Updated: Dec 9, 2020
I think I have a problem. My eyes start to grow wide when I think about it. My cheeks (fuller now then maybe ever before?) crawl towards my ears revealing a serious–some may say concerning–smile when I'm actually doing it. But I can't stop. And I don't plan to stop anytime soon. So it's best just to admit I have a problem and move on: I'm guilty of trying to turn any group gathering into an improv Korean BBQ outing. Christmas dinner? I know where we can cram 15 of us in a booth with 3 electric grills in the table! Monthly couple date? Let's catch up over pork belly and Hite, and I'll update you on that weird neighbor of ours who covers his windows with foil! The girl you drove five hours for cancelled dinner, and now you're stuck in a city you don't live in with no plans? The obvious cure to your pain lies in some Jeyuk Bokkeum and soju (multiple bottles)!
I remember when I was introduced to Korean BBQ. James (a friend I met during Army training in Fort Lee) held the bottom of the empty glass with his thumb and middle finger and swirled it as if the secrets of the universe were inside it. James picked up one of the green bottles on our table. He showed it off like a Sotheby's auctioneer. He called it soju. Apparently, the bottle that James was holding contained the most popular liquor in the world, and I had never heard of it. James reassured me that the entire country of South Korea couldn't be wrong in loving soju. He said businessmen in South Korea will celebrate with soju and blow off steam by ordering a bottle per man, then another bottle per man. This would continue he said, from bar to bar all night, sometimes until the sun greeted them. He admitted that it can get out of hand at times. But he also said there are rules.
The first rule he said, was that the oldest person at the table pours the first shot for everyone. Then, everyone lifts and taps their glasses revealing a distinct clink sound. But you don't tap them like you do in the United States, he told me. In the states, we hold shot glasses firmly in the middle and when you tap them they produce an underwhelming thud. To get that pure clink, a clink that marks the end of a two year merger or the beginning of parenthood, you need to hold the glass gently at the bottom. To help with his endeavor, you will find little ridges that are cut into the bottom of the glass in order to make it easier for you to hold. Two hands is a preferred method, so I've read but never seen. Once everyone clinks and throws back their first shot it's important not to leave your glass empty. But there's a catch. You can't pour your own shot. Someone else must pour your shot–always. James elaborated how these rules and customs reflect some of the values of Korean society: respecting elders and superiors and the importance of the group over self. I loved it all. The only thing I hated was it took 25 years for me to be exposed to it. It turned eating into a ritual that can only be enjoyed at its fullest with people you care about. It's a dining experience to brag about. Many of us chase something like this but it evades us behind velvet ropes and year long wait lists. You will have no such troubles when dining on short ribs in the middle of a strip mall.
On New Years Eve two years ago, I held a shot glass between my thumb and middle finger like James did only a few years before. I explained to my younger brothers the rules and customs of the experience we were about to share, and the importance of honoring them. Then a smile started to spill out of the corners of my mouth as the waiter came and put down two green bottles in front of us.
It just finished raining when the waiter took us to our table. I took the chair facing the cafe and she took the chair facing the street. I let out a soft "merci", it was barely audible because I'm embarrassed of my French. Before our trip I studied audio books and memorized a few phrases. But after a no-nonsense waiter let it be known that broken French will always be answered in English, I decided to keep to English. At that moment I was embarrassed that I wasn't from France. I felt like a trespasser not a visitor. But time heals most egos. Sydney never reacts like me. Things that bother and offend me usually don't phase her whatsoever. It's very American, "this is who I am, and who gives a damn about your opinion?" I admire that about her. A better companion in Paris, there was none.
Sydney started to look at the menu. She scanned it with her big eyes. Normally they're hazel but the menu and table were pulling out the green. She already knew what she was going to order but liked the "experience" of finding it I suppose. She wanted the hot chocolate. She told me so at least a dozen times since we arrived in Paris a few days before. It was "real hot chocolate, actual melted chocolate."
"Well then, I'm glad we're going to Café de Flore too." I said.
But I wasn't after anything on the menu. What I wanted wasn't there anymore. It's gone to time and aged with a glow like most of the things we admire from the past but never experienced. I know Hemingway went there. Frequently or not, I wanted my shoes where he put his. I wanted to watch the people at the cafe. I wanted to start a conversation with a stranger.
I looked at the tables around me. Instead of a girl taking a photo of her drink from multiple angles I imagined Hemingway figuring out where his next meal would come from. Instead of an interview happening to my left, I imagined Hemingway contemplating the combination of words that would strike a harmonious rhythm to a reader's eye. I thought about "A Moveable Feast." But from the moment we were seated at our table I couldn't stop glancing at the man to our right. He was in all black: combat boots, a long skirt and a mesh football jersey over a sweater. His glasses were large and covered most of his face. He was an exemplary figure of Fashion Week in Paris. I had never seen someone dressed like that. I doubt Hemingway had seen someone dressed like that too.
Sydney excused herself to find the restroom, public restrooms were hard to find in Paris. While I waited I continued to discreetly assess the man in black. I saw he was waiting for someone or someone had just left him before we got there. He was sitting relaxed. He owned the space he occupied with a cool carelessness that’s hard for anyone with less life experience to emulate. I figured he had an interesting story. Usually I would leave it at that. Leave it as a thought. But not this time. Not in Paris. Be like Hemingway I thought, be bold.
I figured he was in Paris for fashion week and asked him as much. He confirmed my suspicions but said he doesn't bother with the shows anymore, he had staff for that. He actually had an apartment around the corner from the cafe. He also had a place in Spain, his home country. He told me he was a freelance creative director of sorts, and that most of his clients were in China now. China was the future of fashion. I told him I liked his outfit. I didn't– but I admired him for wearing it. He was comfortable and that's what I've been told style is about. I told him I was from Texas, and with a bit of indifference he mentioned he had worked in Dallas many years ago. He said he couldn't wear his current outfit there. It would be too much for Texans. He wasn't wrong. But we were not there. And I was happy that this conversation had happened here.
Sydney returned and I introduced her to my new acquaintance. I think we asked him for a restaurant recommendation but I can't remember. We paid our check then walked on Saint Germain as it started to rain again.
This morning the sun will rise and we will drink our coffee, cook breakfast, let the dog out, but our minds are elsewhere. They're 145 miles east of Atlanta and 150 miles northwest of Charleston in Augusta, Georgia. It's Sunday at The Masters. The week started with 92 of the worlds best golfers. But by the time the sun sets today only one will be wearing the coveted green jacket. The Masters is a special place.
It was special when it was just 365 acres of untouched Earth. It's the club Bobby Jones dreamed of and Clifford Roberts managed. It's special for the things we know and love: Amen Corner, the Champions Dinner, the ceremonial first tee, $3 beers, and the azaleas, dogwoods, and pine trees scattered across the course. And it's special because of people like Frank Carpenter. Frank was the "keeper of the keys" at Augusta. He started as a barman at the club in 1953 and eventually became responsible for the entire club in 1972, including the reportedly legendary 10,000 bottle wine collection.
"He's a fixture," says Harden Perry, the club's assistant manager. "Everybody who comes here knows Frank."
People might not know the top ten players in the world, or the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, but when they hear "Augusta" play and the camera floats down Magnolia Lane, they know The Masters has arrived. It's a scene we've watched before. Now it serves as reprieve from the present. It gives us a sense of familiarity and comfort in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable time.