Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen Hits the Stadiums
Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen is the quintessential cup noodle that no Korean can live without. Its magic lies in the perfect blend of convenience and that oh-so-familiar taste. With just a splash of hot water, you can whip up a meal anytime, anywhere—a godsend for the hustle of modern life. Its spicy yet not overwhelming broth wins over everyone from kids to grandparents, making it the go-to for hangovers, snacks, or late-night cravings, slipping effortlessly into any situation.
'Nongwon giving up on Chilgyejang was a massive stroke of luck for me.' I sat in my desk chair, pondering deeply. Grandpa had promised to provide equipment as payback for showing up that Hyun-do-ga in the play. Production would be smooth sailing for a while now.
'All that's left is distribution.'
Chilgyejang was a truly remarkable cup noodle. It sold well on the market, but nothing beat the military bases. Compared to other ramens, it was compact. You just poured in hot water. And cheap, too. It was the total package, a real all-rounder.
'Still not enough.' I rested a pencil on the bridge of my nose and pursed my lips.
The military alone wouldn't flip the board completely; we needed that one big punch.
"Hiiing…." Think, think, think!
"Huh?"
In a flash, memories of pro baseball news I'd seen somewhere hit me—it couldn't have been coincidence. At sports events, weren't hands always clutching squid jerky or beer, easy grabs? Add a steaming cup noodle beside them, and even the finest delicacies would pale in comparison.
'Why didn't I think of that sooner?'
With the '88 Seoul Olympics coming up, Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen could be the perfect way to showcase Korean ramen excellence to foreigners. If played right, it might even crack open overseas markets.
I hurried up to Grandpa's study on the second floor.
On the streets. In military bases. At baseball stadiums. Even at the Olympics. Couldn't Chilgyejang become the pioneer of national ramen?
Grandpa was luckily in his study.
"Grandpaaa!"
"Aigoo, if it isn't our little Seoyeon! Come to see your old grandpa?"
I toddled over on my short legs and plopped right onto his knee with a thud! Truth be told—and I hate to say it—Grandpa's lap was softer and comfier than Mom or Dad's. But that was our little secret, especially from Dad.
Dad always sought me out first when he got home from work. Seoyeon-ah, wanna sleep with Daddy tonight? Seoyeon-ah, bath time with Daddy? Seoyeon-ah… Seoyeon-ah… Seoyeon-ah… Eek!
Grandpa was reading an overseas newspaper. This era was dubbed the "world economic recession." U.S. growth had tanked, sparking mass unemployment. Sky-high inflation pushed base rates near 20%, making loans a nightmare. Naturally, car and home purchases plummeted, slashing consumption and investment.
In this downturn, Hansung Food's back-to-back ramen successes were nothing short of miraculous.
Then it hit me: Mexico's sovereign default. Technically a moratorium delaying foreign debt payments, but still. That sparked thoughts of Korea's future IMF crisis.
Did Grandpa know? That in 15 years, the country would erupt in chaos?
No need to look that far. Someone—no idea who—would trigger the infamous Uji scandal in 1989, right? Hansung Food, using vegetable oil, would dodge that blade, but other ramen makers? They'd be tearing their hair out for ages.
"Hehe, Grandpa~ Seoyeon had a fun idea!"
"Ho ho, our Seoyeon did? And what might that be?"
I grabbed the remote from the study shelf and flicked on the TV. Baseball was on: players hustling on the green field, tossing and swinging, while crowds roared from the stands.
"That!" I jabbed my tiny finger at the screen.
"…Baseball? Do you want your own team, Seoyeon?"
I shook my head. "Nope! I was thinking we sell our Hansung ramen at baseball stadiums."
"At the stadium?" Grandpa peered intently at the TV crowd.
"They're eating something, right?"
"Yes! We slip in our Hansung Food cup ramens there!"
"Our cup ramens?"
"Yup! Don't you think it'd sell way more? And then Seoyeon's wallet gets fat too~"
"What? Kuhahaha!"
Grandpa clutched his belly, laughing for ages.
"Ho ho ho, my granddaughter talks business, but it always circles back to her own wallet."
