By Steven L. Shields
About four years ago, in one of my early columns for The Korea Times, I wrote about Korea's modern coffee culture. My column was titled, "Coffee is …" Mr. Kim, the proprietor of the coffee shop I mentioned, spent years in the corporate food and beverage service industry. In autumn 2015, he decided to launch his own private enterprise.
Two years into his business in 2018, Mr. Kim was excited and enthusiastic about his solo business venture. He developed a unique coffee taste by carefully selecting a blend of beans roasted to perfection.
Now, as the COVID-19 pandemic has wreaked havoc for almost two years, Mr. Kim could not run his business profitably. As his shop reached six years in operation, "Coffee is …" now isn't.
I have been a regular customer since shortly after Mr. Kim opened the shop. In recent years, one could find me there almost every afternoon at about 3:30 p.m. Several neighbors were regulars.
Sometimes during the pandemic we would all arrive at "Coffee is …" at about the same time. With proper social distancing across the room from one another, we chatted and enjoyed old-style neighborliness that has been lost in modern society.
Located on the corner of an alley and the main thoroughfare, "Coffee is …" was in a great location. There was a lot of foot traffic, and the two sides of the shop that faced the street and alley were all glass.
I enjoyed my regular repast sitting in the window seat, sipping an Americano and reading a book or catching up on some magazines of interest. A small shop, it was never noisy like the large chains that seat dozens and dozens of chatty people, or with music so loud everyone has to shout to have a conversation. Even the thought of such a coffee shop gives me the chills.
During 2020, as the pandemic raged worldwide, many of the large office buildings adjacent to "Coffee is …" sent their workers home. Working from home, they no longer stopped by after lunch to get coffee. They no longer took their afternoon coffee break.
Of course, many small restaurants in the neighborhood suffered, too. The absence of foot traffic at peak hours was plain to see. Although many buildings reopened eventually and staff began working in the offices again, their coffee habits had changed. Mr. Kim's business continued its downward slide.
Government assistance to small business owners was welcome, but not enough to pay the monthly rent on the shop space, let alone all the other costs associated with running a small cafe.
This newspaper has had more than just a few articles about the desperate circumstances of many shopping areas throughout Seoul. The entrepreneur is in decline, while the corporate giants gobble up an increasingly larger share of retailing. Such is true around the world, not just a trend in Korea.
The big corporations don't have personal connections with the neighborhoods where they operate. They don't know their loyal customers. The part-time workers in their retail outlets come and go, often with the speed of a revolving door.
I find it a challenge to meet the same staff member at a shop more than once or twice, before they're gone. The same goes for managers. Customers never know the person who owns or manages the shop.
Although my neighborhood is populated with villas and high-rise apartment buildings, a community-like atmosphere has been remarkably, if only barely, preserved. Across the street from my villa is a wonderful owner-operated gourmet burger restaurant.
There is a small owner-operated bakery. Though he can't compete with the variety of bread in the giant corporate bakery store around the corner, money spent in Mr. Han's bakery stays in the neighborhood. He is also my next-door neighbor.
A small open vegetable market, old-style, exposed to the elements, is across the street from the bakery. Sure, the neighborhood has its corporate shops, too. A gimbap chain store is around the corner, and the ubiquitous Isaac Toast is next door to the burger place.
One afternoon at "Coffee is …" the two neighborhood aunties and I were talking about the "maul" (village). One aunty observed that in days gone by, when most Koreans lived in these kinds of villages, there was often a central gathering place, usually in the shade of a large tree whose widespread branches gave respite from the hot sun.
There, in the afternoons, one could find a cross-section of the villagers. Older men smoking their long pipes while sharing stories, or women from the market stopped by sharing the news with others. Aunty suggested that "Coffee is …", unlike the big corporate coffee shops nearby, was the village plaza with the shady tree.
Here we "villagers" gathered and chatted, sharing news (or gossip). The two aunties usually came from the market, where they bought ingredients for their family dinners that evening. Though I don't smoke, I am an old man with my daily reading material.
Sometimes another aunty joined, and the three of us would spend an hour or more sipping coffee and chatting. Other days a group of older men, former high school buddies now in their 70s, came after their lunch and held forth over cups of coffee about the good old days.
In the three months since Mr. Kim closed the doors of "Coffee is …" I've only seen my neighbor aunties a couple of times. We've met randomly in the street since we all still live in the neighborhood. They've given up on finding a village gathering place.
I have wandered the area checking out the various owner-operated coffee shops, and only just a couple of weeks before Christmas, I think I may have found my new place.
