A few weeks ago I journeyed to L.A. to see some friends from college. One of my coworkers, whom we shall call B, went down as well. B is asian, Chinese to be exact. I tell you this not to give you a mental image of him, but because it is a key factor in this story.
They say birds of a feather flock together; and I know this to be true because B has a flock of Asian friends. Often when I hang out with him and his posse, I am the only white person for miles. The first night we arrived in LA, this was the case.
The plan was to meet up with some of his friends at a bar in Korea town and see where the night took us. As B and I waited outside for his friends to arrive, I started to take stock of the surroundings. I could hear loud voices coming from the bar, but all of the windows had banners over them so I couldn't see in.
A mini van pulled up and let out an asian girl wearing some sky high heels and half of a skirt. I thought, "huh, what a nice guy to let his girlfriend off at the door so she doesn't have to hobble around in those heels." Another mini van pulled in and dropped 2 more girls wearing similar outfits off. Mental monologue: "Must be a cultural thing! How sweet, all of these guys being so nice to their girlfriends."
When the 3rd and 4th mini vans pulled up and dropped a few more girls off, I started to get suspicious. I'm sorry, but there just aren't THAT many gentlemen driving mini vans around Korea town. Then it dawned on me - prostitution ring - obvi.
At this point, I had my doubts about going into this particular bar. I said to myself, "Kelly, if this were a movie, surely it would be called Hostel, Part V - Korea Town." For those of you not familiar with the Hostel movies, they are a series of scary films about tourists who get murdered in horrible ways. Extremely pleasant stuff. Alas, you only live once and I felt safe with my posse of Asians surrounding me.
As we walked into the bar, the first thing I saw were blue tarps...everywhere. There must have been 20 tarps hanging from the ceiling.
What. The. F&*$. Instincts are screaming: Get. Out. GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE ALL YOUR LIMBS...I said this to myself as I continued walking further into the bar.
The tarps were acting as barriers between multiple picnic tables. Each of the tables had piles of dirty plates on them, but no people were sitting there. It was like a scene from the apocolypse. There was only one table with people, and it was occupied by about 20 very loud, very drunk men. As we walked further into the establishment looking for more signs of life, I resigned myself to my inevitable fate: I was going to die tonight.
We arrived at the back of the restaurant portion of the bar and were faced with a closed door and a large bouncer. This man said nothing to us. No, "Hi, welcome to this reputable establishment." No, "May I please see your ID?" He just sat, and stared at us. A line of the aforementioned women walked past our group and were immediately granted permission to this secret back room, no questions asked.
At this point, B and I made eye contact, which was more like two deer in head lights staring at eachother in fear. We immediately turned on our heels and swiftly exited with the rest of our group.
Our next stop on "Mission: Die Tonight" was a bar just a few blocks away. I did the following mental checklist as we walked in:
No blue tarps? Check
Females wearing clothing covering more than 30% of their bodies? Check
Good to go.
And it was good to go. We spent the next few hours happily sipping on soju (Korean version of sake). 2AM arrived, and I thought we would be headed home since the bar was closing. I thought wrong.
In Korea Town, 2AM only indicates that it's time for a location change. As we paid our bill, the waitress handed B a slip of paper with an address on it. Evidently, this was the address of an after hours bar. Naturally, we paid up and began the trek to our next destination!
We arrived at the indicated address only to find a deserted parking lot, shops that looked like they had long since closed for the night, and no human life in sight. Confused, we paced around the parking lot for a bit trying to figure out what we were missing.
Suddenly, a door cracked open and we heard someone whisper, "Pssssst. Over here!" There was a hand waving us inside what looked like a completely dark and vacant building. I giddily thought, "another chance to die - yay" and walked on in.
We were swiftly directed up a flight of stairs. The scene on the inside was a mirror opposite of the silent, lifeless, and dark world we had just left. Bright lights invited us into the room, tables full of people eating and drinking erased my fears of death by chopstick, and we were shown a table. Our Korean posse quickly ordered up a few bottles of soju and some soup.
Kelly: "What did you just order?"
B: "We ordered spicey soup and then soup you can have."
Kelly: "I can't have the spicey soup?!"
B: "No. That shit is spicey for me, and I'm Asian. No spicey soup for you."
Korean Friend: "Soup is the best back for taking shots."
Kelly: "Whaaattt?? That sounds gross... let's try."
B, Kelly, and Korean Friends after every drink for the rest of the night: "SOUP BAAACK!"
And that my friends, is the tale of how I survived a night in Korea Town, witnessed a prostitution ring, and created a new drinking mantra. Seriously, try a soup back the next time you find yourself taking a shot of soju in Korea Town at 3AM. It will rock your world.
