A Michelin-Starred Afternoon at 4:00 PM

Q2 ended.

I took a little over two weeks off.

My first week back began with a meeting.

One agenda item.

Bonuses.

Should we pay them?

Or not?

I've always thought it was a pretty simple question.

People did the work.

Pay them.

Meeting over.

Instead, a room full of people spent two hours discussing it.

Then someone actually turned to me and asked,

"So... what would you think if your team didn't receive bonuses?"

What would I think?

I'd probably have to cover my eyes to answer.

Not being able to protect your team feels a bit like a parent who can't protect their own children.

It hurts.

What hurt even more was realizing this was still somehow up for debate.

I sat there looking thoughtful.

I probably looked asleep.

Around me, mouths kept moving.

PowerPoint slides kept changing.

Arguments kept multiplying.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I felt a yawn coming.

Yawning in front of fifteen people isn't exactly polite.

So I held it in.

The yawn never came.

Instead...

...it became a burp.

The burp charged halfway up my throat.

I swallowed it back down.

That single heroic swallow somehow squeezed two tears out of my eyes.

Just as I reached up to wipe them away naturally, the person beside me—who was passionately making another point—looked over.

I'll never forget that expression.

It seemed to say,

"Wow... is this discussion really that emotional?"

Or maybe,

"If something's making you this miserable, you should share it with the group."

Two hours later, the meeting ended exactly where it had started.

No decision.

Only my battery had died.

I opened Outlook.

Maybe the day could get worse.

Instead, I discovered tomorrow was a public holiday.

I have no idea what holiday Korea was celebrating.

Didn't matter.

Any holiday is a good holiday.

I immediately canceled my afternoon meetings.

Today, I officially stopped being a responsible adult.

It was time to forage for food like a wild animal.

I've always believed emotional eating serves an important purpose.

At the very least, it rents happiness for about thirty minutes.

So I wandered into Insadong.

It's the sort of neighborhood that sells absolutely everything.

Calligraphy.

Dragon's beard candy.

Comics.

Handmade stamps.

Souvenirs.

And countless things I couldn't identify but somehow still wanted to buy.

It's close to Gyeongbokgung Palace and packed with tourists.

Imagine Beijing's Wangfujing...

scaled down to Korean proportions.

As I turned into a narrow alley, I noticed a line.

Years of living in Asia have taught me one simple rule:

The longer the line,

the better the food.

I hesitated for exactly one second.

Join first?

Or investigate first?

Curiosity won.

I walked to the front and peeked inside.

Dumplings?

People were lining up... for dumplings?

Then my eyes drifted to the sign beside the door.

Michelin.

Several consecutive years.

My pupils immediately expanded about six times.

Suddenly I wasn't tired anymore.

The morning meeting didn't even seem that terrible.

Maybe life was fair after all.

Take away my team's bonuses...

Give me a Michelin restaurant.

I happily joined the queue.

The line in front of me became shorter and shorter.

The line behind me...

never appeared.

Not one person.

I felt oddly proud.

Apparently not everyone possessed my level of strategic thinking.

Finally it was my turn.

I lifted one foot across the doorway.

A middle-aged woman instantly crossed her arms.

❌

Then she launched into rapid-fire Korean.

"...aniyo... imnida..."

I froze.

Looked down at myself.

Crocs.

Sure, maybe a little casual.

Wait...

Was there actually a dress code for dumplings?

After living in Korea for a year and a half, my Korean was still only slightly better than that of an unusually intelligent stray dog.

Seeing my blank stare, she pointed toward the business hours posted beside the entrance.

Closed from 2:00 to 4:00 PM.

I looked at my watch.

2:00.

Well...

1:60.

Then she said something else.

Only then did I realize the problem wasn't that I was late.

It was that my foot was physically preventing her from closing the door.

I quietly pulled my foot back.

The door shut instantly.

Click.

With the precision of a NASA rocket launch.

Suddenly I understood why nobody had been standing behind me.

I looked again.

Reopens at 4:00 PM.

Two hours.

Two whole hours.

Time is valuable.

Surely nobody would wait two hours just for dumplings.

I stood there.

Thought about it for three seconds.

Then, entirely predictably...

I decided to wait.

Look on the bright side.

Two hours from now...

I'd be today's first customer.

Victory.

Standing outside for two hours, however, looked suspiciously like begging.

