Chapter 92

Since I’m bored, I thought I’d try making something that sounds plausible but is actually nonsense.

“Hey, listen to this.”

There’s a misconception that hospital food doesn’t taste good, but these days, hospitals are improving the quality of their meals.

Hospital management is becoming more advanced, so any decent-sized hospital usually employs staff or teams dedicated to marketing. The stereotype about hospital food is so well-known that anyone involved in hospital marketing would naturally try to change it.

The intention isn’t so much about making sure patients eat well during their stay, though that does play a part. It’s also because the ROI is good compared to the investment.

Medical services are complex, and it’s hard for non-experts to tell whether they’re receiving high-quality care. Thanks to advancements in South Korea’s medical technology and standardization across larger hospitals, most facilities offer basic services reliably.

Non-experts can only really perceive differences in cutting-edge or capital-intensive treatments that might require transferring between hospitals. But how many people experience that?

“Wait a minute.”

Doyugeon interrupted.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know which part of what you just said was a lie.”

“Half of it was a lie.”

“Which half?”

“Just listen with a grain of salt.”

Anyway, hospital evaluations tend to focus more on patient satisfaction than on directly reflecting medical skill.

How friendly does the doctor seem? How well did they use ‘cold reading’ to appear almost mystical like a fortune-teller? How well did they explain medical details using rhetorical flair?

These aren’t extraordinary things—offering candy to a nervous child, checking if someone’s throat feels irritated during flu season, explaining things in everyday terms when necessary or using medical jargon to seem authoritative when it’s not essential—but they help in subtle ways.

However, maintaining these practices over time is challenging because being a doctor is mentally exhausting.

In that sense, improving hospital food is easy. With sufficient funds, it’s simple to elevate the dining experience. Thanks to compulsory education, many dietitians are skilled at balancing nutrients within limited budgets, so it’s not hard to find qualified people. Investing in meal quality can shift perceptions, boost profitability, and even aid patient recovery.

Yet despite a marketing campaign to enhance patient meals, outdated perceptions persist. This could be due to several factors: illness dulls the taste of any food; hospital stays are rare, slowing societal perception shifts; people avoid vegetables and perceive their inclusion as a lack of effort; or there’s a preconceived notion that healthy food inherently tastes bad.

“So let me summarize: the hospital food here was good, but because I don’t know why, I just made up a plausible reason?”

Doyugeon replied absentmindedly.

“No ulterior motive—it’s just something I said out of boredom.”

“Why though?”

“That’s my own choice.”

Doyugeon seemed lost for words.

Then he appeared to be analyzing that explanation.

I quietly continued eating the bento from Grandpa’s chef and later asked him once I was done.

“Are you done ogling? Any thoughts?”

“No, I wasn’t looking.”

“Really? There’s a cute girl here who’s beautiful and fresh.”

“She’s not fresh though.”

“You might be right about that.”

Actually, on second thought, maybe she is fresh.

“You’re fresh in personality, like lemon tea.”

“She has natural antibacterial effects too.”

“Is that lemon tea or just lemon?”

“I don’t know.”

Doyugeon didn’t argue. Either the analogy was too accurate, or he was embarrassed to be caught checking out a childhood friend.

After finishing my meal, I pulled out some fruit for dessert.

“Even though I haven’t tried the hospital food, it probably wouldn’t be good objectively.”

I speared a piece of apple with a fork and offered it to him. He hesitated before accepting it.

“I feel like I’ve never tasted the school cafeteria food bad, have you ever thought about why some students complain?”

Our school is prestigious, so they put a lot of effort into cafeteria food, partly because the principal eats there sometimes.

Still, some students prefer the convenience store food, claiming the lunches lack flavor.

“Ah…”

…You’ve thought about this before?

Why waste time considering such trivia?

“Maybe people’s taste buds, conditioned by fast food, don’t mesh with health-conscious diets.”

Doyugeon smirked, clearly trying to cut off further explanation.

“Why not spend that time studying?”

“Since I study too, it’s no problem. So, is what I said correct?”

Seeing him try to engage me intellectually gave me mixed feelings. He’s finally growing up, which should be a good thing, but it also feels a bit strange. Mostly, however, it’s annoying.

To silence him temporarily, I handed him another piece of apple.

