Chapter 62: Conciseness and Unexpectedness
Chapter 62: Conciseness and Unexpectedness
“The starting capital is 3,000 euros per team. In Korean won, that’s about 5 million won.”
Yeom Jaeho PD continued with a more detailed explanation.
“And see that digital outdoor billboard in the center of the square? If you pay, you can run ads for your shop there. Our production crew can help you with filming and editing, but you’ll have to plan the ad yourselves.”
Whether to run ads or not was up to them.
If they wanted to spend more money on ingredients or other equipment, they could skip advertising.
Among the cast members with lost expressions, complaints started to spill out.
“PD Yeom, this is hell difficulty.”
“No, fine, whatever for everything else, but what about the sign?”
“You’ll have to make the sign yourselves, too.”
“What? The sign too?”
“To be precise, there is a sign with your shop name. But the photo in the center of the sign is blank.”
“Tsk—does it cost money to put in the photo?”
“Putting it in is free. But the cost of creating that photo is on you. If you really want, you can just leave it blank.”
“So everything costs money… then what’s the shop name?”
“For fairness, we named them after each team leader. Go Junhyeok’s team is ‘Go Table,’ and Choi Woojin’s team is ‘Choi Table.’”
“Huh? Their team name is better. ‘Go Table’ sounds like ‘go over there.’”
“…It’s not like I can change my last name.”
It almost turned into another Talula situation, so Choi Woojin’s team members quietly shut their mouths.
Soon, everyone split into their teams and started a meeting.
“Yeah. PD Yeom, this won’t be easy.”
Go Junhyeok looked quite serious.
Maybe it was pride as the owner running multiple restaurants, or a pro mindset to maximize immersion for variety, or both.
Either way, I should take it seriously too.
‘But.’
I needed to remember this wasn’t real business—it was a variety show.
Meaning I had to calculate how I would look on camera.
Getting too carried away by competition and stepping out too far was dangerous.
The team leader here was Go Junhyeok.
He’d run five restaurants—his experience was overwhelming.
If I got overly eager and tried to drag things around myself, I’d obviously come off as unlikeable.
‘So.’
Let him set the overall direction.
Only when something felt wrong would I hit the brakes and help him find the answer on his own.
‘And the part where I shine decisively is separate.’
Advertising and promotion.
That’s where I show my true value.
“This might be obvious, but you guys haven’t actually run a business before, right?”
At Go Junhyeok’s question, Lee Yuna and I exchanged glances and nodded.
“Okay. Then trust the boss and follow me, part-timers.”
Using his business experience, Go Junhyeok started building a plan systematically.
“First, we analyze the commercial district. Then we pick the menu, fill out the interior, and lastly we plan the sign and promotion.”
The lost expressions from earlier were gone. In no time, he’d switched into full business mode and was laying out a concrete plan.
That’s pretty reassuring.
“Wow… this is no joke. Every other place is a restaurant.”
Saint-Tropez Square was where we went to analyze the area.
Just like Go Junhyeok said, all kinds of restaurants lined every alley.
A sight befitting France, the country of gastronomy.
Then Lee Yuna tilted her head as she stared at a red sticker on a restaurant entrance.
“MICHELIN…? Who’s ‘Michellin’? Someone famous? It’s stuck everywhere.”
“It’s Michelin.”
“Ah.”
Looks like I’ll be the language person on this team.
“But there are so many Michelin places.”
“Yeah. It’s tough. Really tough.”
Since the Michelin Guide started from a French tire company, maybe it was inevitable.
The good news was that as many restaurants as there were, there were just as many customers.
The streets were crowded with tourists everywhere.
Seeing that, Go Junhyeok spoke.
“It’s a flowing market.”
“A flowing market?”
“It means there’s a lot of foot traffic. Most of them are tourists who stay briefly and move on, like us. In Korea, it’s like Myeongdong or Gangnam Station.”
You can tell the difference when experience is talking.
My sense of security grew even more.
And if it’s a market with heavy foot traffic…
“That’s a relief.”
“What is?”
“Then there won’t be many regulars. Other shops will also be dealing with new customers every time, just like us.”
“Oh, you’ve got good business instincts. You should open a restaurant with me— no.”
Go Junhyeok stopped mid-sentence like he realized what he was about to say.
…Was the yuzu impact really that intense?
Anyway.
In this kind of environment, it was perfect for me.
It meant the first-mover advantage of existing shops wasn’t huge—so the power of promotion would matter even more.
