The Giant Killer

The defining trait of Koreans as a people was how quickly they heated up and how quickly they cooled down. Last year’s hit product continuing its momentum well into the first half of this year was clearly unusual. Even Yoo Jae-won, the man behind it, found the phenomenon hard to grasp. At times he wondered whether a typing practice program could really be so essential and important. Yet this was nothing more than an underestimation of his own standing in the computer industry. Demand for the typing practice software rose in direct proportion to Yoo Jae-won’s reputation. The American version of Keyboard Warrior had sold 1.5 million copies, while Europe had moved another 300,000 units. People who had first touched a computer in hopes of becoming the next Yoo Jae-won were now using his typing program to grow comfortable with the machine. Thanks to them, several thousand orders arrived every month without fail.

While the settlement from Electronic Arts was sweet, domestic sales were also substantial. Of course, illegal copies of the Korean version were circulating at least ten times that volume. Even so, domestic revenue alone covered ID Technology’s personnel and operating costs with money left over. The Electronic Arts settlement therefore sat untouched at the Export-Import Bank. Faced with the endless demand for the typing program, Yoo Jae-won—who had never planned a sequel—now seriously considered developing version 2.0. He could not start immediately. The office suite was already an overwhelming workload, and once that finished he would have to dive straight into the Android project. Still, not everything ID Technology touched turned a profit. There had been losses as well, most notably with Vincent Greenhill, the man hired to handle oil futures trading.

A few months earlier, Yoo Jae-won had given him $100,000 as a warm-up exercise. The latest performance report showed a –21 percent return. The $100,000 had shrunk to $79,000. Oil prices had been rising steadily; had Vincent bought only call options he would have profited. The loss meant he had taken an unusual position. Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook, upon seeing the report, declared it the first hiring failure and questioned Vincent’s ability. Yoo Jae-won, however, decided to entrust Vincent with another $100,000 in operating capital. The loss had occurred precisely because Vincent had faithfully followed Yoo Jae-won’s instructions.

Weeks earlier, Yoo Jae-won had demanded high risk, high return—take whatever position offered the greatest profit even if it meant accepting significant risk. In response, Vincent had opened a risky put position, which produced the loss. Had oil prices fallen two or three dollars instead of continuing to climb, the $100,000 would have become $150,000–$200,000. Choi Kang-wook was right: Vincent’s investment skill was clearly limited. Had he taken an extreme long position, he could have satisfied Yoo Jae-won’s request while also generating substantial profit. Apparently his natural market bias leaned pessimistic, favoring downside moves over upside ones.

Despite the loss, Yoo Jae-won was satisfied. Vincent had not reached retirement from the New York Stock Exchange futures floor because of superior returns. He had survived because he possessed the rare ability to accommodate even his clients’ most unreasonable orders. Had he possessed instinctive market timing that produced high returns, he would long ago have been recruited by Goldman Sachs or JPMorgan as a portfolio manager. Given that temperament, Yoo Jae-won was confident that when he issued the seemingly insane order next year to place tens of millions of dollars into call positions without any risk diversification, Vincent would still execute the contract. In short, Vincent was the perfect man for the job.

While ID Technology operated at a frantic pace, the Yeoju branch responsible for packaging and delivery was no exception. Recently, however, one additional task had been added to the already busy branch: operating the cafeteria at Deokjin Elementary School. The spacious dining hall that could seat two hundred at once, along with the adjacent large-scale kitchen facilities, had finally been completed in early May. After the education office conducted its final inspection and granted permission, another week was needed for interior finishing, tables, chairs, industrial refrigerators, and serving equipment. Even with the extra time, the Yeoju branch was under pressure. They had to build an operational system for the cafeteria before D-Day.