Squatting looked even worse.

So I wandered around.

I told myself dinner always tastes better than lunch.

Repeated it enough times.

Eventually I believed it.

It was scorching hot.

Should I grab a snack?

No.

That would be disrespectful to my 4:00 PM Michelin experience.

Water was acceptable.

I bought one bottle.

Gone in seconds.

Still hot.

Nearby, I spotted a tiny art gallery.

More importantly...

it had air conditioning.

I entered immediately.

Not for the art.

For the climate.

To justify staying, I examined every painting with extraordinary seriousness.

Long enough that anyone watching would've assumed I was an art collector.

In reality...

I was simply maximizing my air-conditioning efficiency.

After a while I got thirsty again.

Bought another bottle of water.

Returned.

Studied the next painting.

At some point I realized I wasn't appreciating art anymore.

I was intermittently irrigating the gallery.

The owner had begun watching me with increasing suspicion.

I imagined his internal monologue.

"This foreigner seems fascinated by my paintings..."

"So why does he keep leaving every ten minutes?"

Eventually he approached and launched into an enthusiastic explanation—in Korean.

Perhaps about the paintings.

Perhaps about the artist.

Perhaps about the prices.

I understood exactly none of it.

So I smiled.

And nodded.

When you don't speak the language,

nodding is humanity's safest universal response.

To avoid further conversation, I slowly drifted toward the back corner.

Not because the painting there was exceptional.

Because that corner had the strongest air conditioning...

and the owner couldn't see me.

By then I was genuinely hungry.

Time crawled.

Finally.

3:50 PM.

I bowed apologetically to the gallery owner.

I'd spent nearly two hours with his artwork...

and bought absolutely nothing.

I felt like an art thief.

Then I sprinted toward the restaurant.

The alley was quiet.

I arrived first.

Within minutes, people began materializing behind me.

One.

Two.

Five.

Ten.

As if they'd been summoned by invisible magnets.

Did everyone know the restaurant reopened exactly at four?

3:55.

Then another crisis struck.

Those two bottles of water suddenly demanded immediate attention.

If I went to the restroom now...

I'd lose first place.

If I didn't...

I risked becoming Insadong's most unforgettable tourist.

For the first time in my life, I seriously weighed the relative importance of my stomach versus my bladder.

Thankfully...

the door opened.

The same woman recognized me instantly.

She paused.

Her expression practically shouted,

"You actually waited two hours?"

Then she smiled.

And waved me inside.

That wasn't just a wave.

It was the gates of heaven opening.

I shot through them so quickly that even she looked surprised.

Unfortunately, my first destination wasn't my table.

It was what I believed to be the restroom.

I pushed open the door.

Not the restroom.

The kitchen.

Two chefs froze.

I froze.

Three seconds later the entire kitchen shouted in perfect harmony:

"OUT!"

I backed out while bowing repeatedly.

At that moment I think every Korean word I'd ever learned left my mouth simultaneously.

Eventually I found the actual restroom.

Half my body weight disappeared immediately.

Now...

I was finally ready for Michelin dumplings.

The restaurant had only seven or eight tables.

Within minutes every seat was full.

The menu was refreshingly simple.

Pork dumplings.

Kimchi dumplings.

Mushroom dumplings.

Then...

larger portions of pork.

Larger portions of kimchi.

Larger portions of mushroom.

It reminded me of my dad's cooking.

His four signature dishes were:

Tomatoes with eggs.

Eggs with tomatoes.

Tomatoes and eggs together.

Eggs and tomatoes together.

Since I was already here...

I decided to experience everything.

The waiter stood patiently beside me.

I pointed from the top of the menu...

all the way to the bottom.

He waited for my finger to stop.

It didn't.

Instead, I started over.

Each item I pointed at...

I held up one finger.

"One."

Human fingers truly are one of civilization's greatest inventions.

They indicate both direction and quantity.

Especially useful when you're functionally illiterate.

The waiter looked uncertain.

Then circled the menu with his pen.

Everything?

"Ne!"

I answered with the loudest Korean word I knew.

Still unconvinced, he confirmed again.

I spread both arms wide and drew an enormous circle in the air.

Everything.

Every single one.

Don't leave anything out.

Finally he nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

Though not before turning around one last time to look at me.

I imagine he was wondering,

"Exactly how long has this foreigner been starving?"

