Table for one, p.3
Table for One, page 3
In the past, I wouldn’t have been able to come into a place like this, I told myself as I ate the soup. My cheeks, which would have been burning red, were calm. My heart wasn’t beating fast, either. But before I dared to imagine the possibility of a future passing score, my chest constricted with pressure. Times like this were the reason I always kept digestive aids in my bag.
A woman with long, straight hair entered the restaurant. Huh? She’d come alone, but she didn’t head to a corner. She grabbed a chair in the middle of the room and asked, “Is it possible to order just one serving of pork belly?” The woman ordered two servings and began to grill her meat as naturally as if someone were with her. The woman was visible from every seat and every corner of the building. She was sitting in the middle like a round, coal-burning heater from an old-fashioned elementary school classroom, like someone trying to expel heat throughout the entirety of the restaurant. I wasn’t the only person amazed by this woman. Couples filling secluded tables, and a group of office workers sitting in a line, also stared at the woman in her oblivious solitude. She really was just like one of those heaters, singular yet surrounded. The woman was exposed. Without giving any hints as to whether or not she was aware of her exposure, she called for the owner. “Give me a bowl of rice here, and a bottle of soju. Make it Chumchurum.”
From now on, let’s call the woman the Expert. The woman really was an expert at what she was doing. The Expert was, at most, in her early thirties. The Expert was pretty and perfectly groomed. The Expert’s grill was hot, and she busily grilled her meat upon it. The Expert pulled a hair tie out of her shoulder bag and twisted it around her long, straight hair to tie it up behind her neck. After tousling her ponytail, she looked at her profile in the mirror. She patted the back of her neck with a wet cloth. Was this woman even aware of anyone staring at her? I wondered, and in that moment, she opened her mouth. “Could you please turn on the air conditioning?” The restaurant owner turned on the air conditioning. “Shall I turn on the fan over there, too?” the owner asked.
As I watched the Expert, the beef stew in front of me slowly cooled without being eaten. The cold soup and hardened rice looked miserable. They were miserable because they weren’t the food I’d been preparing for.
“Excuse me, two servings of pork belly, please.”
The words flew out of my mouth instantaneously, with a strength I’d gained from watching the Expert. Everyone except the Expert stared at me. Actually, I don’t really know. It seemed I was being stared at, and it also seemed like I wasn’t. What was certain was that the waiter was looking at me. The waiter asked again. “Two servings of pork belly?”
Why do you have to ask like that?
“Yes, and a bottle of soju, too. Chamisul Fresh.”
Oho, so this was how the conversation with the waiter would be. It did feel impressively natural. But after hearing the words I’d spat out so ostentatiously, the waiter clarified once more.
“A whole bottle?”
He indicated a one with his pointer finger. What had I said? I wanted one bottle! Even if I could only drink half of it. I showed the waiter with my finger as well, deliberately smiling to myself to stop my face from turning red.
I had to get up before the Expert. Pork belly, which doesn’t even have its own beat, is a food to be eaten confidently and by itself. I was going to eat all the food in front of me before the Expert left and took her sense of calm with her. If the Expert, sitting there like a heater, got up, then a brisk cold was sure to set in. I grilled the pork belly hastily, like I was being chased by all the musical notes in the world, and then quickly wrapped it up in lettuce and carried it to my mouth. I also poured myself glass after glass of soju. Soju was as good a tool as wine. And after thirty minutes, I was sitting in front of the Expert. I don’t understand how it happened, but there the Expert was, filling my glass with alcohol as she talked. It seemed like we’d already been chatting for a long time. Only now did I feel like I’d snapped back to my senses.
“What class did you say you were?” she asked me. “Ah, the twenty-eighth? Well then, I graduated almost ten terms before you. What step does it go to now? Oh, it’s changed a lot since my time. In my day, it was a little bit less systematic, you see.”
The Expert went to the cinema alone, went to amusement parks alone, went on hiking trips alone, went to salsa bars alone, went late-night shopping alone, and went on cruises alone. She lived an active and enthusiastic solo life. And this solo life all started with a course to learn to eat alone.
“Restaurants are like bathrooms,” she continued. “There are a lot of people who still hold hands and walk all the way to the toilet together, like little girls in kindergarten. One person pisses while the other talks incessantly by his or her side, and after that they switch roles. I really don’t understand how someone can do such an inefficient and shameful thing. People say that society wastes a lot of energy, but the way I see it, manpower is the worst kind of waste. That’s because it’s human energy. There’s going to the cafeteria in droves, for one. Have you ever thought about all the things we do in order to eat with others? It takes time, stamina, consideration of your partner’s food tastes, the TV and movies you have to watch in order to sustain the conversation, and all sorts of effort besides that, not to mention listening to your partner’s personal affairs. If it’s that much work, whew.”
“There are people starving to death, so isn’t it an extravagance to pay money to take a class like this? I’ve thought about that a lot, recently.”
As soon as I finished my question, the Expert put the last piece of meat in her mouth. Then she filled her glass with Chumchurum, mine with Chamisul Fresh.
