Flu Season Windfall
Red warning lights blazed across news screens day after day.
Hospitals overflowing, emergency rooms paralyzed, Tamiflu in short supply.
The entire United States trembled under the invisible terror of the flu virus.
Streets were filled with people in masks hurrying along with heads down, incessant hacking coughs echoing everywhere.
It was a brutal scene straight out of a disaster movie's opening.
But amid the chaos, data analysts scratched their heads at a bizarre phenomenon.
The stats didn't lie.
While the rest of America turned crimson with virus cases, certain pockets in California stayed a safe, cool blue.
The common thread was crystal clear.
First, areas with heavy Korean populations like Vacaville and nearby cities.
Second, public school districts served by Hansang meal programs.
At first, it was dismissed as coincidence.
But as the data piled up, the statistical significance grew undeniable.
The pattern held inside Hansang too.
"Mr. Johnson called in sick again today."
"Another one? That's three this week already."
Local American hires were dropping like flies with flu-related sick days, while Korean staff—who devoured garlic- and green onion-packed Korean meals and chomped kimchi at the cafeteria daily—stayed perfectly fine.
They moved through the workplace like they were wrapped in an invisible shield the virus couldn't touch.
"Wait... is it the garlic?"
The reasonable suspicion quickly hardened into certainty.
Korean food was already seen as healthy fare among Americans.
Its core ingredients—garlic, green onions, gochugaru chili powder, onions.
And above all, kimchi, the pinnacle of fermentation science.
Claims exploded across SNS that allicin, capsaicin, and lactobacillus in these turned them into a "natural vaccine" exploding immunity.
It was like that old tall tale from the SARS outbreak—Koreans unscathed thanks to kimchi—coming true on American soil.
"Mom! I wanna eat Korean food!"
The reaction hit parents first and hardest.
A parent's wish for their kid to stay healthy was universal.
No ad could top the sight of neighborhood kids feverish with flu while Hansang-fed schoolkids showed up fine.
Americans who'd viewed Korean food as just an exotic health option now saw it as survival grub.
Parents weren't the only ones watching closely.
California state officials and Sacramento bureaucrats had stars in their eyes too.
Flu season meant massive social costs and healthcare bills.
But better meals could slash them?
Governor Christopher's desk now held a quiet report on expanding Hansang school meals.
What had been a dreaded flu disaster was morphing into a massive tailwind for Ji-hoon.
"What the hell am I looking at right now?"
Back when COVID hit Korea, small business owners looked like they were at a funeral.
People instinctively avoided crowds during outbreaks.
Flu wasn't as deadly as COVID, but anyone who's had it knows the misery: raging fever, chills, skull-splitting headaches, body aches like you'd been beaten.
Too wrecked to even crawl out of bed, let alone go to work.
So I'd braced for a sales nosedive, cut ingredient orders, and tried to stay zen.
But... what was this?
Lmao!! Time for the sick and weary!! Bring the garlic NOW!!
The store was pandemonium.
Customers staggering in, sweaty and hollow-eyed, demanding raw garlic on sight.
I knew the SNS buzz about garlic being a flu preventer and cure-all.
Allicin did help with sterilization and immunity, sure.
"Gahhh! So spicy! It's burning!"
People who could barely stand from sickness were dipping raw cloves in ssamjang and crunching away.
Tears and snot streaming, dying from the heat, but they wouldn't stop.
"What is this madness."
Modern bear shamans, straight out of myth.
Like the tiger spirit munching mugwort and garlic in a cave to become human, these folks were chomping garlic to beat the flu.
At this rate, kitchen stocks would vanish.
Worse, slamming raw garlic on an empty stomach would shred their guts before the flu did.
Can't let this slide. Time for a menu switch.
Korea takes food seriously.
Didn't Hippocrates, father of medicine, say it? "Let food be thy medicine. What medicine can't cure, food can't either." Or something like that.
Koreans force down samgyetang or porridge even when appetite's gone during a cold.
A cold's just low immunity letting viruses spark fever and inflammation.
To fight, your immune system needs fuel.
"Dong-hyun!"
I adjusted my mask and yelled toward the kitchen.
"Yeah?"
"Drop everything and hit the prep kitchen. Pull every chicken. Grab all the ginseng and jujubes from storage too."
"Huh? Outta nowhere?"
