MORNING CALM TALES Gangnam's style circa 1990
Exit 8 of Gangnam Station in April 2011 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller
Long before Korean singer Psy turned Gangnam into a global catchphrase with his 2012 viral smash “Gangnam Style,” the district south of the Han River in Seoul was already coming into its own. Encompassing Apgujeong-dong, Sinsa-dong, Yeoksam-dong and several other neighborhoods, its heart beat the strongest, at least for me, around Gangnam Station on Seoul Metro Line 2 (and now the Shinbundang Line as well). Back in 1990, this trendy hub buzzed with language institutes, cram schools, coffee shops, discotheques and a variety of restaurants.
In those days, private English language academies were sprouting up like wildflowers, especially in Gangnam and downtown Seoul's Jongno. My school, ELSI (English Language Schools International), had two branches: one in the Sisa-Yong-o-sa building in Jongno and another in Gangnam. I taught at the latter from 1990 to 1992, in a building just 50 meters off Teheran-ro that had once been a hospital. Behind it, perched on a modest hill, stood the headquarters of the Korean Taekwondo Association.
Outside our institute, the area around the subway station was a treasure trove of academies offering lessons in everything from Japanese and math to computer programming. The streets bustled with students hurrying to their next class, and I couldn’t help but feel exhilarated by the post-1988 Olympics vibrancy that coursed through this part of the city. As I made my way to class every morning, I was swept up in the city’s palpable energy and sense of endless possibilities.
A building houses an English academy as well as a cafe and various restaurants in Gangnam in April 2011. Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller
During my first full week of teaching, just as I was finding my footing in Seoul, my colleague Ken extended a warm invitation that would quickly immerse me in the local scene.
“What are you doing for lunch today, bro?”
One of the great things about ELSI’s location near the subway station was the endless choice of restaurants. One day, it could be kimchi fried rice; the next, a bubbling bowl of yukgaejang — a spicy beef and vegetable soup. And everything was dirt cheap. For just 2,000 or 3,000 won — roughly three bucks — you could dine like royalty. Sometimes a student or students would insist on treating you, a common gesture of gratitude toward instructors during Korea’s feverish English-learning boom.
“I haven’t got any plans,” I told Ken.
“Perfect. Come on, I know a great spot not far from here. They’ve got killer cheeseburgers.”
Across Gangnam-daero, a major artery slicing through Yeoksam-dong, stood The New York Bakery, a local landmark adjacent to the imposing Tongyeong Building. Once inside, I quickly discovered why it was a local favorite. The second floor housed a small restaurant known for its spaghetti and cheeseburger platter, which was an instant hit with me.
The Tongyeong Building, left, is next to a smaller building that housed the New York Bakery, revisited in April 2011. Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller
However, back in 1990, the bakery served another purpose, as did many landmark buildings in Seoul. Before the age of pagers, cellphones and smartphones, if you wanted to meet someone, you’d pick a well-known spot — like The New York Bakery — to rendezvous. If your friend didn’t show, there was a low-tech solution: a message board plastered with sticky notes, each with directions to the next meeting place. It was a quaint system, but it worked.
As much as I craved authentic Korean food, I couldn’t resist the temptation of sinking my teeth into a cheeseburger, even though part of me felt like I was cheating on the local cuisine.
A few days later, Ken pitched another idea:
“Feel like going to the airport tonight?”
I blinked, bewildered. “The airport? Uh, okay…” I replied, half expecting there to be some cool bar or club at Gimpo. “Isn’t that kind of far?”
He chuckled. “Not Gimpo. There’s a bar near here called The Airport. Trust me.”
Behind The New York Bakery, the side streets running parallel to Gangnam-daero were brimming with pubs, coffee shops and Hunters — the area’s most iconic discotheque of the early 1990s. Hidden among these bustling lanes, The Airport bar stood out with its unique centerpiece: a section of a 707 fuselage seamlessly integrated into the middle of the room, complete with tables and chairs.
“The airport, huh?” I said, grinning as I pointed at the fuselage.
“Pretty cool, right?”
I had to admit, it was. Yet I couldn’t help imagining that if the owners had installed a train car instead of a plane, they might have just called it The Train Station.
Later that night, we stumbled upon a place that felt like it belonged to another dimension — a shadowy underground lair draped in crushed red velvet, something straight out of David Lynch’s enigmatic "Twin Peaks." As if scripted, a doorman emerged: a short man bearing an uncanny resemblance to the one from the iconic scene where FBI Agent Dale Cooper dreams of Laura Palmer. We were led to a cavernous room where go-go dancers in miniskirts and white go-go boots shimmied and danced on small platforms to 1960s and 1970s pop tunes. I felt as though we had crossed over into a parallel universe where the bizarre became the norm. I later discovered we had wandered into a “stand bar,” where patrons stood around tables sipping drinks and watching the go-go dancers. I searched for it later but never managed to find it again.