After circling the square once, I noticed something unusual.
“There aren’t any Korean restaurants?”
“Hmm. You’re right. Then we can really mix it up with Korean food. I cook better than Choi Woojin anyway, so we can beat them.”
Go Junhyeok’s confidence was something else.
With the district analysis done, we sat at a nearby café and started the real menu meeting.
“Since this is a tourist spot, it feels like people come lightly—wine with food.”
“Then it’s better to pass on street food like tteokbokki.”
“Right. Low ticket price, and it doesn’t pair with wine.”
“Then in the end…”
“Meat.”
“Meat would be good.”
Go Junhyeok and I spoke almost at the same time.
Go Junhyeok liked it enough to wink at me.
“It’s also the kind of Korean food that works best with foreigners.”
He rubbed his chin, then his eyes lit up as he started firing off ideas.
“First, let’s do bulgogi. It’s soy-sauce-based, so it’ll pair well with wine. Then add just a touch of truffle oil to punch up the flavor.”
“Oh! Nice!”
Lee Yuna reacted enthusiastically.
“And when you think Korea, there’s that strong red image, so let’s add jeyuk-bokkeum too.”
“But won’t jeyuk-bokkeum be too spicy for Westerners?”
“We just need the color. Use paprika powder for the red tone, and only a little gochujang—just enough for a light spicy aroma.”
Go Junhyeok was developing the menu on the spot.
I was thinking how reassuring it was to have him on our side, when he looked at me and continued.
“Ah, and of course, no yuzu.”
…It wasn’t even on my mind.
“Still, I think we should have at least one more menu item that can count as a meal. Anything come to mind?”
Maybe he realized he’d been filling everything with his own opinions, because he asked us too.
Lee Yuna had been listening quietly up to now.
It would look better if I yielded this answer.
“How about gimbap?”
Lee Yuna spoke carefully.
Then she explained why she was recommending it.
“I recently went on an overseas tour, and foreigners actually like gimbap more than you’d think!”
She added that even in the K-pop animation that caused a worldwide craze, a scene where the protagonists ate gimbap became a hot topic, and that it would be good as easy finger food for foreigners.
At that, Go Junhyeok slapped his knee.
“Gimbap’s good. Light, pretty. Exactly the kind foreigners would like.”
With the menu decided, we moved on to buying equipment.
The shop had basic cooking facilities, but Go Junhyeok proposed a new idea.
“Let’s buy one big griddle.”
“Wasn’t there a frying pan in the kitchen?”
“A griddle isn’t just a cooking tool. It’s our customer-calling part-timer.”
Lee Yuna tilted her head like she still didn’t get it.
“Think about it. Our shop isn’t right in front of the square—it’s tucked inside an alley. If we run it normally, people won’t even know what we’re selling.”
Go Junhyeok explained as if drawing the shop in the air with his finger.
“But if we put that griddle right at the front, by the roadside, and make it an open kitchen, the sound and smell of meat sizzling will forcibly steal people’s attention. They’ll watch, then come inside.”
A perfect marketing strategy.
Even I was impressed listening.
For a food business, Go Junhyeok really was the expert—the answer.
The problem was the price.
We found a big griddle we loved, but the owner named a price of 3,000 euros.
“…That’s our entire net worth.”
Go Junhyeok tried to haggle in clumsy English, but the owner just shrugged and didn’t budge.
‘No matter how I look at it, it doesn’t feel like it’s worth that price.’
Seeing East Asian tourists who couldn’t communicate well—and with cameras—he probably thought he’d found perfect suckers.
“No, no. Too expensive.”
Go Junhyeok even waved his hands, trying to cut the price, but the owner only spoke French and played dumb.
“Ha… forget it. Let’s just look for something else.”
Go Junhyeok turned to leave with a regretful expression, when—
“Excuse me, sir. Just a moment.” I called the owner quietly.
The moment fluent French came out of my mouth, the owner—and Go Junhyeok and Lee Yuna—widened their eyes at the same time.
“…You can speak French?”
At the owner’s startled question, I smiled lightly and continued.
“Yes, a little.”
To lower his guard, I started softly.
“But it’s enough to know this price is absurd.”
I walked up to the griddle.
I traced the rust on the surface and the damage in the corner with my fingers, then steadily negotiated the price down with reasonable points—its age, its worn condition, and the used market price at other shops.
Lee Yuna must’ve thought she couldn’t just sit still either, because she started acting pitiful with her signature idol charisma.
