Potions for the People
"Uh... um... how did it come to this?"
I muttered to myself as I gazed out the cafe window at the long line snaking in front of our restaurant.
The love we'd received from Californians had been immense, so for this flu season, I'd decided to sell close to cost despite the labor hit—just to help them beat the illness. It was my way of repaying the neighbors who'd helped me settle in this foreign land, especially after everything back in Korea.
That's just how business works.
Skimp on ingredients or portions to chase profits, and customers vanish like ghosts. Generous with quality and quantity, ignoring the margins? They flock in droves.
Consumers aren't fools.
Thanks to that, Bapsang became a haven for low-income families and folks without insurance—a place for an affordable, hearty meal.
I never squeezed profits from customers or staff. Instead, I trimmed my own margins and cut costs through direct farm deals. That's what made it possible.
But who knew this goodwill would ripple so massively?
Once Bapsang hit the social radar, reporters swarmed. The store was a warzone—no room for interviews—so we'd shifted to this cafe right next door.
"Hoon, why drop prices this low? You're barely breaking even, if at all."
I cleared my throat and answered the reporter's question.
"Well... some neighbors can't afford the doctor. Back in Korea, when you're sick, you eat something nourishing like the samgyetang we're selling now to shake it off."
I spoke from the heart.
"And these folks helped me build a life here in America. Lowering prices is the least I can do when they're under the weather."
The reporters scribbled furiously. Another raised a hand.
"Word is Bapsang's food helps prevent illness—is that true?"
"Yes! Absolutely."
I replied with conviction.
"In Korea, we have a saying: yaksik dongwon—medicine and food share the same origin."
I scanned the reporters and continued.
"It's preventive medicine: better to stay healthy with the right foods than cure sickness with harsh drugs later. Korean cuisine evolved over thousands of years on that principle, so yes, it definitely prevents disease."
"Yaksik dongwon..."
The reporters murmured the exotic phrase in awe.
Not just filling calories, but treating food as medicine. A fresh shock to Americans.
"I hope everyone battling the flu recovers soon and gets back to normal. Thank you."
I wrapped up politely and stood. I wanted to chat more, but the store was slammed.
Back inside, I donned a hygiene cap and rushed to the packing station.
"Packaging orders are piling up! Load extra broth!"
"Got it!"
For samgyetang only, we used disposable containers to pack it brimming with soup. When you're sick, you need that broth slurped down to recharge.
"This portion is really effective." No, folks, it's not a potion!
Customers who'd shuffled in like zombies days ago now returned with rosy cheeks, grabbing my hand in thanks.
Seeing that, exhaustion faded into a grin despite the grind.
Reward beyond money.
Today, I learned the joy of business anew.
California's state government unwittingly owed Ji-hoon a debt.
Other governors sweated under protests: "What the hell is the state doing?!" "Give us a plan!"
California? Serene.
Governor Christopher breathed relief. Who knew 50 Bapsang outlets statewide would be such a godsend?
Stores were like field hospitals.
Staff arms ached from the order rush, but no complaints. Seeing near-dead customers return healthy and grateful fueled their sense of purpose.
The grind hurt, but saving lives? That dragged them back daily.
Those directly helped shouted it online and off.
"Damn, this is a potion!"
"Red health potion—full HP restore!"
Gamers dubbed samgyetang "potion." Like chugging one to revive your dying character—perfect analogy for bouncing back from bedridden.
As California recovered fast, other states' residents seethed with envy.
"Why no Bapsang here?!"
"Drop potions for us!"
"Feed us!"
Governors' phones melted; Hansang HQ's customer line flooded with "Open a branch here!" demands.
Ji's cafe interview aired nationwide.
A merchant eating losses. Just $13—a chicken salad price—for life-saving food.
Americans idolized him anew.
"Heroic as ever."
"True noblesse oblige."
Terror fame fading after a year? The flu crisis cemented his hero status firmer.
But light casts shadows.
While recovered Californians and honored Ji grinned, one group scowled: hospitals.
"...No patients?"
California waiting rooms? Ghost towns, unlike other states.
Flu season meant packed with masked crowds—prime revenue from visits, tests, scripts, admissions.
Now? Empty. Staff idly flipped charts.
Execs wept blood.
Then Ji's interview poured fuel.
"Damn... he's right, but..."
Hospital directors bit lips.
Advanced preventive medicine? Healthier people? Hospitals bankrupt.
In capitalist healthcare where patients = profit, $13 samgyetang replaced hundred-dollar visits.
Ji's kindness? Thorn in Big Pharma's side.
Lily, already a homebody, hunkered down harder during flu season.
She cared more about her health than I did—knowing her fragility, she self-quarantined rigorously to avoid burdening me. Heartbreaking yet admirable.
Chiiik—chiiiik.
At the door, I sprayed full-body antiseptic. New routine after crowds at the store—better safe than sorry.
Tedious changing and spraying, but for Lily? Nothing.
"Hubby~ No work today?"
Disinfected, I entered the living room. Lily peeked from the sofa couch, eyeing my suit jacket.
"Yeah. Got an important meeting."
"Ooh? What kind?"
Her eyes widened.
I straightened my tie casually.
"Governor invited me."
"Really!?"
She gaped.
"California's governor?"
"Yep."
I'd been shocked too, getting the call via his chief of staff.
Christopher, California governor. Never met, just news glimpses: lush blond hair, trustworthy blue eyes, fit midlife charm. Hollywood handsome.
Urgent invite to HQ—I cleared my schedule.
Normally, I'd trek to Sacramento. But they offered:
[You're busy, so the governor will come down. Meet at Oakland City Hall.]
Him traveling to my Oakland? Huge deference.
No reason to refuse. Impossible to dodge.
"Guess I'll find out there."
I smiled at her worried-excited face.
"Be back soon. Eat well."
"Okay! Safe travels, hubby!"
With her send-off, I headed out, started the car.
Destination: Oakland City Hall.
Hands on wheel tingled with tension.
What did California's boss want? Instinct said: catalyst to elevate Hansang to new heights.
Parked, stepped onto Frank H. Ogawa Plaza before City Hall.
I looked up at the towering edifice.
Oakland City Hall.
Completed 1914, less government building, more historic monument.
Like a white wedding cake stacked skyward—unique Beaux-Arts style gleaming in California sun.
Heavy base gripping earth, mid-tier rising, crowning dome and clock tower piercing clouds.
White granite and terracotta walls, unbowed by time, exuding gravitas.
Amid glass skyscrapers, it alone held a century, overlooking Oakland.
A massive symbolic oak in the plaza swayed, branches brushing the building.
"Whew..."
Sunlight glared off white stone, but I didn't flinch.
Something told me: inside, my business transforms.
"Let's go in."
Deep breath, I strode confidently to the grand entrance.