A rival—one he’d considered a mentor—framed him for embezzlement. His fiancée left him at the altar via text message. His bank accounts froze. In the span of a montage set to a mournful guitar riff, Poong went from the 60th floor to the curb outside a failing restaurant in the dodgiest alley of Seoul.
The challenge is simple: each team must cook one dish that best represents “home.” wok of love
Poong, sweat dripping from his nose, steps out of the kitchen. “A man who lost everything,” he says. “And decided to start over with just one spoon.” The term wok hei is untranslatable, but you know it when you taste it. It’s the smoky, almost charcoal-like essence that comes from flash-frying ingredients at 400 degrees Celsius in a seasoned wok. It is, according to master chefs, the difference between good fried rice and transcendent fried rice. A rival—one he’d considered a mentor—framed him for
He tosses the ingredients into the wok. The flames leap. The shoomph of the ladle echoes through the silent judging hall. He serves it in a cracked ceramic bowl. In the span of a montage set to