“In a world where people are starving to death, how extravagant is it that some people can’t eat even a bite of food by themselves? It’s been said over and over again that the modern man is soft, but not even having the courage to eat the food that’s given to you alone, feeling nauseous and just leaving it and purposefully not eating, how shameful is it to make a fuss like that? You have to be able to think about this kind of thing. Try fasting for three or four days. Will you pay attention to the people around you then? You’ll just see the plate in front of you—you’ll shed that pointless shame like a snake sheds its skin. You have to think a little more deeply, take it all in. The course? Don’t quit.”
The Expert’s glass came toward mine and collided with it. Like a rear-end collision, Chumchurum crashed into Chamisul Fresh. And once more: Chamisul Fresh crashed into Chumchurum. As they collided into a toast, something resounded with a thud. Thud, and my indigestion dissipated entirely. Thud, and the world changed.
We emptied a bottle of soju each. It seemed like the Expert had drunk to her limit, and I’d drunk to twice mine. After the Expert took her bill and disappeared, I purposefully stayed for about five more minutes, sitting quietly. The Expert’s rant during our soju-glass collision was ringing in my ears.
“My diploma changed the axis of the world. Now everything revolves around me.”
My body faltered. Had the world’s axis really changed like the Expert said? I leaned to the left and to the right. Crack. My joints let out a stiff groan.
After drinking with the Expert, my grades improved day by day. Restaurant or not, every place in the world looked like a dinner table of a different size. All the worries that had troubled me as I decided where to eat alone consolidated into a single worry: What kind of food do I want to eat today?
It was a tabletop revolution, but the aftereffect wasn’t limited to the table. It continued during rush hour, on packed subways. I realized that I wasn’t one of the many planets circling the solar system. I was in the spotlight. Alone at both barbecue restaurants and wedding buffets, I was not lonely but a star in the crowd, and with that thought, I was awash with the feeling that I was the center of the subway, the core of the earth, the nucleus of the universe, the world’s innermost layer. Each time the subway door opened, numerous people moved here and there as always, but even as I was swept up into the crowd, I was the protagonist. All I had to do was make sure I didn’t stray out of orbit.
As if the world’s axis really was changing, some trendy restaurants had started to increase the focus on solo seating. Bar stools and seating divided by partitions were both popping up. In these kinds of spaces, you didn’t actually lock eyes with anyone even if you looked around as you fiddled with your spoon. These were spaces where everyone was eating together, but everyone was also eating alone. The people who came to this kind of place, with nothing but solo seating, might be the sort who were so reserved that they couldn’t even pass step one. They might be the kind of people who would drag a friend along to a wedding or stop by the butcher rather than go to a barbecue restaurant alone. But here they’d be, eating alone and indifferently, as if they had casually passed all five steps and whatever lay beyond them. People who can’t share tables can’t crack jokes, and some can’t even tell the truth. Office chatter is never meant for them. But no matter what the reason for their exclusion may be, the people sitting here would at least have the view in front of them—their food trays—guaranteed.
* * *
Those of us who had passed the sushi restaurant and barbecue restaurant were now receiving video instruction on the unexpected situations that could arise regardless of setting, and we used role-play to learn an adaptive response method. The classroom had multipurpose walls like a studio, so sometimes it became a snack bar filled with high school girls, other times it became the restaurant in front of a terminal filled with soldiers, and still other times it became a barbecue restaurant filled with employees enjoying a company dinner. We pretended that I’d just ordered a higher-level food when I discovered a foreign substance inside my meal, or I had to share a table with another person, or I ran into an old flame while eating alone. We acted out situations where that old flame had a new partner or spouse but I was single, or where I ran into old classmates or coworkers. There were many possible courses of action in these situations, and we tried them all out. We went through each of the five steps like this. But our instructor explained that the real world always has more than five steps, his voice almost an octave higher than it had been at the beginning of the course.
“Now it’s time for the real-life test,” he told us. “Pick ten restaurants from these sixty and write down the dates and times you’re going to visit them. On the corresponding date, simply go to the restaurant and eat as usual. Just one place out of the ten will be the real test site. Judges will be placed here and there, but you all won’t notice them. They could be a diner or an employee. Go to each of the ten places, have a meal, and bring the receipts back here. The date and time will be written on the receipts, so they’ll count as proof.”
I use my lunch hour to visit one restaurant per day, the same as when I had class. I enter the test site and order kimchi soup. I order beef ribs. I order a pizza, eat two slices, and casually take the rest to go; I order cold noodles and even drink the beef broth straight from the bowl. I eat spicy seafood noodle soup squeezed between soldiers on leave, I eat ramen surrounded by high school boys, I eat tripe and soju between coworkers having dinner together. Left hook, right hook: the looks are flying at me, but they can’t even reach the surface of my table before they fall to the floor. I mean, I’ve passed all five steps. I’m taking the final exam now. These dull-witted looks are beneath me—they crash before they can even get close. When I ask for more side dishes or strike up a conversation with the staff, I get extra points. Of course, it’s more important not to have points deducted. Is my gaze natural, is my face turning red, is my digestion okay, am I matching the beat? The moment I transcended these fears, an uppercut suddenly flew up from below.
