#mm:kim hyunwoo

[momentskrp]

SACRED HEARTS SPOTLIGHT:

today we’re showcasing our 3C tenant kim hyunwoo, who has been with us at sweetheart since august 2018. he’s currently a chef, but we hear he has big dreams of becoming a celebrity chef someday. turn to page 5 to read more!

PAST.

seoul, 2012;

“you can’t talk to her like that.”

“what’d you say to me boy? do you know who the fuck i am?”

the entire pocha goes silent, and suddenly it seems as if all the drunken customers in the place have sobered up. they all stare stupidly at the teenage boy in the middle of the tented stall. he’s tall, lean, cheeks flushed in a slight red, though it’s hard to tell whether it’s from the cold night wind outside or by his own temper. he’s still dressed in high school uniform, though his tie is loosened, blazer unbuttoned, and cuffs drawn. they’d wonder why he wasn’t already home studying or asleep at such a late hour, but there’s a mischievous gleam in his eye that gives away that he must not be a very good student anyway.

there’s a harsh clattering as the boy’s opponent rises from his stool. using both hands, the staunch, balding man shoves the table away from himself as he rises, and his mindless minions follow, stumbling in drunken daze as they do. soju glasses and beer bottles clink loudly against the food platters. soup spills over the bowls and onto the table.

“i don’t give a fuck who you are. you can’t fucking talk to her like that.”

the larger man steps towards the boy, slurred explicits seething from between his teeth. but the boy doesn’t budge. he can smell too many bottles of soju on the man’s breath.

“hyunwoo-yah, what are you doing? just listen to me and leave now. i will take care of things, but you just get going now. it’s really okay.”

the other women have emerged from behind the kitchen now, and they join the customers — drunk college students, salarymen, the brokenhearted — in idle spectatorship. they watch now as a small, wiry woman in her fifties yanks helplessly at her adamant son’s jacket, eyes desperately pleading for him to stop with his reckless stunt. her back is hunched, hands wrinkled from countless years laboring away in the crowded kitchen, keeping alive her pocha in an age when they were going extinct. why couldn’t he see that his opponent was not someone to be messed with? this was the first time she had seen her boy in weeks now, and the last thing she needed was for him to be dead at the hands of the local gang. it’s not like this was the first time she’d have to plead the goons to pay for their meal before leaving… why couldn’t he see?

“no mom, it’s really not okay. what about this is okay to you? why do you always say everything is fucking okay when it’s not?!”

he angrily rips away from his mother’s grasp, viciously slapping her hand away when it reaches for his arm again. he doesn’t get why his mother puts up with this bullshit day in and day out. it made him sick to the stomach how she always acted like everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t. when she’d be verbally abused by drunken customers, struggled to pay the bills, when he’d only come back home once every few weeks — even when his father left them ten years ago: “it’s okay”.

he’s too caught up with his mother before being harshly reminded of his other opponent by a heavy blow to the jaw, but he feels no pain. with naive courage, he shoves the drunken man backwards into the table, sending dishes and drinks clamoring to the floor as the audience gasps. he picks up a metal stool, swinging it over his head and slamming down with strength of all the injustice he’d felt in the world. in the midst of the chaos, he flees, running from the tent through crowded streets, lungs heaving against the cold winter air, a hollering gang chasing after him like a pack of hounds.

the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth from the deep gash in his inner lip, regardless of how many times he spits. It’s the last taste of home he’ll remember.

tokyo, 2014;

“so when are you going home? there can’t possibly be that much to learn in a kitchen.”

he shifts his head in the girl’s lap, giving a flirtatious tug on the hem of her skirt as he shoots her a fake look of hurt. her fingers stroke through his hair, and she giggles a bit. after graduating high school, he took the first flight out of korea he could find, eventually taking a job in at a rising restaurant in tokyo. If nothing else, the years he had spent helping in his mother’s kitchen had left him with solid culinary fundamentals, and though the pay wasn’t much, he was a quick learner, pocketing as many tricks of the craft as he could. plus the restaurant owner figured that the korean boy’s good looks were a sticking point for female customers of the restaurant.

