South Korea: Rice and Rebellion

South Korea is a paradox. It presents the world with a glossy veneer of K-Pop, global technology, and cutting-edge cosmopolitan modernity, yet its history is a jagged, fire-tested line of rebellion. This smallest of economic giants was never content to bow, not to the imperial ambition of Japanese colonizers, the iron fist of military dictators, or the cold calculus of global corporations. Instead, the nation was forged in the heat of sweat-soaked factory strikes, massive public protests, and millions of candlelit marches.

From the ashes of the Joseon dynasty's collapse to the chaos of war and occupation, Korea’s peasants, students, and working class have faced down empires, juntas, and devastating economic crises. The story of modern Korea is one of constantly rising to demand what was denied them. The 20th century saw landless peasants revolt against feudal lords, students topple corrupt presidents, and industrial workers shut down factories to claim their rights.

This intense, compressed history of struggle is not merely a political story; it's a culinary one. Through it all, simple, bold, and fiercely practical food has been the fuel of resistance. South Korean above all, carry both a communal spirit and the imprint of necessity.

Bibimbap, with its humble mix of rice, foraged greens, and gochujang, sustained the Donghak rebels of 1894 as they challenged a corrupt monarchy and foreign intrusion. Kimchi jjigae, a fiery stew of fermented cabbage, nourished the Autumn Harvest and Jeju uprisings, where peasants and workers defied colonial and military oppression. Tteokbokki, the spicy rice cakes sold by street vendors, became the fuel of the 1960 April Revolution, energizing students who toppled an authoritarian regime. Haemul pajeon, the crispy seafood pancake, fed the defenders of Gwangju in 1980, as citizens stood against military brutality. Bulgogi, with its smoky, communal grilling, sustained the mass protests and strikes of 1987, a turning point for Korean democracy. Jjajangmyeon, the inky-black noodle dish of the working class, fortified the million-strong labor strikes of 1996–1997. And yangnyeom chicken, Korea’s sweet-spicy take on fried chicken, became a staple of the Candlelight Revolution, where millions gathered to oust a corrupt president in 2016–2017.

So grab a stone bowl and lets begin.

Bibimbap: Mixed Up in the Fight

Bibimbap, one of Korea’s most beloved and well known dishes today, is a bowl filled with steamed rice, seasoned vegetables, marinated meat, and topped with a fried egg and spicy gochujang paste, all mixed together before eating. The literal translation, “mixed rice”, describes it perfectly: diverse elements blended into a single, harmonious whole. But bibimbap’s story goes back long before it became a modern restaurant staple. Its roots are in the rural villages and farms of Korea, where farmers gathered what they had on hand, wild greens, leftover grains, and preserved vegetables, and tossed them into a communal bowl. Some trace it to seasonal rites like dongji (winter solstice), when people ate mixed foods symbolizing balance and renewal. Others suggest it arose as a practical farmer’s lunch: easily portable, nutrient-dense, and flexible enough to make use of whatever the fields and gardens offered.

By the late Joseon dynasty, bibimbap was not a dish of kings but of commoners, particularly the peasants of the empire whom were surviving on scaps. Its simplicity made it accessible and a symbol of the peasantry. This was especially true during one of the most turbulent moments in Korean history: the 1894 Peasants’ Uprising, also known as the Donghak Peasant Revolution.

The Joseon dynasty of the late nineteenth century was an empire in crisis. Centuries of rigid hierarchy had hollowed out the monarchy’s legitimacy. Land was concentrated in the hands of the elite, leaving tenant farmers in poverty and debt. Taxes were heavy, corruption was rampant, and new burdens were placed on the very people least able to pay. At the same time, foreign influence pressed in. China claimed suzerainty over Korea, Japan sought to expand its power, and Western nations pushed their trade and missionaries onto the peninsula.

For peasants, this pressure was felt not in diplomacy but in daily survival. Harvests were taken as taxes. Grain was seized at below-market prices. Local magistrates enriched themselves while villagers starved. And beyond the official oppression, bandits roamed the countryside, exploiting those already ground down by the state.

Against this backdrop, the Donghak (“Eastern Learning”) movement emerged. Founded in the 1860s by Choe Je-u, Donghak blended Confucian ethics, shamanistic traditions, and elements of Catholic teaching into a distinctly Korean peasant religion. Its message was radical for its time: all people were equal under Heaven, divine spirit resided in each person, and foreign oppression must be resisted. Though the state executed Choe in 1864, his teachings spread underground, becoming a moral and organizational backbone for disaffected farmers.

By 1894, desperation boiled over. In Gobu County, a particularly corrupt magistrate imposed new extortions, sparking local outrage. Under the leadership of Jeon Bong-jun, thousands of peasants rose in rebellion. What began as a regional protest soon exploded into Korea’s largest peasant uprising.

