From bungeoppang stalls to celebrity-chef restaurants, eating out has become a test of patience, planning and payoff




Kim Jong-sik hand-pours batter into cast-iron molds at his bungeoppang stall near Namyeong Station, where lines often stretch an hour long for his famously overstuffe 바다이야기고래 d red bean pastries. (Moon Joon-hyun/The Korea Herald)


On a chilly afternoon outside Namyeong Station in Seoul, a surprisingly large crowd quietly waits in line for bu 릴게임몰메가 ngeoppang, a traditional Korean fish-shaped pastry filled with red bean paste.
The vendor, 62-year-old Kim Jong-sik, flips each one by hand, refusing to mechanize his craft even as demand su 뽀빠이릴게임 rges. He sells up to 1,000 pieces on busy days, he says.
“If I used machines or more staff, I could sell even more,” Kim says. “But then it wouldn’t taste like mine.”


야마토게임다운로드
A line snakes down the sidewalk outside the Namyeong Station bungeoppang shop, where waiting 30 minutes to over an hour for a street snack has become routine. (Moon Joon-hyun/T 알라딘게임 he Korea Herald)


His small store has become a minor sensation. On weekends, some customers might wait up to an hour for a snack that was typically bought on impulse. For Lee Sun-young, a 36-year-old advertising planner, the pastry lived up to the hype, but only just.
“It was great, really,” she says. “But after 45 minutes in the cold, I wasn’t sure if I was chasing food, or chasing meaning.”
Her experience is increasingly common in South Korea, where getting a single meal or even a simple street snack can now involve hours of planning and waiting. In 2026, “good food” in Korea has become a high-stakes pursuit, complete with reservation apps, influencer noise and endless waitlists. With fake reviews muddying nearly every platform, the only things people still seem to trust are a visibly long queue or a blockbuster Netflix show.

A meal or a mission?

From snacks like bungeoppang to full meals, dining out now begins long before the first bite: scouring KakaoMap or Naver Map for high-rated options, dodging sponsored listings, comparing photo reviews and hashtags on blogs or social media, checking with restaurant reservation apps like CatchTable or Tabling, and — if all goes well — securing a time slot, or a place in line.
“It’s not that I’m picky,” says Lee. “It’s just… with the amount of effort we all put into a single meal, it had better not be mediocre.”
That pressure stems, in part, from how little time many Koreans have to spare. Korea continues to rank among the OECD countries with the longest working hours, and meals have become one of the few accessible moments of personal agency or joy.
“In other countries, a work lunch might just be fuel, a sandwich at your desk,” says Professor Heo Kyung-ok, a consumer behavior professor at Sungshin Women’s University.
“But in Korea, eating out is often the only part of the day that feels fully ‘yours.’ So a bad meal isn’t just disappointing. It feels like you wasted your only reward of the day.”

Queuing as proof: The rise of 'verified' dining

According to the Korea Rural Economic Institute, Korea has one of the highest restaurant densities in the world at 125.4 restaurants per 10,000 people, which is nearly double that of China and more than twice Japan’s.
But if so many restaurants exist, why are diners clustering around just a few?
The answer, increasingly, is the collapse of trust.
“We’ve gone from trusting TV programs to bloggers to influencers. But over time, each of those systems got polluted,” said a representative from the Korea Franchise Industry Association, speaking on condition of anonymity.
“Sponsored posts, fake reviews, influencer deals -- people got tired of being tricked. So now? They trust what they can see: a long line.”
In this context, the queue becomes the new stamp of legitimacy. If 50 people are willing to wait, the logic goes, it must be worth it.



Contestants gather on the set of Netflix’s "Culinary Class Wars" Season 2, the hit competition show fueling Korea’s latest restaurant reservation frenzy. Within days of airing, the featured chefs saw bookings triple and waitlists stretch into hours. (Netflix)


Nothing has amplified this “verified-or-nothing” mindset more than Netflix’s blockbuster cooking competition "Culinary Class Wars."
The show pits veteran celebrity chefs (“white spoons”) against underdog cooks and independent owners (“black spoons”) in intense, theatrically lit culinary battles, judged blindly and often emotionally. Its second season, set to conclude Jan. 13, has already transformed its featured contestants into overnight restaurant royalty.
One such case is Okdongsik, a Seoul eatery known for its clear pork bone soup, which saw a surge in demand after its episode aired. Though often described as a neighborhood gukbap spot, the restaurant is unusually global, with locations in New York, Tokyo, Hawaii and Paris. Its Manhattan branch was named one of The New York Times’ “Top 8 New York City Dishes of 2023.”
“I logged in for on-site waiting at 9:30 a.m. and still ended up 34th on the waitlist,” said Choi Hye-rim, a 21-year-old student. “We didn’t get seated until almost noon. The Seoul branch wasn't this famous before the show.”



A bowl of dweji gomtang (clear pork bone soup) at Okdongsik in Seoul. The restaurant’s owner, who shares its name, appeared on Netflix’s "Culinary Class Wars" Season 2 under the nickname “Dweji Gomtang in New York,” triggering a surge in demand and long waitlists after the show aired. (Okdongsik)





Customers line up outside Okdongsik in Seoul early in the morning, well before its 11 a.m. opening, following its surge in popularity after "Culinary Class Wars" Season 2. (Moon Joo-hyun/The Korea Herald)


Across Seoul, similar scenes are playing out at featured spots, from upscale Italian bistros to no-frills neighborhood joints. Weekday lunch hours have become the new battleground, as weekend visits are now out of reach for many. On some days, waitlists stretch beyond 50 parties.
Some users are taking more drastic measures. According to multiple community posts, reservation slots for "Culinary Class Wars" restaurants are being resold online for as much as 400,000 won ($275).

Not everyone is enjoying the meal

Not everyone finds pleasure in this culinary arms race. For Sun-young, it’s an ongoing source of stress, one that feels incompatible with the original purpose of food.
“I used to love meeting friends over something simple,” she says. “Now, even that feels like a task. Planning a meal takes more time than eating it.”
She recounts her recent attempt to visit a Korean blood sausage stew (or sundae gukbab) spot in Euljiro, one praised across blogs and booking apps alike.
“It was our third try,” she says. “You have to enter a four-digit code from the tablet in front of the restaurant to confirm your spot on the Tabling app and we missed it. Just like that, we lost our place and had to wait another 30 minutes in the cold. The stew was fine, but not worth all the stress. I was already drained before we even sat down.”
At the same time, the obsession with “verified” spots is leaving the rest of the dining industry behind.
According to data from the 2024 Korean Food Industry Report, more than 2,200 traditional Korean restaurants shut down in 2025, with small independent owners hit hardest. More than 73 percent operate without any certified chef, and over 50 percent do not develop new or original recipes, citing cost and time constraints.
“Consumers are becoming more educated and more cautious,” says Professor Heo. “But that also means fewer second chances for small operators. If one person says your stew was bland, you're out of consideration for 10 others.”