Julie Miller undergoes a skin treatment in Seoul. Photographer: Woohae Cho/Bloomberg On a brisk October morning, Julie Miller hops out of a cab at a 16-story building packed with cosmetic surgery practices in Seoul's posh Gangnam district. The 46-year-old has traveled from New Jersey for a five-day visit, intending to check out Seoul's royal palaces and the heavily fortified border with North Korea—and to shed a few years. Entering the Renovo Skin Clinic, she's offered coffee and pastries by a Korean woman speaking fluent English. Renovo's manager soon guides her to a domed scanner where her face is assessed for oiliness, elasticity, wrinkles, pores, sunspots and more. The clinic offers a broad menu of treatments: fillers and fat-dissolving injections, facial resurfacing lasers and noninvasive face-lifts. Miller settles on Botox shots and a high-intensity ultrasound therapy to tighten her skin. Final bill: about $3,000. Not cheap, but at least 40% less than it would have been back home—important as such procedures aren't typically covered by insurance. "I'm hoping to turn back the clock a little bit," she says. "That, combined with a better price than we have in the US, it's like a no-brainer." Miller is among hundreds of thousands of foreigners—from the US, Europe and elsewhere in Asia—flocking to South Korea for cosmetic procedures, K Oanh Ha writes. The trend comes as the country faces a shortage of health-care workers: Medical Tourism Boom Lures South Korea's Overworked Doctors You Don't Have to Hop on the Mocktail Trend | Alison Roman at her home in Brooklyn, New York. Photographer: Ryan Duffin for Bloomberg Businessweek This past December, as I've done for six years, I hosted my annual Ham Party. I did the usual: fennel-rubbed ham (32 pounds total), trout-roe-topped jammy eggs and boiled potatoes, shrimp cocktail, anchovies and peppers on toothpicks, and at least two packets' worth of Lipton's sour cream and onion dip. The beverages, however, didn't receive my regular attention. I provided bottles of every type of hard alcohol but didn't prebatch jars of 50-50 martinis. I bought bubbles but opted for sparkling white (on sale) instead of Champagne. There were bottles of frozen vodka but no ice luge for performative shots. I'm still an enthusiastic host, but I'm also eight months pregnant. I'm not drinking like I used to. With so many people exploring alcohol alternatives these days, I've gotten a lot of recommendations from friends and readers (and social media algorithms) for nonalcoholic approximations of … pretty much everything. Negronis. Pilsners. Wine. Amari. It's all very considerate, and I genuinely love being included, but it's not for me. I am still drinking wine on occasion, and maybe that's the point—if I feel like drinking wine, I'm choosing to drink that, not a replacement. In the past, I've advised people who seek the thrill of an anchovy but don't eat fish, or who insist on making squash soup even though they're allergic to squash, that sometimes there's no placeholder for the real thing. You're better off making, eating or drinking something else entirely. I don't feel the need to approximate the taste of alcohol if I'm not drinking; a glass of seltzer on ice is pretty much a perfect beverage, tough to improve upon. And when I'm looking for more, many liquids already exist to please without any attempt to replicate booze. For starters: Coca-Cola over pebble ice, pomegranate juice mixed with seltzer by the liter and, lately, for me, orange juice chugged from the fridge like I'm a high school athlete. I'd also be remiss not to give a huge round of applause to my all-time favorite party trick, which I've been employing for years: soda water with a healthy dose of Peychaud's bitters. Alison Roman, a New York-based cook and author, says it's best not to fake it in recipes and cocktails: Reasons to Swap Mocktails for Just Plain Seltzer |
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