A Beer That Comes With Food

After a long drive, we sat down at a local bar in Granada and ordered two small beers. A moment later, the server returned with a basket of fried whitebait and a smile. We hadn’t asked for it. It was simply given.

Each time you order a beer, a small bite arrives. They call it a tapa. The beers come in very small glasses, and with each new order, a different tapa appears. Always free. Always good.

Granada is often cited as the birthplace of the free tapa. That alone would have been enough reason to fall in love with the city, even before the beauty and science embedded in the Alhambra.

When Food Leads the Drink

In many other cities we visited, the food wasn’t always free, but eating with drinks felt like an almost unbroken rule. Often, the food took center stage, becoming the reason people gathered in the first place.

One of our favorite tapas experiences was in Seville, at a place that has been open for over four centuries. With each drink, you received a small free tapa, but you could also order more. There was no fixed menu. It changed daily and was written on a blackboard I couldn’t fully read. The bartender took orders by writing directly on the bar with chalk. You stood, ordered a drink, received a small dish of food, then ordered another. At the end, everything was tallied by hand.

Unlike us, as tourists eager to try everything and ending up with a chalkboard filled edge to edge, most locals stayed for just one or two bites before moving on. You eat a little, have a drink, then head to the next place. Less like a long meal, more like bar-hopping, but guided by food.

Later, I realized Granada wasn’t the only place where drinks naturally came with food. In Verona, Italy, I encountered aperitivo, an early-evening ritual before dinner. You order a drink, and you’re welcomed to a spread of small bites: bruschetta, olives, cheese, sometimes even warm dishes. The food isn’t the meal itself, but it’s essential. Drinking, here too, comes with something to eat.

Anju (안주): Eating Is Not Optional

I have to admit, it took me time to adjust to drinking without food in North America. For a long while, I assumed that was simply how drinking worked everywhere. Only after experiencing other cultures more closely did I realize how incomplete it felt to me. Finding places where food naturally accompanied drinks felt familiar, almost comforting, like recognizing something from home.

Where I come from, drinking without food feels incomplete. In Korea, food eaten with alcohol is called anju (안주), and it’s taken seriously. Drinking almost always comes with food, and sometimes the food matters more than the drink itself.

I remember how excited my brother and I would get on Friday movie nights. That meant fried chicken for us, while the adults ended the week with beer and chicken. Someone even gave that pairing a name: chimaek (치맥), short for chikin (치킨) and maekju (맥주), beer. Whoever came up with that combination deserves real credit.

There are countless pairings like this: soju (소주) with samgyupsal (삼겹살) or hwe (회), and makgeolli (막걸리) with jeon (전) or buchimgae (부침개) on rainy days. These combinations feel instinctive, not planned. They’re part of the rhythm.

Even when money is tight, you still want something to nibble on. A simple bag of saeukkang (새우깡) can be enough, much like sóspálcika in Hungary.

There’s even a phrase for people who focus more on eating than drinking: anju-bal seunda (안주발 세운다). It can carry a slightly teasing tone, implying someone isn’t keeping up with the drinks. But the phrase itself reveals something important. Eating is inseparable from drinking. Food gives you stamina, sets the pace, and keeps the moment grounded. Drinking, in this context, is not meant to happen alone. It belongs at a table, with food, with others, and with a shared rhythm.

Staying at the Table

Japan, an island nation surrounded by fresh seafood and geographically close to Korea, shares a similar approach to eating and drinking. These overlaps are not accidental. They’re shaped by proximity, shared ingredients, and long, complicated histories that influenced one another over time.

In Japan, food eaten with alcohol is often called sakana (さかな / 肴). It refers to small dishes meant to accompany drinks. Like Korean anju, sakana is not an afterthought but an essential part of drinking culture. In places like izakaya (居酒屋) or tachinomi (立ち飲み), the food itself is often the main draw. Simple, affordable, and carefully prepared dishes are designed to pair naturally with sake, shochu, or beer.

Tachinomi, literally “standing drinking,” refers to casual bars where people stop in for a quick drink and a small bite. The emphasis is on ease and pace rather than ceremony. While standing bars are still common in Japan, they are far less visible in Korea today.

Korea once had its own version of this culture. In the early twentieth century, seonsuljip (선술집) were working-class taverns where people drank standing up, paid only for alcohol, and helped themselves to simple anju. These spaces were informal and communal, shaped by necessity rather than leisure.

Over time, Korean drinking culture shifted toward sitting rather than standing. Drinking became something done at a table, with the people you arrived with, rather than something fluid and mobile. Combined with a strong preference for abundance and shared dishes, this shift gave rise to a distinct style of bar culture.

That’s where dajjijip (다찌집) comes in, especially in coastal cities like Tongyeong. In these bars, you order alcohol and generous seafood dishes arrive automatically. With each new round, something different appears. You pay for the drinks, and the table slowly fills until it feels almost excessive. The experience is less about ordering and more about being taken care of.

In this way, drinking in Korea mirrors the structure of a Korean meal itself. Everything arrives together, meant to be shared, paced, and lingered over. It’s a logic similar to hansang charim (한상차림), a full table setting where nothing is meant to stand alone.

Being Taken Care Of

More recently, I learned about imokase (이모까세), a newer trend in Korea. The name plays on omakase (お任せ), but instead of a chef, the experience centers on an imo. An imo is a familiar “auntie” figure, someone you order drinks from and trust to take care of the rest.

You don’t choose the food. As the drinks arrive, so does a steady progression of anju, paced and selected by the imo herself. The table fills gradually, without explanation or menu, guided by her judgment rather than your order.

The word imo carries a sense of closeness. It's about narrowing distance, about comfort rather than formality. Imokase feels less like dining and more like being welcomed into someone's rhythm. You're not managing the night—someone else is watching the table for you. It's the kind of place where you can drink alone, honsul (혼술), and still feel quietly looked after.

You see echoes of this online too, in figures like the so-called poktanju (폭탄주) imo, known for her flashy somaek (소맥) mixing skills. She isn’t a bartender in the Western sense. She’s a caretaker of the table, keeping glasses full, food coming, and the mood moving at the right pace.

Imokase isn’t about novelty. It’s a reminder that in Korean drinking culture, being served often means being looked after.

A Table That Brings People Together

In Europe, drinks are rarely enjoyed on their own either. Where wine is common, it’s often paired with something small to nibble on: a charcuterie board, borrelhapjes, a plate meant to be shared. With beer, the pairing shifts. In Germany, a glass of beer naturally calls for something hearty, like wurst or schweinshaxe. The foods look different from Korean anju, but the logic is familiar. Drinks feel more complete when there’s food on the table.

Across places and cultures, the pattern repeats. Tapa in Spain. Meze (μεζέ) around the Mediterranean. Sakana in Japan. Anju in Korea. Drinks are rarely meant to stand alone. They invite food, pacing, and conversation. Most of all, they invite people.

What changes is what’s served. What stays the same is the intention: to slow down, to linger, to share what’s there. Whether it’s getting excited for a Friday-night chimaek ritual, setting an anju table for a small gathering, or meeting friends for a borrel, the table becomes a reason to stay a little longer.

These traditions remind me that eating and drinking were never just about consumption. They were always about togetherness, even if only for a small bite and a short while.