KMK: HBC

Patrons beware. It usually takes a lot to get a negative review out of me. I’m an optimistic happy go lucky person who can find the bright spot in just about any gloomy situation. And yet the restaurant HBC in haebangchon did their very best to beat the cheeriness out of me and turn me into a pursed lip critic with an evil eye ready to lay waste to the entire staff-which consisted of a husband, wife, and little six year old girl.
I met Amanda and friends on Sunday afternoon for brunch. We figured HBC being a newish restaurant would be a good place to break in. Our first clue to the coming horror should have been when they cranked up the music into a blaring cacophony of inarticulate noise. Thankfully they reduced the decibels, but then the second sign came our way when the waitress/wife took our orders without even bothering to write it down. Sure, she could have been an old pro capable of memorizing the orders of an entire shift of hungry construction workers but I had my doubts.
The menu was sparse so we all ordered the breakfast special and I also got an order of pancakes. We dove into conversation as we settled in to wait for our food. Drinks came along ploddingly slow. I guess the pot they brewed the coffee in could only hold one cup at a time. Sugar and milk were doled out as if they were depression era commodities being strictly rationed. Time passed. Our stomachs grumbled. Our eyes fixed on the hands of the clock slowly spiraling with nary a morsel being put on the table. The aroma of toasting bread had us drooling in anticipation until it transformed into a burnt odor that sent the little girl scurrying out of the restaurant with a man won only to return minutes later with a bag of fresh bread.
We resumed our conversation only this time contemplating a plan to high tail it out of there. With Indigo only a dozen feet away only the sight of the husband slaving away in the kitchen kept us from bolting. Surely all that effort had to produce a spectacular plate of food, right?

Finally, after about ninety minutes our food began to arrive. Seriously, ninety minutes. Unfortunately, some plates arrived cold and all were missing the side order of baked beans. Never fear though because our steadfast cook ran out to the store and bought some. They arrived in the communist friendly communal bowl for all of us to share. Fine. I’ve done the communal eating thing it can be fun, but not when the communal dish has been thoroughly cleaned with Palmolive liquid soap but not so thoroughly rinsed. Having that lemony taste does not become baked beans. I didn’t finish my share. Melissa, poor thing, was so starved that she did and we feared she’d be blowing soap bubbles.

After the whole HBC experience it became apparent that the name stood for Horrible Brunch Club. Thing could have only gone more wrong if they’d slapped us on the way out.