A Small City, A Grand Discovery
In 2001, I found myself living in Modena, a small city in Italy.
The phrase “small city” hardly conveys its scale. For those accustomed to metropolises like Seoul, Tokyo, or New York, it might be easier to imagine Modena as a neighborhood within a district—something the size of a single “○○Dong” in Seoul. You could cross from one end to the other in 15 minutes at a brisk pace, or 30 minutes while strolling.
And yet, this tiny city is world-famous. It is the birthplace of balsamic vinegar (Aceto Balsamico), known for Mortadella ham, the hometown of the legendary tenor Luciano Pavarotti, and the city of Ferrari. Above all, Modena is a true city of gastronomy.
A Lunch Without a Signboard
Not long after I started working there, my boss—a true connoisseur of food and wine—invited me to lunch. I assumed it was simply a good local spot near the office.
The place had only four tables, one server, and no menu. The dishes were explained verbally and turned out to be exquisite. Paired with a glass of wine, the meal was unhurried, warm, and deeply satisfying. We returned to the office, ready to resume work.
No reservation needed. The place opened just three or four days a week, depending on the chef’s schedule. Five minutes on foot from the office—just a neighborhood spot.
Only after I called out “Grazie!” and left did I learn that this signless restaurant was Osteria Francescana, run by chef Massimo Bottura, and now one of the most celebrated Michelin 3-star restaurants in the world.
That was my first encounter with a Michelin-starred dining experience. From then on, I came to understand the joy of truly remarkable food and occasionally sought out opportunities to taste it in other parts of the world.
In Modena alone, there were several Michelin-starred restaurants—Al Gatto Verde, Hosteria Giusti, and of course, Osteria Francescana. A city so small, yet so richly endowed with culinary treasures—that is Modena.
My Father's Cooking
My father was a true gourmet.
With whatever he found in the fridge, he could conjure a stew or soup of unknown origin, and it was always delicious. On days he brought home fresh squid from the market, he would fry up a whole basketful of golden, crispy calamari in no time. The batter was just right—bite through the crunchy exterior, and the tender squid inside would fill your mouth. It was the best fried squid I have ever tasted.
I miss the taste of his cooking.
When cancer took his appetite, our mornings began with a simple question: “What would you like to eat today?” Once he named a dish, I would spend the day searching for the restaurant that prepared it best.
Only then did I realize how hard it is to help someone who has lost their appetite eat again.
“Naengmyeon. I want cold noodles.”
Finding a restaurant that could revive my father’s palate with Pyeongyang-style cold noodles was nearly impossible. Seogwanmyeonok, Seolnun, Jinmi Pyeongyang Naengmyeon… for a while, cold noodles became our daily menu. My only wish was to see him smile over just one meal again.
But his appetite never returned. The sight of him growing frail remains etched in my memory, vivid as ever.
This image was inspired by the essay “The Taste I Couldn’t Share.” It reimagines the Pyeongyang cold noodles my father longed to have — a Michelin version of a memory we never completed together. The light shimmering on the cold broth recalls the warmth of a table we never shared, a quiet conversation that now exists only in memory. This bowl is not just food; it is an emotional reconstruction — a Michelin-starred memory of empathy and longing.
What I Could Not Share
These days, after watching Netflix’s Culinary Class Wars, I find myself drawn to cooking shows. Clips of Korean chefs working around the world appear constantly in my feed. K-Pop, K-Drama, and now K-Food and K-Chefs command global attention.
I watched a Lunar New Year special—Kim Youngchul’s Neighborhood—featuring Chef Hwang Jung-in in San Francisco. One dish stayed with me: his mother’s miyeokguk (seaweed soup) topped with cheese. Tradition meeting innovation.
And whenever I see such scenes, I cannot help but think:
What if I had been able to share my culinary experiences with my father? What if he had been there with me in that little restaurant in Modena, or at one of the Michelin-starred places I visited later? Would those moments of joy have brought back his appetite, even briefly?
A Memory Left Alone
The truth is, we cannot share every experience with those we love. Time does not wait, and opportunities exist only in the moment.
I carry with me many treasured memories of taste, but they remain mine alone. They are experiences I could not share with my father. Memories where I could not hear him whisper, “This is delicious.”
So if you have someone dear beside you today, sit down for a meal together. Share that moment. Share that joy. Share the empathy that comes from saying, “This is good.”
Because sometimes “later” never comes.
I know this now.
Lightly, yet deeply. And always, together.