Cooks capable of preparing more than six hundred meals at a time had to be hired, along with a nutritionist to plan balanced menus. Selecting suppliers for school-meal ingredients was another urgent matter. The major milestones on the schedule—building completion, furniture and material procurement—were achieved without difficulty. Yet once the work moved into finer details, unexpected problems surfaced everywhere. The most basic and important side dish, kimchi, proved impossible to source in bulk. In 1989 every household made kimchi and stored it in buried jars. Restaurants also prepared their own each year, so the very idea of buying kimchi for money had never occurred even to ingredient suppliers. It was an unforeseen obstacle, but Branch Manager Kang Chan-ho possessed quick wits and flexibility. With ample funds at his disposal, he solved the problem easily by visiting restaurants throughout Yeoju and purchasing kimchi in quantity. From the restaurants’ perspective, they were being paid for something they normally gave away as a service, so every establishment he approached gladly opened its storage jars.

Kang Chan-ho also signed contracts with farms to guarantee a steady supply of quality ingredients and organized wholesale suppliers for milk and processed foods through competitive bidding. He personally interviewed and selected both the nutritionist and the cooks. All were hired as regular employees of ID Technology. The plan was to spin the operation off into an independent foundation once the company’s social contribution activities grew larger, but for now it was only Deokjin Elementary, so ID Technology had to employ them directly.

What truly mattered to Kang Chan-ho, however, was something else.

The remark came the day before the cafeteria opened, during a dinner with the supplier owners and the nutritionist. The gap between the word “president” and “elementary school” was enormous, yet everyone present nodded naturally. In Yeoju, not knowing that fact would have marked you as a spy.

For Kang Chan-ho the most important thing was not cafeteria efficiency or the lowest possible cost. The supreme task was to serve food that would satisfy President Yoo Jae-won.

D-Day was May 9. The lunch war had begun.

“Sixth grade, please enter.”

“Wow, our turn!”

“I thought I was going to starve to death!”

The children who had been playing in the classroom rushed out at the announcement. Yoo Jae-won set down his book and followed his friends. The newly built cafeteria could seat two hundred at once, but Deokjin Elementary had more than six hundred students. It was impossible for everyone to enter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the same time, and even the first group would create bottlenecks during serving. They had therefore decided to rotate the first-entry grade each day. First and second graders were excluded from the rotation; only third through sixth grades took turns. The younger children finished morning classes earlier, so their entry time was adjusted to 11:30 a.m. Serving was not self-service; the cooks dished out the food themselves. Every detail had originated in Yoo Jae-won’s mind. Seoul already had a few schools offering lunch, but Yeoju had none, so there was nowhere to seek advice. Once Yoo Jae-won relayed his know-how through Kang Chan-ho, the system was implemented at once. The rotation had been announced a week earlier, so the children understood it well.

“Whoa, it really is pork cutlet!” Jumin exclaimed in surprise at the menu. Unfortunately it was not made from real pork tenderloin but from frozen processed cutlets. Still, they had chosen the highest-grade product available and cooked it with care. The demi-glace sauce was made from scratch, and extra sweetness had been added to suit children’s tastes. The soup was kimchi jjigae loaded with pork, and each child also received a 200 mL carton of milk. Yoo Jae-won joined the line. The cooks and nutritionist recognized him and could not hide their tension. Their nominal superior was the principal, yet the person who paid their salaries was Yeoju Branch Manager Kang Chan-ho, whose own employer was Yoo Jae-won. Although the media had kept his name out of the story, these people knew the truth.

“Eat plenty!”

“Yes, thank you.”

Because the staff had been instructed to treat Yoo Jae-won as an ordinary student while at school, no one used honorifics toward him. Instead they expressed their feelings through the food: his rice was heaped like a laborer’s portion, and the side dishes were generous. When the soup was ladled, the bottom of the pot was scraped so plenty of meat went into his bowl.

Once seated, Yoo Jae-won saw that Jumin was already wielding his spoon.

