Tales from South America to Korea (2)

The summit proceeded in a single, unbroken sweep, without a single tedious round of push and pull. The nuclear power plant card had simplified the entire negotiation down to its essence.

San Marcos would import two 1,400 MW Korean-model nuclear reactors and, as a full package, contract out the accompanying power-grid construction and the nuclear fuel business as well. In answer, the Korean government would provide waste-treatment technology, assist San Marcos in negotiations with the United States and the International Atomic Energy Agency so that the reactors could actually be brought in, finance half the plant order as an ODA loan, and encourage Korean firms to expand into San Marcos. On top of that, tariffs on San Marcos agricultural products, seafood, and manufactured goods would be phased out all the way to zero. That was the skeleton of the talks.

In effect, they had signed an MOU toward an FTA. The fine print would still have to be hammered out by working-level staff with their heads together, but the broad framework had already been settled, so there would clearly be no trouble moving forward. It was a stroke of diplomacy that could only be called earth-shattering.

At any rate, several hours later, after a successful summit and a banquet to match, I walked into the hotel room the Korean government had prepared for me in Sogong-dong and dropped into a chair.

"You have worked hard, Your Excellency. It was a truly perfect summit."

Isabella greeted me with a flushed, bright face. She, too, was plainly elated by what the talks had produced.

"Tomorrow's schedule is rather packed as well. Perhaps you might wash up and rest now."

I loosened my tie and shook my head.

"No. It isn't time to sleep yet."

"Pardon?"

"I came all the way to Korea. I can hardly just go to bed."

I turned to the chief of security.

"Everyone packed casual clothes, right?"

"We did pack them, as Your Excellency instructed, but…"

"Good. Change into them, starting now. I'll show you the true taste of Korea."

"A-a change of clothes, all of a sudden? Are we going out on an inspection?"

"An inspection in someone else's country? Just think of it as sightseeing."

A short while later, I slipped out the hotel's back door with Isabella and five members of the security team in tow. The bodyguards looked plainly flustered, but at my instruction to hang back and follow naturally, they kept their distance, doing their best to cosplay as ordinary civilians while scanning everything around them.

The taxi came to a stop in Bongcheon-dong, Gwanak-gu — a tangle of narrow, steep hillside alleys and a traditional market, a neighborhood soaked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the sweat and tears of my twenties.

"This place… it appears to be a market."

Isabella asked the question with a delicate sniff. The distinctive smell of a Korean market — savory, a little gamey — hung thick in the air.

"This is Bongcheon-dong Central Market. A place that holds the taste of Korea."

We stepped into the familiar lanes, and Isabella and the others looked around with undisguised curiosity. A little farther in, a sign I knew by heart came into view.

The sign's lights were half out, but a rich, savory steam was still leaking from inside the shop.

So I've come back here again.

The sliding door rattled open.

"Excuse me… Auntie? Are you still open?"

A perm-haired woman washing dishes inside lifted her head.

"Aigoo, we're closing up, so… oh?"

Her eyes went round. Still wearing her wet rubber gloves, she strode straight toward me.

"Oh my! Who is this! Isn't this student Eugene?!"

"You're still as lovely as ever."

"Oh my, oh my! Good heavens! How many years has it been? And you haven't changed a bit!"

She slapped me on the back, beaming with delight.

In the old days, when I had lived in a gosiwon, she had piled my bowl with meat as if I were her own nephew, and wrapped up cubed radish kimchi and stir-fried anchovies for me to take when I left. A benefactor of my student years. Fortunately, she did not seem to have any time to watch the news — she had not the faintest idea that I was now Acting President of San Marcos.

"But who are these folks? They're foreigners, aren't they?"

"Ah… colleagues from work. I went to the States to study, then got a job at a foreign firm. We're in Korea together on a business trip."

"Oh my, how nice to meet you. Come in, sit down, all of you!"

"You look like you're closing up… are you sure it's all right?"

"Student Eugene is here and you think I'm closing? Get in here! I'll boil meat until it all runs out today!"

At her booming invitation, we huddled together at a corner table.

"You seem to know her well."

"She's someone I owed a great deal in my school days. She looked after me as if I were her own nephew."

"Ah… a truly kind person, then."

"Yes. Extraordinarily so."

The first time I had moved into that Bongcheon-dong gosiwon after getting into university, it had been a little over a year since my parents had died. I had not even begun to get over the grief, and I was nowhere near emotionally mature. The reason I managed to finish my studies at all was people like the auntie boiling sundae gukbap over there.

I miss them all. I wonder how Manager Park and Mr. Kim are doing.