Tch! We already had ramen ideas piling up, but production couldn't keep up!
The '80s to '00s were ramen's golden age. Over half the flavors I'd heard of in my past life were born here—products that would sell billions. Massive hits lined up!
And to blanket the country with convenience stores—perfect ramen partners—we'd need serious cash. Stadium cup ramen sales would seed that fund for future ramen dev and stores.
I secretly tapped my calculator. The market bundling with cup noodles was way bigger than I'd thought.
"I see. Looks like cup ramen would fly at stadiums, even to this old man's eyes."
"Yay! Watching the players makes your mouth lonely. Even at kindergarten, there's always a kid chomping gum from boredom."
"True enough. Humans need to keep their mouths busy by nature. Great idea, my dear. Well done."
"Hehe~"
"But which cup ramen? Hansung Jjapaghetti might fall a bit short for stadiums."
"That's where this comes in."
Grandpa's eyes went wide at my answer.
"What?!"
Hwanggeum Noodle Factory. This was Chilgyejang's frontline production base.
Kim Bokhyeon himself came out to greet me when I arrived. The man had a nose for money like no other.
Grandpa's new equipment filled the place. This setup could churn out a million units a month easy.
"Didn't you say it runs fine without you?"
"Hehe, hello!" I bowed politely, and he nodded.
"Yeah. Heard you're swamped—something wrong?"
"No, just a factory inspection."
"Alright, let's tour."
Whatever else, I had to respect Kim Bokhyeon's noodle mastery. Chilgyejang noodles needed chew and bounce, holding up in hot water without mush. Plus, for portable cups, no crumbling on the go. Cup noodle tech was trickier than bagged ramen—bags could take a shake, cups couldn't.
"We're launching Chilgyejang soon. Heard military guys came by."
"Minister Woo Jaeha dropped in recently."
Our Defense Minister himself at the factory? Checking military supplies firsthand, no doubt.
"He was extremely impressed. What a relief. You know how I sweated over that minister?"
"Really?"
"Thanks to you, I got to show off to the Defense Minister himself. Guess my days are numbered, huh?"
Kim Bokhyeon shrugged with a hearty laugh.
"Not just sightseeing—what's up?"
"Business expansion."
"Expansion?"
Soon, in his office, warm cocoa appeared before me. Cocoa truly was magic for calming the mind—sweet warmth sliding down my throat, sorting my swirling thoughts.
"Uncle!"
"What?"
"The factory's gonna get busier—cool with that?"
"What? Even busier here?"
"Yup. Way busier, like several times. We'll need more hires."
"We're already recruiting with the new Hansung gear, but how much more?"
"At least double now? Triple if it sells big?"
"Whaaat? T-triple?!"
Hwanggeum ran nonstop, year-round. The aunties worked weekends, their laughter mixing with machine hums. Sure, no days off, but pay had skyrocketed. They all sensed it: the factory growing bigger.
Kim Bokhyeon stared, speechless, then scratched his head.
"Damn, what's the plan? Triple the current output?"
I grinned.
"Uncle, you like baseball?"
Choi Youngseok, president of the Korea Baseball Organization, let out a long sigh.
"Sigh, we need money—any way to pull more?"
The freshly launched Korean pro baseball had kicked off with six teams in a blaze of glory, but he had no plans to stop there. To him, baseball was an untapped goldmine in Korea.
Cities would get teams eventually. The issue? Funds were perpetually short. Government grants, corporate sponsors, tournament revenue, registration fees—it all poured in from everywhere, but running a major sports league was like pouring water into a leaky jar.
Crowds flocked to the launch buzz, but how long would that last?
As he rose to leave, an unexpected visitor arrived at the KBO.
"Hello?"
"…?"
He blinked dumbly. Expecting a guest, he'd prepped—only to find a little girl staring up at him.
"Hehe, Mr. Association, you're short on cash, right?"
"…How'd you—?"
The girl replied:
"I wanna sponsor baseball, but can you give me exclusive vending rights then?"
"What? Wh-what? Ex-excluuusive riiiights!?"
Choi Youngseok's voice boomed to the ceiling.