Hyang, the kalguksu themselves are correct ― square-sided, hand-cut lengths, thicker than udon and twice as firm. They're the kind of noodle that you chew pleasurably for several minutes, a gustatory base camp you return to between forays into the wilder, craggier flavors of Muguboka's panchan. And there are far more of the little plates than you normally see at lunch: cabbage kimchi, of course, coated in chiles and garlic just a few hours before, as well as sweet pickled daikon, sesame-tinged bean sprouts, pickled seaweed, caramelized soybeans, and a few hot-dog coins simmered with soy sauce, malt syrup, and whole cloves of garlic. Lunch begins with a cup of toasted-barley tea and ends with another drink: a few sips of cold cinnamon tea, sweetened until it's almost viscous, whose flavor washes away all the garlic, peppers, and salted fish you've consumed. All you taste, as you leave the restaurant, is sugar and spice.