South Korea's Lee courts tech titans with casual San Francisco dinner diplomacy

On the evening of July 24, South Korean President Lee Jae Myung sat down at The Ramp, a casual San Francisco restaurant favored by locals and AI researchers, with some of the world's most powerful technology executives. The dinner was not a formal state affair. There were no podiums, no prepared remarks, no photographers jostling for position. Instead, there was fish and chips, fried calamari, crab cakes, clam chowder, and beer—the kind of meal that lets people talk without the weight of ceremony.

The guest list read like a roster of the companies reshaping global technology. Jensen Huang, chief executive of Nvidia, sat across from Samsung Electronics executive chairman Lee Jae-yong. Broadcom's Hock Tan was there. So was Lani Borkar, president of Azure Hardware Systems and Infrastructure at Microsoft. SK Group chairman Chey Tae-won and Hyundai Motor Group executive chair Chung Euisun represented South Korea's industrial establishment. Naver founder and chair Lee Hae-jin rounded out the South Korean contingent. The companies represented at that table carried a combined market value of roughly 17 quadrillion won—about 15 trillion Singapore dollars. It was, in other words, a gathering of titans.

But the president was thinking about something simpler. Huang had visited Seoul weeks earlier and bonded with South Korean business leaders over chimaek—fried chicken and beer—and Korean barbecue. The memory lingered. As the executives ate, Lee clinked his beer bottle and offered a light observation: "We may need some chicken." Then he turned philosophical. In Korea, he explained, family is called "sikgu"—literally, people who share meals. Sharing food carries meaning everywhere in the world, he said. He raised his glass and proposed a toast. When he called out "We are," the table responded in unison: "family." Huang echoed the words back: "We are family."

The evening unfolded with the kind of easy banter that happens when powerful people drop their armor. Lee asked Huang whether his youthful visits to Seoul's Yongsan Electronics Market—a sprawling bazaar of computer parts and gadgets—had shaped his ambitions. Huang said they had. Lee gave a thumbs-up. When Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Science and ICT Bae Kyung-hoon offered to pay the bill, the table erupted in cheers. Huang suggested Bae buy another round of beers. Lee laughed and declined on the grounds that Bae was a public official and couldn't justify the expense. "Korea is so rich," Huang said. "That's true," Lee replied, "but he is still a public official."

Beneath the warmth, there was business to discuss. Huang asked about South Korea's economic trajectory. Lee delivered the numbers: per capita gross domestic product was approaching 40,000 US dollars. The economy was expected to grow more than 3 percent in 2026, a rebound from roughly 1 percent growth in 2025. He gestured toward the South Korean executives seated beside him, crediting them for the turnaround. Samsung's Lee Jae-yong turned to Huang and said simply, "Thanks to you." The comment acknowledged what everyone at the table understood—that the AI boom was lifting all boats, and that the companies in that room were the ones steering the current.

Later, in a more reflective moment, the president noted how much had shifted in a single year. "The speed is truly astonishing," he said. During a subsequent press briefing, his policy chief Kim Yong-beom mentioned that the conversation had touched on the Kospi, South Korea's benchmark stock index. The market had been correcting after a sustained rally. Huang offered reassurance: it would rise again.

The dinner was, on its surface, an informal meal between business leaders and a head of state. But it was also a calculated move in a larger game. Lee was working to deepen personal relationships between South Korean and American technology executives at the center of the global AI revolution. He wanted to strengthen their commitment to closer cooperation, to bind them together not through treaties or formal agreements but through the kind of trust that builds when people share a meal and speak plainly. In a world where technological power increasingly shapes geopolitical influence, those bonds matter. They signal where the next investments might flow, which partnerships will deepen, which nations will lead. On that evening in San Francisco, over casual California fare and beer, South Korea's president was making his case that his country belonged at the center of that future.