I Will Find You - Chapter Ten

Ji-young was putting the finishing touches on two plates of beef short rib when Ji-hu rushed over.

“Chef Yeon, the Chief Royal Course for table seven.” He looked back, toward the far corner, then leaned closer. “It’s Michelin,” he whispered, lifting two fingers. “He asked for two glasses of water and has two phones.”

She nodded, then looked back at the other cooks, avidly listening in. “Just do as you always have, okay?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Hearing the M-word didn’t fill her with apprehension or anxiety. She was calm and collected, professional, just like all the other evenings. There was no need for doing acrobatics to please and appease any judge. The food spoke for itself. They’d prepare the order and serve it. No special treatment, no skipping the line. It was just another customer. Just another night.

 

She did her usual rounds through the stations, checking to make sure everything was as it was supposed to be.

“The consommé looks great,” she told her sous chef Eom. “Please, plate it up.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“The beef tartare with seaweed gets soggy easily,” she said to cook Min. “Make sure to plate it just before service.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Slice it a bit thinner,” she instructed Sun-geum.

“Yes, Chef.”

The beef short rib looked absolutely perfect. “It’s ready to be plated, so Cook Maeng—”

“Excuse me?” He looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes, fighting a grin. She kept making the same mistake.

She smiled and closed her eyes. Concentrate! The problem was that out of the five, he was the most similar to his Joseon counterpart. “Sorry, Chef Maeng. Please, prepare the garnish for the bourguignon.”

“Yes, Chef.”

 

Tweezers steady, she placed the mint leaves, the last garnish, on the dessert plate, rang the service bell, and pushed the finished plate to the edge of the wooden kitchen island. “Dessert for table seven.”

“Yes, Chef.” And the waiter slinked away.

She put her faithful tweezers back into her breast pocket when two female waiters brought back untouched plates of beef short rib and ogolgye samgyetang, its crispy thin dome intact.

“Chef?” the one with the beef started apologetically. “The guest at table seven said it tasted bad.”

“He says the meat is dry,” the other added, cupping the plate of samgyetang, “and wants it remade.”

“What? They didn’t even touch the food.” How can it taste bad, or the meat be dry, if he or she didn’t even try it? Slightly ticked off, Ji-young took off her open face shield and took the two plates. “I’ll serve them.”

She wanted to meet this person who obviously possessed the paranormal ability of tasting food through their nose. Or maybe eyes. No matter what, her meat didn’t taste bad, and her samyetang wasn’t dry. Let’s see them say different! After they taste it.

As she walked through the restaurant, a plate in each hand, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. She almost stopped to look around but mentally shook her head and kept going. The restaurant was full, every table occupied. She was the head chef; thanks to the review and the picture, everybody knew what she looked like, and people looked.

Ji-hu was serving the supposed Michelin judge with paranormal abilities—a man—tea as she placed the untouched plates back on the table. He obviously didn’t have any problems with finishing the other dishes, seeing how the other plates were empty, with only the dessert yet waiting to be sampled.

“Hello.” She bowed. “I’m Yeon Ji-young, the head chef here at Enfin.”

The man looked up, and her breath lodged in her throat. He looked exactly like Im Song-jae. Another descendant? What is going on?!

“And why are you here?” he asked nonchalantly, with a slightly disdainful arch of an eyebrow.

She glared at him. He’s nitpicking here, too? Figures the descendant would be just as dickish as the ancestor, but Song-jae had mellowed a lot toward the end.

She took a breath, counted to five. “Well...You asked us to remake the short ribs braised in wild grape rice wine and ogolgye samgyetang.” She indicated the plates with her hand. “Is there a problem with the food?”

The man sighed, looking at a spot near her left elbow. “I see you didn’t understand because I was being indirect.” He nodded toward the plates. “You call it modern cuisine that holds the essence of nature. I couldn’t feel the nature you spoke of.”

He looked at her, and she thought she detected a note of mirth in his gaze, but she didn’t find anything remotely funny in their conversation. She just wanted to slap him upside the head.

