The Publics

I’ve been going to this place for a few years now and somehow its been able to retain its off-the-grid appeal. I guess scenesters and other miscellaneous party crashers don’t like late nite BBQ but I don’t know how I’d get through my workweek without a healthy dose of sticky-icky neon orange Korean chicken wings drenched in hot sauce and jalapeños.

I try to hit the spot before they stop serving soju but rarely get in before 4 am. The scene is always the same: some intense K-pop electronica mix pumping on the speakers, the look of dread on the faces of the staff as my crew and I roll deep, and the infinitely sympathetic blood-shot eyes of the fully cut manager Mr. Park.

It never comes to fisticuffs but somehow a disagreement always emerges from the intoxicating mix of sesame oil, binge drinking and ethnic rivalry, usually resulting is someone getting cussed out and few bottles smashed in protest of nothing in particular. Bus stops have been torn out of the concrete but there haven’t been any fatalaties yet, unless you count the countless taste buds vaporized in the wake of impromptu pepper-eating contests. To the victor go the spoils I suppose, and while the popularization of the spot would do this city good, I hope it remains under the radar at least until my body starts to reject whatever bizarre chemical they use that makes their chicken wings glow in the dark.