The Taste of

When my little brother and I slide open the pine and rice paper doors of Garam Ggukshi, we see the same ahjummas, middle-aged aunts, all dressed in purple-striped flannels tucked into their black apron skirts and worn-out jeggings.

“Oh my, look who it is! Yeonkyeong! Deoksoon! Come out!” Soonhee Ahjumma shouted.

She hurriedly wipes her wet hands on her apron and rushes to hug me.

“Funny, you smell the same!” I let out a laugh as I hugged her back. All of the ahjummas rush to see us and spread out their arms. Without a jist of hesitation, my brother and I fling ourselves into their arms.

“Oh my gosh, he grew so tall!”

“She’s matured into a beautiful lady!”

“What did they feed you in America?”

The ahjummas joyfully shared with each other, as if we were their own kids who just returned from the military. My cheekbones hurt from smiling too much.

Soonhee Ahjumma leads us to our favorite spot in the entire restaurant: the hidden room in the back with low wooden tables and heated floors. I cannot help but let out a gasp as I reminisce about all the memories I made in this room — my favorites being the time where I met my uncle’s fiancée, now my beloved aunt, or all the times I played house with their utensils with my favorite cousin. We sit on traditional Korean bangsuks, or cushions, which are now faded and flat. Soonhee Ahjumma cannot hide her smile as she passes out water cups. “How many years has it been? Do you need to see the menu?”

“No, we don’t. Do you still remember our order after all these years?” Dad asks.

“Of course, how could I not? One