River was plating his signature dish - deconstructed kimchi jjigae with molecular foam and edible flowers - when he heard the commotion from the dining room.
"I'm sorry, sir, but that's how the dish is prepared," he heard his head server, Park Min-ji, saying in a strained voice.
River looked up from his plate. Min-ji never sounded stressed. She had been handling difficult customers for five years and could smooth over any complaint with a professional smile.
"Jung-ho, take over here," River said, wiping his hands on his apron. Something was wrong.
River walked into the dining room and immediately spotted the problem. At table eight sat an elderly man in a simple gray sweater, probably in his seventies. Across from him sat a younger woman - his daughter, from the way she kept patting his arm protectively.
The man was staring down at River's signature dish with confusion and disappointment written all over his face.
"Excuse me," River approached their table. "I'm Chef Park, the owner. Is there a problem with your meal?"
The old man looked up with watery eyes. "I... I ordered kimchi jjigae. My late wife used to make it for me every Sunday for forty-three years. I thought... I thought maybe eating it here would help me remember her."
River felt his chest tighten. He looked down at the plate - his "artistic interpretation" of kimchi jjigae. Instead of a warm, comforting stew, it was foam and powders and tiny, perfect garnishes arranged like a modern art piece.
"This is kimchi jjigae?" the man asked quietly. "I don't understand what I'm looking at."
His daughter squeezed his hand. "Appa, maybe we should go somewhere else."
"No," the old man said, his voice trembling slightly. "I saved money for two months to come here. Everyone said this chef makes the best Korean food in Seoul. I just wanted..." His voice broke. "I just wanted to taste something that reminded me of home."
River stared at the plate he had created. Technically perfect. Visually stunning. Completely without soul.
For the first time in months, River felt something real - shame.
"Sir," River said quietly, "would you mind waiting just a few minutes? I'd like to make you something else."
The old man nodded, hope flickering in his eyes.
River walked back to his kitchen, past his confused staff who were wondering why their famous chef looked so shaken.
He went to the storage room and found ingredients that hadn't been used in his restaurant for years. Simple ingredients. Humble ingredients. Napa cabbage that wasn't perfectly uniform. Tofu that came in plain packaging. Pork belly that wasn't from a premium farm.
"Chef, what are you doing?" Jung-ho asked, watching River pull out a regular pot instead of his expensive professional equipment.
"Making kimchi jjigae," River said.
"But we already have—"
"No. Real kimchi jjigae."
River began to cook the way his grandmother had taught him twenty years ago. No measuring cups. No precise timing. Just instinct and memory and something that had been sleeping inside him for too long.
He sautéed the pork until it smelled like his childhood. He added kimchi that was aged and sour, not the pretty stuff he used for his artistic version. He let the stew simmer until it looked exactly like what his grandmother used to serve - messy, imperfect, and full of love.
When River carried the bowl to table eight, the old man's face changed completely. The smell hit him first, and his eyes filled with tears.
"This," he whispered, taking his first spoonful. "This tastes like home."
River stood there and watched the man eat with pure joy, sharing bites with his daughter, telling her stories about her mother's cooking between spoonfuls.
"Chef Park."
River turned to find the food critic from Seoul Daily standing behind him. The man had been watching the entire scene from his table across the room.
"I've been coming to your restaurant for three years," the critic said quietly. "This is the first time I've seen you cook something with soul."
River looked back at the old man, who was scraping the bottom of his bowl and smiling through his tears.
"That," the critic continued, "is what food is supposed to do. Not impress people. Feed their hearts."
The critic placed money on his table and left without touching his own perfectly plated, artistically arranged meal.
River watched him go, then looked around his restaurant. All these perfectly dressed customers taking photos of their food instead of enjoying it. All these beautiful plates that looked like museum pieces instead of meals.
For the first time in years, River felt proud of something he had cooked.
And for the first time in years, River realized how far he had fallen from who he used to be.