The Schemers (2)
“The editing turned out great, didn’t it?”
“Doesn’t it look a bit too much like an investigative exposé, though?”
“What’s wrong with that? It is an exposé.”
There were two videos uploaded to the Songhadang channel. One was a compilation of the protesters’ verbal abuse, captured by Se-jun and edited by Ha-jeong; the other was a video of me personally walking through Songhadang’s eco-friendly distillation process.
Truth be told, this wasn't how I had envisioned launching our online presence. My original intent had been to showcase the serene landscapes of Yeongwol, the candid daily lives of our crew, and the quiet dedication poured into crafting our spirits. But circumstances demanded an audible.
“Hey, look at this. The view count ticks up every time I refresh.”
“Didn’t we just upload that two days ago?”
“Yeah, and it already broke a hundred thousand.”
“Wait, seriously? How is that even possible?”
I blinked at the screen, genuinely taken aback. While Meari had garnered its fair share of acclaim, Songhadang was still far from a household name. In a country where the vast majority equated liquor solely with cheap, green-bottle soju, pulling those kinds of numbers for craft spirits was practically miraculous.
It turned out there was an external factor at play.
“It’s been making the rounds on all the major forums,” Se-jun explained, tapping the desk. “A few news outlets even picked it up. Radical environmental protests have been dominating the headlines lately, after all. The reporters must’ve figured our story was prime clickbait.”
“Ah.” I nodded, seeing the bigger picture.
Protecting the environment? Preserving nature? I stood by those principles wholeheartedly. It was the very reason my grandfather had named this place Songhadang—Beneath the Pines by the River—hoping to weave the brewery seamlessly into Yeongwol’s natural splendor. We went to great lengths to uphold that philosophy: keeping wastewater discharge to an absolute minimum and recycling spent grain into livestock feed.
“The news has been full of zealots splashing paint on masterpieces or gluing themselves to highways,” Se-jun remarked. “We basically caught that tailwind.”
“Good timing, then.”
To be fair, the agitators picketing our gate hadn’t stooped to that extreme. Waving placards and hollering slogans was child’s play by comparison. But to the online public, fatigued by disruptive stunts, the parallels were all too obvious.
“Public sentiment is on our side,” Se-jun observed.
“Sure, but they don’t look like they’re packing up anytime soon.”
“Of course not. Whoever hired them wouldn't let them fold that easily.”
Perhaps feeling the squeeze of public scrutiny, the noisy mobs that once swarmed our gates had dispersed, leaving only a stubborn skeleton crew to maintain the perimeter. Instead, they had shifted tactics, harassing us through incessant phone calls and threatening emails. Naturally, their talking points had pivoted as well, adapting to the backlash.
“Since the environmental angle fell flat, they’re going to pivot to resident consent,” I noted.
“It’s uncanny,” Se-jun muttered, shaking his head. “How do they manage to dance to your exact script?”
“Because their playbook is as transparent as tap water.”
Sure enough, their banners now blared slogans like: Stop Commercial Factories Built Without Resident Consent! and Who Will Safeguard the Locals’ Drinking Water? They were desperate to paint us as callous corporate invaders trampling over the peaceful folk of Yeongwol.
“Has the final label design for Meari cleared?” I asked.
“Yep,” Se-jun replied. “We got the regulatory green light. All we need to do is bottle and ship.”
“And the other project?”
“Allow me to present that!” Ha-jeong declared with a radiant grin, shooting her hand up before producing a thick, cloth-bound sketchbook. She flipped it open with dramatic flair, unveiling a breathtaking series of architectural renderings.
The sketches ranged from sleek, modern speakeasies to rustic, timbered Joseon taverns. Though each concept carried its own distinct charm, they all pointed to the same purpose.
“It’s our complete design collection for the Songhadang Bar!” she announced proudly.
This was our trump card. An enterprise that disregarded the local community? Utter nonsense. My grandfather had maintained deep, familial ties with the village elders, and I had spent my youth greeting them at his side. When I inherited the brewery, those very same elders had trekked up the hill to congratulate me with bags of fresh produce and hearty pats on the back.
“Good folk, all of them,” Songha’s smooth voice drifted from the air. “Though the wider world rarely sees what lies beneath the surface.”
“Bah! Songha, you sour old scholar, must you always pour cold water on everything?” Old Man An chuckled, his gravelly voice teasing as he craned his spectral neck alongside Songha to study the sketches. “Isn't that why we’re building a tavern in the first place? Heh-heh! I can hardly wait! That lass certainly has a gifted hand with the brush, doesn’t she?”
Rather than vanishing into their usual drinking bouts, the two dokkaebi hovered intently over Ha-jeong’s artwork, thoroughly captivated.
A tasting bar had always been part of our long-term roadmap. We wanted a dedicated space where future brewery tour guests could sample our full lineup, and more importantly, a welcoming venue to treat the neighbors who had looked after us for decades.
“I didn't expect our debut to happen under these circumstances, though,” I admitted.
