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There’s a restaurant on 7th Avenue with a high amount of food waste. Any dish deemed less than perfect gets thrown away. Kim Rok Soo has seen an entire lobster, and even a whole steak end up in the trash bin long ago, back when he was walking down the streets.
Tonight though, he stands in the alleyway of the restaurant with purpose.
Restaurant Molan.
It’s not a hard decision to make, not when he’s been starving for two full days. Kim Rok Soo doesn’t need much food to survive, especially if he can conserve energy through sleep, but even forty-eight hours (and counting) of starvation affected him. The hunger pangs make it difficult to fall asleep. His stomach constantly hurt, as though it’s cannibalizing itself, and Kim Rok Soo doesn’t want to end up in the hospital if his stomach gets holes like swiss cheese. He doesn’t have that kind of money.
He steels himself and lifts the lid of the giant metal trash bin. It’s a difficult effort that takes both of his stick-thin arms. He staggers a little under the weight of the lid and drops it, thankfully not on his feet.
An aroma wafts out of the garbage.
It... actually smells good.
Peering in, Kim Rok Soo sees a ton of brightly shaped colours. Fresh food, unlike the rotting scraps of other restaurants. Brocolli, carrots, mushrooms, an entire roasted chicken (with a part sliced out, as though for taste testing and not quite making the cut) and much more. Hell, it looks more like a refrigerator than a trash bin. What an absolute waste of perfectly good food.
The food is still warm too. It must have been recently trashed.
Kim Rok Soo doesn’t even need to hesitate. He’s done worse things to survive. What’s eating out of a trash bin? Surviving is the most important, and it’s not like he’s stealing.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, right?
He reaches in with his hands and tears a drumstick off, hands trembling with lack of strength. It takes a little twisting and turning to pull it off, but once he does, he stuffs it straight into his mouth.
Delightful spices, tender meat...
Maybe it’s because of how hungry he is? It tastes like the best fucking thing he’s ever eaten. It’s to the point he could cry and yell “Hallelujah!” and become a believer in God.
It's truly worthy of a Michelin Star status.
He basically loses himself. Like a mad man, he tears more and more chunks off the chicken to stuff them into his mouth.
Then the backdoor of the restaurant opens with a bang.
“Oi.”
With his cheeks stuffed full, Kim Rok Soo looks up to see a tall, angry man holding a very, very sharp knife. The knife glints under the sunlight, threatening and deadly. Although the man is handsome with his immaculately styled hair, there’s a fierceness to his steely gaze, taut lips and muscular shoulders. He doesn’t look Korean, looking more like an Italian mafia, huge and buff. He looks like he’s about to stab someone to death. Kim Rok Soo gulps, chokes, and coughs all at once. Then survival instincts kick in and he flees, pounding on his chest as he hacks up a chunk of meat.
In the cramped tunnel of a playground, Kim Rok Soo falls into a long, deep sleep and has a nightmare about being chased by a wolf.
He’s right back there a day later, a crick in his neck from his bad sleeping posture.
He can’t help it.
There’s no other place that has food scraps this high of a quality. Other restaurants have wet, slimy, stinky, half-rotten ingredients tossed out. Eating those would probably put Kim Rok Soo in the hospital sooner with food poisoning.
With great anticipation, he lifts the lid of the trash can again. This time, he puts it down slowly so as to not make a sound, arms and legs trembling with effort like a newborn giraffe.
Oh damn.
It looks and smells so fucking good today too.
There’s a ton of discarded carbonara, decorated with crispy bacon bits. Kim Rok Soo reaches in like a savage and grabs a fistful of noodles. The sauce is still warm. He shoves it into his mouth unceremoniously, getting sauce everywhere.
So distracted by the beautiful taste of delicious food, Kim Rok Soo doesn’t realize that there’s a man walking towards him until he’s standing right behind him. A large shadow looms over Kim Rok Soo.
Then he finally notices.
With his mouth full, Kim Rok Soo turns around like a guilty cat. Just like the ones he’s seen on SBS Animal Farm, being baited into a trap by food and too distracted to notice until it's too late.
Slurp.
He quickly sucks up a strand of noodle dangling outside his mouth, as though it’ll be stolen from him if he doesn’t eat it quick. Too scared to chew, he swallows it directly and feels the large lump of noodles slide down his throat uncomfortably.
