In a South Korean Drama, the Healing Power of a Shared Drink
How "My Mister" Finds Profound Connection in the Simple Ritual of Pouring Soju for a Friend
There are no car chases, no amnesiac heirs, no star-crossed lovers from feuding dynasties. The central relationship in the South Korean drama "My Mister" is not a romance, but something far more rare and, perhaps, more resonant: a quiet, aching solidarity between two deeply wounded souls.
The show, a 2018 series that has steadily grown into a global cult classic, follows Park Dong-hoon (Lee Sun-kyun, whose tragic death in 2023 has only deepened the show's poignancy), a middle-aged structural engineer enduring the quiet desperation of a stalled career and a loveless marriage, and Lee Ji-an (the singer-songwriter IU, in a revelatory performance), a young temp worker in his office, burdened by debt and a traumatic past. Their connection blossoms not through grand gestures, but in stolen moments of shared silence, empathetic glances, and, most crucially, over countless glasses of soju.
In a television landscape saturated with high-concept fantasies and glossy romances, "My Mister" stands as a testament to the power of small things. It is a show that finds its drama in the subtle shifts of an unspoken conversation, its climax in the simple act of someone buying you a meal. And at the heart of it all is Jung-hee's Pub, a dimly lit neighborhood bar that becomes a sanctuary for the show's cast of bruised but resilient characters.
A Third Place in a Fractured World
Jung-hee's Pub is not glamorous. There are no craft cocktails, no exposed brick walls carefully curated for Instagram. It is a modest establishment with fluorescent lights, worn wooden tables, and the faint smell of grilled mackerel. But for Dong-hoon and his two brothers—Ki-hoon, a failed director drowning in debt, and Sang-hoon, a lawyer trapped in a passionless marriage—this unremarkable bar becomes what sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls a "third place": a vital space between home and work where community can flourish without the constraints of either.
"In Korean culture, these neighborhood drinking establishments serve a crucial social function," explains Dr. Jiyoung Kim, a cultural studies scholar at Seoul National University. "They are spaces where hierarchies can temporarily dissolve, where a company president and a construction worker might sit at adjacent tables, where the rigid formality of Korean social relations gives way to something more human."
The pub is run by Jung-hee, a middle-aged woman who serves as both proprietor and silent witness to her patrons' lives. She rarely speaks, but her presence is essential. She pours drinks, grills fish, and watches over her regulars with a maternal attentiveness. In one memorable scene, when Dong-hoon sits alone after Ji-an has left the neighborhood, Jung-hee simply refills his glass without asking, understanding that some sorrows require no words, only presence.
The physical space itself matters. The low ceilings create intimacy. The dim lighting softens faces, making vulnerability easier. The small tables force proximity, breaking down the physical distance that Koreans typically maintain in public. And the ritual of removing shoes before sitting on floor cushions creates a boundary between the outside world and this protected space, a threshold that must be crossed to enter.
The Language of Soju
If Jung-hee's Pub is the grammar of community in "My Mister," then soju is its vocabulary. This clear, slightly sweet spirit—often compared to vodka but with a lower alcohol content—is ubiquitous in South Korea, where it outsells all other alcoholic beverages combined. But in the drama, soju transcends its role as mere beverage to become what scholars call an "affective medium": a substance whose material properties actively shape emotional expression and social bonding.
The ritual of drinking soju is highly codified. You never pour your own drink; you pour for others, and they pour for you. When receiving a drink from someone older or of higher status, you use two hands and turn your head slightly away when drinking, a gesture of respect. When pouring for someone you care about, you fill their glass to the brim, a sign of generosity and warmth. These small gestures, repeated across countless scenes in "My Mister," create a choreography of care.
"The act of pouring soju for someone is fundamentally relational," says Dr. Kim. "It requires you to pay attention to the other person—to notice when their glass is empty, to anticipate their needs. In a culture where direct emotional expression can be difficult, especially for men, these ritualized actions become a way of saying 'I see you, I care about you' without having to articulate it verbally."
The alcohol itself plays a role. At 16-20% ABV, soju is strong enough to lower inhibitions but mild enough for extended drinking sessions. In "My Mister," the characters don't get falling-down drunk; they get just loose enough to speak truths they couldn't say sober. When Ki-hoon confesses his business failures, when Sang-hoon admits his marriage is a facade, when Ji-an finally reveals the depths of her trauma—these confessions all happen over soju, the alcohol creating what sociologist Erving Goffman called "role distance," a temporary suspension of the social masks we wear.
The show is remarkably attentive to the material details of drinking. We see the condensation on the green bottles, the way the liquid catches the light as it's poured, the slight wince as the alcohol burns going down. We hear the satisfying clink of glasses, the glug of liquid, the exhale after a shot. These sensory details ground the ritual in the body, reminding us that community is not just an abstract concept but a lived, embodied experience.
From Han to Jeong
The show masterfully explores two untranslatable Korean concepts: han and jeong. Han is a complex emotion, a blend of sorrow, resentment, and a deep-seated sense of injustice—the accumulated weight of life's unfairness. It is what Dong-hoon carries in his slumped shoulders, what Ji-an expresses in her hard, defensive stare. Jeong, by contrast, is an equally complex form of attachment, a bond of affection and responsibility that develops over time through shared experience, through eating together, suffering together, simply being together.