The Donghak army was not an army of professionals but of farmers, sharecroppers, and villagers who left their plows behind and marched with bamboo spears, scythes, and rifles scavenged from battlefields. As they gathered, food became both a necessity and a symbol of unity. They could not rely on aristocratic banquets or military rations; instead, they shared the foods of their villages; bowls of rice mixed with wild greens, foraged roots, and fermented condiments. Bibimbap, with its practicality and symbolism, was often among them.

The dish’s very structure mirrored their struggle. Just as bibimbap mixes vegetables, grains, and proteins into one nourishing meal, the uprising mixed economic grievances, rebellion against a rigid class structure, and dissatisfaction with foreign exploitation. In camps before marches, peasants huddled together, eating communal bowls of rice and greens, blending the produce of their diverse fields into a single sustenance. Each mouthful carried the taste of solidarity.

In the spring of 1894, the peasant army marched on Gobu, overthrowing the corrupt magistrate. They spread across the province, issuing demands for land reform, lower taxes, and the punishment of corrupt officials. Their numbers swelled into the tens of thousands. At their peak, estimates suggest as many as 100,000 peasants were mobilized.

The Joseon court, terrified by the scale of the rebellion, first tried negotiation, offering reforms. But as the movement grew, the monarchy turned to outside help. China sent troops to aid its suzerain. In response, Japan dispatched its own soldiers, determined to assert dominance over the peninsula. What began as a peasant uprising soon entangled Korea in a geopolitical crisis that would escalate into the First Sino-Japanese War.

For the peasants, however, the struggle remained rooted in basic survival. Leaders like Jeon Bong-jun urged discipline and justice. They declared their movement was not against the throne itself but against corruption and foreign exploitation. They dreamed of a Korea where the dignity of farmers was recognized and where land was shared more equitably.

By late 1894, the combined forces of Joseon loyalists and Japanese troops crushed the uprising. Leaders were executed; Jeon Bong-jun himself was captured and hanged in 1895. Tens of thousands of peasants were killed. The rebellion, though short-lived, had shown the explosive potential of rural anger and the fragility of the Joseon order.

Yet the spirit of the movement endured. The uprising destabilized the dynasty, invited greater Japanese intervention, and set the stage for Korea’s colonization by the growing Japanese Empire. But for ordinary Koreans, it also left a legacy of collective action, of the possibility that peasants could rise together, even briefly, and challenge entrenched power.

Bibimbap survived long after the rebellion’s suppression. It remained a humble peasant dish, eaten in villages where memories of the uprising lingered. Over time, it became formalized, appearing in royal court cuisine and later spreading globally as a Korean cultural icon. Yet its peasant roots are never far from view.

I’ve made bibimbap before, but this time tried it in a stone bowl, as is traditional. I highly suggest it. The lightly crisped rice at the bottom elevates the dish significantly.

Bibimbap

This recipe for Bibimbap (mixed rice with vegetables) serves 4 and is a classic Korean bowl with seasoned vegetables, beef, and rice, topped with an egg and served with gochujang.

Ingredients

2 cups dried short-grain rice (makes about 5 cups cooked)
12 ounces mung bean sprouts, washed and drained
8 ounces spinach, blanched and excess water squeezed out
½ ounce dried fernbrake (gosari)
4 ounces bellflower roots (doraji)
4 ounces beef (tenderloin or sirloin), thinly sliced
1 small carrot, julienned
1 small red bell pepper, thinly sliced
1 small zucchini, julienned
1 small cucumber, julienned
4 raw egg yolks (or fried eggs sunny side up)
Gochujang (hot pepper paste), for serving
Toasted sesame oil, for drizzling
Cooking oil, for sautéing

For fernbrake (gosari): 5-7 cups water (depending on method)

For soybean sprouts: 4 cups water, 2-3 teaspoons salt, ½ teaspoon kosher salt, 1 teaspoon minced garlic, 2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

For spinach: 1 teaspoon minced garlic, 1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil, ½ teaspoon kosher salt, 1 teaspoon sesame seeds

For carrot: Pinch of salt

For red bell pepper: Pinch of salt

For zucchini: ½ teaspoon kosher salt, 1 teaspoon minced garlic, 1 tablespoon chopped green onion, drop of toasted sesame oil

For cucumber: ¼ teaspoon kosher salt, ½ teaspoon minced garlic, drop of toasted sesame oil

For beef: 1 tablespoon minced garlic, 1 tablespoon soy sauce, 1 tablespoon honey, 2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil, 1 teaspoon sesame seeds

For bellflower roots (doraji): 1-2 tablespoons salt, 1 teaspoon minced garlic, drop of toasted sesame oil

For gosari sauté: ½ teaspoon minced garlic, 2 teaspoons soy sauce, 2 teaspoons sugar