Due to their height difference, he finds himself staring at a wide chest area of a pure white chef uniform... one that’s way too familiar. Once he raises his head, Kim Rok Soo flinches so hard his body jumps. He takes a step back but there’s nowhere to go. His feet knock against the trash can, and it makes a rattling sound.
The Chef still has a knife in his gloved hand.
What kind of person walks around holding a knife?! That’s so dangerous!
With the short distance between them, Kim Rok Soo can be stabbed easily with one thrust. Survival instincts immediately kick in.
“I’m sor—”
“What do you want to eat?”
He’s interrupted before he can apologize. Kim Rok Soo blinks at the odd question.
“Huh?”
“What do you want to eat?” The muscular man asks, impatient. He’s so big that the kitchen knife looks smaller than it should be.
“Uh... kimchi fried rice?”
“That’s all?”
“Yes...sir?”
“Come in.”
The chef storms back into the restaurant with heavy strides that seem angry. The door is left open. Kim Rok Soo contemplates making a run for it.
...Would he be chased down if he ran? Maybe reported to the police?
After weighing the pros and cons of it, Kim Rok Soo ultimately decides to enter. He’s curious about the questions. Is the chef compiling surveys on the palates of homeless people? Never mind, that sounds highly unlikely.
The interior of the kitchen is clean and spotless. Kim Rok Soo feels bad about tracking his muddy footprints on the clear tiles.
The intimidating man drags a tall wooden stool over and drapes a small towel across the top of the surface. He points at it with his knife, gesturing for Kim Rok Soo to sit down.
He clearly minds how dirty Kim Rok Soo is.
If so, why did he drag him into the kitchen?
“Wait here. And wipe your face.”
A warm, moist towel is thrown directly onto Kim Rok Soo’s face with a loud slap. It’s not hard enough to hurt, at the very least. He takes it sheepishly and wipes the pasta sauce away from his lips and chin.
Kim Rok Soo stares with wide-eyed wonder as the chef dons a black apron and starts cooking kimchi fried rice on the spot.
“I don’t have any money,” he says, small and quiet.
The man doesn’t show any sign that he’s heard it as he works masterfully with the wok, flipping the rice within it in beautiful arcs.
Is he being served his last meal? Is the fried rice even for him in the first place? Maybe this is a novel torture method. Maybe the man will consume Kim Rok Soo's favourite food in his face as he sits there, hungry and unable to fight back.
Kim Rok Soo doesn’t even have a handphone to call for help. It got stolen weeks ago when he was sleeping on a bench in the park. If he had his phone though, he has no friends or family to contact anyways. So he just sits there on the tall stool, feet dangling above the ground and waits for his death sentence.
...
His sentence ends up to be eating food.
A steaming hot plate of fried rice is pushed into his hands, along with a spoon. Kim Rok Soo blinks and watches as the chef discards his white gloves in lieu of new ones, as though afraid of any germs Kim Rok Soo would pass to him through the most minuscule of contact.
“Eat it,” the man commands with a glare.
The smell is so enticing that Kim Rok Soo doesn’t resist for long. He takes a tentative bite under the chef’s watchful eye. The delightful flavours burst on his tongue. How long has it been since he’s eaten hot food like this? He’s missed having kimchi so much. The kimchi is ripe and the texture is perfect. Oh my god. Is this heaven?
“Holy shit. This is the most delicious kimchi fried rice I’ve ever had,” he says, and proceeds to shovel more spoonfuls into his mouth. It’s a little too hot to be eating it without blowing on it, but it does not deter Kim Rok Soo. He simply opens his mouth and goes ‘HAZHGDJFS’ in bad attempts to cool it down.
The man’s face twists in disgust as Kim Rok Soo eats without any manners.
A glass of water is slammed on the tabletop, right next to him. Kim Rok Soo takes it gratefully and sips the water. The coolness soothes his burning tongue. Was water always this delicious? Is this water from the alps or something? It’s clean and fresh, nothing like the strange taste of tap water from washrooms.
“Oh? Who’s this little puppy you’ve brought in?”
Even with the appearance of a new person, Kim Rok Soo doesn’t stop shovelling food into his mouth like a man starved for months. As he continues to eat, he assesses the person who just came in. Dressed in a smart suit and a head of neatly styled white hair, the elderly man looks like an old butler in a European mansion instead of a restaurant in Seoul. However, the imposing and dominating aura surrounding him resembles the chef.
No way, were they illegal organ harvesters? Was the restaurant just a front? Or is this a restaurant for cannibals, and Kim Rok Soo is going to be their new stock? Are they fattening him up to eat him?
