When my little brother and I slide open the pine and rice paper doors of Garam Ggukshi, we see the same ahjummas, middle-aged aunts, all dressed in purple-striped flannels tucked into their black apron skirts and worn-out jeggings.

“Oh my, look who it is! Yeonkyeong! Deoksoon! Come out!” Soonhee Ahjumma shouted.

She hurriedly wipes her wet hands on her apron and rushes to hug me.

“Funny, you smell the same!” I let out a laugh as I hugged her back. All of the ahjummas rush to see us and spread out their arms. Without a jist of hesitation, my brother and I fling ourselves into their arms.

“Oh my gosh, he grew so tall!”

“She’s matured into a beautiful lady!”

“What did they feed you in America?”

The ahjummas joyfully shared with each other, as if we were their own kids who just returned from the military. My cheekbones hurt from smiling too much.

Soonhee Ahjumma leads us to our favorite spot in the entire restaurant: the hidden room in the back with low wooden tables and heated floors. I cannot help but let out a gasp as I reminisce about all the memories I made in this room — my favorites being the time where I met my uncle’s fiancée, now my beloved aunt, or all the times I played house with their utensils with my favorite cousin. We sit on traditional Korean bangsuks, or cushions, which are now faded and flat. Soonhee Ahjumma cannot hide her smile as she passes out water cups. “How many years has it been? Do you need to see the menu?”

“No, we don’t. Do you still remember our order after all these years?” Dad asks.

“Of course, how could I not? One kalguksu with extra broth and green onions and salt on the side, extra spicy signature galbi gukbap, and one plate of bossam (boiled pork shoulder sliced with side dishes) with cabbage instead of lettuce, right? It will be right out!” says Soonhee Ahjumma.

It was great to see Soonhee Ahjumma still the same: healthy and happy. I thought of her often in the States.

“The food’s here.”

My mouth waters as I carefully blow the steam off of Garam Ggukshi’s kalguksu, my all-time favorite handmade wheat flavor noodles. Sluuuuurp.

“Honey, are you crying? What’s wrong? It doesn’t taste good?” Mom frowns.

I’m crying because it tastes like my youth.

As a clueless two year old, I first ate these noodles with my bare hands.

After my first day of preschool, I spilled the soup on my new uniform.

As a five year old, I craved the comforting broth after my disappointing violin recitals.

As a six year old, it was the first meal I had with my new baby brother.

As a seven year old, it was the last meal I had with Grandpa before he lost his battle with cancer.

As a nine year old, I had a spicy bowl of gukbap, hot and spicy soybean sprout soup, two hours before moving to California.

Garam Ggukshi is where I went after church on Sundays, after arriving at the airport from family vacations, the meal of choice for all of my birthdays. It was where I went after bad days and after good days.    

The first few months after my immigration, I faced trouble adjusting to the new environment and only speaking in English. I tried to find solace in dining at various Korean restaurants, but none of them came close to imitating Garam’s signature meal. Now, as I sat here crying over a bowl of noodles, I realized that Garam Ggukshi was the cure for my homesickness.

“I’m okay, Mom. Nothing is wrong. Everything is just right.”