Life Tavern

The next day.

“Mm.”

Arms crossed, Hayun prowled around the tavern, her gaze sharpening as she scrutinized every corner of the place.

More problems than I expected.

A yard choked with weeds. A mud wall on the verge of collapse. A wooden platform that creaked at the slightest touch.

Good business began with ensuring that customers felt no discomfort whatsoever. If the shop relied on a handful of old regulars, that would be one thing — but to welcome the flood of customers she intended to bring in, removing every element that might put the majority of people off was essential.

Hayun already knew well that the rise and fall of a business was never decided by taste alone.

Leave no unpleasant memory behind.

No matter how delicious the food, a bug floating in the bowl ruins everything — the same principle. The foundation of the food business began with leaving no unpleasant experience. Taken to its extreme, a customer ought to remember nothing at all. So little, in fact, that they couldn't recall exactly when they'd been there. Her personal doctrine was that a tavern like this, above all, had to feel comfortable enough to visit every single day without ever growing tired of it.

The entrance is narrow and dreary. It makes you not want to go in at all.

Hayun's eyes locked onto the tavern's entrance.

A worn-out rush mat lay crumpled in a heap, and a pile of firewood blocked half the doorway. Worse, a musty odor drifted from somewhere — the stink of old rain-soaked wood mingled with mold.

No wonder nobody comes.

An entrance was, to a shop, what a face was to a person. And that face had been left to rot, utterly neglected. It was a truly deplorable state of affairs. Through a customer's eyes, this tavern fell squarely into the category of places you should not enter.

No matter how good the food, it means nothing if no one crosses the threshold.

Just as romance required at least some attention to one's appearance, running a business demanded its own kind of grooming.

Part of me wants to tear the whole thing down and start over…

Hayun let out a long sigh. Money, time — everything was in short supply. All she had was a sturdy body and the knowledge stored in her head.

I need to prioritize and focus. Maximum effect for minimum cost.

Lost in thought, her footsteps suddenly stopped. What had caught her eye was a tattered old flag hanging limp in the air.

Ju… mak…? Wine… water…?

A rag of cloth, torn and faded by the wind, its original letters impossible to make out. Strokes that could have been characters or mere stains fluttered in the breeze.

“A sign board!”

Hayun cried out suddenly.

“Ai, you scared me half to death!”

Startled by the shout, Ok-bun, who had been peeling garlic in one corner of the yard, looked up.

“A sign board? What in tarnation's that? Somethin' you eat?”

Ok-bun asked, narrowing her eyes. The word itself was clearly foreign to her.

“A sign board is the shop's calling card. Instead of that rag of cloth, I'll make you a proper one.”

Hayun pointed at Mun-sik.

“Mister Mun! Do you happen to have any spare wooden planks lying around? The bigger, the better! And some ink and a brush, too, please!”

Mun-sik, who had just set down his A-frame carrier in the yard, asked with a bewildered look.

“What do you want a plank for? Gonna use it for kindlin'?”

“I'm going to rename the shop. And take that flag down for good.”

At the mention of removing the flag, Ok-bun gasped.

“Now hold on, what's wrong with a perfectly good flag? That's what folks see as they pass by and come in!”

“They come in when they see it? Not run away?”

“Wh-what did you say?”

Ok-bun's face flushed crimson. But Hayun's bluntness showed no sign of stopping.

“You have to make it so customers think, ‘Ah, so this place sells food!’ the moment they look at it. Look at those faded letters — who's going to guess there's a business running here? They'll assume it's gone under.”

“Hm… now that I hear it, there's something to that.”

Before she knew it, Ok-bun was nodding along, won over by Hayun's words. The truth was, she had known all along — known that lately, customers had been walking straight past the tavern without a second glance. But knowing where or how to begin fixing it, she had simply left it be. Now, though, she had Hayun, who pinpointed the problems exactly, like scratching an itch she could never reach herself.

Creak.

Mun-sik opened the shed door and rummaged about, then emerged holding a fairly large wooden plank. Not palm-sized — a great slab as big as a torso.

