It was winter 2010.
After class and my usual workout, I came home. Back then, we used Facebook instead of WhatsApp to chat with friends (shockingly, I hear young people are returning to it now, though on phones rather than computers). I heard a message ping on my always-open computer screen.
“Paul, what are you doing today?”
It was Junghoon, a friend from university. Interestingly, we met at church – back then he was just an ordinary student, but now, 10 years later, he’s a priest in America. They say life moves like passing wind, impossible to grasp… it’s true. I never imagined I’d be running my own business 10 years later either.
He wanted to get drinks. Back then, we’d often meet without any real plans and talk endlessly over beer. Of course, like most guys in their early 20s, we mostly talked about girls and dating. Neither of us had much dating experience, which makes me wonder now what we could have talked about so much.
Since Junghoon lived in the dorms, we usually drank at my small studio apartment. But that night, he wanted to try downtown.
“I’m tired of drinking at your place,” was his reason.
“Know any good spots?”
Junghoon had already picked a place and sent me the map.
“I saw this place passing by – it’s an underground pub. Called ‘Archer’s’ or something.”
(I checked Google Maps – it’s still open.)
So I drove downtown at our agreed time and started looking for the place.
Back then, smartphones weren’t great with maps, so I just memorized the rough location and looked for signs instead. All I knew was to find an underground pub. Archer’s had a sign on the street, but it only pointed to stairs leading down – the kind of place you’d walk right past if you weren’t looking carefully
When I opened the door downstairs, Junghoon was already there. It was a typical American pub – a long counter in the middle, with glasses, whiskeys, and beer menus displayed behind it.
Back then, we knew nothing about alcohol.
At 21, I only knew four categories of alcohol: soju, beer, wine, and liquor. Even with beer, which I drank most often, I only knew a couple of brands.
“I’ll have a Guinness.”
I picked Guinness just because it had a star on the menu – I had no idea what it was. Back then, my go-to was Blue Moon, not that I knew much about that either. I just liked how different it tasted from regular beers.
Mid-conversation, the bartender brought over something I’d never seen before – a dark beer in an elegant glass marked ‘Guinness,’ with foam that seemed to dance as it settled. Just as I realized this was a dark beer, my friend and I found ourselves frozen, watching that hypnotic cascade of bubbles.”Did you always like dark beer?” my friend asked. “I didn’t even know Guinness was dark beer,” I replied.
Ten years later, I can still taste that first Guinness. It wasn’t just beer – it was an experience. The foam felt like silk, the beer itself smooth as cake. Until then, beer had always announced itself loudly: “Hello, I’m alcohol!” But this? This whispered of chocolate and cream. Like a gentleman in a tailored suit, it was all about quiet elegance.
We must have had three each that night. I couldn’t stop saying how good it was, and soon my friend joined in. What started as my curious choice became our shared obsession – nothing else on the menu seemed worth ordering anymore.
Come to think of it, what did we talk about at the pub?
As I mentioned, our main interest then was dating. Neither of us had any experience, but we envied our friends who were dating. We both had crushes but were too scared to express our feelings – typical early-20s guys with too much to say.
The funny thing is, I can’t remember a single word of our conversation now. I remember making plans with my friend, driving downtown because he found a new pub, spending hours talking just the two of us in that cozy underground space – but the actual content of our conversation, supposedly the main point of all this, is completely blank.
What I vividly remember is trying Guinness for the first time… and being amazed that such a delicious beer existed.
Even now, when I go to pubs in Korea, I always check if they have the Guinness logo. If they do, I always order it first. I keep hoping to recreate that first taste, but of course, I’ve never managed to capture that moment again.
Sometimes when I share this story at bars, someone else’s face lights up with recognition. They start telling me about their first Guinness – where they had it, who they were with. And just like me, they’ve never found quite the same magic in any Guinness since.
Like most people, I started with lager. That’s just how it goes in Korea – everyone drinks Cass or Hite, those Japanese-style lagers.
For most college students, Guinness is their first step into dark beer territory. These days you’ll find all kinds of craft stouts, but back then, if you wanted dark beer, you had two choices: Guinness or Kozel. That was true even in America.
Think about it – you grow up thinking beer foam is something to avoid, then suddenly here’s Guinness, telling you the foam is part of the experience. They even use nitrogen instead of regular carbon dioxide to make their foam extra creamy. It’s like learning everything you knew about beer was wrong. No wonder that first taste sticks with you – it’s not just beer, it’s a revelation.
Looking back at everything I love – jazz, computer games, whiskey, and yes, Guinness – I finally understand something. It was never just about the music, the games, or even the taste. It was about sharing those first perfect moments with people who mattered. A chance encounter with a travel companion who introduced me to jazz in a dimly lit bar, the notes floating through the air as we talked through the night. Childhood friends huddled around a game console, our laughter mixing with the game’s music. That kind bartender who took the time to teach a newcomer about whiskey, making me feel like I belonged.
And then there was that winter night, sharing my first Guinness with a friend who’s now a priest across the ocean. We sat in that underground pub, talking about everything and nothing, two young men with dreams we couldn’t yet name. The beer was perfect, yes, but it was perfect because of who I shared it with.
That’s why we can never quite recreate that first magical taste. We can order the same drink, sit in the same kind of pub, even try to remember the same conversations. But without those exact people, in those precise moments, with all their hopes and uncertainties and laughter – we’ll never taste that first Guinness again. It’s not really about what’s in the glass at all. It’s about who’s sitting across the table, sharing that moment with us.
Maybe that’s what makes these memories so special. They remind us that the best things in life – whether it’s a perfect pint of Guinness, a jazz melody, or a childhood game – are really just vessels for something much more precious: the people we choose to share them with.
