Mushroom Bingsoo | Jiayou Shen

 “Dude, they changed the recipe,” Jay said, mouth having erupted into a tingling numbness upon the first bite of Yep Bakery’s summer exclusive bingsoo, “they’ve added more stuff. My mouth can’t feel anything.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be good?” Nai asked, brown bag of the last curry croquettes in his lap.

Yep Bakery, a Korean bakery that served milk-based shaved ice in containers roughly the size of a ramen bowl, overloaded with enough toppings to be considered a meal substitute, doctors be damned. Every summer since the bakery opened next to the hospital, after every experimental treatment to experimental treatment, Jay got the mango bingsoo. 

Jay and Nai’s mango bingsoo was halfway familiar; fat chunks of mango covered the ice, sliced straight from the container of mangoes next to the bakery counter, packed with enough nutrients to stimulate Jay’s lagging immune system along with his treatment. However, this summer, the bowl had additions of ice cream, cereal bits, and a thick layer of condensed milk underneath the mangos.

Jay had let Nai eat the ice cream scoop atop the bingsoo, but he couldn’t find a way to scrape off the milk without ruining the dish. He would have to take many swigs of mouthwash to undo the damage the extra sugar did to his tongue, “Nai, my mouth fungus is the fungus I don’t want in my body.”

A man settled at the table right next to them, took one look at the hyphae and gills and bright white mushroom caps growing out of Jay’s skin, and moved away. Jay glared at his shrinking figure. 

The fungi were supposed to help fight off the tumors. It also opened Jay up to a myriad of other fungal infestations and strange looks. Jay tried a single chunk of mango, “fuck, they’ve covered this in syrup.”

The numbness gave away to pain. Fucking recipe changes, Jay could feel his mouth fungi rejoicing at the extra sugar, multiplying, colonizing his tongue. Stupid overzealous employees too creative for their pay grades.

“Hmm, hold on,” Nai took the bag and went back into the bakery.

Jay stirred the bingsoo like it was a stew. The sun was melting the ice. In a few moments the dish would resemble mangos in milk. Sweat dripped off his nose. Should he risk overheating, or more tongue pain?

An odd sensation spurted up his arm. There was a kid, around elementary school age, picking a mushroom off Jay’s arm. Jay braced for a hysterical parent to scoop the child up, but none came. Instead, the kid began to rub the mushroom against his own arms.

“Hey, stop that,” Jay said. The kid refused to stop. He reached for the mushroom and saw something odd on the child’s skin. The kid had his own, tiny, almost translucent fungal gills growing out of body. 

Jay had no idea how different spore treatments would react with each other. “I’ll give you this,” he gestures at the mango bingsoo, “if you stop. I don’t want it anymore.” Nai would have to make do with his croquettes.

The kid pouted, “Mom said I can’t have it anymore. They changed it, and I can’t have it.”

Jay nodded. What an obedient kid. “Do you know why?” Jay asked.

The kid shook his head.

“It’s because it’s full of sugar. And fungi like sugar. But you don’t want fungi in your mouth,” the tongue pain had faded, but Jay faked a wince, “trust me.”

“Fungi like sugar?” the kid said.

“Yep.”

Before Jay could react, the kid grabbed the bingsoo bowl and tipped it over his tiny head. Melted ice spilled onto his hair, mango chunks plopped onto his clothing folds. On a mission, the kid began to rub the mango, the syrup, the condensed milk, whatever was left of the ice cream onto his skin. 

“Jamie! What are you doing?” A haggard woman ran to Jay’s table. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Jay, “I look away one minute and he’s gone.” She took out wet wipes and tried to clean Jamie’s mess, avoiding the delicate gills.

“Fungi like sugar, Mom,” Jamie protested, “I’m making it grow.”

“I’m sorry he disturbed you,” the mother said, “Jamie must’ve seen you and gotten interested. There’s been trouble getting the fungi to stick to him, so he’s been rolling around in all sorts of things. I can pay for a replacement?”

“No, it’s fine,” Jay said. He watched Jamie shampoo shaved ice through his hair, “at least he’s beating the heat.”

The mother gave a wry smile, “thank you,” she took Jamie’s hand in hers, “I’d love to talk, but we have an appointment soon. Fingers crossed the spores stick this time.”

“Yeah,” Jay said, “don’t sweat it, it took double digits for mine to attach.”

He waved goodbye to Jamie over the parking lot.

“Hey,” Nai came back to the table, “what happened to the mango?”

“Long story,” said Jay. He noticed the new bowl of shaved ice on the table. It had a layer of sticky red bean dotted with white mochi balls over the solid ice. “What’s this?”

“The classic recipe,” Nai tossed a spoon over to Jay, “no ice cream, no syrup, hasn’t changed since the shop first started.”

“Dang, thank you,” Jay said, “how did you get this out so fast?”

Nai shrugged, “I traded my croquettes with another customer.” He scooped a pile of shaved ice topped with red bean, topped with a mochi onto his spoon, “this looks good,” Nai said.

A wave of gratitude rushed over Jay. Nai was such a good friend; the least Jay could do was try the new dish. “Alright,” said Jay. He tried to replicate Nai’s scoop, but chunks of red bean plopped from his spoon to the bowl. Jay imagined how sticky the beans would feel, how soft the mochi would be, the coldness of the ice. 

Nai bumped his spoon against Jay’s, and the two friends began to devour the bingsoo.