Lunch at Chowon Bokgukjip
“Blowfish soup? Since when did your tastes become so refined? If it’s because of me, don’t worry about it—just eat whatever you want.”
Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon’s face lit up at the mention of blowfish soup. If he were simply filling his stomach, he much preferred the clean taste of blowfish soup over greasy fried chicken. Even so, he was the kind of man who put Yoo Jae-won’s preferences ahead of his own. The fifty-something secretary gripping the steering wheel was quietly astonished. In all his years, he had never once heard Jeon Myeong-heon consider someone else’s palate first.
Whenever lunchtime arrived at Mirae Group headquarters, Jeon Myeong-heon’s signature move was heading straight to Mansuok, the seolleongtang restaurant. That routine never changed, whether his sons, daughters-in-law, or grandchildren were with him.
“Yes, that’s why I like that place.”
“Haha, I see. Driver Choi, let’s head to Chowon Bokgukjip.”
The secretary answered with a crisp “Yes, Assemblyman!” and turned the wheel. Their destination was the Chowon Bokgukjip visible at the corner ahead.
As the restaurant drew closer, Yoo Jae-won felt his heartbeat quicken slightly. Arriving here at this exact time had been entirely his intention. The most important event of today’s Busan schedule was not the Tongil National Party’s district rally—it was stopping by Chowon Bokgukjip for a single meal.
Seeking food when hungry was the most basic human act, something everyone did. Yet from the perspective of historical flow, a rather significant incident was about to occur at this very place that had long fed the hungry. On December 11, not far in the future, local government officials would gather here and conspire to openly stoke regional sentiment to influence the upcoming 14th presidential election. That plot would later be exposed through wiretapping by a Tongil National Party affiliate.
It was already appalling that state power would intervene in an election, but the method—deliberately inflaming regional grudges—was utterly poisonous to the nation. Worse still, the conspiracy had been uncovered by the opposition through illegal surveillance. The scandal erupted with only eighteen days left until the vote, shaking the entire election landscape. On the surface, it was the ruling party’s greatest liability.
The roster of those who had gathered at Chowon Bokgukjip to plot the stirring of regional sentiment was dazzling: the former Minister of Justice, the Busan Superintendent of Education, the Busan branch chief of the Agency for National Security Planning, the Busan Metropolitan Police Agency chief, the president and vice president of the Busan Chamber of Commerce, the mayor of Busan, the Busan District Prosecutors’ Office chief, and the commander of the Busan district military security unit. With both local autonomous bodies and national security agencies involved, the scale of the incident was enormous. It should have been a catastrophic blow to the ruling party.
Yet in the end, the side that suffered real damage was the opposition. Even though they should have condemned regionalism, the ruling-party candidate from Geoje Island toured Busan shouting “Aren’t we all the same?” while the media performed an artistic reframing. The combination created massive synergy. The media’s role was especially damaging. They transformed a story about the military, intelligence agencies, and local government colluding to incite regional hatred into a narrative about illegal wiretapping. When every outlet declared that illegal surveillance was worse than regionalism, no one could resist the shift in public opinion.
That was why, from the moment Yoo Jae-won decided to intervene in Korea’s 14th presidential election with Jeon Myeong-heon’s help, the Chowon Bokgukjip incident had loomed large in his mind. He had wrestled with how to handle it. Countless simulations had run through his head, yet no satisfactory conclusion had emerged. That was why he had come today—to experience the atmosphere of the actual location and perhaps spark a better idea.
Chowon Bokgukjip was a modern three-story building of red brick. In an era when slate-roofed houses still lined the streets, it looked distinctly stylish. Its reputation as a fine restaurant had spread through the neighborhood, making it a natural destination for influential figures.
“Welcome!”
As they opened the door, a middle-aged proprietress greeted them warmly. The moment she recognized Yoo Jae-won and Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon, her voice rose in surprise.
“Oh my! What an honor! Such distinguished guests have come to our humble shop!”
Calling them distinguished guests was an exaggeration—the amount they would eat was no different from anyone else’s—yet the proprietress’s fuss made Yoo Jae-won feel embarrassed. Her voice echoed loudly through the hall, drawing out the staff in a commotion. Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon, however, seemed delighted and began shaking hands with everyone. He gripped each hand firmly while making direct eye contact, convinced that such sincerity would win him a vote.
After the brief uproar, Yoo Jae-won and Jeon Myeong-heon’s party were shown to a private room. Jeon Myeong-heon took the seat of honor, and Yoo Jae-won and the rest of the entourage sat in order. There was no separation of tables or rooms by rank. Even second-generation chaebol heirs rarely dined with those they considered beneath them, and by the third generation the discrimination grew even harsher. In contrast, the founding generation made no such distinctions. Jeon Myeong-heon’s old anecdotes were full of the warm scent of humanity. Though Mirae Group had accumulated its share of dark history after becoming a full-fledged conglomerate, the man himself had not changed. That was why Yoo Jae-won found Jeon Myeong-heon’s unpretentious nature so likable.
