As the vent struggled to handle the amount of smoke we were generating, I couldn’t help but think we were doing it wrong.

My forearm was sore from gripping the tongs. I’d only managed a few mouthfuls of salty-sweet beef and haemuljeon to go with the conservative banchan (more than one refill and the proprietors charged you for it). But the chicken remained stubbornly rubbery even as everyone around me eyed the cuts browning at their own pace.

Perhaps something less marinade-forward, then, for next time. Perhaps we’d consider arriving less famished. And maybe I’ll have cured myself of the need to manage the grilling and just enjoy someone else’s efforts isntead.

None of the staff have picked up on our vent’s struggles.

It felt as though we were doing things wrong but, thankfully, tasted every bit as if we’d done it right. 🥢