Seunghyun and Jiyoung had already gone home. Taehos legs were heavy. But inside the shop, laughter was still flowing as Taehos voice joined Kyungsik’s in harmony.
“Sing us a song tonight~” Billy Joel’s Piano Man echoed through The Berlin, louder than usual. Kyungsik seemed to spend more time here than at his own home these days.
Then, the door creaked open.
“Excuse me, are you still serving?”
It was Ilya.
“Of course. Have a seat,” Kyungsik gestured beside him. Ilya smiled and took a spot one seat over.
“Hyung, we literally just closed,” Taehos voice was playful as he took a sip of beer. “But I suppose some late-night cheese fries, medovik, and hot tea won’t hurt.”
“That sounds perfect. Thank you,” said Ilya, rubbing her hands together to warm them.
“And where are you from, miss?” Kyungsik asked. “I’m Kyungsik, this young chef’s older brother—sort of.”
“I’m from Russia. My name is Ilya,” she said with a smile.
It was the first time Taehos heard her name.
“I caught the song earlier—was it another Billy Joel number?”
“Always is,” Taehos replied as he cut a slice of medovik.
“This guy only plays Billy Joel in this place,” Kyungsik added. “Strangely, it never gets old.”
As the cheese sizzled golden in the fryer, the warm aroma began to fill the air.
“I’ve been thinking,” Taehos said, plating the dessert. “Last time, you compared German cuisine to the Toyota production system. What would it be in music terms? Classical?”
Kyungsik’s eyes lit up. “Now that’s a fun thought. Yeah, that fits. Think about it—meat, sauce, sides—each one prepared separately like sections in an orchestra. Woodwinds, brass, percussion… all rehearsed apart, but coming together in the end.”
“And no improvising,” he added. “Try freestyling in a Beethoven symphony and the conductor will lose his mind. That’s German food too. Precision. No deviation.”
“Then Chinese cuisine is jazz,” Taehos said, grinning. “High heat, fast tempo, bold improvisation. Just like a David Miles solo—unrepeatable, even by his students.”
Kyungsik pointed toward the ceiling dramatically. “Exactly! The flames, the knife work, the wok tossing—every second is rhythm. The chef becomes the musician.”
“And Italian?” he continued, eyes twinkling. “That’s Billy Joel. Always catchy, familiar, beloved by everyone. A fusion of everything—rock, pop, classical—but still grounded by the piano.”
“And the lyrics,” he added, “even when sad, the melody keeps it light. That balance—so hard to pull off—is what makes him great.”
Ilya listened silently, now halfway through her medovik. She blew gently over her cup of tea before taking a sip.
“This cake… it’s not like the medovik I remember in Russia.”
Taehos hands froze. “What’s different?”
“The sweetness is lighter. There’s this surprising tang in the middle, and then the walnuts come in and change the texture completely. It’s… balanced.”
Kyungsik whistled. “Told you. This guy’s desserts are something else.”
“In Russia, it’s usually heavier and very sweet,” Ilya said. “But your version… it has emotion. Structure, but with variation. Like classical music—with a twist.”
Kyungsik jabbed his spoon into a beer bottle and leaned back.
“This medovik is pure Billy Joel. Built on tradition, but always open to feeling.”
Taehos ears turned red. He chugged the rest of his beer.
“Now you’re just flattering me. If Billy heard that, he’d probably laugh.”
“Maybe we are,” Kyungsik chuckled. “But it’s true.”
“I’m just happy to be here,” Ilya said, setting down her fork. “Everything—your music, your food—feels warm. Like I can breathe again. Like life has rhythm.”
Taehos eyes met hers briefly, then turned away. So did Kyungsik’s.
“This song’s nice,” Ilya added, as This Night began to play.
Taehos reached for the volume knob and turned it up.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, the three swayed gently with the melody. Warmth filled the space between them.
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