“Turning crisis into opportunity, Boss!” Ha-jeong chimed in cheerfully.
“Fair enough. Let’s pick a winner.”
While many of the designs were stunning, we immediately set aside any proposals requiring heavy construction. We had neither the time to secure municipal building permits nor the luxury of a prolonged build, given that this was a pop-up initiative hosted inside our existing, retrofitted shipping containers. Any overly ambitious concepts were gently shelved for later.
“And while it’s called a bar,” I pointed out, “we shouldn't make it feel like an actual bar.”
“Wait, why not?” Ha-jeong asked, tilting her head.
“Our guests are rural elders. A moody, dimly lit lounge or an overly stiff pub will just make them feel uncomfortable. We want an atmosphere that feels warm and intuitive.”
With that criterion in mind, the dim cocktail lounges and the excessively theatrical folk taverns were weeded out. In the end, one singular blueprint emerged victorious.
“This one feels right,” I said, tapping the page.
“Kind of looks like a cozy country café, doesn’t it?” Se-jun remarked.
“Oh, wow. It really does! I love it!” Ha-jeong beamed.
The unanimous choice was a bright, airy space reminiscent of a rustic hillside café. Large windows framed panoramic vistas of Yeongwol’s undulating ridges, while sturdy wooden tables stood ready to host small tasting flights and thoughtfully matched bites. It was a sunlit sanctuary built for easy laughter and leisurely sips.
“Then we’re locked in on this,” I said.
“Where are we setting it up?”
“Right beside the aging cellar. It fits the flow of a guided tour.”
“Splendid!” Old Man An chortled with relish. “This old soul never complains about having more drinking companions! Heh-heh!”
“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Ha-jeong said, rolling up her sleeves with a bright spark in her eyes. “But I’m already excited!”
We all shared a firm nod of determination. It was time to show the world what kind of place Songhadang truly was.
Execution proceeded without a hitch. We contracted the same interior firm that had handled our cellar expansion; their reliability and speed were already proven. True to form, the crew arrived, measured, and hammered away with miraculous efficiency, transforming the industrial steel container into a warm, wood-paneled haven in less than forty-eight hours.
When I asked the foreman how they managed to work so fast, he merely spat to the side and grunted, “Just put yer head down and build it, that’s all.” I decided not to pry any further. What mattered was that we now possessed a gorgeous tasting room.
“Now comes the main event,” Se-jun said.
“Right. A bar needs patrons. A few folks reached out online asking to visit, but this first run is strictly reserved for our neighbors.”
Word of Songhadang’s pop-up tasting space had already rippled through YouTube and our website. Inquiries flooded our inbox, with eager connoisseurs demanding to know when reservations would open. Regretfully, we had to put them on hold; this celebration belonged to the village.
“CEO Yoon Juho sounded pretty bummed on the phone,” Se-jun chuckled.
“We’ll invite him when we officially launch the permanent venue. Come on, let’s get moving.”
“Phew... I’m already getting a headache thinking about squeezing past that gauntlet at the gate.”
The protesters remained stationed at the entrance, seemingly immune to exhaustion. I had assumed their enthusiasm would wane after a few chilly mornings, yet they clung on with unnatural tenacity—almost as if their livelihoods depended on a hefty retainer check. The moment our sedan rolled past the gate, their megaphones crackled back to life.
Ignoring the noise, Se-jun carefully steered onto the country road toward the neighboring settlement. Given the advanced age of most residents, we were heading out to chauffeur them personally.
“Did you call the Village Head, Yeon-woo?”
“Yeah. He was thrilled. Actually, he was furious on our behalf. Kept cursing out the demonstrators.”
“Aigoo... I just hope the elders don’t have trouble making the trip.”
Carrying a mixture of anticipation and concern, we crested the final ridge into the village. On previous visits, the hamlet had been a portrait of idyllic rural serenity—quiet, peaceful, and draped in mountain mist. But the scene greeting us at the village square was nothing short of astonishing.
“Wait... is this the right place?” Se-jun muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“It... should be?”
“Oi! Yeon-woo! You finally made it?”
We stepped out of the car into a bustling staging ground. Lined up along the dirt road were several sturdy one-ton farm pickups, their flatbeds crowded with bundled-up elders chatting eagerly. Where on earth had they scrounged up so many trucks?
The Village Head—comparatively spry compared to his septuagenarian neighbors—strode toward us, his weather-beaten face split into a broad grin as he waved vigorously.
“We’re locked and loaded, son!”
“Sir, what is all this...?”
“You promised free booze, didn’t ya? I even recorded the call on my phone! Gah-hah! When I told the folks that Taeho’s grandson was pouring his finest brew for the village, every living soul with two legs showed up! We scraped together every farm truck in the valley!”
From the flatbeds behind him, wrinkled hands waved through the crisp air, voices calling out my name with fond familiarity. A sudden warmth welled up in my chest, catching in my throat. I couldn't help the broad smile that broke across my face. Bowing deeply from the waist, I conveyed my sincerest gratitude.