Gangnam Station exit 8 in April 2011 / Courtesy of Jeffrey Miller
While there was plenty of action at street level, I found myself increasingly drawn to the hidden realm below. On the first level of the subway station, an eclectic microcosm of shops and restaurants stretched along every corridor — stationery stores, music shops, drugstores, clothing boutiques, a ceramics shop filled with handcrafted mugs and bowls, even a fortune teller waiting to reveal your future. This bustling underground community served thousands of commuters daily. Watching the flow of Seoulites going about their lives below the busy city streets became a quiet obsession of mine.
Even though my classes didn’t start until 10 a.m., I started heading to school early with Ken, who taught the intensive classes from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. One morning, he told me about a little spot where you could get fried eggs, toast and coffee for about 2,000 won at a bakery called Paris Croissant, located in the subway station.
The place was no bigger than a shoebox, selling packaged bakery goods, cakes and a strange variety of pastries, including deep-fried croquettes stuffed with veggies and cheese and sugar-heavy twists of fried dough. They also had sandwiches loaded with cheese, ham and shredded cabbage. Someone had come up with the idea of serving food and squeezed in a counter and a few stools, offering just enough space for a handful of customers to grab a quick breakfast.
The kitchen setup was laughably basic — a one-burner gas range powered by compressed cans of gas, a toaster and a coffeemaker — but it got the job done. Ken and I, both tall guys, would wedge ourselves between the office workers — mostly women — who were also scarfing down their eggs and toast. As the subway rumbled beneath us, sending faint vibrations through the floor, Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned from a tiny speaker overhead, telling us how he did it his way.
And I was loving every minute of it.
While exploring the subterranean haunts of Gangnam Station, I stumbled upon a small restaurant that served the usual Korean fare — kimchi jjigae, sundubu jjigae, kimchi fried rice and omu (omelet) rice — that quickly won me over. I became a regular there for lunch whenever I stayed at school instead of heading back to Jamsil. I still remember its chilly, drafty interior near one of the subway exits, where a central kerosene heater was the only source of warmth. The unmistakable scent of kerosene instantly takes me back to those first few winters in Korea. A large brass kettle kept a steady, bubbling supply of boricha (barley tea) — a vital beverage in an era when water dispensers were few and tap water was shunned. Likewise, in the dry, cold winters of Korea, the steam from the boiling barley tea acted as a natural humidifier.
Even now, when I look back on those days, it was the unique charm and character of that little restaurant that ignites a deep, lasting warmth in my heart.
Frequenting a bookstore tucked in one corner of the station, I discovered a remarkable range of English books published by my employer. Among them was a section of classic novels printed with one page in English and the facing page in Korean — a clever feature that offered language learners a welcome assist. The store also carried textbooks tied to AFKN (Armed Forces Korean Network) programs like "General Hospital." Designed for English learners, these resources included transcribed dialogues, Korean translations and sections on useful vocabulary and idioms — a format that quickly became a favorite among Koreans. Popular films of the era, such as "Ghost" and "Pretty Woman," were often spotlighted in these materials, perfectly aligning with students’ dreams of watching English-language movies without subtitles while picking up new idioms and slang. For weeks after "Ghost" hit theaters in Korea, many students latched onto Patrick Swayze’s iconic expression “ditto.” Once they grasped its meaning, they couldn’t wait to try it out.
During those two years teaching at ELSI, I’d often slip away to the rooftop, where the smokers gathered, rather than trekking down to street level. From there, I could gaze out at Mount Nam and N Seoul Tower in the distance, encircled by a legion of construction cranes — a striking sign of Seoul’s rapid evolution.
And evolve it did. Within five years, the area around Gangnam Station was fully developed; within a decade, sleek skyscrapers dwarfed The New York Bakery and the modest trio of three- or four-story buildings lining Gangnam-daero. Tomorrow Tiger, a beloved family restaurant near ELSI, disappeared, making room for a wave of foreign eateries, including the very first Taco Bell in Korea in 1991 and TGI Friday’s in 1992.
Not long after TGI Friday’s opened its doors in Gangnam, my friends and I found ourselves caught up in an unexpected scene, waiting almost 45 minutes for a table. The line snaked halfway up the block, and as we stood there, I couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t just curious foreigners in the crowd. No, there were just as many Koreans in that line, clamoring for a taste of something new, something that felt both foreign and familiar — a taste of Western dining culture that had suddenly entered the heart of Seoul’s ever-shifting culinary landscape.
The whole scene felt utterly surreal. For me, it was more than just standing in line; it was bearing witness to an unmistakable cultural transformation, as Seoul, in the throes of its rapid evolution, embraced the West in an entirely new way. In that moment, it felt like I was holding a snapshot of the city’s metamorphosis, a visual testament to how far it had come and how different everything was poised to become.
An article in The Korea Times, Nov. 1, 1995, laments the financial center of Seoul moving from Myeong-dong to Gangnam. Korea Times Archive
These sweeping changes were the powerful aftershocks of hosting the Olympics, mirroring the same fervor that fueled the nation’s English-learning craze. Gangnam and its vicinity thrived as the city flexed its newfound confidence. The early 1990s were undeniably electric; being in South Korea at that moment was like standing at Ground Zero of a cultural and economic surge. Watching Gangnam’s transformation was about more than witnessing progress — it was about feeling the heartbeat of a nation rewriting its own future.
Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.