“Let’s see.”
Once seated, Jeon Myeong-heon licked his lips and opened the menu. True to its name, every dish on offer was blowfish cuisine. They ordered spicy blowfish stew and fried blowfish, among other preparations. Prices varied slightly depending on the species of blowfish used, and Jeon Myeong-heon chose the most expensive—spotted pufferfish.
“Ah, this is delicious. I knew bringing you along would be a hit, Jae-won.”
The word “hit” rolling off Jeon Myeong-heon’s tongue no longer sounded strange. Yoo Jae-won had long realized how contagious certain expressions could be. He had been extremely careful not to let twenty-first-century information or vocabulary slip from his own mouth, yet exclamations like “jackpot” had escaped his control and caught on. In no time the word had spread through Deokjin-ri and reached everyone close to him.
“I should tell the Busan kids to come here for some nourishment.”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s next remark caught Yoo Jae-won’s attention. He had only taken a single spoonful, yet the spicy, pungent flavor had clearly won him over. Yoo Jae-won felt the same and nodded in agreement—then an idea struck him like lightning.
What if we turned Chowon Bokgukjip into Tongil National Party territory? Then those people wouldn’t come here to plot, would they?
On the surface, the Chowon Bokgukjip incident had been a boon for the opposition; it had exposed ongoing election fraud. Over time, however, it had transformed into a major liability. So why not prevent the incident from happening at all?
The government and ruling party would still attempt illegal election interference even if the scandal broke. Only after a civilian government took power would any semblance of electoral neutrality be acknowledged. Therefore, it would be better to ensure the Chowon Bokgukjip incident—whose sole purpose was to ignite regional hatred—never occurred.
It’s too early to jump to conclusions!
The current public-opinion map differed from his previous life, thanks to the presence of ID Group. ID Group spent well over a hundred billion won annually on marketing in Korea. Through aggressive advertising, sponsorships, and various marketing techniques, the company actively courted consumers. The primary beneficiaries of this offensive marketing were newspapers and broadcasters. Recently, the advertising war with Ilsung had noticeably improved newspaper companies’ financial performance. Even small regional papers carried full-page ID Group advertisements, so everyone understood the taste of Yoo Jae-won’s money.
Even if the Chowon Bokgukjip incident unfolded as scheduled, Yoo Jae-won was confident he could prevent any reframing of the narrative through ID Group’s influence. Still, if the media refused to follow his lead, the situation could become extremely difficult, so caution was necessary.
Poke, poke.
While deep in thought, Yoo Jae-won felt a tickle at his side. Turning his head, he found Jeon Myeong-heon and the rest of the table staring at him. The one who had poked him was his executive secretary, Kim Dae-seok. Yoo Jae-won had been lost in thought and failed to respond to several calls from Jeon Myeong-heon, so Kim had signaled him.
“We should have left you alone. You looked like you were having a flash of inspiration. We might have interrupted something important.”
Jeon Myeong-heon actually defended him. The man was clearly wearing rose-colored glasses. He seemed to interpret Yoo Jae-won’s absent-mindedness during a meal as the sign of someone unraveling a difficult problem. At this rate, even the most trivial gestures would be imbued with profound meaning.
“No, I just have a habit of getting distracted. What were you asking?”
Yoo Jae-won deflected the question; he could not openly discuss the Chowon Bokgukjip incident with Jeon Myeong-heon. Still, he filed away the idea of preventing the incident at its source—it was clearly worth pursuing.
“Ah, I was talking about the American presidential election.”
America was Korea’s greatest ally. Having fought alongside them during the Korean War, it was no exaggeration to call them a blood alliance. Even now, America’s influence surpassed that of any other nation. It was only natural that Jeon Myeong-heon would take an interest. Not only politically, but economically as well—depending on who became president, some companies would laugh while others wept.
“As for me, I’m all in on Clinton.”
There was no need to hide his stance on the American election. The news that ID Group had donated a massive ten million dollars to the Clinton campaign had already swept through the media. As a result, he had received several disappointed calls from the Heritage Foundation’s Edwin Feulner and other Republican figures. More radical Republican-leaning outlets like Fox had even launched attacks, claiming it was improper for foreigners to make political donations. Their argument—that foreigners had no voting rights and therefore could not donate—was technically correct. Anticipating this, ID Group had routed the donations through executives with clear American citizenship, such as Remington, Allen, and Vincent Greenhill. Since the subsidiaries and branches paid taxes in the United States, there had been no legal issues. Fox’s aggressive coverage faded without much resonance, as usual.