“you really want me to leave you that bad?”

he was slowly starting to lose count of the number of months he’d been in this foreign city. obviously enough to where his japanese had improved to the level of fluency required for flirtation and persuasion. but now his female companion had him thinking. she was wrong about there not being anything to learn in the kitchen. he’d learnt that cooking could be pleasant, when not serving up food to drunken bastards in a pocha. that the top chefs could live lives of glory and pleasure beyond what his poor mother could ever imagine. that everyone has hunger, and everyone has taste, even if they don’t realize it. life is just a constant quest to satiate.

and so maybe she was also right. he couldn’t stay here forever. he had nothing to lose, so he might as well just shoot for more. he made up his mind to leave. an unreadable grin takes over his lips, and he gets up, gently laying her down now.

“well i’ll make sure you miss me when i do.”

paris, 2018

“get the fuck out of my kitchen!”

his french was still a while away from fluent, but he understood enough to get that much: he was being fired. grabbing the hat from his head, he hurls it to the ground, the other hand angrily working on the knot of his apron. he grabs the giant knife he had in hand, furiously slamming it point-first into the slab of lamb he had been working on. he’d put on display more of his recently erupting temper if he didn’t know how skilled his boss also was with a knife.

it had been close to four years now since he’d taken a one-way flight out of tokyo, converting his entire savings into euros before backpacking through the continent of europe. an endless chain of worn down hostels in italy, spain, and france had left him penniless, but deep in rich culinary experiences, pleasures of life, and the romance of the region. he was now utterly convinced that a chef was the world’s most honest, worthy occupation. the world was full of illusions and bullshit, but good food, and a matching glass of wine. what else was as undeniably good in the world?

is it good? does it give pleasure? the only two questions he was interested in answering when doing his craft. ironically, he found himself waltzing his way into the prime of 21st century hedonism. he had no idea what a drug-fuelled culture chefs often indulged in, and the restaurant industry’s high-stress, fast-paced culture would only fuel his appetite for drugs, alcohol, and sin. shit, sometimes he couldn’t even taste his own food right. honestly, it was fair that he was being fired from the best restaurant gig he’d landed thus far.

he bursts out the back exit of the restaurant, shooting an empty glare at some of his ex-colleagues chilling by the loading dock. fuck, he should’ve never taken up their offer to “try something new” a few months back. they yell something at him in confusion, but he doesn’t look back and continues to walk into the paris streets. he wishes he had somewhere to go.

PRESENT.

comfort food: food that provides consolation or a feeling of well-being, typically associated with childhood or home cooking. it was a pity how nothing about his childhood or home cooking was anything close to what he associated with consolation or well-being. rather, it’s what he retreats to now that over-indulgence has left him trashed and starving for any bit of hope and pleasure.

he’s lucky to have found a rising restaurant in seoul that will give someone like him a chance. they were impressed by his expertise of foreign cuisine, especially for someone who had no formal technical education and clearly lacked the financial means to have naturally developed such a fine palette. he doesn’t tell them it’s because he’s a bad son who ran away from home, abandoning his mother and ashamed of her cooking, which was for sustenance, not pleasure. he doesn’t tell them that he’s back home because he’s an ex-addict, fired from his last gig, and really has no other option.

he’s been living in the sharehouse for a few months now, and it’s honestly not bad at all, especially for the rent. if anything, it reminds him of his backpacking days staying in crowded hostels. new people, new stories. it’s less lonely that way. he’s glad to cook for the other residents when he can, as they make fine testers for new recipes and innovation that he can’t try on real customers back at work. the rooftop is a fine place to wind down too, especially on days when he’s allowed to sneak home a bottle of fine wine or liquor left over from the day. and although he hates to admit, he’s missed the irreplaceable charm of korean food. after all, food is everything someone is. it’s an extension of identity, personal history, culture, family, friends. it’s inseparable from those from the get-go.