Seoul
I find an Eminönü in every city I visit — I see it as a sacred pilgrimage. A return to where I was born, a return to Eminönü. I found it in Seoul, too, by turning my back to a historical gate. I had no idea where I was, no map, murmuring monotonously, "Flags and banners no longer satisfy me," as I wandered into a vibrant market. Eminönü is where a significant portion of my childhood unfolded — little escapes, because for me, Eminönü meant “the other side.” Taking small blue ferries from Kasımpaşa, leaving home, crossing that Golden Horn I never liked the smell of... I don't know, maybe because I’ve never felt “out of place” anywhere, maybe because I belong everywhere a little, I quickly warmed to this Eminönü of Seoul. The button on my coat had fallen off, and when the pin on my vest — and also my glasses — came loose, I figured I’d earned a Purple Heart. But first, I had to find that button shop in the arcade, choose a button that matched. My mind was on Korean bars. For years, I’ve made it a mission to think of two things at once. Since I had already planned what I was going to do, I had the luxury to think about bars while looking for a button. I found the button and had it sewn on. Then I had my glasses fixed for free after chatting a bit about the Korean War. As everything flowed like that, I started thinking about my room near the main station. It occurred to me while writing this — I don't like soju. I don't know. Maybe I can't list too many things I love, but if you ask what I don’t like, I’d suggest you pull up a chair. I once downed a whole bottle of peach soju out of boredom at an airport in Fukuoka, Japan... Tasted like flavored water to me. Later, in Shanghai, China, I drank a pink beer. When I got to my room, I put on a nice film and started sipping the soju like beer. By the time the movie was halfway through, I had already passed out. And, like every travel morning, I woke up sharp as a knife.
The view I saw that morning was stunning — I was near the station. An old man, who I’d later learn was sipping a certain white liquor, sat nearby. If something’s being drunk from a plastic bottle, people usually retreat into their prejudices. For me, though, that’s a space for discovery. Because drinks trapped in glass bottles, with marble caps and a hundred regulations — those are for everyone. But me? Instead of buying some whisky aged 25 years in cask A and finished in cask B, I’d rather sip on Waragi, distilled in the Ugandan forests by a mother trying to send her child to school. I needed to find a simple bar and ask what that drink was. Having practically drunk like a water buffalo in Japan, shelving beer down my stomach one after another, I was in that “wavy then calm” state. Many days of the year, I write “I won't drink anymore” on a metaphorical wall. Thankfully, I have a bad memory. Also, I wholeheartedly agree with Martin Luther's 31st thesis! The drink I saw on the street was called Makgeolli. I bought it cheap from a market — it wasn’t sold in bars. Like every drink, it too had a history full of prohibitions. I drank it. In general, I don’t like fermented flavors. In beer, that fermented taste is masked by hops — but here, that raw, lively flavor didn’t sit right with me. Still, I sipped the little bottle down to the last drop. I knew I’d run into it again later, so I didn’t overthink it.
After that, I went to get a shave. While I was waiting in line, an elderly lady offered me something like a milky lemonade. Then she began to peel my skin — quite literally. As hairless as Koreans may be, I was just as coarse-haired. With the help of the expert barber, they finally finished shaving me in about forty-five minutes. I felt like I’d been reborn — smooth, but also covered in blood. All day long, even the slightest breeze burned my face. But I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. After that, I set off toward the bar.
I don’t like reservations. I walked toward where Zest was, holding a dark porter in my hand. I actually wanted to buy a Korean whisky — the world is a strange place. But when I put my hand in my pocket and ended up grabbing a more anatomical part of myself, I decided against the whisky. I told the cashier I couldn’t carry it because I’d be making a lot more stops — that was my argument. I had assumed Zest would be in a central location, maybe in a plaza or something. But I think that’s what I love most about bars — you never know where you’ll find what. That street must’ve been some kind of special alley. There was a sweet little restaurant on the way, and you could tell from a hundred meters away that they had good service.
Zest
I took a photo while standing at the door of Zest. The bartender — clearly as observant as I am — noticed and gave me a small “jumpscare” at the entrance. I’d arrived. He quickly set up my table. Truthfully, I was tired — I’d walked a lot that day. I went straight to the restroom to wash my hands and face, out of a kind of reverence I feel toward bars, almost like entering a sacred temple. I sat down. A beautifully designed menu was placed in front of me. I had already looked into this bar a bit. During my journey, I’d met the bartender — his name was Francis. Most likely, his real name was something far more culturally Korean, but in a tourist-friendly bar like this, he probably preferred “Francis.” We started chatting. With his warm smile, I asked him to recommend something uniquely Korean. That’s when I began to hear the story of the bar. The whole concept revolved around sustainability: everything from staff uniforms to glassware, from spirits to ingredients — either fully recycled or sourced locally with deep respect for nature. All of this mattered, of course — but sometimes I lean more toward mystic stories. Anyway, after he told me the tale of Makgeolli, he suggested what would almost certainly be my drink of choice.It was a cocktail featuring fortified Makgeolli, my second-favorite strong spirit Mezcal, pineapple sweetened with lacto-fermentation, and an orgeat made with walnuts. As he listed off the ingredients, I stood up at my table and began inspecting their lab setup.
No Coconut Here
What I love most about Japanese and Korean bars is how they run like machines. Every movement happens with a nearly flawless smoothness. I imagine myself stumbling awkwardly behind that bar and... I don’t like the thought. Everyone does their job so effortlessly — and while doing it, they can chat, too. And they do it well. As someone who generally drinks fast, I was taking notes now and then. A guest sitting nearby got curious about my cocktail — its ingredients, its taste. With my usual stupid hospitality, I told them they could taste it if they wanted, just using this straw I'd been drinking from. The Korean guy, of course, was extremely surprised. Sometimes, to break down the walls in people’s minds, you need to give them a gentle push — but it didn’t work this time. Then I finished my cocktail and, as I always do, asked for the second one to be bubbly. I love sparkling cocktails. Two reasons:
First, they remind me of a guy with permanently squinted eyes explaining Durkheim — it makes me feel alive. Second, I get drunk faster... or at least, I think I do. I can't prove it. I had ordered this cocktail — it was quite fruity — and while all this was going on, I stepped outside to make a phone call. When I came back, I noticed: my cocktail was gone! At first, I was confused. Then I looked at Francis. I teased him a bit, and he pulled my drink out of the fridge!
He knew — we bartenders love it when even the tiniest, atom-sized details are taken seriously. And he knew that chill-up or bubbled-up cocktails are worthless once they warm up. That’s why he put it in the fridge! Truly, a triple bow for that. Then I left and walked toward my hotel. I was going to take the subway, but my headphones forced me to walk. I stopped at the liquor store near the hotel, bought a bunch of different Korean beers, and a bottle of soju. I resumed the film I had left unfinished, finished it, wrapped myself in front of the heater, and fell asleep. As for why I didn’t go to another bar while I was in Korea — I made peace with that decision at Incheon Airport.
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