“That’s the kind of argument you’d use in an essay contest.”

“Isn’t that a compliment?”

“Hmm. To understand whether that’s a compliment or not, you’d first need to know the problems caused by an essay-centric education system.”

“Your sentence got longer, so it must be a compliment!”

Doyugeon concluded smugly.

Though he’s technically correct—he’s only in his first year of high school and hasn’t received formal essay training—it still didn’t sit well with me.

“Processed food disrupting modern palates is part of it, but that’s not my main point. A healthy diet’s variety is limited, not its quality. When a healthy meal tastes bad, it’s usually because of insufficient skills.

He half-heartedly nodded, seemingly just humoring me. I stared him down until he straightened up. He should’ve done that earlier.

“I’m saying even if the processed food influence disappears, there’d still be kids who skip cafeteria meals. The core problem is that one menu can’t cater to everyone’s tastes.”

I took a sip of coffee. It’s cold now. I pressed the call button and asked the bodyguard for a fresh cup.

“Isn’t too much coffee bad for you?”

“If I’m not sick, it’s fine.”

After all, I just blacked out from overusing magic. The continued hospital stay is just for observation since my condition is hard to gauge with modern medicine.

“So you’ll never grow tall.”

What?!

“I’m not blaming the coffee. It’s just… slow growth, that’s all.”

“Randomly saying you’re small?”

“No, I grow slowly.”

“So then I just grow fast.”

“Uh… yeah. We’re in an interim state during this growth phase anyway.”

Height really isn’t that important. Whether tall or short, it doesn’t matter, especially since I don’t plan to work a regular job in this life.

After hearing this, Doyugeon stood up and raised a finger dramatically.

“I am Do Yugeon, growing taller faster than Cha Haneul!”

That’s just what I admitted.

Hearing it now, though, doesn’t sit right.

It probably feels like mockery. Sometimes intent matters more than content in language. For example, if an old classmate suddenly flatters you after years of silence, you’d suspect they’re trying to sell you insurance.

I ignored his taunts about ‘late-blooming growth plates.’

He still thinks he’ll grow taller.

“In any case, just as school lunch can’t satisfy every taste, hospital food has its limits too. Even with advancements in food pharmacology and engineering, it remains an unsolved issue. If we ever hit a technological singularity, maybe it’ll change.”

“You’re going to keep rambling?”

“Just listen, I’m here to enlighten you. Why so much resistance?”

He quietly sat back down.

“Studies show taste depends more on home cooking than genetics. If parents often cook bland dishes, the child will likely prefer bland food. In other words, as many households as there are, there are as many different taste preferences. Thereby excluding a portion of any group is inevitable. It’s a classic Catch-22: satisfy the group and neglect the individual, or vice versa. There’s no perfect solution, only a potential convergence.”

“So the length explanation is why you assume this hospital food won’t suit your taste without even trying it.”

“Right.”

“So you’re saying the reason is that this menu targets a general audience, meaning it won’t suit your palate.”

“Your summary is too short but accurate.”

“Can I dispute it?”

“No.”

The bodyguard arrived with a cappuccino.

“I honestly thought you’d blame it on budget constraints or regulations.”

“You understand now. No need to explain further.”

“I get the point that your palate is delicate, but you haven’t even tried it.”

“I know without trying. It won’t suit me. And I don’t have a delicate palate.”

“Sure. You eat cafeteria food fine, don’t you?”

“Yes, school cafeteria food I eat fine. But this isn’t school, is it?”

I confirmed with the departing bodyguard whether this was true, and it was.

“See? They confirmed it.”

“Yes, this isn’t school.”

“Are you saying you’re smarter than the bodyguard now?”

I pressed the call button again. The returning bodyguard stood by.

“Can you state your credentials?”

“Which ones…?”

What kind of credentials?

I hadn’t really thought about what I was asking for, so it was hard to articulate.

I clarified vaguely with hand gestures.

“Knowledge-based credentials?”

“I completed a doctoral program in trauma care…”

Seems like he lacks flexibility, but it’s not crucial.

“You’re a doctor, right? Are you saying you’re smarter than them?”

Doyugeon face-palmed, then excused the guard with an apology.

If it were the security chief, he wouldn’t have left without my permission.

I didn’t feel particularly upset though.

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