Lunar New Year Morning (1959)
February 8th, the morning of the Lunar New Year. Ki-jo took the family to the hamburger restaurant. The shop was open even on the holiday itself. He had promised special holiday wages, and the staff had cheered at the chance to work a day that would otherwise have stood empty. It was a time when people were glad of any chance to earn, even on a day of rest. They took pride in working at Korea's first hamburger restaurant, and morale ran high.
When Ki-jo led his family through the door, an Elvis Presley song was drifting across the room—Jailhouse Rock, released in 1957. The bright, driving tune lifted his spirits.
The moment Manager Seo Yong-woo caught sight of him, he came over and greeted the family.
"Welcome, President. Madam."
He showed them to their reserved table.
The dining hall, more than five thousand square feet, was already full of foreigners. American soldiers were plentiful, but so were foreigners who had come with their families—households of the embassy staff living around Yongsan. Because the shop took only dollars, it was mostly foreigners who passed through the door.
Ki-jo glanced around, seated his family, went to the counter, and placed the order himself. When he came back with the food, he showed them how to eat it.
Yeongsu picked up his hamburger, took a bite, and his eyes went perfectly round.
"Father! It's so good!"
Yeongeun sipped the cold milkshake and scrunched up her face.
"Dad, this is so sweet I feel like I'm floating."
Watching his son and daughter enjoy themselves, Ki-jo couldn't help but smile.
Sunrye, with Yeongjun in her arms, dipped a french fry in ketchup and tried it.
"Mmm. Fry potatoes in oil like this and they come out crispy and delicious. The ketchup's tangy, too."
Still cradled against his mother, Yeongjun clutched bits of fry in both fists and sucked on them. Watching the boy, Ki-jo thought, Greedy little thing.
Before taking a bite of his own hamburger, he opened the bun and checked the freshness of the vegetables and how the meat had been cooked. Everything was as it should be. One bite, and he was relieved to find it tasted the same as the first time he had sampled it.
They had been eating for a while when Yeongsu spoke.
"Father, the man sitting next to me says our hamburgers taste better than the McDonald's he had in America. He says there are lots of McDonald's in California, but the meat here is better."
Ki-jo stole a glance at the American soldier at the next table. The man and a companion were eating with obvious pleasure.
"Can you understand them?"
"Yes, Father. I can hear them just fine."
Ki-jo swelled with pride. The boy was barely old enough to be entering third grade, and already he could follow English. He could have left the hamburger untouched and still felt full.
Seeing the look on his face, Sunrye said, "Yeongsu's homeroom teacher asked me to come to the school, so I met with her."
"About what?"
Ki-jo asked it in surprise, and Sunrye smiled.
"She said he's so bright he doesn't seem like a second-grader at all, and that it would be all right to let him skip a grade."
Ki-jo smiled at a son who was being recognized even at school. He had no wish, though, to push the boy ahead. Skip a grade and Yeongsu would lose the friends his own age, and he doubted the child would find his footing among older classmates.
"Let's not have our Yeongsu skip ahead. We'll just send him to school the same as the other children."
"I think so too. So I thanked her for thinking so well of him, dear, and told her we wanted him to spend all six years in elementary school."
"You did the right thing."
He was relieved that he and Sunrye saw education the same way. She, too, wanted to raise Yeongsu as an ordinary child.
Ki-jo was lifting the hamburger to his mouth again when a foreigner passing by addressed him.
"Aren't you the president of DBC?"
Ki-jo looked up. It was Michael Graf, of the West German embassy—the man who had coordinated with the station when the West German ambassador filmed a conversation program at DBC for a 1959 New Year's special.
"Mr. Graf. Good to see you."
He rose and shook Michael's hand.
"I heard this place was yours."
"Yes, it is. Is the food to your liking?"
"Excellent. Since it opened, my family and I come often. They're just over there."
Michael pointed to a table several yards away. His family saw Ki-jo and waved, and Ki-jo smiled and waved back. He introduced his own family, and Michael greeted Sunrye and the children.
"You look like a very happy household."
"So does yours, Mr. Graf."
"Then please enjoy your meal."
Michael gave a Korean-style bow and returned to his family.