"My Mister" is fundamentally a story about the slow, alchemical process of transforming han into jeong. And Jung-hee's Pub is the crucible where this transformation occurs.
In early episodes, the brothers drink to vent—to complain about their lives, to release the pressure of accumulated frustrations. Their drinking is parallel rather than interactive; they sit together but remain isolated in their individual miseries. Ji-an, meanwhile, doesn't drink at all, watching from the margins, literally and figuratively outside the circle of belonging.
But as the narrative progresses, the drinking scenes change. In a pivotal moment in Episode 7, Dong-hoon pours Ji-an a drink using two hands, a gesture of respect typically reserved for elders or superiors. This ritual reversal—a middle-aged man showing respect to a young woman—marks her as worthy of care and inclusion. As the evening progresses and alcohol lowers inhibitions, Ji-an begins to speak about her difficult circumstances, and the brothers respond not with pity or advice but with recognition and acceptance. "We're all just trying to endure," Dong-hoon tells her. "You're doing well."
By the later episodes, the drinking scenes have become elaborate performances of community. Multiple toasts occur, each marking a different aspect of their shared experience. Food is shared with careful attention to preferences. Inside jokes emerge. Comfortable silences become possible. The ritual has become what sociologist Randall Collins calls a "symbolically charged" practice, where the actions themselves carry emotional weight beyond their immediate function. Drinking together is no longer simply a means to facilitate conversation but has become an end in itself, a performance of belonging.
The Beauty of Slowness
For many international viewers, accustomed to the fast-paced narratives of Western television, the deliberate slowness of "My Mister" can initially feel challenging. Scenes unfold in real time. Characters walk in silence for minutes. The camera lingers on faces, waiting for micro-expressions to reveal inner turmoil.
But this slowness is not empty; it is full. It asks the audience to practice the same attentiveness that the characters show each other. To listen to the silences. To find meaning in the mundane. To understand that a shared meal can be more intimate than a kiss, and that the quietest moments often speak the loudest.
The show's cinematography reinforces this aesthetic. The color palette is muted—grays, browns, the occasional flash of neon. The lighting is naturalistic, often dim. The camera movements are minimal. Everything about the visual language says: this is not fantasy, this is life. And life, the show insists, is worthy of our full attention.
When the series won the Grand Prize at the Baeksang Arts Awards in 2018, writer Park Hae-young said in her acceptance speech: "I wanted to show that ordinary people living ordinary lives are all heroes." This democratic vision—that everyone's suffering matters, that everyone's resilience deserves recognition—permeates every frame of "My Mister."
A Ritual of Absence
In the final episodes, as the narrative moves toward resolution and the community begins to disperse, the drinking ritual takes on a new, heartbreaking function. In one of the show's most poignant scenes, Dong-hoon returns to Jung-hee's Pub alone after Ji-an has left the neighborhood. He sits at their usual table, orders soju, and pours drinks for absent companions, filling glasses that will not be emptied.
This ritual performance of absence makes visible what is missing. It uses the drinking ritual not to create presence but to mark loss and memory. Jung-hee watches silently, understanding without need for explanation. The pub itself has become what geographer Yi-Fu Tuan calls a "field of care," a place invested with meaning through the relationships and experiences it has hosted.
The emotional register here is complex: han (the sorrow of loss and separation) combined with jeong (the enduring attachment that survives physical absence) and what we might call "grateful melancholy"—sadness at ending combined with gratitude for what was shared. Even empty, the pub carries the traces of past gatherings, functioning as a repository of affective memory.
What We Can Learn
"These texts are not just entertainment; they are cultural archives that show us how people make meaning, build relationships, and create community through the everyday practices of eating and drinking," Dr. Kim reflects. "By analyzing them rigorously, we can gain deeper insights into the role of food and drink in social life, the power of place in shaping human experience, and the possibilities for connection in an age of alienation."
In an era of digital disconnection and social fragmentation, when many Americans report having fewer close friends than ever before, when "third places" like neighborhood bars and community centers are disappearing, "My Mister" offers a powerful, if poignant, reminder of what we've lost—and what might still be possible.
The show suggests that connection and healing don't require grand gestures or perfect circumstances. They can happen in a modest neighborhood bar, over cheap alcohol and grilled fish, between people who have little in common except their shared humanity and their willingness to witness each other's pain.
As traditional community structures erode under neoliberal capitalism and digital mediation, media representations of alternative social spaces may serve both documentary and aspirational functions—reflecting existing practices while imagining more caring possibilities. Jung-hee's Pub and the rituals that unfold there are grounded in the material realities of Korean drinking culture and working-class life, yet they point toward something larger: the enduring human need for belonging and the power of place and ritual to create spaces where that belonging can be found.
Sometimes, the most profound form of healing can be found in the simple, sacred act of pouring a drink for a friend, and saying, without words, "I see you. You are not alone."
