The Season When Grapes Ripen (2)
"Yes, yes. Oh, no, it's nothing like that! We'll have everything restored as quickly as humanly possible. Yes, yes."
The office phones were ringing off the hook, lines blinking in an unrelenting flurry. There was only one reason for such chaos: we had just officially announced the release of our newest Meari.
Having finally finished the call, Se-jun set the receiver down with an exhausted exhale. "This is blowing up way bigger than we anticipated, isn't it?"
"Tell me about it," I replied, shaking my head. "I never imagined the response would be this overwhelming..."
"We're in trouble. We only brewed this batch recently, so the volume simply isn't there."
"That's precisely why!" Ha-jeong chimed in, leaning forward with bright enthusiasm. "From the consumers' standpoint, the scarcity makes it feel even more exclusive and desirable!"
"Ha-jeong's right."
Given Songhadang's modest scale, churning out massive quantities all at once was out of the question; releasing our supply in small, measured trickles was our only option. Who could have guessed the public would perceive that limitation as a mark of luxury?
Ha-jeong, who had been vigorously scouring the internet on her smartphone, turned the screen toward me to share the public's reactions.
"The loudest complaint by far is people asking why we're selling so few bottles! But there's also an undercurrent of concern. Look right here..."
She thrust her phone closer, showing me the comment section beneath our latest upload on Songhadang's YouTube channel—a showcase for Meari: Autumn. While the vast majority brimmed with eager anticipation, a few skeptical voices stood out among the crowd.
"They'd understand in an instant if they could just taste it, yet everyone worries so much!" Ha-jeong pouted, clearly dissatisfied with the doubters.
"We should be thankful that they're worried," I said, offering her a comforting smile. "It just proves how high their expectations are."
After soothing Ha-jeong's wounded pride, I turned my attention back to Se-jun. "By the way, Se-jun, is that other matter completely wrapped up?"
"Ah... those clowns?" Se-jun replied, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he logged the details of the calls he had just taken.
Among the staff at Songhadang, 'those clowns' required no clarification. He was referring to the hostile protesters who had camped outside our gates staging bad-faith demonstrations until recently. Yet Se-jun's tone was entirely nonchalant, as if discussing ancient history.
"They vanished without a trace. Who knows what those people were actually trying to accomplish."
It was the natural outcome. Everything had unfolded step-by-step according to plan, with YouTube playing a decisive role. We thoroughly dismantled allegations of environmental damage by showcasing our authentic, eco-friendly brewing process on camera, turning the tide of public sentiment in our favor. Furthermore, the issue that had weighed on us most—friction with the local community—was completely dissolved by inviting the village elders to the brewery and sharing the heartwarming footage online.
Once those videos aired, the protest mob dispersed like morning mist, and the malicious rumors poisoning the internet quietly melted away.
"Still, it pisses me off," Se-jun muttered, scowling. "Should we sue them? We really ought to throw the book at them and make them eat prison gruel."
"Believe me, I'd love to," I sighed. "But right now, we have matters that are far more important."
"Yeah... you're right about that."
Deep down, I wanted nothing more than to do as Se-jun suggested. Given the insidious coordination behind their stunt, someone was undeniably pulling strings from the shadows, leaving a foul aftertaste in my mouth. But Songhadang was simply far too busy to squander time in a legal brawl. Demand for both iterations of Meari—the classic recipe and the current refined version—remained sky-high. More importantly, now that I understood how to dismantle my adversaries, there was no reason to charge forward recklessly.
"Besides, I don't want our name associated with petty squabbles right now," I added. "I want Songhadang to be renowned for sublime spirits, not courthouse drama."
"Well, if that's the boss's philosophy, I'll follow it."
"Let's direct our focus where it truly belongs. I'm heading out to the maturation cellar."
"Understood. Ah, phone's ringing again! Hello, this is Songhadang—"
Leaving Se-jun to field another customer inquiry, I stepped outside toward the aging cellar. Ha-jeong was on my heels in an instant. Perhaps relieved to escape the dry hum of office logistics, her face was alight with an exuberant grin.
"You look remarkably cheerful for someone headed out to do heavy cellar work," I remarked.
"That's because it's work connected to what I love!"
At times like this, her unblemished passion radiated with an innocence well beyond her years. Suppressing an affectionate chuckle, I quickened my stride across the courtyard.
The air had turned far colder than a mild autumn breeze. Perched high in the rugged mountains of Gangwon Province, the biting seasonal winds whipped against our skin with cutting ferocity.
"It feels like autumn barely exists these days," Ha-jeong noted, rubbing her chilled arms. "One minute it's sweltering hot, and the next it's freezing cold."
"I know what you mean. The whole reason this brewery took root here was to craft aged spirits that embody all four distinct seasons, but climate shifts might make that an uphill battle."
