It was 8:00 p.m.
Taeho’s legs felt heavy. The last guests had just left. Ji-young was briskly wiping down the tables.
“Ji-young, how’s the reaction to our opening photo on SNS?”
She wiped the same table once more—slowly.
“Not much. Only 30 likes so far. But this is just the beginning! Just wait. I’ll blow it up soon!”
At least she’s confident, Taeho thought.
“Seunghyun, you remember how to caramelize the onions? You’ll handle that during morning prep starting tomorrow.”
Seunghyun was learning quickly.
Then, the door opened.
“Excuse me, are you still open?”
Blonde hair, blue eyes, a beige trench coat—she looked like a slice of late autumn itself.
Taeho instinctively greeted in German.
“Guten Tag.”
The woman smiled.
“I’m Russian. I came after seeing ‘Svíčková na smetaně’ on the menu.”
“Please have a seat at the bar. The rest of the tables are being cleaned.”
Ji-young put down her rag. Her eyes stayed fixed on the woman. She raised her iPhone slightly—then set it down again. She looked like she had something to say.
She probably wants to take a picture, Taeho thought.
“Does smetana have a special meaning in Russia?” he asked.
The woman looked around the open kitchen where Taeho and Seunghyun were standing.
“Smetana is familiar to every Russian. My mother used to cook with it all the time. This brings back memories of home.”
Taeho recalled the time in Germany when he’d driven an hour just to buy Korean ramen. He wanted to do this right.
He brought out the well-aged Svíčková and let it simmer. A deep aroma of carrots and broth filled the air. He stirred the gravy gently—golden, rich, and smooth.
He tasted a spoonful.
Perfect salt. Perfect sweetness. He smiled, then added a swirl of cream and a spoonful of blueberry compote on top.
He began humming “An Innocent Man” by Billy Joel.
To him, the blueberry was like the bridge of the song—a change of rhythm and mood.
The woman didn’t look at her phone.
“This is delicious. It tastes like the stew my mother made. I’ve had this in Germany, but it was always more sour. This isn’t sour at all.”
Seunghyun asked, “Boss, why didn’t you add the sour taste?”
“In Europe, they marinate the meat in vinegar. But that overpowers the gravy. I separated the acidity—added it through blueberry compote. That way, you still get the depth of the meat.”
Seunghyun nodded. “Yeah, Koreans might not get sour brown stews.”
The woman dipped a piece of knedlíky in the sauce.
“This is Sauerbraten in german, right? Why call it Svíčková?”
“I found it in Prague. Same idea, but with less vinegar. And they add cranberry jam—it felt more balanced.”
“I see. Russian stews are often sour too. But this isn’t real smetana, right?”
Taeho stiffened.
“No. We don’t have Eastern European smetana in Korea. Only American-style sour cream. And since I removed the acidity from the stew, I used regular cream instead.”
The woman nodded.
“That’s a good approach. Sourness is polarizing. This would appeal to more people.”
Taeho was curious how her Korean was so fluent, but didn’t ask.
“That was great. Sorry for dropping by late. I’ll come again.”
She headed toward the register.
“Wait—excuse me!!”
Ji-young stopped her and gave her the Berlin’s Instagram handle.
The woman turned, locking eyes with Taeho.
He scratched his head.
She smiled brightly.
Taeho’s legs felt light.
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