Chapter 13
Chapter 13
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Babsang
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"Amy, the soup's too salty!"
Of course, the "Amy" here wasn't the term Korean mothers-in-law used for their daughters-in-law.
I'd sometimes blurt it out without thinking and end up laughing to myself.
She was a real person named Amy—a 27-year-old kitchen staffer, the same age as me.
And a powerhouse Black big sis at that.
The woman had insane stamina.
It had been a year since I arrived in America.
My little Korean set meal joint had become a bigger hit than I'd imagined, turning into a local landmark before I knew it.
Of course, it wasn't smooth sailing from the start.
The first week after opening was dead—flies were the only visitors.
The concept of "baekban"—a set meal—was totally alien to Americans.
"A baekban joint where baekban doesn't sell?!"
The ingredients were spoiling every day anyway.
Biting back tears, I decided to launch an opening event.
At least let them taste it for free.
I headed to the kitchen and pulled out a massive batch of rice cakes I'd prepped for side dishes.
Then I fired up a huge pot like something from an army mess hall and started making tteokbokki.
"Heh heh... Once they taste the real gochujang Dad sent, they'll go nuts."
I whipped up a secret sauce with sugar, soy sauce, gochujang, and gochugaru.
I poured in the rich fish cake soup broth and mixed it perfectly.
On top went green onions, fish cakes, cabbage, and plenty of sausages and bacon to hook American tastes.
A bright red, mouthwatering pot of tteokbokki was complete.
I loaded the tteokbokki and fish cake soup onto a truck and headed straight for the UC Berkeley entrance.
Three turquoise steel archways marked the gates.
Lunchtime was approaching, so students were streaming by.
I set up a bit away from the entrance.
Then, with my employee Amy, we started handing out tteokbokki.
Thankfully, thanks to K-culture, foods like kimchi, kimbap, bibimbap, and tteokbokki were already familiar to American students.
We unfolded two plastic tables and set up three portable burners on them.
We plated the tteokbokki and fish cake soup invitingly on wide square griddles.
Since it was pre-cooked, we just kept it warm on the burners and refilled from the pots as portions dwindled.
Soon, the spicy-sweet aroma rode the wind across campus.
Students started drifting over, faces full of curiosity.
My gambit was in play.
I planted a big sign on the plastic table.
[FREE TASTING]
[TTEOKBOKKI]
Big bold English letters, visible from afar.
Beneath it, in small print: my shop's name and address.
Babsang.
Today's goal: burn that name into their brains.
I ripped open a box of paper cups I'd prepped.
Amy and I scooped tteokbokki nonstop with ladles into the cups.
We lined up the cup portions on the table, and people grabbed toothpicks to munch standing up.
It was straight out of a Korean elementary school street food stall.
Not that these Americans would get the vibe.
The tteokbokki was sweet by Korean standards—not spicy at all.
But to American palates, it'd pack a punch.
Just in case, I had a few cases of 500ml water bottles ready.
250 won a pop—not a big deal.
I had zero plans to charge, though.
This was bribery.
"I'm opening up shop here. Take it easy on me."
We'd prepped about 500 servings of cup tteokbokki.
Seeing the pots full put my mind at ease.
Customer prep was complete.
I flashed the widest, kindest smile at the curious students eyeing us.
Long story short: my tteokbokki tasting was a smashing success.
Even kids who couldn't handle spice couldn't resist.
Seeing their friends turn red-faced and chug water didn't stop them.
Probably the thrill of trying "Korean tteokbokki" from movies and dramas outweighed it.
They tentatively grabbed a cup each and tasted it.
Their eyes went wide.
It wasn't just painful capsaicin heat.
Sweet, addictive, delicious spice.
Tons of students raved about my sauce.
This was UC Berkeley—one of America's top schools.
Lots of kids from well-off families.
When would they ever try street food like this?
Those who tried a bite out of curiosity soon slinked back into line, sauce smeared on their lips.
I pretended not to notice and smiled it off.
Adorable, right?
I did this every other day, same spot.
My strategy worked like a charm.
Word spread like wildfire.
