

The first thing you notice about Seoul is the smell. It’s everywhere – drifting from alleyway stalls, curling up from bubbling pots, clinging to your clothes long after you’ve eaten. The city eats loudly and proudly, with a kind of rhythm that feels both ancient and modern at once. Everyone seems to be eating, preparing, or thinking about food. But there’s more to this city’s cuisine than the fiery red stews and barbecue platters that fill your Instagram feed. Look a little closer, and you’ll find a culture that speaks through its dishes, carrying old habits into a new age.
When a Korean meal arrives, the main dish doesn’t steal the show. Instead, the table fills with little plates called banchan– pickled vegetables, stir-fried greens, braised tofu, sometimes a sliver of omelette or spicy squid. They’re meant to be shared, tasted in small bites and refreshed daily. What looks like a handful of extras is actually the meal’s quiet foundation. In many homes, families take pride in their banchan recipes, which shift subtly with the seasons. It’s a small, everyday art form, the kind that doesn’t shout for attention but stays with you after the meal is done.
Most travellers think of kimchi as that fiery cabbage sitting beside the rice bowl, but that’s only a fraction of it. There are hundreds of types, from cool cucumber kimchi in summer to rich, garlicky radish kimchi in winter. Some versions are bright and crisp; others ferment for months until they take on a deep, complex tang. Every family has its own preference. Making kimchi used to be a community affair – entire neighbourhoods coming together each autumn to prepare enough jars to last through winter. That tradition, known as kimjang, still survives in pockets of the city, tying people to the earth and to one another.
Forget toast. In many Korean homes, breakfast looks almost identical to lunch or dinner: a bowl of rice, soup, and several small sides. There’s no separation between “morning” and “evening” foods. The idea is that the body needs grounding early in the day, something warm and substantial. A spoonful of seaweed soup or soybean paste stew before work feels more comforting than a cup of coffee ever could. It might seem unusual to outsiders, but once you’ve had a Korean breakfast, you understand why the day feels calmer for it.
In Seoul, street food is taken seriously. It isn’t quick fuel; it’s a craft. Vendors often specialise in one thing – maybe spicy tteokbokki, or delicate pancakes filled with brown sugar syrup. They’ve been perfecting that one dish for decades, and regulars know exactly which stall to visit for which craving. Wander through Gwangjang Market at dusk and you’ll see long queues not for novelty, but for devotion. There’s a kind of honesty to it: paper plates, plastic stools, food made with quiet precision.
Meals in Seoul are rarely solitary. Dishes are shared, spoons dip into the same bowls, and someone is always refilling someone else’s glass. There’s an unspoken rhythm of care – the act of serving, of offering the first bite to another person, of keeping the table full. Even as solo dining becomes more common in modern Korea, the idea that food connects people remains deeply rooted. It’s a language of gestures rather than words.
Eating in Seoul isn’t just about flavour – it’s about motion, memory and belonging. Every bowl and plate tells a small story: of weather, family, time. The city never seems to stop moving, yet when you sit down to eat, the world briefly slows. That’s the real secret to Seoul’s food – it isn’t just consumed, it’s shared, quietly and constantly, between people and generations.
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(Written by Esha Aphale)