“Will this do?”

“Perfect!”

Mun-sik handed over the plank along with a broken-down brush, half its bristles fallen out and the handle split.

“Ink's too dear to spare, but I've got some char-black mixed with oil… will this work?”

“Hm, that should do fine.”

Hayun laid the plank down in the middle of the yard and deliberated over what to write on it.

Now the real work begins.

Who names a place carelessly? A plain label like “tavern” simply wouldn't do. Knowing the power of a name, Hayun sank deep into thought.

We need differentiation. Just writing “tavern” makes it no different from any other shop.

Dozens of words rose and fell away in her mind. When people said “design,” they usually thought only of visual elements, but in truth, linguistic elements — naming a shop, coining a product name when needed — took up a surprising share of the craft.

A logo would be difficult, though…

She considered a logo with a highly recognizable image, but whether people of this era could even grasp the concept of a logo was a gamble. And above all, images traveled poorly. No matter how perfect a logo she created, there would be no way to describe it in words. In an age where word of mouth was everything, she realized she ultimately had to win with words.

A word that's simple and easy, yet everyone can remember!

A single word fitting that description surfaced in her mind.

Yes — that's it!

Having settled on a name, Hayun boldly raised the brush.

Whoosh!

Hayun was a recognized master of calligraphy. Creating an entire identity with a single piece of handwriting was one of her most powerful weapons.

Good writing is a design in itself.

Though not on the level of the great calligrapher Han Seok-bong, Hayun was deeply versed in the art, and she began writing without hesitation.

Swaash — stroke, stroke!

The wood's surface was uneven, but it posed no problem for writing. The black paint of charcoal and oil soaked into the plank.

No second chances. Finish it in one go.

The most important thing in brushwork was never to hesitate. Hesitation left its trace, plain as day. Better to fail boldly than to waver — that was the secret of good calligraphy, and it was true of painting as well.

Swooosh!

Pouring her strength into the final stroke, Hayun completed the new shop's name.

Mun-sik and Ok-bun, who had watched the whole process beside her, went wide-eyed.

“Lordy, what in the world is that?”

“Never seen writin' like that in all my days.”

“The letters all twisty, then swellin' up… looks like a young'un's scrawl if ever I saw one!”

“And yet it reads clear as a bell. Now that's a right peculiar marvel, I'll say.”

Calligraphy that pushed Hangul to its absolute limits was, naturally, hard for people of the past to comprehend. Beyond freely manipulating strokes, her style outright invaded the territory of other scripts — a typeface that existed nowhere in this age, Hayun's alone.

Strokes flung out with exhilarating freedom. Exquisite control of weight and lightness. And a final touch of flair on the last character. The letters Hayun had written began to breathe like living creatures.

“Phew. Done.”

Hayun, who had wielded the brush as if entranced, wiped her brow. What she had written on the plank read:

The word “life” combined with “tavern.”

Seeing the new name, Ok-bun blinked in puzzlement.

“Life Tavern? Whatever does that mean…?”

“It means the one tavern you simply must stop at once in your life.”

Hayun set down the brush with a grin.

“It can also mean that a single meal eaten here might change your life. What do you think? Not bad, right?”

Truthfully, meaning was whatever you chose to hang on it. It could be hung on the nose or the ear, as the saying goes — what mattered was the impact of the word itself.

Life liquor, Life jeon, Life gukbap. So much can branch off from this. Nobody's claimed the territory yet — now is my chance.

Obvious as it sounded, in the future one couldn't use such a name even if one wanted to. You had to check for duplicate business names, file trademark applications — a whole tangle of procedures. But here, where no such concepts existed, it was unclaimed land. First come, first served. Like painting on a pristine white sheet of paper, what picture she would draw upon the land of Joseon rested entirely in Hayun's hands.

“Life Tavern…”

Ok-bun stood rooted in place, gazing at the sign. The seemingly disorderly lettering strangely held her gaze, and above all, the word “life” stirred something in her chest.

“The letters are a bit crooked, but it suits the place better than I expected.”