* * *
“This is limited since we’re looking at the situation through CCTV, but if you compare your appearance here to your typical demeanor at meals, Inyeong, there’s something lacking. When you ordered, and for about ten minutes after receiving your food, it seemed like you were fine, but see the screen? Right here, from this point on, your pace began to falter. Don’t you agree?”
The instructor pointed at the monitor as he spoke. On the screen, I was eating with difficulty, not following a beat.
“One-two-three-four. This is four-four time, but it’s hard to tell the beat here when you’re eating, Inyeong. You eat only rice, then you eat only soup, then you just drink water. Did you see the CCTV, perhaps? When you were taking the test, did you realize the CCTV was recording?”
“No.”
“Then did you run into someone you knew? An ex, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Were you nervous because it was a test?”
I nodded. On the screen, I was holding my chopsticks, but I looked like someone who had no will to eat. The only things moving somewhat energetically were two rows of teeth, constantly chewing. I didn’t even put any more food in my mouth, but the two rows of teeth continuously chewed something. And then at some moment I went off-screen. I went somewhere the CCTV couldn’t record and returned five minutes later, my face gaunt. During the five minutes the CCTV couldn’t capture, I had crouched in front of the bathroom toilet and thrown everything up. What I’d thrown up wasn’t just pizza or cold noodles, pork wraps or sausage; it was a mixture of all those and the past ten days of testing.
The screen showed me getting up from my seat, paying, and leaving; then it stopped. The instructor didn’t say anything, but I could guess that I’d failed for sure. As soon as he’d left the room, the consultant came up to me.
“This is a typical case, extremely typical,” he said. “You had digestion problems, didn’t you? I remember that: a typical case. The exam is a bit taxing, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t passed the exam, but without any desire for a diploma, I had no reason to attend class anymore. Menus no longer caused me fear, and my body had adjusted to eating alone. But a few days later at lunchtime, I found myself walking far, far from the office, looking for a table for one. I wasn’t someone who ignored her hunger, nor was I the kind of person who’d make do with a hamburger patty when she wanted real meat, but I was the kind of person who peeked inside restaurants the whole time I was walking to see whether or not there were guests eating alone. I was the kind of person whose face burned red when one of the other customers, or a passerby outside the window, resembled someone from my office. When choosing food, the most important thing was, as always, my own desire, but for some reason the food I wanted to eat was only sold at restaurants with at least one other person eating solo.
And just like that, I went back to square one. For three months, I went to countless restaurants alone under the pretext of review, but even if I went into a restaurant I’d been to before, it somehow felt awkward. The fact that I no longer had any assignments, any tests, any grades, was unfamiliar. On a tabletop more than five hundred meters from the office, in a place I’d barely managed to enter, I relived the five minutes that I’d disappeared from the CCTV. The truth—the weight of the truth—pressed down on my throat.
Only after failing the exam did I understand why a mere 15 percent of students got a diploma in one go. The thing that 85 percent of people were afraid of wasn’t the test. It was the real life that came after the test. After completing the course, there was no more reason to attend class, and with that, be part of a group. The dispersion of a crowd united by common interests and goals, people whom they’d sat with at every lunch hour, and just a diploma to show for it; the absence of a reason to come to this place; having to really go out into the world and face eating alone—these were all objects of terror. To them—no, to us—what was necessary was not the diploma but the time to delay reality.
The thing I’d wanted to learn was how to eat alone naturally, but instead I had gotten from the course the comfort that I wasn’t the only person eating alone. I was an individual franchise among many in the chain store of solo eaters.
What I had actually learned was that tables could be disguised as tables for one, and what class had forced me to face was reality disguised as reality. The first time, I’d enrolled without knowing this, and the second time I enrolled knowing. Now, the course would start again from the beginning, with a table for me and for all the others who fear the very thing that I do.
“I said that more than half of the 85 percent re-enroll, right? It’s already way more than half. And this is, well, a typical case. Okay, before you start the course again, see this empty box? There may have been something new that you felt during the past three months of class, so write one word here.”
The consultant grinned as he held out the forms. At the end of his mouthful of straight teeth, a lone gold tooth shone like a star. Eating alone is ____. The blank space looked like an empty restaurant. I picked up a pen and slowly went toward the blank.
Eating alone is enjoyable.
* * *
The customer comes in alone. The owner is a bit slow-witted and asks, “How many in your party tonight?” This is a family-style barbecue restaurant, though, so you can’t really say she’s slow-witted. Two servings of pork belly, a bowl of rice, a bottle of soju. Nothing too unusual, but for the order of a woman who came in alone at 7:00 p.m., it is sort of strange.
The woman drinks half a glass of soju for every three pork wraps, using both of her hands to have a quiet meal. Flipping meat with tongs, cutting it with scissors, grabbing it with chopsticks, putting it in her mouth with her hands—a typical way to eat. In spite of this, the woman is, as always, standing on a square boxing ring. In the fight with spectators, the woman’s best defense is attack. Before I can look at the woman, she is already looking at me. As our eyes meet, we open our mouths in sync. On both sides of the mirror, those words that transcend the beat I’ve so diligently practiced. Shall we sit together?