Soon steel bowls and little side dishes filled the table.

Kimchi.

Soup.

Various mysterious liquids.

Korean meals sometimes resemble chemistry labs.

All the reagents arrive first.

The main experiment comes later.

Then...

the dumplings arrived.

I stared.

What...

...was this?

Standing proudly on the plate...

were objects approximately the size of my fist.

Technically, yes.

They were dumplings.

They had wrappers.

They had filling.

They were neatly sealed.

But these belonged to an entirely different species from the dumplings I knew.

An ostrich is a bird.

A hummingbird is also a bird.

That doesn't mean they belong at the same dinner table.

Before I'd recovered,

the second plate arrived.

Then the third.

Three mountains of dumplings occupied my entire table like a gathering of sumo wrestlers.

I looked at the waiter.

My expression clearly asked,

"You call these dumplings?"

He smiled.

Then slowly reenacted my earlier gesture.

Drawing one enormous circle in the air.

Everything.

Right?

Only then did I realize.

He hadn't misunderstood me.

He had understood me perfectly.

Nearby diners began glancing over.

Then at my table.

Then back at me.

Some looked impressed.

Some looked concerned.

Perhaps wondering whether a homeless shelter existed somewhere inside my stomach.

I remained silent.

For about two seconds.

Then remembered my younger days leaving all-you-can-eat buffets supported only by sheer determination and nearby walls.

If I'd survived that...

I could survive Michelin dumplings.

I picked one up.

Heavy.

Remarkably heavy.

It felt less like food...

more like lifting gym equipment with chopsticks.

I bit into it.

Paused.

No flavor.

Not bad.

Not good.

Simply...

nothing.

Like someone had carefully wrapped air inside dough.

To verify my taste buds still worked,

I took another bite.

Now my mouth was so full I resembled a squirrel storing peanuts for winter.

I grabbed water.

Swallowed.

Thought carefully.

What exactly had I just tasted?

Nothing.

Surely...

this couldn't be Michelin?

I tried the kimchi dumpling.

Nothing.

Mushroom.

Nothing.

Pork.

Still nothing.

Three fillings.

One identical absence of flavor.

That, in its own way, was impressive.

Ordinary restaurants make different fillings taste different.

Michelin had somehow made them all taste exactly the same.

Which is to say...

they tasted like almost nothing.

After sampling two bites from each variety, I was already full.

Around me, everyone else ate calmly.

Nobody looked delighted.

Nobody looked disappointed.

Nobody stared at dumplings questioning the meaning of life.

Then I noticed something else.

An entire family's order occupied less table space than mine.

Finally I understood.

The waiter hadn't been doubting me.

He'd been trying to save me.

And I'd enthusiastically rejected every attempt.

What now?

I searched desperately for explanations.

Maybe they were organic.

Maybe healthy.

Maybe Koreans believed salt caused hypertension.

Or perhaps Michelin had simply evolved beyond seasoning.

The dumplings sat there quietly.

Like victorious terracotta warriors.

Eventually...

my stomach surrendered first.

I waved over the waiter.

Pointed at the mountain of dumplings.

Then toward the door.

Then mimed putting everything into a bag.

I don't know the Korean word for "takeout."

Fortunately every waiter on Earth speaks interpretive mime.

He nodded.

For the first time all day, he looked completely relaxed.

As if thinking,

"I knew we'd end up here."

A few minutes later I walked out carrying an enormous bag.

It was astonishingly heavy.

Less like leftover dinner...

more like leaving the gym with a dumbbell.

Walking home, I realized the entire day had unfolded differently from what I'd expected.

I expected my team to receive bonuses.

They didn't.

I expected an afternoon surprise.

Instead I found a locked door.

I expected two hours of waiting to end with unforgettable Michelin food.

Instead I received giant flavorless dumplings.

Life has a peculiar sense of humor.

Just when you think it's about to turn left...

it turns right.

Then takes another unexpected turn.

Back home, I stared at the bag of dumplings.

A Warren Buffett quote came to mind:

The secret to happiness is having fewer expectations.

Today...

that sounded especially wise.

I quietly carried the Michelin dumplings downstairs.

Tapped my card.

Opened the food-waste bin.

Dropped them in.

Beep.

Payment successful.

I stood there silently for two seconds.

One final surprise.

Apparently...

throwing away bad Michelin food costs extra.