How did he realize I’d lifted the block that fast?
Caesar started messaging morning and night, like we were old acquaintances. Most of his DMs were routine check-ins, but oddly, recipes were sometimes mixed in. Scanning recipes from different countries, I wondered:
"How did he know I unblocked him just to save recipes?"
Did he actually plant a CCTV in my place? The thought spooked me, and I tore through every corner of my apartment, but there wasn’t any suspicious camera.
In the end, half resigned, I tied on an apron. I wanted to recreate the cacio e pepe I’d had before.
About three hours later, I collapsed to the floor with the plate in hand and thought:
"Failed."
I’d tried so many times I burned through pasta for ten servings, and what I got was a heap of something that tasted off.
"…It’s roughly similar, but this isn’t it."
It felt like the noodles and the sauce were ignoring each other.
Thinking that, I grabbed the empty pasta bag and read the ingredients list.
"Is it because the pasta’s different? I paid a pretty penny for this."
I had no clue what the problem was.
I even looked things up online and cross-checked other people’s recipes, but that didn’t help either.
"I never thought I was bad at cooking, but this is killing my confidence."
I flung the package aside and sighed.
"I have no idea which pasta is actually good, or which cheese brand I’m supposed to use."
…Surely black pepper doesn’t have types and grades, right?
Only after I set the plate down and searched did I realize that suspicion was true. Pepper really does come in types, and its aroma and flavor change by brand.
"Ugh…"
Overwhelming.
I wish a wizard would just pop in and say, “Do it like this.”
Thinking that, I remembered the owner of those recipes—Caesar.
"…But calling Caesar to ask feels wrong."
Isn’t that a little too casual? I’m not clinging to him, but the guy is, in the end, a stalker.
"Granted, he’s not pushing to the point of violence. But it’s also true he’s coming on to someone who said no."
Because he was so different from the stalkers I’d dealt with before, a lazy thought crept in: “If that’s all, he’s not the worst.” He hadn’t tried to break in, or staged a lie-in at my job until I agreed to meet.
And yet he still made my skin crawl…
Probably because, unlike other stalkers, his intel is too good.
"How did you even find my account and my bank account?"
He wouldn’t answer when I asked, so there’s no way to know…
Staring blankly at the ceiling, I tried to整理 my thoughts and muttered:
"He knows me suspiciously well. There’s too much ‘information’ about me."
Not guesswork-based “data”—actual “information.”
I tapped open the latest message.
"…Yep, this time too it’s a recipe I’d like."
I’ve been tiptoeing around for years. There’s no way I wouldn’t notice how off this is.
"He knows me too well. With this many recipes, you’d expect at least one to include something I hate, but not a single one does. It’s uncanny."
Scrolling through my inbox, I murmured:
"No fishy-tasting dishes, and nothing that uses walnuts."
Italy’s a big seafood country, and under that hot sun walnuts thrive. Naturally there are tons of clam dishes and recipes that use walnut paste.
And Caesar… already seemed to know my tastes.
It was like someone had whispered, “When Jeheon Han sees these foods, he recoils.”
"He’s scrubbed out everything like clams and oysters, and only sent me octopus carpaccio and carabineros."
What really stuck out was that there were recipes garnished with pistachios, but not a single dish that used walnuts.
"Where did the leak even come from? It’s not like I have many friends."
Worrying didn’t magically produce an answer.
I fretted all weekend and still had to drag myself to work.
Monday came.
The second McQueen caught my eye, he asked, “Han, is something on your mind?”
What a hawk.
"He really is sharp."
Even if I said, “Nothing’s wrong,” he’d clock it as a lie.
But telling McQueen, “I think Caesar is stalking me, and I don’t know who’s feeding him,” was…
Obviously out of the question.
"What if they decide I cracked the other day and send me to talk to the manager."
I smoothed my expression and shook my head.
“It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Tell me.”
“It’s really trivial…”
“Even if it’s small, don’t stew on it alone. If it festers inside, then what?”
What a good guy. Sometimes that goodness is a bit much…
But I couldn’t dump “you’re a bit much” on someone who was worried for me, and I didn’t want to make him worry by saying nothing either.
So what could I say?
"Let’s see… McQueen’s dad is a chef, right."
Weighing the constraints, I picked a safe problem to share.
A feather-light worry slipped out:
“That cacio e pepe I had…”
I stripped out everything that happened between Caesar and me and gave him the blandest counseling topic imaginable.
“I sent a question to the official account without expecting anything, and they actually replied.”
I showed him the recipe I’d saved in my notes and smiled sheepishly.
“So I followed it, but maybe my hands are the problem… I can’t get that flavor. I’ve been wracking my brain over what’s wrong.”
McQueen looked startled.
“You DM’d with Caesar? And instead of telling you the restaurant, he gave you the recipe?”
“Yeah.”
“So that means it’s Caesar’s own recipe, right?”
“With that face and he can cook too? That’s cheating,” McQueen muttered, then, amused, went on:
“Honestly, the most accurate thing is to ask Caesar again.”
“Yeah?”
“Italian food lives and dies on the pasta and the cheese. More specifically, which brand of pecorino you use makes a big difference; pasta thickness and drying time change the result, too. Whether you get the emulsion right is key.”
“The ratio of pecorino to grana padano decides the savoriness… Whether you add parmigiano, or use feta, the texture shifts again. And when you boil the pasta…”
Listening to him rattle it off, I stared, blank.
"I don’t understand a word…"
I thought I could cook to a degree, but what he was saying sounded less like a recipe and more like a wizard reciting a potion formula.
"I should’ve assumed from the start it was impossible to replicate."
A little hollowed out, I worked to keep it off my face.
“Either way, I get that it’s my lack of skill. Thanks for the consult.”
“Feels like we didn’t solve anything. How about asking Caesar again?”
I laughed and waved him off.
“It’s fine. Really. I’m not a kid, and I’m past the age of obsessing over food.”
And I’m not giving that guy an opening over a bowl of pasta. If he decides “push and he yields” and keeps hovering, that’s the worst. I’m not in a place to see anyone, and if the one clinging is him, it’s twice the headache.
“I can’t bother him twice over something like this. He’s busy as it is.”
When I just kept smiling, McQueen hummed and folded his arms.
“If I knew the exact ingredients, I think I could make it for you…”
“No need to go that far. Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
“Don’t be a stranger! We’re friends!”
“Then please respect that I don’t want to burden my friend.”
I clapped his shoulder and grinned wide.
“You’re a really good guy, Mac.”
That wrapped the counseling.
Since McQueen didn’t pester me with questions after that or push me to contact Caesar, I figured… he’d dropped it.
That was a misread.
As careful and considerate as he is, he’s also good at hiding his expression—and like a true American, he lives for a surprise.
Which is why I only realized McQueen had engineered a spectacular disaster when Caesar himself showed up right in front of me.