Maturation is intimately bound to terroir and environment. It is never just a cold equation of ambient temperature and humidity; the slant of sunlight, the character of prevailing mountain winds, and the flora of the surrounding soil all breathe their soul into the wood. That delicate dance is the true romance of aging spirits. It explains why profiles diverge dramatically across different regions of the same country, and even between neighboring distilleries. In 2017, the Swiss distillery Tourbillon had gone so far as to submerge barrels twenty meters deep on the seabed for seven months just to age whisky under oceanic pressure.
"Still, if it's you, Boss, I know you can pull it off!" Ha-jeong thumped her chest with fierce confidence, her cheeks flushed rosy-red either from the icy wind or her burning conviction.
Right. Let's make it happen. The people standing with me at Songhadang were a crew anyone would envy.
"Seems to me you've gone and left me out of that reckoning, my friend. Heh-heh."
Of course, that included our resident dokkaebis, Songha and Moktong.
"Do you mind if I take a quick call?" I asked Ha-jeong.
"Not at all! I'll head inside first!"
I couldn't keep darting behind corners every time I conversed with the spirits, so I slipped a wireless earbud into my ear. If I appeared to be chatting over the phone, no bystander would think twice about me talking to thin air.
The moment the silent earbud was seated, Songha drifted up beside me, his fedora tilted at an elegant angle.
"I was just pondering whether to summon you myself."
"Did something happen?"
"Well, nothing has occurred just yet, but I have a notion our hands are about to become exceedingly full."
"Our hands are going to be full?"
At my quizzical expression, Songha merely offered a subtle, knowing grin before gliding effortlessly through the heavy cellar door, tossing back a parting remark: "Time will tell, my friend."
Every single time he did this, I found myself wishing he would just lay things out plain and simple. Occasionally, I wondered whether I was just too dense to grasp his cryptic wisdom. Regardless, judging by the gentle amusement lingering on his features, whatever lay ahead wouldn't be misfortune.
"Huh? Didn't you say you had a phone call, Boss?" Ha-jeong asked as I pushed the door open.
"It wasn't anything serious. Wrapped it up in seconds."
Stepping inside, the low rumble of the sliding door revealed rows of earthenware onggi jars stacked in numbers incomparable to our humble beginnings. Among this sprawling sea of fermenting liquor, my target for today was already chosen.
"Right here."
"Kek-kek! This rascal’s got tastes mighty similar to mine, I tell ya."
"Rather than mere taste, he simply possesses the discerning eye to recognize supreme drink," Songha countered smoothly.
"Bah, that's the exact same difference, ya fancy windbag!"
Treating the dokkaebis' bickering banter as ambient background noise, I approached the designated onggi jar. Ha-jeong tilted her head, tapping her chin in thought.
"This one was... ah, what was its name again? It completely slipped my mind."
"Dongjeongchun."
Hailed as a legendary masterwork of the Joseon Dynasty, this spirit belonged to the category of takju—which, in modern terms, made it an unrefined makgeolli. Its classical brewing technique had once been lost to history before dedicated artisans reconstructed the recipe, and a handful of specialized microbreweries produced it today.
"After all the blood, sweat, and tears we poured into it, I really hope the flavor turns out incredible," Ha-jeong murmured.
"I share that hope."
Dongjeongchun was notoriously merciless to brew. As a two-stage fermented mash, or iyangju, it required crafting a delicate fermentation starter; more dangerously, the recipe called for an absurdly minuscule proportion of water, driving the risk of spoilage through the roof. Yet despite the punishing margin for error, our reason for attempting it was absolute.
"The greater the hardship, the more divine the payoff," I explained. "It isn't celebrated as an immortal brew for nothing."
"Hearing you say that makes my mouth water all over again. *Gulp.*" Ha-jeong swallowed hard in naked anticipation.
I was in much the same state—though perhaps my vantage point differed slightly. Even before prying off the lid, I could already perceive the playful aromatic spirits frolicking above the rim of the jar.
They bounced and tumbled with radiant smiles. Clinging to one another in dense, syrupy embraces, each spirit exhibited its own vibrant personality, but rising above the rest were unmistakable, concentrated aromas of wild honey and orchard fruit.
"It's going to be remarkably sweet," I noted aloud.
"You can tell that already?"
"From the fragrance alone. Let's have a taste."
Lifting the onggi's lid, I dipped a wooden ladle deep into the undiluted mash of Dongjeongchun and poured a generous measure into Ha-jeong's cup. Fermented with almost no water, its consistency was remarkably dense and custardy—so thick one could almost scoop it with a spoon.
Meanwhile, Moktong had hitched himself up on a nearby ledge, happily scooping mouthfuls directly into his face with his bare hands. Even if the 'angel's share'—or rather, the dokkaebi's cut—allegedly enriched the spirit's final character, seeing him guzzle it by the fistful still twinged my thrifty brewer's soul.
