A group of Korean girls run laughing through a doorway. A bearded Englishman smokes a cigarette alone outside. Only Homme is open to the road, and the people by the window hang their arms out of it, greeting their friends.Īn adorable Korean guy with a shock of dyed-blond hair tries to get people in his bar.
In the summers, the bars of the Hill-Only Homme, Soho, Queens, Oz, others-spill out over onto the road. It is a quarter after midnight, and outside the crowd is beginning to grow. The whole bar is lit with three frosted lightbulbs. On the opposite wall, near the bar, two grinning Barbie dolls hang on strings, positioned as if falling through the air, doing the splits. The walls, tables, and rafters are all painted red, and above the tables are hung large mirrors in gilded frames. Only Homme is a long, dark, railroad bar, with a length of small tables on one side and the bar on the other. At 10,000 won a glass (about $9) he’d better. Koreans tend to pack their drinks with ice, so I insist the bartender put in “only a little,” and he listens. Army privates can’t afford to be here, and they’re being replaced with Korean and foreign yuppies, who can.īut, in the area known by the anachronistically offensive and bewilderingly uncreative name of Homo Hill, off Texas Street, life is the same as it’s been for over 20 years: really gay.Īt Only Homme, near the top of the Hill, I enjoy a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. More and more foreign factory workers, English teachers, and U.S. The old GI bars, cheap boozers, and brothels have almost all been replaced with upscale French bistros, Spanish tapas bars, and exorbitantly-priced microbreweries.
Seoul’s foreigner ghetto of Itaewon is in a constant state of flux.