I was still turning over old memories when a steaming earthenware bowl of sundae gukbap was set down in front of me, the broth bubbling furiously. Over a milky soup steeped rich from pork bones, chives and perilla-seed powder had been piled on generously.

"Eat up, all of you! The boiled pork is warming now, so just hold on a little!"

Isabella and the bodyguards sat frozen, spoons unlifted, confronted with a look and a smell they had never encountered in their lives.

"Here. This is how you eat it. You add salted shrimp, and you scoop in this stuff called dadaegi — it can be spicy, so you don't have to put it in. Mix it well, then take a bite…"

I lifted a generous spoonful of broth.

"Ahhh."

No Michelin three-star chef on earth could reproduce this flavor. Isabella followed my lead, adding a little salted shrimp and dadaegi, then carefully tasted the broth. Her eyes flew open.

"Oh…!"

She picked up the pace of her spoon. The bodyguards, taking the cue, began to eat in earnest — broth, solids, and all.

"There's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠quite a lot of meat in this. And this black piece looks just like morcilla."

"It's a dish called sundae. The process is similar to making morcilla. Most of the meat inside is offal and head meat."

"The flavor is remarkably deep and rich. When does one typically eat this?"

I smiled at Isabella's question.

"It's a food you eat when you have no money, and a food you eat when you have plenty. An everyday dish. In San Marcos terms, you could say it's similar to tortillas."

"A kind of soul food, then."

"That's right. The nutritional balance is excellent, too. In my case, I used to eat it about ten times a week."

The old days rose up — the days when I had measured every value in the world in SDK.

Back in college, my convenience-store hourly wage was 0.5 SDK — half the price of a bowl of this soup.

I walked over to the refrigerator and, as naturally as breathing, pulled out a green bottle worth exactly 0.5 SDK.

"All right. Everyone except whoever's driving, let's have a glass. Sundae gukbap and soju are a perfect match."

"Soju… isn't that the vodka of East Asia?"

"It's cheap diluted soju, so it's quite different from vodka. But that's precisely why it pairs even better."

The clear liquid filled the glasses with a glug-glug-glug.

"Cheers."

I poured for everyone and held out my glass; the bodyguards awkwardly extended theirs to meet it.

"Kahhh!"

Isabella grimaced at the bitterness, then promptly smacked her lips.

"It's bitter… and yet it lingers sweetly."

"Right? That's proof that today left an impression."

Before long the bodyguards were sweating freely, scraping the bottoms of their earthenware bowls.

"How is it? Suiting your palates?"

The auntie had come out of the kitchen, looking thoroughly pleased.

"They said it's the best. Auntie, why don't you just move to where our company is? You'd make a killing."

"And where's that?"

"Latin America. A country called San Marcos."

She threw her head back and laughed, waving both hands.

"Aigoo, I'd love to go, but my old man doesn't even know how to take kimchi out of the fridge. I can't just leave him."

"Then bring him along."

"Please. If I did that, why even go? The whole point is going alone!"

"Hahaha! You've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠got a point there."

The auntie and I were still trading warm, easy talk when the street outside grew noisy, a rising murmur of voices.

"I'm telling you it's real! I saw him go in here."

And then—

"Holy crap! It really is him?!"

"Oh my god! That's really Eugene Choi!"

People began to gather outside the shop.

The next morning, the breakfast news was plastered with a single story.

On the television, the same footage played on a loop: Eugene, in the crowd packed tight in front of the sundae gukbap shop the night before, shaking hands without airs and taking selfies with anyone who asked.

On camera, the auntie teared up as she held out the thick envelope of cash Eugene had quietly left behind. And over this heartwarming little story, the internet communities of Korea absolutely lost their minds.

A new nickname — Gukbap President — attached itself to him, and Eugene's popularity inside Korea began to surge. YouTube, which had been quiet for a stretch, filled up again with news of San Marcos and of Eugene, and the television kept running pieces on the gains that economic cooperation between Korea and San Marcos would bring.

Around the time that interest in him was exploding, he was on his way to a building in the heart of Seoul, at the invitation of Chairman Chung of Hyunhwa Group.

It was an invitation from Chairman Chung, who had already given his all for San Marcos, and there was no reason not to go if it meant attracting investment.

And then.

"…No."

Eugene had walked into the grand conference room inside the building without a shred of suspicion — and he saw it.

"You've arrived, Your Excellency."

Behind the dozen or so elderly men who had risen to greet him hung an enormous Taegeukgi, and beneath the flag, a banner.

……

Something.

Was extremely.

Off.