I miss Mr. Kim. I miss his coffee blend. I'm sad that my long-time village plaza has become "Coffee isn't …"
Rev. Steven L. Shields (slshields@gmail.com) has lived in Korea for many years, beginning in the 1970s. He served as copy editor of The Korea Times in 1977. He is president of Royal Asiatic Society Korea.
 |
Two years into his business in 2018, Mr. Kim was excited and enthusiastic about his solo business venture. He developed a unique coffee taste by carefully selecting a blend of beans roasted to perfection.
Now, as the COVID-19 pandemic has wreaked havoc for almost two years, Mr. Kim could not run his business profitably. As his shop reached six years in operation, "Coffee is …" now isn't.
I have been a regular customer since shortly after Mr. Kim opened the shop. In recent years, one could find me there almost every afternoon at about 3:30 p.m. Several neighbors were regulars.
Sometimes during the pandemic we would all arrive at "Coffee is …" at about the same time. With proper social distancing across the room from one another, we chatted and enjoyed old-style neighborliness that has been lost in modern society.
Located on the corner of an alley and the main thoroughfare, "Coffee is …" was in a great location. There was a lot of foot traffic, and the two sides of the shop that faced the street and alley were all glass.
I enjoyed my regular repast sitting in the window seat, sipping an Americano and reading a book or catching up on some magazines of interest. A small shop, it was never noisy like the large chains that seat dozens and dozens of chatty people, or with music so loud everyone has to shout to have a conversation. Even the thought of such a coffee shop gives me the chills.
During 2020, as the pandemic raged worldwide, many of the large office buildings adjacent to "Coffee is …" sent their workers home. Working from home, they no longer stopped by after lunch to get coffee. They no longer took their afternoon coffee break.
Of course, many small restaurants in the neighborhood suffered, too. The absence of foot traffic at peak hours was plain to see. Although many buildings reopened eventually and staff began working in the offices again, their coffee habits had changed. Mr. Kim's business continued its downward slide.
Government assistance to small business owners was welcome, but not enough to pay the monthly rent on the shop space, let alone all the other costs associated with running a small cafe.
This newspaper has had more than just a few articles about the desperate circumstances of many shopping areas throughout Seoul. The entrepreneur is in decline, while the corporate giants gobble up an increasingly larger share of retailing. Such is true around the world, not just a trend in Korea.
The big corporations don't have personal connections with the neighborhoods where they operate. They don't know their loyal customers. The part-time workers in their retail outlets come and go, often with the speed of a revolving door.
I find it a challenge to meet the same staff member at a shop more than once or twice, before they're gone. The same goes for managers. Customers never know the person who owns or manages the shop.
Although my neighborhood is populated with villas and high-rise apartment buildings, a community-like atmosphere has been remarkably, if only barely, preserved. Across the street from my villa is a wonderful owner-operated gourmet burger restaurant.
There is a small owner-operated bakery. Though he can't compete with the variety of bread in the giant corporate bakery store around the corner, money spent in Mr. Han's bakery stays in the neighborhood. He is also my next-door neighbor.
A small open vegetable market, old-style, exposed to the elements, is across the street from the bakery. Sure, the neighborhood has its corporate shops, too. A gimbap chain store is around the corner, and the ubiquitous Isaac Toast is next door to the burger place.
One afternoon at "Coffee is …" the two neighborhood aunties and I were talking about the "maul" (village). One aunty observed that in days gone by, when most Koreans lived in these kinds of villages, there was often a central gathering place, usually in the shade of a large tree whose widespread branches gave respite from the hot sun.
There, in the afternoons, one could find a cross-section of the villagers. Older men smoking their long pipes while sharing stories, or women from the market stopped by sharing the news with others. Aunty suggested that "Coffee is …", unlike the big corporate coffee shops nearby, was the village plaza with the shady tree.
Here we "villagers" gathered and chatted, sharing news (or gossip). The two aunties usually came from the market, where they bought ingredients for their family dinners that evening. Though I don't smoke, I am an old man with my daily reading material.
Sometimes another aunty joined, and the three of us would spend an hour or more sipping coffee and chatting. Other days a group of older men, former high school buddies now in their 70s, came after their lunch and held forth over cups of coffee about the good old days.
In the three months since Mr. Kim closed the doors of "Coffee is …" I've only seen my neighbor aunties a couple of times. We've met randomly in the street since we all still live in the neighborhood. They've given up on finding a village gathering place.
I have wandered the area checking out the various owner-operated coffee shops, and only just a couple of weeks before Christmas, I think I may have found my new place.
I miss Mr. Kim. I miss his coffee blend. I'm sad that my long-time village plaza has become "Coffee isn't …"
Rev. Steven L. Shields (slshields@gmail.com) has lived in Korea for many years, beginning in the 1970s. He served as copy editor of The Korea Times in 1977. He is president of Royal Asiatic Society Korea.
