[WP] You are a miserable cook and you begin to notice that those who eat your food feels the emotions you felt when you cooked that food.

Ping…

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"Chef!" Wendy's face was red, blowing hot fuming air. She looked around in search of the culprit that caused another one of her customers to walk out of the restaurant looking dissatisfied and unable to speak. "Bae Joo-Hyun . Come here!"

The fridge door slowly opened itself and a young girl appeared through the crack, looking at the maître d' in fear.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"I… I don't think so? Is there anything with the food, ma'am?"

"I was hoping that you would tell me. The past few days have been really upsetting." She put her hands to her waist, her frown causing the wrinkles to stand out. "I have been serving this place for a very long time and not once have I had the chance to see customers be this unhappy. God bless."

"But now," she pointed her index finger to the girl. "Since you've come to work for us, people have been walking out of the restaurant sad, disgusted, I don't know what it is."

"But, Ms. Bae, how can I know what to fix if I don't know what's wrong? Have you asked them what the issue was?"

Wendy hesitated. "W-Well, they didn't say there was anything wrong and people have been tipping generously," She looked across. "but I know the face of dissatisfaction and I definitely know it comes from your cooking."

Irene bit her lips. "So what would you like me to do? If there is nothing wrong, I really don't know what I can do to fix it."

Wendy stayed silent. The other girl wasn't wrong and she knew that on the surface she was completely unjustified to blame the girl for doing nothing wrong. The customers were never vocally unhappy, but the excitement was never there. It was like they simply ate for the sake of filling their stomach. For a two-star restaurant, this is completely unacceptable and yet she can't pinpoint her flaw either.

She sighed. "Why don't you cook me a plate of your finest dish and let me see what's wrong."

Irene nodded and returned to the kitchen. Spaghetti Alle Vongole. That was the dish she learned as a kid from her mom before she walked out of the family. Ironically speaking, Irene would never talk about her mother, but the recipe had imprinted itself inside her mind and it became the dish with which she passed her degree at cooking school.

Wendy looked on at the girl rolling the pasta around the pan. There was nothing wrong with her approach: Boil pasta, drain, fry, add condiments, add wine and clams and stir-fry pasta until al dente, drizzle olive oil and decorate. The girl was doing everything to the book. Wendy looked at her watch. Even the time is perfect to the second; 8 minutes exact before serve. She quickly returned to her seat and awaited the girl to come out. The pasta should taste as expected. Surprised should be out of the question.

Irene carefully pushed the door open, her hand held tightly onto the bottom of the plate. A white towel was draping over her other arm. Hygiene? Check. Presentation? Professional. She looked at the plate served in front of her. The alluring aroma of olive oil smothered her senses as she quietly swallowed her saliva. Looks? Clean.

Wendy held up her fork and combed it through the steamy spaghetti. The pasta didn't stick together, a sign that it was pulled at the right time. The color was nice and golden. She pushed her fork through a small amount and took a small bite. The first spaghetti was soft, but not mushy. It was definitely of acceptable standards.

Irene stood behind her manager, her posture straight. There was little expression in her face. After all, how could there be one. She knew how talented she was. Although she never told anyone, ranking top of the national cooking school was something most people would brag about. Not her. Her mom was a top chef in Korea and this was really the only way in which Irene believed she could potentially find her long-lost mother. She wanted to find out why she was abandoned as a child. After father died, the decision became only natural. Her heart throbbed at the thought.

Wendy took another bite. The pasta was well done. In fact, it tasted so well it made her think of the first time she had pasta. It was cooked by her former boyfriend, a loving guy from back in 2010. Loving until the son of a found out that apparently her best friend was more deserving. She took the fork and stabbed into the pasta.

"E-Everything okay, Ms Son?"

Irene watched as the woman kept stabbing the pasta as if it had done something wrong, chewing loudly and unsophisticated. It was very uncharacteristic for a woman who normally carried herself as a graceful and elegant young lady.

Pasta disappeared by the mouthful until the plate was cleaned.

"How was the pasta, Ms Son?"

Wendy just nodded as she stood up from her seat and left the restaurant for a walk.

Irene didn't know what to make of it. Was it good? Bad? Wendy hadn't left any clue as to the quality of her dish. Having only recently moved into the city of Seoul, she really couldn't afford to lose this job either. Plus, having to look for a new job is just such a hassle.

She grabbed the plate and went back to the kitchen.

It wasn't long before the door smashed against the walls. Wendy stormed in furious, grabbing hold of Irene's collar. "What the hell did you do to me?" she yelled.

"I... I didn't do anything. I just cooked." Irene squeaked.

"I just called my ex-boyfriend and told him that I missed him and that I wanted him back. I haven't spoken to him for five years. Why would I wanna do that? Hm?"

The sudden outburst caused Irene to blank out. There was no correlation between effects of good tasting food and a change of attitude. Surely good food can make you feel better about your day, but it wouldn't make anyone do something drastically. It made very little sense why she was the one being interrogated for it and truthfully she was beginning to feel offended.

She pushed the lady off her. "I didn't do anything. All I do is cook and now you're blaming me for your little teenage heartbreak. I don't even know the guy. Give me a break." she snapped back, her fists clenched tightly.

The words had left the girl stunned. In just mere moments she had not only become reckless, but unreasonably annoyed too. It wasn't the usual Wendy and now she had even taken it out on her staff who had just cooked her a fantastic tasting plate of pasta. Frustration began to boil deep inside her. "I don't believe you. You did something. Cook me one again." Wendy demanded.

"No. You already know the pasta is fine. Don't screw around with me." Irene could feel her body shake. She didn't graduate from cooking school and move all the way to Seoul just to be treated like a failure. She deserved better and the only reason she chose this place was for her mom. She could've just as easily worked at the Seoul Imperial Hotel.

"Cook me one again. I need to know you do exactly as it should and not adding anything extra to it." Wendy knew she had no right, but something about her changed just now. Something made her change and that something didn't occur until she had that pasta.

Irene roughly pulled another pot from the treys and slammed it on the stove. "This is the last time I'm doing anything like this for you. Pay me for this trouble and I'm out of here. " Irene couldn't stop the vulgarity from leaving under her breath.

She repeated her steps again and cooked another plate of pasta, leaving it in front of her boss. Her hands angled against her waist, her food tapping impatiently. What does the lady want now?

Wendy walked out of the kitchen and came back with the bartender, a kind young man with little knowledge in food, but could serve cocktails blindfolded if he was asked. "Here, try this." she said.

The man looked up and alternated his looks at both the girls, puzzled as to what was going on. He forked a big ball of pasta and stuffed it in his mouth. Considering how shy he usually is, it's strange to see how much the man could eat in one go.

"What do you think?" Wendy asked.

The man took another bite, followed by another and then a third.

"Is it any good?"

He slammed his fists on the steel table and looked at the girl. "Why the hell are you asking me all these questions? Can't you see that I'm busy eating? For someone who's supposed to be so classy, you sure are stupidly rude."

Their eyes widened at the reaction, shocked at the sudden change in the guy's reaction. For so long as the two had worked there, never had the guy shown any displeasure even at the drunkest of men at the early hours of night.

The two stared at each other and then at the pasta and then back up at each other.

There was something about her food. Or maybe it was the person cooking it.

For the first time in Irene's life, something significant had changed. Looking back at all the people who had tried her food, it only made sense the way they reacted to it. It's hard to ignore the sweaty nervous looks from a judge, let alone three.

Was she cursed with magic in her food?