River walked to his station at the center of the kitchen. This was his kingdom - gleaming steel countertops, professional-grade stoves that cost more than most cars, and knives so sharp they could cut paper like silk.
Around him, his staff moved in practiced choreography. The prep cooks diced vegetables with machine-like precision. The pastry chef piped delicate flowers onto dessert plates. The line cooks seasoned sauces that had been simmering since 4 AM.
Everyone knew their role. Everyone performed it perfectly. River had built this kitchen like a Swiss watch - every part working in harmony to create what food critics called "culinary perfection."
But perfection, River was learning, could be its own kind of prison.
"Chef, the new menu items for next month," Jung-ho said, placing a folder on River's counter. "The food stylist wants to photograph them for the magazine spread tomorrow."
River opened the folder and looked at his own creations. Deconstructed bibimbap with each ingredient turned into foam or powder. Traditional galbi reimagined as molecular spheres that burst in your mouth. Kimchi transformed into crystalline sheets that dissolved on your tongue.
He had taken the food of his childhood - his grandmother's simple, honest cooking - and turned it into something that looked like art in a museum. Something to be admired and photographed, not something to be loved and shared.
"Chef?" Jung-ho was waiting for his response.
"It's fine," River said, closing the folder. The same response he gave to everything these days. It's fine. Not good, not exciting, not meaningful. Just fine.
River picked up his favorite knife and began to prep vegetables for the lunch service. Carrots first - he cut them into perfect julienne strips, each one exactly the same size. His knife work was flawless after years of practice. Mechanical. Soulless.
As he worked, River listened to the sounds of his kitchen. Orders being called out: "Two orders of the signature beef, one modified for no mushrooms!" "Table six wants extra sauce on the side!" "VIP table needs their appetizers in five minutes!"
Everything was about speed and precision. Nothing was about joy.
River remembered his grandmother's kitchen. She never rushed. She would hum old songs while she cooked, sometimes dancing a little step while stirring the pot. She would taste everything with her fingers, adjusting the seasoning by instinct rather than measuring spoons.
"Cook with your heart, not just your hands," she used to tell him.
When had River stopped using his heart?
"Chef Park!" One of the servers rushed into the kitchen, looking panicked. "That food critic from Seoul Daily is here for lunch. Table twelve. He didn't make a reservation."
River felt his jaw tighten. Food critics. They came to his restaurant like judges, ready to write reviews that could make or break his reputation. Every dish had to be perfect. Every detail had to be flawless.
"Tell him we'll take care of him," River said. "Jung-ho, make sure his table gets extra attention. Use the good plates, not the regular ones."
As his staff rushed to impress the critic, River felt that familiar knot in his stomach. The constant pressure to be perfect. The fear that one bad review could damage everything he had built.
But what exactly had he built? A restaurant that served beautiful food to people who cared more about taking photos than tasting flavors? A business that made money but didn't make anyone truly happy?
River looked around his perfect kitchen and realized that he felt more alone here than he did in his empty apartment.