in their hands as they chat while tasting the recipes.

Soonyoung jumps up as soon as he spots them. A guilt-ridden expression rests on his face, his knuckles a white-knuckled grip on the paper plate he’s still inexplicably holding, and he lets go of Wonwoo’s hand. He must really be feeling sorry, Seokmin thinks, if Wonwoo’s still comforting him about his blunder all this time.

“I’m sorry,” he bursts out immediately, like he can’t possibly contain the words inside of him anymore. “I didn’t know you didn’t know. Did I ruin everything?”

“It’s okay,” Seokmin assures him. His stomach swoops when he feels the press of Mingyu’s arm against his own. “But how did you know? I know you and Wonwoo were trying to figure it out, but...”

If anything, Soonyoung looks even more guilty. He rubs his neck and exchanges a glance at Minghao, who only sighs and nods in resignation. “Minghao told me,” he says to Seokmin. “He recognized Mingyu-ssi from my stories. I just...got excited when I saw him.”

Seokmin gives Minghao a look, but he has to just laugh. Maybe Jihoon isn’t his only friend that secretly enjoys gossip more than he wants to let on. “Nevermind,” Seokmin sighs. “This isn’t anything to be mad about.”

Soonyoung still looks apologetic, though, and only brightens up when Mingyu points at the empty plate in his hands. “How was it?”

“Amazing,” Soonyoung says, sincerity lining his praise. “It was so good, I made Wonwoo split a second slice with me.” With a shy smile, he also peeks at Mingyu. “Your apple pie was really good as well. And um. I’m sorry, too.”

Mingyu smiles easily. “I think you helped us in the long-run, actually,” he says, to Soonyoung’s confusion.

“You should make it for the restaurant,” Jihoon adds, turning towards Seokmin. “What recipe did you use for it?”

Seokmin thinks about the long nights in the kitchen, the sound of Mingyu’s laughter filling the bare walls, the warmth of the oven and the joy, even amidst the frustration, he felt while baking with him. He thinks about his grandmother, and how this isn’t anything she would have made, but still filled with the same kind of love. There’s no clear delineation over what’s inspired by his grandmother, or by Mingyu, or by any of the other techniques and aspects of baking and cooking that Seokmin has picked up over the years.

But that’s just all the cumulative parts of being whole, isn’t it? Seokmin thinks he’s okay with that—belonging to a culmination of everything that inspires love in his food. It’s still his, he’s still himself.

And so he says, with a lightness in his chest: “It was my own.”

koreanfoodsociety.or.kr

Winter is here—and so is the 7th winner of Seoul’s seasonal pie baking contest

by LEE CHAN

It’s December, and the hard frost has finally transformed the bare branches of our trees and the maze of flora-lined streets into a network of ice crystals and wintry cold. Amidst the cold snap, we see the return of Seoul’s seasonal pie baking contest.

“We are proud to showcase the creativity and innovation of local bakers all across our nation again this season,” said Choi Seungcheol, Executive Director of the Korean Food Society (KFS). “Each competition brings new faces and new bakes to the table. We couldn’t be more excited.”

The Korean Food Society (KFS) holds the pie-baking contest every four months—once per season—and while there are no limitations on the types of pie, modes of baking techniques, nor fruits and flavours used, the judges will assess each competitor in the following areas: overall appearance (crust, consistency), taste (flavour, mouth-feel, crust), and overall impression (creativity, originality, memorability).

“All we ask is that the pie is made by you,” said Choi Seungcheol. “Home-baked, made from scratch. Other than that, have fun!”

This winter, the winner is Lee Seokmin. Hailing from the Seoul Capital Area, Seokmin’s prize-winning persimmon pie is inspired by his grandmother, his partner, and his own experiments while running the up-and-coming restaurant, Chunja’s Pizzeria.

This victory marks the first in Lee Seokmin’s belt, but according to the young chef himself, it won’t be the last.