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The pastries are done quicker than the meat. I make a plate of the small apple pastries I shaped like mandu and the honey rice cakes and pour myself a glass of hot water from the dispenser.
The pastry is flaky and the apples are tart. It’s the perfect combination. I pop another one in my mouth. Makgeolli ice cream would be a perfect topping. In fact, these small apple desserts are an ideal food truck item.
A crazy idea pops into my head and I shove it aside but I can’t keep it out. The idea returns. The one with four wheels, a stainless steel service counter, and deep fryers with automatic drains and filters. I look down at the apple pastry mandu and wonder what they would taste like fried instead of baked, served with makgeolli ice cream, and topped with powdered sugar. I wonder how long it would take to prep enough for one day of sales and how many I would go through. I glance at the refrigerator, where the leftover shredded pork sits alongside the small compotes of relish.
It’s not something I could do by myself, but if I had someone who would partner with me . . . My eyes climb up the stairs but I shake my head. He makes a decent cheese ramyeon but his skills are in numbers and making deals. There’s another person I know who is in the service industry. I pull out my phone and text her even though it’s a holiday and she’s probably doing something with Bomi, but there’s a thrum of excitement coursing through me. My whole body is buzzing.
The reply from Jules is, Are you crazy, to which I type in return, That’s not a no.
There’s motion on the stairs, so I shelve my idea and go to greet my family. It’s a relief to see that some of the tension has eroded. Wansu’s face isn’t so tight, and there’s even a hint of dimple creasing Yujun’s cheek.
“I could smell the food from the bedroom.”
I scrunch my nose. “I should’ve cooked in the back kitchen.”
“No. It’s good.”
Wansu looks at the relatively clean countertops, which are cleared of everything but my dishes. “Where is the charye food?”
“I sent it home with Mrs. Ji and the staff. They were very grateful. In the meantime, I made us a meal. Sit and I’ll serve you.”
The pork loin is marinated with honey, gochujang, soy sauce, garlic, and ginger. I slice it thinly and coil a few pieces on top of a bed of fresh rice. The remainder goes on a rectangular white china platter. Yujun helps me serve Mrs. Ji’s banchan but I add my own version of potatoes—mashed with cream and butter, topped with scallions and a spicy yogurt dressing. For dessert, I present my apple pie.
“You don’t have pie tins, so I used these stone bowls instead. I also made apple pie hotteok for you, Yujun.” I lift the edge of a dish towel to reveal the golden fritters.
“Can I start with dessert?” He stares wide-eyed at the spread.
“No,” Wansu answers for me. She straightens her chopsticks and dives in. None of us have eaten since last night, and so we lapse into silence as we attack the food. It might be because I’m hungry, but the food is some of the best I’ve tasted. I give myself an internal pat on the back.
“This is very good, Hara. I didn’t realize you were such an accomplished chef.” Wansu pats the side of her mouth with a napkin.
“I don’t know if I’m much of a chef.” I love the compliment, though. I’m sure I’m glowing.
“Hara worked on a food truck,” offers Yujun between bites. He snags more sliced pork loin from the platter in the center of the table.
Wansu’s eyebrows slide up.
“For two whole days only, but it was fun. Hard, but fun.”
“What about IF Group?”
That’s a good question. Yujun shoots me a silent apology for not having thought through his comment. It’s too bad the table is so wide or maybe I could’ve kicked him in the shin.
“I took a sick day to help. The Seonsaeng-nim who runs the food truck was very ill and I worried that she might suffer an economic hardship if she had to close down.” Wansu doesn’t appear to love the idea that I took a day off to work on a food truck, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the work or because I left IF Group.
I test the waters. “Is working in a food truck bad?”
“No. All work is honorable; however, sick days are to be used if you are truly ill and not to avoid your place of employment.”
“No. I wouldn’t want to do that,” I lie.
We talk about nothing important for the rest of the meal. It’s as if the events earlier in the day never happened, and if it weren’t for the reddened knuckles on Yujun’s right hand, maybe I could convince myself it was all a nightmare.