“Thank you so much, everyone.”
“Don’t thank us yet! It’s free liquor! The only pity is that me and the other drivers can’t touch a drop while our hands are on the wheel. Besides, we heard those no-good agitators were using our names to drag your good brewery through the mud! Once that rumor spread, folks from the next hollow over piled in too! Come on, let’s roll! Hey! Everyone grab your steering wheels!”
With a booming holler, the Village Head clambered into the lead truck. Led by our sedan, a rumbling convoy of farm pickups set off in an imposing column, kicking up dust as we wound back toward Songhadang.
When our convoy pulled up to the front entrance, the shivering demonstrators found themselves thoroughly outmatched. Between Yeongwol’s biting frost and a wall of diesel trucks bearing down on them, their picket line collapsed in confusion. A handful of stragglers attempted to yell through their bullhorns, but our trucks swept smoothly through the iron gates without incident.
“Yeon-woo,” Se-jun said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Can you hear them back there?”
“How could I not? They’re screaming at the top of their lungs.”
“Good grief... I hope their blood pressure doesn't spike.”
While our crew had grown numb to the picketers, the village elders certainly hadn't. Towering over the sidewalk from their truck beds, the grandmothers and grandfathers unleashed a blistering barrage of rural vitriol, branding the demonstrators lazy scoundrels who ought to be ashamed of harassing an honest young man. The sheer vigor of their scolding drowned out the megaphones entirely.
They say survival in the mountains breeds resilience; watching our elders shout down the city agitators was undeniable proof.
“They’re wonderful people,” I murmured. “Taking up our fight like that.”
“Which means we’d better treat them like royalty.”
“Without question.”
As we parked, I tapped out a quick text to Ha-jeong to let her know our guests had arrived. Receiving her affirmative reply, I hurried over to assist the elders as they climbed down from the flatbeds.
“Oof, it’s cold out here, biting cold!”
“You shouldn't have ridden in the open bed, Grandfather...”
“Bah, a little mountain wind never killed anyone! Now where’s this free drink you promised? We’ve been licking our lips all morning!”
“Right this way, please.”
Guiding the animated crowd toward the tasting lounge, we pushed open the doors to reveal Ha-jeong waiting with a glowing smile. The rush of heated air and the fragrance of cedar wood instantly thawed their spirits. Chuckling and chatting, the elders settled into the chairs, marveling at the sweeping views through the glass before their conversation turned eagerly to the menu.
The stage was set.
“Se-jun, make sure you capture everything on camera.”
“Already on it. I’ve been rolling footage since we left the village square.”
“And Ha-jeong?”
“In the kitchen. She’s completely fired up to showcase her pairings. Heh.”
When it came to spirits, proper culinary accompaniment was paramount. Ha-jeong, who possessed a natural flair for gastronomy, had spent the preceding days tirelessly experimenting with local ingredients to devise the perfect culinary counterparts for Meari.
“Can you lend a hand out front once you set up the tripods?” I asked.
“Consider it done. I’ll carry trays while holding the gimbal.”
“Let’s begin, then!”
We split up, approaching different tables where lively banter was already in full swing.
“Well, look at this! Is this really Songhadang?”
“Old Man Song used to boast about his place day in and day out—turns out he wasn't lying!”
“Say, is the brew just regular soju?”
“Hold your tongue, old fool! He told us it’s proper traditional liquor!”
“Traditional? You mean like that fancy Andong soju stuff?”
The feedback was overwhelmingly warm, yet grounded in the reality of modern Korea. Traditional brewing heritage had been nearly extinguished during the colonial occupation, leaving generations with little memory of what genuine heritage spirits tasted like. To these elders, artisanal liquor was an unfamiliar concept.
“My chief worry,” Songha whispered, his ethereal form drifting beside me, “is that they may fail to appreciate its subtle fragrance and delicate balance.”
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back softly. “It’s Meari. Its voice will reach them.”
“If you are so confident, then I shall harbor no doubt.”
Even as he spoke, Songha leaned over the counter, drawing in the crisp, resinous perfume rising from the freshly unsealed bottles of Meari. I felt no hesitation. The clean, pine-tinged vitality of our spirit carried an undeniable clarity that transcended generational divides. If anything, my only lingering concern was that once they tasted Meari, they might never be able to enjoy ordinary commercial liquor again.
Straightening my apron, I stepped up to the nearest table with a welcoming smile.
“Good morning, elders.”
“Well now! Look at you, Yeon-woo! You’ve grown into quite the handsome lad, haven’t you?”
“Haha, it was about time I grew up, sir. Shall I pour you your first glass?”
“By all means! Bring out the snacks, too! We old folks came here expecting great things today!”
The elder offered a broad, gap-toothed grin, his weathered eyes shining with merry anticipation.
“Coming right up,” I replied with a confident smile.
All that remained was to let the spirit do the talking.