The Mystical Tavern of an Ordinary Bartender

The night shift always left me with the same aftertaste. Not just the faint bitterness of stale beer clinging to my throat, or the stickiness of syrup that never washed off my fingers. No—something else. A hollow quiet that crept in after the laughter died, the glasses stopped clinking, and the neon sign outside buzzed alone against the dark. I sighed, leaning against the counter of my tiny Gangnam bar. The floor was littered with napkins, straw wrappers, and forgotten receipts. The air carried a mix of sweet cocktails, sharp citrus, and the faint musk of cigarette smoke that drifted in earlier. My shoulders ached. My wrists throbbed. My head pulsed. But my eyes—my eyes were alive. They roamed the bottles behind the counter, each one a soldier in glass armor: vodka, gin, rum, whiskey, sake, tequila, vermouth. “Mm.” I plucked a bottle of bourbon from the shelf. “Today, you’ll do.” A splash into the rocks glass. A single cube of ice. I swirled it slowly. The amber liquid caught the dim light, gleaming like molten gold. Most people would think: Drinking alone? Pathetic. But to me, this wasn’t alcohol. It was history. Craftsmanship. A story sealed in glass, waiting for someone to listen. I inhaled—caramel, vanilla, toasted oak—and let the warmth settle in my chest. “Perfect,” I murmured, smiling faintly. --- My name is Han Jiho. Thirty-two. Single. And if you asked me what I lived for, the answer wasn’t money, women, or power. It was liquor. Not the drink-to-forget kind of liquor. Not drowning in booze to escape. For me, liquor was life. When I was a broke university student, I wandered into a dingy bar near Hongdae. I ordered the cheapest beer. The bartender—an old man with graying hair and steady hands—gave me something else instead. A gin and tonic. Simple. Classic. But when I sipped—the sharp gin, the crisp fizz, the whisper of lime—it was as if someone punched color into my black-and-white world. That night, I realized liquor wasn’t just alcohol. It was art. A liquid canvas of flavor, aroma, and memory. From then on, I studied obsessively. Books on mixology, chemistry, fermentation. Countless ruined infusions in my shoebox kitchen. Nights at bars, pestering bartenders until they sighed and told me to buy the next round if I wanted more answers. Years later, I quit my office job, emptied my savings, and became a bartender. My parents said I was insane. My friends said I was wasting my degree. My girlfriend left. But none of that mattered. Because when I stood behind the counter, shaker in hand, and set a glass in front of someone whose eyes lit up at the first sip—that was happiness. That was meaning. --- Still, reality bites. Running a bar wasn’t glamorous. It was grueling. Nights stretched past dawn. My feet ached. Customers were drunk, rude, or worse. Rent was merciless. Alcohol taxes, brutal. Some nights I collapsed in bed, wondering if I had made a mistake. But then I remembered that first gin and tonic—that spark—and I kept going. Because maybe, someday, another lost soul would wander in, order something simple, and discover their world could change with just one drink. That hope kept me alive. --- “Jiho, don’t you ever get tired of this?” My friend Minseok leaned against the counter one night, sipping a mojito I’d just made. “Tired?” I snorted, polishing a glass. “Never.” “You’re obsessed.” “Damn right.” I grinned. “Liquor’s humanity’s greatest invention.” “Greater than smartphones?” “Yes.” “Greater than antibiotics?” “…Second place. Close second.” We laughed. But I meant it. Alcohol shaped civilizations. Wine fueled empires. Beer kept peasants alive when water wasn’t safe. Whiskey carried rebellion. Rum built navies and pirates alike. Sake tied to ritual. Every bottle was distilled history. Every glass was culture you could taste. I could talk for hours. And often did. --- But lately… something was off. I drank more after closing. Not savoring. Not appreciating. Just gulping, drowning the fatigue. The mirror showed tired eyes, dark circles, a man wearing down. Was this passion or obsession? Devotion or addiction? I didn’t know. I only knew one thing: if I stopped, if I let go of this path, I’d be nothing. So I clung tighter. --- The night it happened, I was more exhausted than usual. I had just finished cleaning after a rowdy group of office workers. My back screamed. My hands shook as I stacked glasses. One last drink, I told myself. Vodka, straight. No garnish. “To survival,” I muttered, knocking it back. The burn seared my throat. I coughed, laughed— And then— Darkness. --- When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in my bar. The floor was stone, not tile. The air smelled of oak barrels, not exhaust fumes. Shelves behind me glistened with bottles I knew—but the room wasn’t mine. A polished mahogany counter. Flickering lanterns. Cobblestone streets outside, horses clopping past, people in cloaks. “…What the hell.” My heart pounded. My fingers gripped the counter. This wasn’t Seoul. This wasn’t Earth. And yet—behind me, bottles gleamed like loyal soldiers: whiskey, vodka, rum, gin, sake, tequila. My bar. In another world. I laughed, shaky, disbelieving. “…Did I really die from vodka?”