The memory of flavor.
Where does the journey of taste begin?
What was the very first thing we tasted when we entered this world?
Perhaps...
It was our mother’s milk.
That first nourishment was the true origin of taste.
An excerpt from the heart
While walking through Olympic Park, I notice young wild rose shoots growing thick and lush in the brush.
The stems are tender, holding a soft hint of pink.
Recalling the flavors of my childhood, I snap a stem, peel away the skin, and take a bite. It is exactly as I remember—sharp, green, and wonderfully fresh.
I remember how many of these we used to pick and eat back then.
There were also the young silvergrass seeds.
In the autumn, they would drift through the air like snow on the cooling breeze.
We would chew on those sweet seeds until only the fiber remained, treating them like a natural gum.
I pull a few now, peel them, and taste.
Ah, the flavor hasn't changed at all.
This was the snack that fueled our growing years.
I think back to the marsh snails in the streams of my hometown.
In just a short moment, we could easily gather a whole bowl.
When you lifted a smooth, wet stone, they would be clinging to the underside in clusters.
If we were lucky, we would find a crawfish as a bonus.
Boiling them in dark, savory soybean paste created a rich, comforting broth.
It was the ultimate morning soup, restorative and deep.
Between the slight bitterness, the hint of earth, and the nuttiness of the paste, it was a flavor that could cure any ailment.
And the sparrows?
In the depths of winter, beneath the thatched roofs, all sorts of creatures would huddle together for warmth.
In a frozen world, it was the warmest place to be.
When the small sparrows settled into the crevices for the night, it was time for the hunt.
The method was simple enough.
Shining a lantern into the nooks, we would reach in quickly to catch them.
I can still feel the flutter of wings against my palm—one bird struggling for life, and one boy holding tight for a meal.
Then, we would roast them over a straw fire.
They were no larger than a chestnut, but that concentrated flavor... that was the true essence of food.
I remember the yellow and red stains.
The juices from my metal lunchbox would leak out, coloring the pages of my textbooks.
On good days, there might be dried anchovies, but usually, it was radish pickles buried in soybean paste, seasoned with sesame oil, garlic, and chili powder.
My books ended up tattered and stained like old rags.
Back then, the contents of your lunchbox were a marker of status.
Yet, it is a strange thing.
I can never forget that taste.
More than just the flavor, I find myself longing for the memory of that humble lunchbox.
The memory of flavor.
Where does taste truly begin?
What was the first thing we ever tasted?
Yes...
The first was our mother’s milk.
That was the starting point.
When I first cried out into the world, I was given that warmth.
Because of it, I survived.
At that moment, it was my entire world.
Many people spend their lives on a quest for flavor because they cannot forget that original feeling.
And eventually, we all arrive back at that first taste—the one provided by a mother.
We are often more moved by a simple, humble dish prepared by a mother than by a grand banquet.
Much like salmon that travel the vast oceans only to return to their birthplace.
Ultimately, the origin of taste is found in motherhood and the idea of home.
To travel long distances in search of that flavor is the path of a true gourmet.
It is a lonely but beautiful journey of the soul.
A lifelong search for the warmth of affection and love.
Even when the source—home—is closer than we think.
Parents' Day is just around the corner.
Here at Goldtuna, many families will visit us to continue their own journeys of taste.
My family and I will welcome each guest with quiet dedication and heartfelt care.
We will do our utmost to gift you a moment of genuine emotion.