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Tteokguk rice cake soup In the heart of winter, as the calendar flips from one year to the next, Koreans around the world prepare for one of their most significant holidays: Seollal (Lunar New Year’s Day, 설날). It’s much more than just a mark on the calendar. For us, Seollal is a time for family reunions, honoring our ancestors through charye  (차례), and sharing that quiet, collective feeling of a fresh start. Central to this celebration, sitting prominently at every table, is the iconic dish that marks the turning of a new age: Tteokguk (rice cake soup, 떡국). For those who might still be puzzling over the intricacies of how age is calculated in Korea, I highly recommend revisiting our previous post, The Age-Old Question: Mannai, Yeonnai, and the Confusion of Korean Age .  The enduring tradition is that once you've finished a bowl of Tteokguk on Seollal , you officially "eat a year," symbolically gaining a year of age. It's a comforting ritual that ties one's perso...

I finally tasted dujjonku! Whenever my international friends visit Seoul, the ritual is predictable. Before heading to Incheon Airport, they make one final pilgrimage to Lotte Mart at Seoul Station . There, amidst the frantic packing of boxes into suitcases, they stock up on one specific item: bright pink boxes of Market O Real Brownies . I get it. They are easy, safe, and undeniably delicious. For years, the Market O brownie has reigned as the undisputed king of Korean confectionery souvenirs. I still buy them for myself because they never disappoint. They are the "Old Reliable" of Korean souvenirs. Market O Brownie But here is a secret most guidebooks haven't caught up with yet: while tourists are sticking to the classics, Seoul’s dessert scene has birthed a new obsession. It’s called " Dujjonku (두쫀쿠) ," and it’s the souvenir you buy when you want to be ahead of the curve. The Hidden Gem: What Exactly Is Dujjonku? For the uninitiated, dujjonku isn't a bra...

Dubai chocolate went viral first. That glossy, pistachio-packed treat felt more like a luxury prop than something you'd actually eat. Korea didn't let the idea fade. It took that same "Dubai" signal with pistachio richness, camera-ready glamour, and squeezed it into something more portable, more shareable: dujjonku (두쫀쿠) , the local shorthand for "Dubai chewy cookie (두바이 쫀득 쿠키)." I've watched grown adults treat it like contraband. A friend of mine spent his weekend circling neighborhood cafés, hunting one down for his pregnant wife. It's the kind of mission that makes you wonder what exactly is in this thing. When a cookie inspires that level of devotion, it's no longer food. It's theater . What makes the theater work starts with scale. Dujjonku is small, tennis-ball sized at most, something you'd polish off in three or four bites if you weren't staging the perfect cross-section shot first. And yet the price tags on specialty version...

Customized Vegetarian Kimbap at Korean street food stall I’m Korean, born and raised, but back when I was a student in Australia, I found myself nose-deep in the Korean translation of Bernard Werber's Le Père de nos pères  ( The Father of Our Fathers —if you can even find it in English). Korean readers devour this French novel, and it hit me hard. The novel's deep exploration of our origins and connection to other species shifted my entire perspective. Overwhelmed by a sudden realization of our shared existence, I decided to give up meat right then and there. Fueled by that new conviction, I managed to stick to it for over a year. It wasn't always easy, but unlike in Korea, at least I had options. I could grab a veggie sandwich from a corner deli or find a restaurant with actual plant-based dishes. It didn't require a constant battle for every meal.  🥦 Why It Was Hard: My Backstory But then, biology staged a full rebellion.  My gut simply couldn't handle the diet, ...