‘…She’s good at acting.’
With my logical persuasion and Lee Yuna’s pitiful face combined, the owner’s expression began to waver.
Catching that wavering look, I drove in the final nail.
“We may be outsiders, but we aren’t fools. 1,000 euros. At that price, I think we can all be satisfied with a reasonable deal.”
I thought 1,500 euros was fair, but if I wanted to convey that I would compromise later, it was better to start lower.
In the end, after dragging it out a bit, the owner said, “…1,000 euros is too low. Take it for 1,500.”
He surrendered.
We bought the griddle at half price: 1,500 euros.
Go Junhyeok grabbed my shoulder with an expression like he couldn’t believe it and shouted.
“Sunho…”
“Yes?”
“…Promotion! From now on, not a part-timer—full-time employee! Yuzu is innocent!”
At the market, Lee Yuna picked out interior props, and we bought a small amount of ingredients for menu testing before returning to the empty shop.
“Now there’s the most important thing left.”
We’d kept putting it off, but it was the shop’s face—the sign.
“What did the other team do?”
“I went over earlier—they hired a street artist for a caricature and put that on their sign.”
“Oh, really? How much did they pay?”
“It was kind of expensive. 150 euros.”
About 250,000 won.
“…That’s too expensive. Think of how many more ingredients we could buy with that.”
But after thinking briefly, Go Junhyeok reversed himself.
“No, since the first day might sell less than we think… maybe we buy less ingredients and put a caricature in ours too…?”
It didn’t feel like he truly loved the caricature.
More like he chose it because there wasn’t a better method.
Still, he didn’t want to leave the center of the sign blank.
Then it was time for me to step in.
This was promotion territory.
“I’m against the caricature.”
At my firm tone, both of them turned to look at me.
“Our clear selling point is that we’re selling Korean food, and we need to show that on the sign. If they only see a caricature, it’ll be hard for people to understand our shop concept.”
Go Junhyeok slowly nodded, but with no obvious alternative, his anxious expression remained.
“How about we test the menu first?”
“Mm… yeah. We haven’t eaten a single meal today, so you two must be hungry. Let’s eat first, then think.”
Go Junhyeok made bulgogi and jeyuk-bokkeum on the new griddle, and Lee Yuna and I rolled gimbap.
“Sunho, you rolled the gimbap too small… if it’s hard for you—”
“…It isn’t.”
She looked like she was doubting my cooking skills, but no.
I rolled mine small on purpose.
Really.
The three dishes were finished in no time.
At the mouthwatering visuals, everyone admired them.
“Wow, the meat looks really good.”
“This is basic.”
“Then now, let’s taste—”
Just as chopsticks were about to reach for the food, I stopped them.
“Wait. Before you eat, I’m going to take a few photos.”
“Huh? What photos?”
“Photos for the sign. We should put this on our sign.”
“…This?”
Lee Yuna looked doubtful.
Go Junhyeok didn’t seem convinced either.
“It’s not even a menu board… If you just photograph the food, it won’t capture the vibe, and people might not even know it’s Korean food.”
“That’s why we have to photograph it like Korean food.”
Both of them looked even more confused.
Seeing is believing.
Rather than explaining with words, I’d show them.
I brought out a white plate from the kitchen.
‘There are two core elements of good advertising.’
First, conciseness.
People remember one powerful image longer than a long text.
So instead of explaining at length, “We sell Korean food,” we compress that meaning into a single image and leave a deep impression.
I drew an S-shaped boundary across the center of the round white plate.
On the top, I placed the red jeyuk-bokkeum, and on the bottom, the bulgogi.
“Huh?”
“Wait…”
‘And second, unexpectedness.’
What captures attention is showing something familiar in an unfamiliar way.
Making people go, “What is this?” and look again.
I brought the sliced gimbap and stood them upright at the four corners of the plate—three, four, five, and six pieces each.
“…Is this—”
“Is it the Taegeukgi?”
“Wow…!”
Correct.
It creates the unexpected twist: it looks like the Korean flag, but it’s food.
If, through a single photo, we concisely deliver the information, “Ah, this place sells Korean food,” then it becomes the best possible sign.
“……!”
“…No, this is insane.”
“…How did you even think of this?!”
When I showed them the finished plate, not only Lee Yuna and Go Junhyeok, but even the staff filming us—everyone burst into admiration.
“Wow, I’m getting chills.”
Especially Yeom Jaeho PD, who was staring with ecstatic eyes.