Ki-jo didn't sit back down. He went over to Seo Yong-woo.
"There's a family from the West German embassy over there."
He indicated them with a slight tilt of his chin.
"The family with the brown-haired man and the blonde woman?"
"That's them. Take them a little something on the house—french fries and milkshakes. Serve them yourself."
"Yes, President."
Ki-jo had just given the order and was turning away when he saw Hausman coming in through the door.
"Oh?"
Hausman and his wife stood in the entrance, looking to see whether there was an empty table. Ki-jo went to them at once.
"Well! Ki-jo! What are you doing here first thing in the morning?"
"It's my shop, Advisor."
He answered with a quiet smile and bowed to the woman at Hausman's side. Hausman made the introduction.
"Say hello. This is my wife. This is a friend of mine."
It was as simple an introduction as could be. Beginning in 1959, members of the U.S. Military Advisory Group were permitted to have their families live with them in Korea for a year, and Hausman had brought his wife over.
"Hello. It's a pleasure to meet you. You're Mr. Lee Ki-jo, aren't you? I've heard a great deal about you from my husband."
Mrs. Hausman had the easy, generous air of someone raised in the country.
"Welcome to Korea. Let me show you to a table."
"Well, aren't you kind. Thank you."
Ki-jo seated the couple and sat down across from them.
"Did you come for the hamburgers?"
"Yeah. Word is they're good. I hear the patties are something special."
Ki-jo smiled. Unlike McDonald's headquarters, which ground miscellaneous scraps into its patties, he made his from quality meat supplied by the U.S. Army base. With rib and sirloin in the mix, the patties could hardly help tasting good, and once the scent of charcoal was added the flavor was better several times over.
"Just a moment, please. I'll have them brought to you."
"Would you? Thanks, Ki-jo."
Perhaps because he was getting on in years, Hausman didn't seem to care much for helping himself. Even in America it was the young who had grown used to self-service; their elders had never been fond of it.
Ki-jo went to Seo Yong-woo and told him to serve a hamburger set to the Hausmans himself. Then he brought the family over. At the sight of Yeongsu, Yeongeun, and Yeongjun, Hausman lit up like a doting grandfather.
"Fine-looking children, every one of them. They all seem to take after you. And your wife is a real beauty."
When Ki-jo translated, Sunrye ducked her head, embarrassed.
"Hello, Grandpa. My name is Yeongsu, and I'm the eldest son. And I can speak English."
Yeongsu blurted it out in English, and Hausman and his wife burst out laughing, utterly delighted with the boy.
"Well, look at you. You take after your dad, speaking English so well. When you grow up, you be sure to come to America. Ask your father to send you and he will. This grandpa will help, too."
"Yes, Grandpa. When I was five, Dad put me up on his shoulders and promised. He said whether it was America or Japan or anywhere else, if I wanted to study abroad, he would send me."
It was Ki-jo and Sunrye who started at that. When Yeongsu was five, Sunrye, Soon-young, and the boy had gone sightseeing in Seoul and come home again. Ki-jo had waited for them at Jeongok Station, and on the walk back he had carried Yeongsu on his shoulders and said exactly that. That the boy remembered was astonishing—almost uncanny.
"Ha! Ki-jo, you'd better keep that promise."
Manager Seo Yong-woo brought the food, and Ki-jo took the family back to their own table. They must have stopped eating to wait for him. The hamburgers and fries, gone lukewarm, still sat where they had left them.
"You waited? You didn't start without me?"
"How could we eat by ourselves? We have to eat with you."
"Thank you. Come on, let's eat."
Ki-jo finished the Lunar New Year breakfast with his family.
Before heading home he went to Michael to say he was leaving, and then to Hausman. When he offered his goodbye, Hausman spoke.
"Leaving already? I was hoping the two of us could have a quiet cup of coffee and talk for a minute..."
"Were you? Of course. Just a moment."
Ki-jo called Seo Yong-woo, had a table set in an out-of-the-way corner, and asked for two cups of coffee to be brought there. He also told them to raise the volume of the music in the dining room a little. He let the family know they would leave after a while, then sat down with Hausman at the secluded table.
