Yujun makes an unhappy noise at the back of his throat. He does not like this compromise. “Yes. I’ll promise.”
I hesitate and he caves completely. “I really, really promise.”
Before I can spill the details, the food arrives. Yujun impatiently watches as the waitstaff delivers the bowls of fried mushroom fritters, Korean thistle rice, root chips, salted bellflower root, and cold soybean noodles. There is a moment when I think he will stand up and distribute the bowls himself. Finally, the food is set and the waitstaff is gone and I’m at center stage. I don’t like it.
“Bujang-nim does not give me much work. My coworkers are understandably resentful that I’m there, especially when I don’t know the language and all of the customs. I suggested we do some team-building exercises and everyone got supercompetitive. Yes, I know. You race across a sidewalk and so it’s normal to push your coworker’s chair over in order to prevent him from scoring a fake point in a trash can basketball game. We ended the day at a hweshik and the alcohol unlocked some gate in my brain. Suddenly, I could understand everyone. That didn’t go over well and now I’m getting frozen out again. I’m sure things will eventually get better as time goes on, and I received three more projects today, so the logistics one is probably next.”
“Hmm.” Yujun is unconvinced.
“Hmm nothing. It’s fine, and even if it wasn’t fine, you coming down from the fourteenth floor isn’t going to solve any problems. My connection with you and Wansu is why they are unhappy in the first place. I’m a big girl and I can handle it. Do you trust me?”
Yujun clenches his jaw once more but nods brusquely. I ignore his lack of enthusiasm and finish. “Bujang-nim is not going to jeopardize this obviously very big project.”
And that actually might be the problem. He doesn’t trust me to do the work, so he’s not going to send anything my way, but I do have a better command of the English language than any of them and they should use me at least in that capacity. Tomorrow I’ll finish those three projects and then press my boss for more work, specifically the LA project. I’m not sure how I will do this without appearing like I’m relying on my mother or Yujun, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. “Trust me,” I say with a lot more confidence than I feel.
“What team-building exercises did you do?” Sangki is intrigued and so is Yujun by the way he leans forward.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Bomi warns.
“You’re not on my team, Kim Bomi-nim. Don’t worry. Tell me the activities you did,” Yujun half demands, half encourages.
“Don’t tell him, Hara. If he does them, all of the team managers, including mine, will believe that this is a good idea.”
“Sorry. Siding with Bomi here. No one should be forced to do team building. We already have the hweshik.” I drink my soju. Bomi reaches across and pours me another glass, her way of thanking me, I guess.
“I didn’t realize our hweshiks were so reviled.” Poor Yujun looks slightly peeved. Out of all of us, he has the highest position and has treated people to the most meals.
“Everyone wants to have hweshik with you, baby.” I pat his hand.
Bomi and Sangki both roll their eyes. Bomi knocks her fist on the wood tabletop.
“We cannot have meals together if you are making love to each other at the table.”
“I patted his hand,” I protest.
“You called him baby,” Bomi points out.
“You don’t have terms of endearment in Korea?” I glance around the table. Yujun called me aegiya at times in the sweetest tones.
“Yes. Of course.” Yujun flashes a dimple in my direction. “Call me whatever you like.”
Bomi groans. “We need more soju if this is how the night is going to go.”
“More? I don’t think there’s enough.” Sangki waves down the waiter.
By the end of the dinner, there are more empty green glass bottles on the table than there are people left in the restaurant. Yujun and I make it to his apartment, but we’re both too far gone to do anything but collapse on the bed in a drunken stupor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My plan to get the LA work from Bujang-nim takes a small detour later that week. I finish the projects, but my manager is gone so I can’t pester him for more work. The atmosphere in the office is still chilly. No one is getting over my sudden comprehension of Korean anytime soon. I try to explain to Chaeyoung and Soyou that it was a onetime fluke thing where the barrier in my brain came down for a brief—very brief—moment, but they don’t believe me so I give up. I’ll rock this LA project and my hard work will win them over. Otherwise, maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to the mail room, where I’ll sort packages or run coffee errands.
At lunch, I take myself to the fried-pork food truck because that’s my comfort food. It takes me back to Iowa, where cheese and pork and corn all exist in perfect harmony. Even before I order, I sense something is wrong.
“Imo-nim, are you feeling well?”
Sweat lines her forehead and her usually smiling expression is strained and weary. “Ne. Yes.” She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. The hand trembles.
“You’re sick. Could you close early and go home?” I don’t know if she can afford to.
She shakes her head, but even that’s too much for her and she stumbles, catching herself against the stainless steel counter. There are three other people behind me who are straining to see what the holdup is.
“I’m taking you up on your offer to teach me to cook.” I walk around to the back of the food truck and open the door. Yang Ilhwa watches silently as I swipe a plastic face shield from a shelf and fit it over my face. “Do you have hairnets?”
She points to a tackle box. Inside, I find hairnets and food-safe gloves. I gear up and push her aside. “How many?” I ask the next customer.
At first, he’s a little confused by my appearance, but his stomach reminds him why he’s at a food truck and he reels off an order. I don’t catch it all, but Yang Ilwha does.
“Two orders pork balls. A corn cup. One Milkis. Put pork balls in batter, then eggs, then crumbs. Fry. I tell you when to take out.”
I follow her lead. There are thin patties of meat separated by plastic. She palms one and then flips her hand over, stuffing a square of mozzarella inside. In another two moves, the meat is wrapped around the cheese and pinched into a circle. She repeats this move two more times. The finished balls are dipped in an egg wash and then rolled through a seasoned crumb mixture. From there, the breaded pork is fried, left to drain, and then fried again. After the second frying, three are speared onto a bamboo stick. She motions for me to pour the sauce into the small paper cup she uses as a serving container.