Step-by-Step Instructions

Prepare dried fernbrake (gosari): Soak and boil as per pressure cooker or pot method until soft (see details in tool output). Sauté with ½ teaspoon minced garlic, 2 teaspoons soy sauce, 2 teaspoons sugar, and a drop of cooking oil.
Cook rice: Rinse 2 cups rice, soak in 2 cups water for 30 minutes, boil for 7-8 minutes, then simmer low for 10 minutes. Fluff and keep warm.
Soybean sprouts: Boil in 4 cups water with 2-3 teaspoons salt for 20 minutes. Drain, reserving ½ cup for soup. Season with ½ teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon garlic, 2 teaspoons sesame oil.
Spinach: Blanch spinach, squeeze water, season with 1 teaspoon garlic, 1 teaspoon sesame oil, ½ teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon sesame seeds.
Carrot: Sauté julienned carrot with cooking oil and pinch of salt until soft.
Red bell pepper: Sauté sliced pepper with cooking oil and pinch of salt.
Zucchini: Salt julienned zucchini for 10 minutes, squeeze, sauté with 1 teaspoon garlic, 1 tablespoon green onion, drop of sesame oil.
Cucumber: Salt julienned cucumber for 10 minutes, squeeze, sauté with ½ teaspoon garlic, drop of sesame oil.
Bellflower roots (doraji): Rub with salt, rinse, sauté with 1 teaspoon garlic, drop of sesame oil.
Beef: Marinate with 1 tablespoon garlic, 1 tablespoon soy sauce, 1 tablespoon honey, 2 teaspoons sesame oil, 1 teaspoon sesame seeds. Sauté until cooked.
Assembly: Place rice in bowls, arrange vegetables and beef on top in sections. Top with egg yolk or fried egg. Serve with gochujang, sesame oil, and optional soup from sprouts (garnish with chopped green onion).
To eat: Mix everything with gochujang and sesame oil to taste.

Notes

For dolsot-bibimbap (stone pot): Heat oiled pot, add rice, top with ingredients, heat until rice crisps.
Use fermented vegetables for best flavor.

Kimchi Jjigae: Stew of Struggle and Solidarity

Kimchi Jjigae is a kimchi soup, usually using older, more sour kimchi. Kimchi itself predates kimchi jjigae by centuries. The earliest references to fermented vegetables in Korea date back to the Three Kingdoms period (roughly the 4th century CE). Over time, the dish evolved with the introduction of chili peppers in the 16th century, giving kimchi its now-iconic red color and spice. Kimchi was a staple food for peasants, soldiers, and nobles alike. But kimchi jjigae, the stew, emerged as a peasant innovation in the late Joseon dynasty and into the 20th century. Families with aging kimchi too sour to eat raw would stew it with pork scraps, tofu, or anchovy broth, transforming it into a rich communal dish.

It became especially popular in the early 20th century, when scarcity, colonial extraction, and war meant stretching food was a necessity. A pot of kimchi jjigae could feed many with little. In the aftermath of liberation from Japan in 1945, when food was scarce and rationing rampant, kimchi jjigae was both survival food and solidarity food. People ate it in homes, work camps, and strike gatherings, often cooked with whatever scraps could be found from autumn harvests.

In September 1946, just one year after Korea’s liberation from Japan, the southern provinces erupted in revolt. Korea was divided at the 38th parallel: the North under Soviet influence, the South under U.S. military government. The U.S. Army Military Government in Korea (USAMGIK) took charge of the South, but their policies quickly alienated peasants and workers. Land reform was delayed. Japanese collaborators were left in power. Food rations were slashed and people were going hungry, even as rice was exported to feed U.S. occupation forces in Japan.

By autumn, frustration reached a breaking point. Workers in Daegu launched a railway strike, demanding better wages and food access. The strike spread rapidly, fueled by peasants in surrounding provinces who faced hunger despite the harvest season. Crowds gathered, often fed from communal pots of kimchi jjigae made from the very cabbage and radish just pulled from the fields. The dish’s symbolism was clear: this was food of the land, meant for the people, yet being taken away.

The uprising swelled to include nearly a million people across the southern provinces. Demonstrators seized grain stores, redistributed rice, and organized mass rallies. For days, Daegu and surrounding towns became centers of popular power. But the U.S. military government and its Korean police allies responded with violence. Machine guns fired into crowds. Villages were raided. Thousands were killed in the suppression. The uprising was crushed, but the ferment remained.

Two years later, the flame reignited on Jeju Island. In March 1948, elections were announced for the South alone, cementing division of the peninsula. On Jeju, where peasants had long faced land inequality and repression, opposition was fierce. Leftist organizers, farmers, and villagers staged protests demanding reunification, fair elections, and an end to police brutality.