Kim Rok Soo coughs in an exaggerated manner.
“Sorry. My insides aren’t in a good shape,” Kim Rok Soo explains weakly, appealing why he would be a bad choice. “My uncle was a chain-smoker and I breathed in a lot of second-hand smoke.”
“Ah, is that so?” The smile of the old man is gentle and sympathetic, but his eyes are very, very amused. Kim Rok Soo averts his gaze instantly. He doesn’t trust this benign-looking grandfather. “Beacrox, you haven’t introduced yourself yet, have you? Hello child, I am Ron Molan, the owner of this restaurant and this guy’s father.”
“Beacrox Molan. Head Chef,” Beacrox says simply.
"What’s your name, child?” Ron prompts.
“I’m Kim Rok Soo,” he says, abandoning the thought to lie about his name and age — he has an eerie feeling that he might be killed if they find out he’s lying.
“Tell me," Beacrox demands. The knife is in his hand again. “Why is a kid like you rummaging through garbage like a filthy, starving rat? You look like a middle school student.”
The rat in question blinks. He chews for a while and then talks with his mouth full, much to the disgust of the chef, “I’m in my final year of high school though?”
Beacrox very clearly does not believe him. Kim Rok Soo knows he’s short and scrawny for his age, having lived in poverty all his life. He continues his story, one full of cliches and common unfortunate events.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was a kid, and I’ve been living with my uncle since. Three months ago, my uncle ran away with my inheritance without paying the rent. I got forcefully evicted after a while. I tried to get more part-time jobs, but there are a lot of places that don’t hire minors. I have one at the convenience store, but my boss refuses to give me my salary. I got a new job to hand out flyers last week, but I’ll only get paid next month. I’d move to a cheaper place, but it’ll be hard if it’s too far from school. I’ve been sleeping in internet cafes and park benches but I got robbed while I was asleep and lost my phone and wallet.”
Bam!
A knife stabs into the wooden chopping board. Kim Rok Soo trembles in surprise at the sight of the vertically upright knife. It reflects the light menacingly, so sharp that it’s pierced through the entire board. Kim Rok Soo is very, very glad that he’s not the chopping board.
“Fucking bastards,” Beacrox hisses. He pulls out his knife without much effort and stomps off.
Bewildered, Kim Rok Soo stares as Beacrox leaves. It’s a very broad back. One which would suit tattoos of dragons and demons. He shakes his head to get rid of the image in his brain.
Then, he flinches when a heavy palm settles on his shoulder. With creaking motions, Kim Rok Soo slowly raises his head as though he’s the main character in a thriller movie.
Ron smiles at him, his lips lifted in a gentle arch. It’s a perfect smile, one that reaches his eyes and crinkles the corners of it, but Kim Rok Soo can’t help but wonder if this is a sociopath who taught himself how to smile through videos. There’s just something incredibly unsettling about his aura and his strength, even when he pretends to be a kind grandpa.
“Aigoo, you’ve sure been through a lot, child.” Kim Rok Soo sits, stiff as a board, as Ron begins to pat his head. This time, his touch is featherlight. “We’ll hire you. You can wash the dishes here. We’ll provide you with accommodations too. It’s not much, but you can sleep on the couch of the staffroom and have a roof over your head. Meals are provided. How does that sound? You can quit your other jobs and focus on school.”
It sounds too good to be true. It feels like they’ll slaughter him like a lamb once his guard is down.
But then again, the food was really delicious and he hated being rained on. And maybe they just look and feel scary and evil, instead of actually being serial killers. They fed him for free even though they didn’t need to. It was the best kimchi fried rice of his life. If he can eat food like this every day...
Ultimately, Kim Rok Soo is won over by the food.
“Yes, Mr Molan. I’ll work hard.”
“Just call me Ron, and call my son Beacrox. He’ll be happy to have a new taste tester.”
Kim Rok Soo’s brain conjures up poison testing, but he decides it wouldn’t be a bad thing to die from eating tasty food. It’s certainly better than death from starvation.
…
An hour later, Beacrox tosses him his wallet and phone, along with an envelope of cash from his ‘previous’ part-time job at the convenience store.
Yeah, they must be nice people with resting bitch faces, Kim Rok Soo decides. He falls asleep on a comfy sofa with a smile on his face, full and satisfied in a way he hasn’t been in a long, long time.