Story and Photographs by Bill Stephens
It’s mid-morning at the Koreatown McDonald’s on busy Western Avenue just north of Seventh Street. Outside, a dozen older Korean men sit under a large red canopy at small Formica tables. They clutch coffee cups, read Korean newspapers, chat and play Korean chess, called janggi.
The area is around 1,000 square feet and less than inviting. Nails stick up from the roof to prevent vandals and a sign on the wall reads: “Private property. No trespassing, loitering, drinking. Violators will be arrested and prosecuted.” Minor landscaping and a lone palm tree soften the nearby asphalt parking lot, but not much.
Young men and women of various ethnicities rush in and out of the fast food restaurant, located next to a hotel. But the Korean seniors here on the patio are in no hurry. It’s a hot day, but the red canopy shades them as a cool breeze flaps the American, California and McDonald’s flags.
Many gather around two men embroiled in a close game. Gambling is kept to a minimum — at most $1 a game.
The group sports a variety of hats — baseball caps, straw hats, porkpie hats. One or two men sit alone nursing coffee, the rest are caught up in conversation.
One sits down next to me. “Hello, I’m Mr. Han,” he says. He wears a tidy shirt, sunglasses, and has a friendly, wrinkled face.
“I’m Bill.”
We shake hands. I tell him I’ve noticed the group and am interested in hanging out and observing. Exploring L.A.’s varied landscape is one of my hobbies, and I’ve been curious about this place ever since I heard about it from a Korean friend. It seemed like an unusual place for Korean seniors to gather daily, and I wanted to know more about its history and clientele.
Mr. Han says he’s a 73-year-old retired widower. He comes here regularly to drink coffee.
“Why here?” I ask.
“I like this place,” he says. “Mostly retired Korean men come here. The McDonald’s employees who work here are nice and don’t bother us. A few homeless also sit here, but don’t bother us either.”
He says some Korean men come from a long distance to hang out on this patio. One man buses in every day from La Crescenta — 25 miles away. The patio starts getting filled at 7 a.m., and many stay long into the afternoon.
Mr. Han says he’s a university engineering grad who served in Vietnam as a Korean Marine captain. Koreans, he says, did some of the toughest fighting in Vietnam, and a number of his men died. He’s been living in Los Angeles for 35 years. He likes it here, especially the weather. Once a mechanic at a Beverly Hills hotel, he now lives alone on his monthly social security check. I learn that some of these men rely on either social security or welfare.
“Korean seniors like this McDonald’s because they give us a senior discount on coffee: 75 cents per cup.”
“Why not a Korean coffee house?” I ask.
“Too expensive — $3.50 per cup.”
The men hovering over the janggi game suddenly get loud — somebody has won. Mr. Han smiles. “Sometimes there are three janggi games going at once here on the patio.”
A Latina McDonald’s employee then walks onto the patio and reminds the men not to throw cigarette butts on the ground. She smiles at the players.
“No game. No game,” she says.
But it’s a half-hearted scolding. She walks back inside. The games continue.
***
I return to the McDonald’s on Western two days later and see familiar and new faces. Today there’s no janggi. A dozen Korean men, mostly seniors, chat away in Korean. Some smoke, some read newspapers. Today, the large middle table has boisterous, cheerful talkers and laughter frequently fills the air.
A Korean woman wearing an Operation Desert Storm T-shirt occasionally pops up to get coffee or ice cream for one of the men. For this, I’m told, she receives a 25-cent tip.
I strike up a conversation with 68-year-old Jung Min Kim.
“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Three times a day,” he says.
“Why?”
“My friends are here.”
Mr. Kim tells me he likes the place, that the McDonald’s employees are nice. He immigrated to the U.S. in 2004 and now lives on the outskirts of Koreatown. He has a wife and son back in Korea, and a son in L.A.
At 11:15 a.m., the patio grows silent as the men read their newspapers. One man gets up, walks across the parking lot, sits under a tree and reads.
A very old Korean man arrives with a cane and a large bag of carryout food. He sits down and sips his coffee. He squirms when a homeless woman sits across from him, but moves his stuff slightly and ignores her.
I duck inside for a coffee refill and chat with the Latina manager.
“How long has this McDonald’s been here?” I ask.
“Twenty-two years,” she says. “It’s designed in the old McDonald’s style and we want to keep it that way.”
The concept is somehow fitting.
***
I arrive next on a Saturday. The patio is crowded, and a few men wave to me.
I get a cup of coffee inside and find an empty seat outside. Today, two janggi games are progressing.
I start talking to Paul Kim, who is watching the game. He came to the U.S. in 1982 and had a plumbing business in L.A. Now retired, the 69-year-old frequents this McDonald’s every day.
“Here I can drink coffee and see friends,” says Mr. Kim. “It’s a special place. Korean seniors have been coming here many years.”
More than special, this place is world-renowned, at least according to Mr. Yang, a wiry man with glasses in his 60s. He tells the story of one man from Reno, Nevada, who traveled all the way here to join in on the camaraderie.
“This Seventh and Western Avenue McDonald’s is a famous place among Koreans,” he says. “People in Seoul even know of it.”
Mr. Yang has lived in L.A. for 20 years. Now retired, he once owned a sewing factory and patronized this McDonald’s on his breaks — back then the congregating took place inside. When indoor smoking was banned in California, the McDonald’s built an outdoor patio and the group followed. The fellowship grew when Korean seniors frequenting recreation centers heard about the smoker-friendly spot. Mr. Yang says it’s always been a diverse crew, pointing to a doctor of Oriental medicine and a construction worker.
When the chain restaurant raised the coffee price for seniors to $1, the group complained until it was lowered to 75 cents.
At times, says Mr. Yang, homeless people hassle the group for money. “But the homeless have been coming here a long time too,” he notes.
“Why is it mostly Korean men here?” I ask.
“Sometimes Korean old ladies come here too,” he insists.
The same Latina manager comes out to the patio.
“No game,” she says to the men. “No game.”
They wave and claim they’re on the last play. She smiles and goes back inside.
“She’s a nice lady,” Mr. Yang says. “This place is good, unique. If they closed, I don’t know where these Korean men would go. This isn’t the only McDonald’s in Koreatown, but Korean Americans favor it.”
As I get up to leave, I take a last look at this odd coupling of generic globalism and Korean immigrant seniors within hyper-modern Los Angeles — a place of idleness and friendship. A place of fast food and slow men. A place that represents classic Americana, but where elderly Korean immigrants gather to feel closer to a birth country miles away.
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