Sensing my sideways glare, or perhaps feeling a prick of conscience, Moktong cleared his throat and grumpily spat in his heavy southern dialect:
"Ahem-hem! Just drink up, will ya? Instead of thankin' an old spirit for lendin' a hand, you give me that stingy scowl! Tsk!"
"Moktong, my good fellow, you truly have imbibed rather excessively," Songha teased gently. "If even I feel a twinge of pity for the loss, that speaks volumes, does it not?"
"Quiet, you!"
"Whoa! Thank you so much!" Ha-jeong beamed, entirely deaf to the supernatural squabble as she cradled the vessel.
Resting within the cup was Dongjeongchun, gleaming with an exquisite, milky radiance. Upon the surface of the brew, spirits of extraordinary charm chatted and capered.
Yes, wonderfully unique spirits.
"Quite endearing, wouldn't you say?" Songha murmured.
Evidently, what revealed itself to my sight was visible to Songha as well. It was a spectacle that summoned an instinctive, heartwarming smile.
A quaint cottage fashioned from toasted grain biscuits sat drenched under a golden cascade of warm, flowing honey. Mingled with the pillowy, oven-baked fragrance of pastry soaked in nectar, the tart zest of ripe grapes dashed merrily across the courtyard. Darting in and out from every corner were spritely plum aromas, waving their tiny arms and legs in playful welcome.
"Mmm... just inhaling the fragrance is breathtaking," Ha-jeong whispered in awe.
"It truly is. Well then, shall we...?"
A single glance was enough to recognize its brilliance, yet the actual taste blew past every expectation. The rich bouquet surrendered to a luscious, velvety viscosity that coated the mouth. Simultaneously, the deep, comforting nuttiness of fermented grains enveloped the palate, gathering all the vibrant floral and fruit notes into an embrace of utter tranquility.
"How long... did you say this had aged?" Ha-jeong stammered, stunned.
"It underwent low-temperature aging, so it took some time. Roughly two weeks."
"I wouldn't bat an eye if you told me it had matured for a whole month!"
Possessing the true answer behind her reasonable disbelief, I could only smile ambiguously. It wasn't as if I could confess, 'Well, an ancient dokkaebi has been secretly guzzling it in the cellar, and his mystical favor dramatically accelerated the aging.'
"Couldn't we bottle this immediately?" she asked, eyes shining with excitement.
"No."
"Pardon?"
"Not yet."
"Mm-hmm, that's it. The lad has a proper head on his shoulders," Moktong cackled in approval, shaking his head knowingly.
While I was delighted by her praise, we had not yet reached the bottling stage.
"It still lacks something," I explained gently. "Give it just a little more time, and it will become infinitely more magnificent."
"More magnificent than this...?"
"Right now, it's merely a cottage. Given a little more time, it will become a grand palace."
Lacking the florid vocabulary of a seasoned sommelier, I could only articulate the vision laid bare before my eyes. For now, it manifested as a humble biscuit cottage; but with patience, it would blossom into an imperial fortress. I burned with quiet anticipation. What heights of flavor and aroma would it command then?
"Then how much longer does it need to age?"
"Ten more days."
"Hold yer horses, ya booze-lovin' lass! Rushing fine liquor like a headless chicken... tsk!" Moktong chided affectionately.
Setting down my empty glass and letting the lingering finish wash over me, I broached the real reason I had brought her here.
"Having tasted it, what are your thoughts?"
"It's spectacular. And hearing that it will become even greater makes me anticipate it that much more!"
"I'm glad to hear that. Of course, what you just drank is the raw, undiluted mash. To sell it as a standard makgeolli, we'll need to blend it with water."
Once fermentation and maturation were complete, we would filter the mash to yield the pure base liquor—the wonju. Given the scarcity of water used in the brewing process, this unadulterated essence would pack a formidable alcohol percentage. While our ancestors indulged in this thick, potent nectar directly, its heavy viscosity and sheer strength would prove too daunting for modern consumers. Diluting it down to an accessible eight or nine percent ABV would yield an approachable, everyday masterpiece.
"That's a wonderful idea," Ha-jeong agreed. "And we could always bottle the undiluted wonju separately as a luxury reserve!"
"Exactly. There will definitely be a dedicated market for it. But that brings me to what I actually wanted to share..."
Tracing the rim of the empty glass that had held the Dongjeongchun, I met her gaze with quiet resolve.
"Once this spirit reaches its peak, I intend to submit it to a national spirits competition."
"What? A spirits competition, Boss?"
Looking at Ha-jeong, whose eyes had rounded into wide, startled saucers, I offered a confident smile.
"Yes. It's high time Songhadang stepped out onto the broader stage."