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Food

Inside the Strangest Swiss Alps-Themed Bar in South Korea

Well, it's really the only one. Sound of Music—named after the musical—boasts a killer beer selection, cowboy decor, and a fan that may or may not have been owned by Adolf Hitler.

The Republic of Korea is an interesting place, to say the least. While it's known for technology, innovation, and a general sense of 21st-century progress, it's still very much, like its partner to north, the "hermit kingdom." Marked by thousands of years of isolation, it rarely takes advice—and to its credit, guff—from anyone else. If the rest of the world is doing something socially and Korea doesn't want to follow, it's the rest of the world's fault. Ask just about anyone over 40 and they'll tell you, Korea is "number one." All others, regardless of nationality, are simply "foreign influence."

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Enter Gwangju, a city of about 1.5 million people, where many of the restaurants close at 10 PM. Compared to the go-all-night atmosphere of Seoul, it's a farmville—a disconnected oasis with a different attitude.

Among the eccentrics in Gwangju is a man who only goes by Mr. Cho. When I meet him, he refuses to provide me with his full name or allow me to take his picture, but after negotiating with Johan Ahn—the Belgian-Korean operator of Salt Art Gallery in town—he is eager to show me his bar Sound of Music, which he named after the musical.

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Outside Sound of Music.

The bar stands out in more ways than one in these parts. First, it's devoid of the isolationist perspective that produces the drab brown and grey concrete architecture of most establishments. Instead, Sound of Music occupies a large, wooden structure in a nondescript alley surrounded by apartments, street-corn and peach stalls, and an auto shop across the street.

Upon entry, I'm taken by the eclectic decor. Some of it hails from the Swiss mountains, while some displays bit of Pakistani influence. Pictures of Yosemite and a wide array of Native American motifs remind me of the times I traveled through Wyoming to or from California during my West Coast days. But none of this seems relevant to Mr. Cho, who excitedly approaches me and drags me to the front of the bar.

Through my translator, Mr. Cho says, "Look at this!"

I look, and I see a fan.

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A fan that may or may not have belonged to Adolf Hitler.

"This fan was owned by Adolf Hitler!" he beams.

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My jaw doesn't drop. Having lived in Asia for a while, and Korea specifcally for two years, a Hitler obsession is all but surprising. During my early days in Seoul there was a bar called The Fifth Reich, and yes, it was decorated in Nazi flags, uniforms, and various other forms of authoritarian chic. Further south, in Busan, there was the Hitler Techno Bar and Cocktail Show, which remained open until a Canadian couple decided to put a note on the door explaining who Hitler was.

Needless to say, the man is just another celebrity in much of Asia: swastika shirts—and not the Buddhist kind—on the Taipei subway; Hitler Fried Chicken in Bangkok and Hitler's Cross Café in India. As someone who thoughtlessly purchased a Chairman Mao shirt as a teenager, I consider the Asian Nazi fascination something to be laughed at rather than offended by. After all, Hitler was a silly man with dumb ideas and he's stone fucking dead.

Once we get past the fan, I have a chance to explore the bar itself. I ask Mr. Cho, an Alpinist who has scaled Nanga Parbat in Pakistan and Denali (when it was McKinley) in the States, how his world travels shaped his clearly foreign-influenced bar.

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The bar's wide selection of liquors and international tchotchkes.

"It's Korean," he insists. "Korea has changed. This is normal now."

I find that a bit odd, considering that I've never seen anything else that looks like a Swiss lodge with American Southwest décor in Korea.

Moving on, I ask about his inspiration. He tells me that Sound of Music represents a dream, and that "the building is a speaker," gesturing toward his superb sound system. Custom-built in 1961, the entire lodge-style building was designed to be a giant amplifier. Informing me that there are "only three sounds: American, UK, and German," Mr. Cho notes that it's "only American" for him.

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I have no clue what this means, but the music sure sounds smooth.

The bar's food and drink have their own unique qualities, too—more international than I've seen on the peninsula. Sound of Music stocks giant bottles of liquor from all over the world, some dusty but still being served, and upside-down shot dispensers that I am told were purchased from "old American cowboy bars." Upstairs, there is a tea-room for private parties with hundreds of teas and pots hanging over burners from chains that go to the ceiling. An acoustic guitar is laid out hostel-style near a record player from the mid-20th century. It's a peaceful place for an alpinist to spend retirement—Mr. Cho is no longer able to scale due to health problems.

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A Swiss mailbox outside the bar.

What I found most peculiar, aside from the Hitler fan (the object, not the owner), was the beer spread. In Korea, beer typically comes with a bowl of Cheerios and Crunch Berry-style things, but Mr. Cho serves peanuts and cheese. American Singles, to be exact. He tells me that the spread was chosen by his sole employee, who is also in charge of pretty much everything outside of the sound system, from what I can tell. This novelty has become quite popular among the foreign crowd; the Seoul-based band Nice Legs allegedly invented the "cheese shot," where one takes a corner of cheese and washes it down with whiskey.

In the end, the strangeness of the bar the eccentricity of its owner—both of which provide a ridiculous and superb escape from this frequently cold, repetitive country—win me over. The beer is great, the shots bracing, and the spread oddly wonderful. The Hitler fan is a bonus, of course, as it did end up in a Swiss lodge, although probably not one the man planned for.

When I ask Mr. Cho about the purpose of his bar, he says simply, "Spreading music."