“Wow, it’s delicious!” Jumin was in ecstasy. He came from a well-off family and usually ate plenty of meat at home, but eating hot rice and hot side dishes instead of cold ones made everything taste far better. Yoo Jae-won took a bite as well and nodded unconsciously. Even with his far more discerning palate, everything tasted good except for the slightly undercooked rice. The lack of stickiness was not due to poor rice quality; last year’s harvest had been excellent. The problem was simply that they were cooking such large quantities that pressure cookers could not be used.

“They said we can go back for seconds, right?”

“Of course we can!”

Besides Jumin, many other children were already heading for a second tray. If any food remained after everyone had eaten, contingency plans existed. Extra side dishes would be packed and delivered to elderly residents living alone. Food waste had been contracted to a pig farm that raised animals on human food. Despite all the careful preparation, the first serving inevitably had shortcomings. Still, seeing every child eat heartily left Yoo Jae-won with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The old saying about earning like a dog and spending like a nobleman was made for moments like this.

The full-scale implementation of lunch service at Deokjin Elementary became a major topic in the Yeoju area. Parents no longer had to prepare morning lunchboxes—a chore no mother could avoid. Even in an era when skipping breakfast was rare, packing a lunchbox was quietly burdensome. Complaints about side dishes disappeared, and children who once received only sour kimchi no longer faced scolding. Some families had been so poor that children went hungry at lunch; even those cases vanished. Every student could now eat freshly cooked warm rice and side dishes made from fresh ingredients every day. Just like the village improvement projects, praise ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was inevitable, and local newspapers came to cover the story. The news apparently reached Seoul as well, because national broadcasters also sent reporting teams. Naturally, ID Technology, the provider of the lunches, once again found itself in the spotlight. Yoo Jae-won’s name, however, was never mentioned. At his own request, only Choi Kang-wook and Kang Chan-ho stood before the cameras, presenting the project as their own initiative. Yoo Jae-won judged that his current level of fame was appropriate: the computer prodigy recognized even in America. If he ever needed broad public support for a larger cause, he could step forward anytime, but for now the extra attention would only be an inconvenience while he still had so much work to do.

He used the time gained to focus exclusively on program development. He delegated even company matters to Choi Kang-wook, Remington, and Kang Chan-ho, pouring every ounce of concentration into coding. Like a man who had left the secular world behind, he traveled only between school and home inside Deokjin-ri, devoting himself to completing the software.

Late June, on a Saturday when the once-welcome spring breeze had turned into a sweltering summer wind, Yoo Jae-won sat in front of his computer the moment school ended, as usual. The latest machine Intel had sent him was already running Turbo C. After checking the complex source code for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a long time, he offered a brief prayer and executed a special command. A crude status window appeared and numbers began to scroll upward. Had his parents been home they would have urged him to rest and brought him a snack, but they were at a reunion, so no one was there to stop him. This scene had become ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠routine ever since he began the office project, yet today felt different. Unlike yesterday, when his eyes had been half-closed as he hammered the keyboard in a trance, today his gaze was sharp and focused on the monitor. The computer itself seemed equally absorbed; the hard drive made loud, rhythmic grinding sounds as it read data.

After some time, a new message appeared in the message window.

“Yes!”

Seeing the message on the screen, Yoo Jae-won thrust his fist into the air and shouted in triumph.

“Strike up the band! Double zero! I finally caught every single warning and error that was giving me headaches. When I built each source file separately there were no warnings at all. The moment I merged them, a bunch of errors popped up and I can’t even describe how annoying it was. It turned out the problem was that the compiler couldn’t properly distinguish between the numeral 1 and the letter l, or between O and 0. Similar issues appeared when naming resource files. Once I identified the cause I still couldn’t fix it quickly. I had to play a giant game of ‘Where’s Waldo?’ through hundreds of thousands of lines of code before I finally caught them all. The stress had been so intense that simply seeing the completion message wasn’t enough—Yoo Jae-won began dancing around the room in pure joy. He had finally finished the weapon that could slay the giant. There was no way to contain his excitement.”