“That it does. Neither Chinese characters nor Hangul — this strange thing keeps pullin' my eye right to it.”

“Now then, please hang it where it's most visible from the entrance.”

The sign finished, Mun-sik carried it toward the tavern entrance, Hayun following behind to direct the placement.

“Higher! So it can be seen from across the road!”

“How's this?”

“Tilt the left side up a little. It's not level.”

“There, done?”

“Center it. Move it a bit more to the right, please.”

“Here?”

“More, more, more, more!”

“Aiya, what a picky little thing you are…”

Mun-sik grumbled, but his expression was far from displeased. Truth be told, when Hayun had first announced she would take charge, he hadn't expected much. But the moment she began putting her skills to work, it was unmistakably clear she was a professional — and a highly skilled one at that.

“Good. Nail it in firmly right there. And be careful it doesn't get soaked when it rains.”

“Honestly, anyone watching would take you for the owner of this place.”

While Mun-sik fixed the sign to the post, Hayun approached Ok-bun.

“Mistress Ok.”

“Mm? What is it?”

“Besides gukbap, do you sell other dishes here? Wild greens or pancakes, say?”

“Course we do, child.”

Hayun pressed on immediately.

“Then what exactly is the full list of dishes you serve here? Give me the prices too, please.”

“What're you askin' that for?”

“I'm going to make a menu board.”

“Menu board?”

“Ah — let's call it a chirimpyo.”

Hayun's next plan was to create a menu board.

The vast majority of people eating gukbap are men in their twenties to sixties. And those men never ask for the menu.

Nothing said roadside tavern like, “Auntie! One bowl of gukbap here!” It wasn't that they didn't want to eat other dishes — it happened because they simply didn't know other dishes existed.

They never ask, so how would they ever know?

Men were so hopeless that many couldn't even manage to ask for the haircut they actually wanted.

To draw people in, there's no choice but to sell a variety of dishes.

No matter how delicious the gukbap, eating it alone every day would wear thin. Gukbap had to remain the flagship, but it needed a supporting cast of diverse side dishes. Only then could the tavern embrace the crowds. And all of it had to be laid out clearly, visible at a single glance.

“Pepper jeon, 2 jeon. Potato jeon, 3 jeon. Pollack jeon, 5 jeon. Seasoned wild ginger, 4 jeon. Seasoned bean sprouts, 2 jeon…”

“Good. Keep calling them out.”

Taking the remaining plank, Hayun began copying down Ok-bun's words exactly as she spoke them. The dish names were aligned in a column on the left, with the prices written on the right. The jeon price was replaced with a charming little illustration of a coin. Adding a decorative border to the plank completed the menu board.

“There.”

Hayun gazed at the finished board with satisfied eyes. Made with brush alone, it was simple — and precisely for that reason, instantly readable at a glance. The menu board Hayun had created read:

Having completed the menu board, Hayun turned to Ok-bun with a pleased smile.

“What do you think? Being able to see every dish at once makes it so much simpler, right?”

“Ooh, clean and easy on the eyes. You've sure got the knack, that much is plain.”

“What did I tell you? I said I'd make this the finest tavern in all of Joseon.”

“You do know a thing or two about business, I'll grant you that.”

Watching Hayun overhaul the tavern as devotedly as if it were her own home, Ok-bun's wariness gradually began to crumble.

“Now then, the next thing to do is…”

And so, a month flew by in no time.

In that span, Hayun carried out all manner of repairs, from gutting the kitchen onward. Beyond that, she trained Ok-bun and Mun-sik in service and hygiene management, and added a variety of visual touches inside and outside the tavern.

“Today is D-Day.”

She hadn't deliberately kept the doors locked, but a month of tearing the place apart had actually kept people away. Every so often someone would wander up out of curiosity, but at the chaos of the surroundings they'd turn on their heel, wondering, Are they finally shutting the place down for good?

Now that Life Tavern stood on the eve of its grand reopening.

A wooden floor swept spotless. Tables set up straight. A gleaming new sign. It had become a completely transformed place — the phrase “turning over a new shell” hardly did it justice.