“Is that so? Then it’s true you didn’t give a single dollar to the Republicans.”
“Yes.”
Yoo Jae-won nodded simply. Jeon Myeong-heon clicked his tongue.
“Even so, isn’t that going too far? The Democrats won’t stay in power forever. If you discriminate like that, you’ll regret it later.”
“You’re right. It’s not that I dislike the Republicans—it’s Bush I can’t stand. Starting next year, I’ll make appropriate donations to them as well.”
“Ah, is that it?”
The Bush family, America’s political dynasty, would produce another president—and he would succeed Clinton directly. Yet because of the reckless decisions made by the younger Bush, Korea had suffered the most. The FTA, North Korea policy—everything had gone awry once George W. Bush took office. The thawing inter-Korean relations that had improved under the civilian government, the abandonment of North Korea’s nuclear program in exchange for heavy fuel oil and light-water reactors—all of it had been scrapped the moment the younger Bush appeared. Given the string of disasters that followed, Yoo Jae-won simply could not bring himself to support him.
“Then Korea must be similar, I suppose?”
America had a well-established system for political donations. Korea’s legal framework, however, remained incomplete. Campaign-finance laws were written by the National Assembly, and the Assembly had no incentive to pass legislation that would restrict its own fundraising. Consequently, what should have been called political donations was still referred to as “political funds,” and the methods of collecting those funds remained shrouded in secrecy.
“Yes. I’ve never once donated money to any specific party in Korea.”
Although TG Mobile had been forced to pay a large sum, it had been recorded officially as a radio-frequency usage fee. Therefore, he had never made an official donation to any party or politician.
“Do you need money, by any chance?”
“Haha, you’re the first person to ask Jeon Myeong-heon whether he lacks funds. Of course, if it’s you, you’ve earned the right to ask.”
This year alone, Mirae Group’s total revenue would easily surpass tens of trillions of won. Automobiles, plants, and construction remained strong, and shipbuilding was sailing smoothly. Only the electronics division was struggling, but once the second semiconductor plant came online next year, a complete turnaround was expected. Even with such enormous revenue, however, net profit shrank dramatically—sometimes measured in trillions, sometimes in billions—because high costs left little margin.
“Still, I’ve set some money aside. If I keep nibbling at it like dried persimmons, it’ll eventually run out, but not yet.”
“That’s a relief. I’ll just keep paying a lot of taxes. When you get to the Blue House, spend it freely on whatever you want to do.”
Whenever politicians reached out their hands, Yoo Jae-won’s standard reply was always “taxes.” Few politicians openly demanded bribes, but whenever such people appeared, he told them to go to the Blue House and spend as much as they liked. Last year there had been no special events, so the tax amount had been relatively small, but this year was different. Thanks to the massive profit from Nikkei futures, ID Investment’s corporate tax alone was expected to reach several billion dollars.
“Of course! That’s how it should be! But I have no intention of spending it recklessly. How hard my Jae-won worked to earn that money—I couldn’t possibly waste it.”
Yoo Jae-won felt slightly awkward at Jeon Myeong-heon’s words. The glint in the older man’s eyes made it clear he was already convinced he would become the next occupant of the Blue House. Objectively speaking, however, it was like drinking kimchi stew before it was even served. According to the latest internal polls run by ID Group’s Korean branch since before the general election, Jeon Myeong-heon was still in third place. With a month and two weeks remaining until the presidential election, Kim Young-sam led with 38.5 percent, Kim Dae-jung followed with 32 percent, and Jeon Myeong-heon trailed at 28.6 percent.
An election was a winner-take-all game. Jeon Myeong-heon and his campaign should have been in a state of emergency. Yet both the candidate and his staff in Seoul remained as relaxed as they appeared now. After all, the same man who had created the unexpected Tongil National Party surge in the April general election was promising full support once again. That relaxed attitude was evident in their campaign preparations. The platform was full of vague generalities with no concrete action plans. Most critically, there were almost no region-specific pledges—the very promises that could move local voters. Instead, the document was filled with lofty abstractions about unification and the economy. It was as if the entire campaign headquarters had placed all its trust in Yoo Jae-won alone and stopped moving.
“This time, too, I’m counting only on you! Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll get it done!”
The sparkle in Jeon Myeong-heon’s eyes was burdensome. When the candidate himself behaved this way, it was no wonder the campaign headquarters operated so leisurely. Yoo Jae-won did not possess a magic wand that could solve every problem, so the situation was truly awkward. Yet if Jeon Myeong-heon was truly willing to do whatever he was told… a small smile appeared on Yoo Jae-won’s lips. A perfect question had just come to mind—one that would test whether the man could really follow through.