She scoffed. He’s nitpicking over nothing. “They say it’s impossible to stop a human from lying,” she said, enunciating clearly. Let him hear her.

Ji-hu sucked in his breath, staring at her in shock, while the man just arched his eyebrow. And yes, he did look as if he was having fun. Bastard!

“You didn’t even touch the food.”

He leaned back, a smirk curving a corner of his mouth. “Are you saying I’m lying without tasting anything? I have to say, that’s quite an impressive way to avoid evaluation.”

What?!

“You shouldn’t cook if you lack the skills,” he continued.

Oh, now you’ve done it, you little prick. Teeth gritted, hands in tight fists on her hips, she glared at him. “Are you even with Michelin? How can someone like you be a judge?!”

Startled gasps could be heard from behind her. No doubt, she was making a spectacle, but she didn’t care.

Hey, it’s dinner and a show! Enjoy the performance, as I eviscerate this dickhead!

“What did you say?” The dickhead in question jumped to his feet. “You’re crossing the line!”

She was crossing the line?

“How can someone like you be a chef?!”

How dare he? He was lucky she didn’t have a knife on her. She could always claim it was done in self-defense. Or in the defense of her cooking.

He pulled a small black notebook out of his jacket pocket, obviously fighting a smile.

She had no idea what he had to smile about. Impugning her honor and her cooking abilities was serious stuff!

“You know what?!” he continued. “I’ll give you a proper evaluation right away.” He pointed a finger at her. “Blame your cooking!”

“What?!”

She was contemplating jumping over the table when someone behind her said, “If what you say is true, I will try it myself.”

She recognized the voice immediately. She knew that voice. It was a voice that didn’t belong in this time. The voice of a man long dead.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

As if in a trance, Ji-young slowly turned. Looked up.

Dressed in an elegant, black—sexy as hell—suit, his hair modernly styled, not a topknot or manggeon in sight, the man looked down at her, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of emotions.

The breath she hadn’t been aware of holding whooshed out of her as she stared up at the man from another time with wide eyes.

“Who’s this guy?” the idiot with Song-jae’s face chimed in from behind her.

To Ji-young it sounded like an annoying buzz as she stared stupidly up at...Yi Heon?

Who broke eye contact with her to look archly at the man over her shoulder. “What?” He straightened even more—if that was at all possible—a look of surprised pity in his eyes. “Guy? Do you wish to be struck down with a sword?”

Ji-young didn’t hear the reply; she just saw the king take a rather menacing step forward. There was some shuffling, more buzzing...All the while she stood stiff, completely frozen, staring at his face.

He once again looked at her, and she needed to ask. She needed to know.

“Jeonha?” she asked with a trembling voice, her heart skipping a beat when he smiled. God, she missed that smile, the melting of that gaze when he looked at her. “Is it really you?”

Was it really him? Him him? Was such a thing possible? Everybody else was a descendant...Was he really him?

“I came to keep my promise,” he told her softly. “My promise to find you.”

It was really him. Who else would know about the promise? She felt the last cold dredges inside her, the last vestiges of mourning the loss of him, melt as a tear slid down her cheek.

She gave a watery chuckle, going for a flippant “You’re still acting all cool,” when all she wanted to do was fling herself at him.

He just kept smiling at her, his eyes cooling slightly, shuttering.

“What about your seoksura?”

What was she doing? Why was she still talking when her mouth could be much more pleasantly occupied? And why was she still standing there, at such a distance from him? She should be clinging to him like a monkey. And why wasn’t he doing anything?! Before, in Joseon, he used every available opportunity to touch her, hold her.

He looked down, eyes cooling further, though the smile remained. It looked like a polite mask. “How would I enjoy it without you?”

Were they really talking about dinner?

“You must taste it first.”

He stepped back and turned away. Walked away. Away from her, leaving her cold, bereft.

Do something! Move, damn it!

Finally free of the strange spell keeping her rooted to the spot, Ji-young sprang forward, circled her arms tightly around his waist, and pressed herself fully against his back.