Mun-sik and Ok-bun asked, hearts trembling.

“Will people really come?”

“Don't worry. In a few days, they'll be lining up to the walls to eat.”

“Wouldn't that be a fine sight.”

With preparations more or less complete, Hayun abruptly began striding toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“Preparations are done — now it's time to gather the people.”

So saying, Hayun fixed her gaze on the great iron cauldron at the center of the kitchen. Inside it simmered a rich, hearty broth that had been boiling away for hours.

“Hah-yah!”

Without a moment's hesitation, Hayun lifted the cauldron lid with her tongs.

Whooosh—!

Ok-bun, witnessing this, jumped in fright and came running.

“Girl, what do you think you're doin' — the broth'll boil down!”

As Ok-bun moved to slam the lid back on, Hayun explained herself.

“You have to lure people with the smell! What good is it keeping this wonderful aroma locked up in here?”

“Lure folks in with a smell?”

“Yes. From now on, we're going to spread this scent far and wide. This smell is more precious than any perfume in the world.”

Saying so, Hayun flung the kitchen doors wide open.

“Do we have fans? Hurry — fan toward the road! Lunch hour is the perfect moment!”

“Wh-what?”

Ok-bun, half dazed, picked up a fan.

“Here, take the fan.”

“Good. Fan as hard as you can!”

“Grrrh, what nonsense is this…”

Grumbling all the while, Ok-bun nevertheless began fanning in earnest. Having come this far, there was nothing to do but trust Hayun.

Flap! Flap!

Steam billowed out of the kitchen. Carried on the breeze toward the roadside, the smoke was heavy with the deep scent of simmering beef broth.

And with that, every preparation is complete. All that's left is to wait.

Hayun gazed in the direction the smoke was drifting, an enigmatic look on her face.

That same hour. The foot of Mungyeong Saejae.

A band of peddlers was making its way over the pass. All eight of them, their backs bowed under cloth packs stuffed full of goods.

“Ugh.”

Hauling packs over the Saejae was grueling work. Peddlers of old shouldered loads averaging thirty kilograms and walked some twenty kilometers a day. In modern terms, it was a daily forced march. As a result, peddlers were forever plagued by hunger — only by constantly filling their stomachs could they keep their feet moving.

Such were the peddlers, trudging on in silence, when—

“Sniff, sniff.”

The peddler leading the way flared his nostrils.

“Eh? Boss, what's that smell?”

“That's… meat boiling, ain't it?”

“Hooh, now that's a meat smell the likes of which I've never caught before.”

Stirred by the scent tickling their noses, the other peddlers stopped one by one. A savory, rich broth smell was drifting toward them on the wind.

“Come to think of it, ain't it just about mealtime?”

“I was gettin' peckish anyhow… let's head over yonder and see.”

“Aye, let's go quick.”

As if bewitched by the scent, their feet turned naturally toward the tavern.

A little later,

The peddler who stepped into the tavern's entrance went wide-eyed.

“What in the—?”

A yard swept neat and tidy, walls painted with murals, and a sign that seized the gaze at once: Life Tavern.

“Life Tavern? There was a place like this here?”

Seeing the sign, the peddlers tilted their heads as if something didn't add up.

“Now I recall — wasn't there a tavern around here before?”

“Ah! I remember! The one half-collapsed on its feet—”

“This is that place?”

The peddlers who remembered the old tavern shook their heads in disbelief. They had walked this road for a dozen years and more, yet not once had they set foot in Mun-sik's tavern. Even when rain and wind poured down, that one house they had always avoided. There simply was no stomach for using the place. But today was different.

Where a shabby thatched hut once slumped, a yard now stood in tidy order. A sign planted square and straight. And above all, the savory smell riding the wind had snagged them by the ankles. It didn't take long for hesitation to turn to curiosity.

“Did the owner change?”

“Hm, well — let's step in and see.”

“Aye, we'll count it as a gamble and take a look.”

Half believing, half doubting, the peddlers stepped through the doors of Life Tavern.