"'Whole Chicken' menu's on hold starting today. Switching full throttle to samgyetang."
We already had "Whole Chicken"—a whole boiled bird.
Tweaking it to Korea's ultimate tonic soup was child's play.
Chicken's protein punch.
Ginseng and jujubes for circulation and warmth.
Plus heaps of the garlic they craved, simmered to perfection.
Nothing better for flu fighters.
"Got it! On it now!"
Dong-hyun got it instantly, eyes gleaming as he bolted to prep.
I scanned the floor and grinned.
"Alright, folks. No more raw garlic chomping. Hang tight just a sec."
Time to show these weary souls the power of steaming K-tonic food.
Emergency directive hit all 50 Bapsang outlets across California.
Price: Near cost—$13
Prep: Skip glutinous rice for speed. Chicken, whole garlic (bulk), ginseng, jujubes. Pressure cook till tender.
Ji's call was swift.
Every kitchen had Korean staff.
Who can't boil samgyetang?
Chuck in chicken, fistful of garlic, boil hard—done.
Ji-hoon knew America's healthcare hell better than most.
Get sick here, it's a crime.
Step into a clinic for a cold? $200–300 gone on consults and meds.
No insurance or crap coverage? Skyrockets.
Americans tough it out unless dying.
Like Guan Yu playing go with an arrow in his arm, they trusted self-healing as routine.
One big surgery could bankrupt a family.
To them, Bapsang's cheap, hot tonics were salvation.
"Chicken! More chicken!"
Hansang logistics went into overdrive.
Ji-hoon's order: Rush stockpiled fresh chickens and garlic statewide.
Soon, big signs went up at every branch.
Korean Garlic Chicken Soup
For Your Immunity
The vibe inside was surreal.
Tables jammed with garlic seekers.
They crunched raw cloves for survival, but empty-stomach allicin twisted their guts.
"Ugh... stomach's killing me..."
Then—
"Hiiiisss—!"
A massive steam burst from the kitchen.
Pressure cookers roaring, white vapor billowing.
Mingled in: rich ginseng, savory chicken broth, sweet roasted garlic flooding the air.
A primal "healing aroma" bodies craved instinctively.
"Coming out! Hot—careful!"
Staff wheeled carts forward; raw-garlic weepers froze, staring.
Ji-hoon set down glutinous-rice-free, broth-heavy samgyetang—what he'd dubbed "ultra-concentrated chicken soup."
"Korean tonic food."
Trembling spoons dipped in.
Raw garlic's harsh bite gone; simmered cloves melted creamy on the tongue.
Hot broth warmed chilled stomachs sliding down.
"Huuuh...!"
Gasps escaped.
Chill-shivering bodies ignited like furnaces.
"Ahhh, sweat! I'm sweating!"
Coats flew off everywhere.
Not clammy flu sweat—clean, refreshing pours from brows and backs.
Virus flushing out through pores, that mysterious Korean relief Americans now felt.
"More! To go?"
"My wife's sick too!"
Explosion.
America: top superpower, capitalism's peak.
But under that flag's glory lurked stark wealth gaps, light and shadow.
Rich in private hospital suites on IVs.
Low-income or insurance-scared masses? Flocked elsewhere.
Bapsang stores.
"Why's it so packed here?"
Burger joints and pizzerias ghost towns; Bapsang lines snaked with masked crowds.
Instinct drew them to survive.
Day one of samgyetang.
Skeptics drained earthenware pots, went home, collapsed in sweat-soaked bliss.
Next morning, eyes snapped open.
"Nngh...!"
Not groans—a man's refreshed stretch from bed.
"Huuuh...!"
Unbelievable.
Night-long bone-deep chills, foggy fever haze—vanished like lies.
Clear-headed. Warm. Immunity victorious.
"I'm cured!"
Posts flooded SNS and local forums.
American diets? Problematic.
Calories! Just calories!
Pizza, burgers, fries, meat.
Tasty, greasy, addictive.
But good for you? Docs shake heads.
Korean food? Balanced nutrition with medicinal intent.
The difference showed in results.
Other states: flu cases surging.
California's graph? Bending down.
Slowly at first, then fast—patients plummeting.
Stats proved the weirdness.
CDC, California officials, major media zeroed in on one keyword.
Bapsang. And the man behind it: Ji-hoon.