Same time.

On Earth, Seol Jihu’s family was having a meal outside. It was a famous naengmyeon restaurant with 60 years of history and was also the only place in Korea that Seol Jihu acknowledged as having tasty naengmyeon.

“Eating this reminds me of Jihu.”

Seol Wooseok murmured while eating Pyongyang-style naengmyeon after pork galbi.

“Why?”

Seol Jinhee, who was digging into a naengmyeon bowl of her own, raised her head and asked.

“You know, his love for naengmyeon is something else.”

“Something else doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

Seol Jinhee grumbled.

“He’s just way too picky. If he doesn’t like it, all he has to do is not eat it. How can he just spit it back out?”

“That’s why we came up with that standard. If Jihu takes a bite without spitting it back out, then it’s delicious for a normal person. If he does spit it out, we categorize the taste separately by how long it takes him.”

“But Oppa, that’s rude. Don’t you remember how he once spat out his naengmyeon in front of a chef?”

“He didn’t mean for the chef to see it though. Plus, that place was terrible. I thought I was eating porridge, not naengmyeon.”

“Still, telling a chef that he could make better naengmyeon with his eyes closed is rude.”

“It’s true, though. Just take a look at this naengmyeon. Even though Jihu acknowledged its taste, it doesn’t even come close to what Jihu makes.”

Seol Wooseok spoke while chewing on the noodles. Seol Jinhee looked as if she had nothing to say.

“We’ve always known he had a talent for cooking naengmyeon since he was young. When he was five, he saw Mom making naengmyeon, asked her what it was, and then immediately asked if he could try making it too. I still can’t forget the naengmyeon he made that day. It was the best naengmyeon I’ve ever had.”

“True. And thanks to him, our tastes have also gotten stupidly...