"Good choice of seats. When the two of us talk, it's better if the families can't hear."
"Was there something you wanted to say?"
"Ah. Yes. Nothing major."
Hausman swept a look around, as if checking whether any foreigner nearby might overhear. Finding the surrounding tables empty, he lowered his voice.
"Before long a CIA audit team will be coming to check on their collaborators."
"An audit?"
"Well, yes. But there's no need to be nervous. It's routine. You've never had one, have you?"
"No. I haven't."
"It's because your classification went up. Since you and I met you've been manufacturing Claymores, and the information you gave me raised your grade. And you opened a restaurant that deals with American troops, didn't you?"
Ki-jo took note of the fact that his grade had risen on the strength of what he had passed along. The reports he had filed without omission—on Kwak Young-joo, the Dongdaemun gang, and matters touching Park Chung-hee—seemed to have been valued highly.
"An inspector will be sent to see that there are no subversive elements at the Claymore plant in Busan, and that this restaurant is being run cleanly."
Ki-jo was not worried about the Claymore factory in Yeonji-dong. Army counterintelligence had already gone over the place more than once; there was no chance of a subversive element there, and of the hamburger shop's cleanliness, if nothing else, he was sure.
"Advisor, the meat and milk we use here come out of the U.S. Army base. Will that be all right?"
Hausman gave a hearty laugh.
"It's fine. If anything, using reliable ingredients will earn you high marks. Just keep the sanitation up."
"I'm confident about the sanitation, Advisor."
Ki-jo had been strict about the staff's personal hygiene and the cleanliness of the restaurant. When he hired them he required physical examinations, bought deworming medicine and saw that they took it, and managed them so closely that they were not even permitted to let their nails or their hair grow long. He had them wash their hands with soap every hour, and he had installed a shower room so they showered before a shift and again when it was done.
Korean vegetables carried a risk of parasites, so the produce was rinsed first under running water; then a bubble generator in a second tank worked it over, shaking loose anything still clinging to the leaves. After closing, the floors were wiped down with Clorox imported from America, and the dishes were sterilized in boiling water every day. He paid the Mac O staff well, and in return he demanded an exacting standard of cleanliness and a tremendous amount of work. If the American side came to inspect sanitation under those conditions, it would be something to welcome with open arms—a chance to show the place off.
"And there's one thing I'd like to ask of you."
"Please, Advisor."
Hausman looked around once more, then spoke.
"I'm going to try to save General Paik."
Ki-jo gave a quiet nod. It seemed the United States meant to draw the sidelined Paik Sun-yup back into the open.
"So. I'd like you to put Paik Sun-yup in as president of your weapons plant in Busan. Inspections of the plant would go a good deal more smoothly. He's the soldier America trusts most."
"That can certainly be done."
There had been a time when the United States weighed toppling the Syngman Rhee regime and installing Paik Sun-yup—the most pro-American of the generals—as the next leader. Among civilian politicians, Chang Myon stood first in line; in the military, it was Paik Sun-yup.
Hausman took a sip of coffee.
"Paik Sun-yup is too good a man to waste. I'll arrange a meeting with him before long."
"Understood."
As if the serious business were finished, Hausman's voice rose back to its usual volume.
"But Ki-jo, isn't today a Korean holiday? The day you set food out for your ancestors and bow to them?"
"That's right."
"Then why are you and your family eating hamburgers here this morning?"
At the question, Ki-jo smiled.
"I've decided not to hold rites for ancestors who have passed on. In part because I was an orphan."
"I see. Anyway, you're not like ordinary Koreans."
Hausman pointed a finger at him and laughed.
"Well then, enjoy the holiday with your family."
"You and your wife enjoy yourselves as well, Advisor."
"Ah, right—the coffee here is excellent. Did this come from the Army base too?"
"No. It's made from beans imported from Hong Kong."
"I thought so. The taste is different."
Hausman nodded and stood. Ki-jo rose as well and went back to his family.
Spending the Lunar New Year in a hamburger shop was not bad at all. With Elvis Presley's bright song still rolling through the dining room, Ki-jo stepped outside, loaded the family into the jeep, and headed home to Jongno.