Finally, I announced the official opening next week.
Students hooked on my tteokbokki—especially the girls—cheered and promised to come.
A rock-solid start.
Babsang.
I slapped "밥상" in huge Hangul on the signboard, with the English pronunciation small below.
The dining area channeled 1980s Korean retro vibes—like a trucker diner.
Round tables made from flipped oil drums.
My strategy: abundance.
Order one main dish, get seven side dishes and free dessert sikhe—all gratis!
Mains were simple but killer: pork belly, beef bulgogi, whole chicken soup, kimchi jjigae, bibimbap, spicy pork stir-fry.
Sides were even flashier: braised beef, seasoned veggie namul, tteokbokki, overflowing earthenware egg custard bombs, seasoned fish cake, and hearty mini doenjang jjigae.
Sides rotated fresh every two weeks.
My strategy nailed it.
Opening day.
Students hooked on the tteokbokki packed the place.
And they all shared the same shock—like they'd planned it.
Because ordering a main brought a massive round tray overflowing with sides.
One student raised a hand, flustered.
"Excuse me... we didn't order this much!"
I'd anticipated that.
American dining culture was infamous.
They charged for salad dressing, ketchup for fries.
Plus 15-20% tips.
I smiled and explained.
"It's all free. Korean service culture."
Their eyes went round.
"All this... free?"
"This much food for just 20 bucks?"
Newbies all reacted the same.
Regulars, on repeat visits, smiled knowingly—remembering their first time.
It was all thanks to the rock-solid kitchen system.
I came in early mornings, mass-cooking mains in giant vats.
Orders came in? Scoop a portion into an earthenware pot, boil, serve.
Sides same deal.
Babsang had six staff total, me included.
The kitchen was run by three seasoned aunties from the local Korean association.
Every flavor followed precise, quantified recipes.
The aunties churned it out silently, like school lunch pros.
I bounced between kitchen and floor, overseeing everything.
A triumphant first day.
From that successful debut, Babsang exploded among UC Berkeley students.
The buzz was simple:
A restaurant where 20 bucks stuffed you silly.
Non-greasy comfort food that left you feeling great.
Experience real Korean service traditions.
No tips, free sweet sikhe dessert.
All that hype packed the place daily.
I turned black in the first month.
Rent covered, profit left over.
The secret: lightning-fast turnover.
Set meals served quick, unlike courses.
Vegan raves especially lit up—especially for bibimbap.
"The perfect guilt-free vegan meal: bibimbap!"
Word spread, vegans swarmed like clouds.
They posted food pics on SNS, marketing for me free.
At the heart of it all: Dad's homemade jang.
Depth no factory stuff could touch.
Even the aunties were blown away.
One day, an auntie timidly asked.
"Boss... could you share a bit of this soy sauce and doenjang when you head home...?"
I gladly scooped generous portions for them.
In food biz, generosity draws customers—and staff.
Exactly one year since starting biz in America.
I reviewed the books, reflecting on the year.
The numbers stunned me.
After rent, payroll, all costs: pure profit over 400 million won.
The 2.9 billion seed money I'd brought.
Initial investment recouped and then some.
Success.
"Hmm... time to prep the next phase?"
Making my own jang, Dad's recipe.
Luckily, California—my base—was America's #2 rice producer, with Japonica strains.
No need to farm rice; buy premium local.
Issue: onions, green onions.
US varieties lacked that Korean punch.
I'd import seeds from Korea, farm here.
Hire hands for the work, though.
Why California? Temperate climate, distinct seasons—perfect for Korean crops.
I recalled my scouted spot.
Vacaville, northeast of Berkeley, about an hour away.
Cheaper land than Sonoma or Napa, full ag water infra, flat plains.
Farm lease: $300/month per acre (~1,224 py).
Under 400,000 won monthly.
8.5 tons onions/year per 10a (~300 py).
Green onions similar.
But my shop guzzled way more.
"Alright, go big from the start—4x scale."
1,200 py onions, 1,200 py green onions: total 2 acres leased.
Vacaville would be my ingredients hub.