On April 3, 1948, guerrillas attacked police stations across the island, igniting the Jeju Uprising. For months, islanders resisted with whatever means they had. Families fled into the forests, surviving on meager harvests and shared stews. Oral histories recall kimchi jjigae bubbling in earthen pots hidden in mountain hideouts, feeding both fighters and refugees. The communal dish became a symbol of endurance, even as entire villages were burned.

The U.S.-backed South Korean government under Syngman Rhee unleashed a brutal counterinsurgency. Paramilitaries and police swept the island, killing an estimated 30,000 people, nearly one-fifth of Jeju’s population. Villages were leveled. Survivors lived in silence for decades, the uprising suppressed in official memory until democratization in the late 20th century.

The Autumn Harvest Uprising and the Jeju Uprising were both crushed, their participants branded as communists or rebels. Yet the seeds planted would take root, and gave birth to more successful movements in the decades after. Today, kimchi jjigae remains one of Korea’s most beloved dishes, eaten daily across households rich and poor.

If you like spicy soup, this is the dish for you! I suggest letting the kimchi ferment as long as possible to really enhance the taste of the soup.

Kimchi Jjigae

This recipe for Kimchi Jjigae (kimchi stew) serves 2-4 and is a hearty, spicy stew with pork and tofu.

Ingredients

1 pound kimchi, cut into bite-size pieces
¼ cup kimchi brine
½ pound pork shoulder or belly
½ package tofu (optional), sliced into ½ inch thick pieces
3 green onions
1 medium onion, sliced (1 cup)
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons sugar
2 teaspoons gochugaru (Korean hot pepper flakes)
1 tablespoon gochujang (hot pepper paste)
1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil
2 cups anchovy stock (or chicken or beef broth)

Step-by-Step Instructions

Make anchovy stock: Boil anchovies, daikon, green onion roots, dried kelp in water for 20 minutes, then low for 5 minutes. Strain.
Make stew: Place kimchi, brine, pork, onion in pot. Add sliced green onions (2).
Add salt, sugar, gochugaru, gochujang, sesame oil, stock.
Cover and cook 10 minutes over medium-high.
Mix, add tofu on top, cook another 10-15 minutes.
Garnish with chopped green onion. Serve with rice.

Notes

Use well-fermented kimchi for best taste. Variations include beef or bone broth

Simple Kimchi Recipe

This recipe is designed to be quick and easy, with minimal fermentation time. You can eat it fresh or let it ferment for a few days for a tangier taste.

Prep time: 30-45 minutes

Salting time: 1-2 hours

Total time: About 2-3 hours

Ingredients

1 medium head of napa cabbage (about 2-3 lbs / 1-1.5 kg)
1/2 cup coarse sea salt or kosher salt
1/4 cup hot water

For the Kimchi Paste:

1/2 cup gochugaru
1/4 cup fish sauce (or soy sauce for vegan)
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon grated ginger
2 tablespoons sugar or grated apple/pear
3-4 scallions, chopped into 1-inch pieces
1/2 cup daikon radish, julienned (optional)

Instructions

Prepare the cabbage: Cut the napa cabbage in half lengthwise, then cut the halves into 1- to 2-inch chunks. Place the cabbage in a very large bowl.
Salt the cabbage: Sprinkle the coarse salt over the cabbage. Using your hands, massage the salt into the cabbage leaves. Add the hot water and mix well. Let the cabbage sit for 1 to 2 hours. The salt will draw out water and make hjjthe cabbage soft and pliable. You'll know it's ready when the white parts of the leaves can bend without snapping.
Rinse and drain the cabbage: After salting, rinse the cabbage thoroughly under cold running water at least three times to remove excess salt. This is a crucial step to prevent the kimchi from being too salty. Squeeze the cabbage with your hands to remove as much water as possible. It's important for the cabbage to be well-drained.
Make the kimchi paste: While the cabbage is salting, prepare the paste. In a separate bowl, mix together the gochugaru, fish sauce, minced garlic, grated ginger, and sugar or grated fruit.
Combine and mix: Add the rinsed and drained cabbage, chopped scallions, and julienned daikon (if using) to the bowl with the kimchi paste. Put on some gloves to protect your hands from the chili flakes and mix everything together thoroughly, making sure every piece of cabbage is coated in the red paste.
Pack and ferment: Transfer the kimchi into an airtight container or a large jar. Press the kimchi down firmly to remove any air pockets and to help the brine rise and cover the vegetables.
Store: For "fresh" kimchi, you can eat it right away. For a fermented, more sour flavor, leave the container at room temperature for 1-2 days. You might see some bubbles, which means the fermentation is starting. Then, transfer the kimchi to the refrigerator. It will continue to ferment slowly and will keep well for several weeks to months.

Enjoy your homemade kimchi!

Tteokbokki: Fire on the Streets

Tteokbokki, Korea’s beloved dish of chewy rice cakes simmered in a fiery red chili paste sauce, is one of the quintessential flavors of Seoul street food. Today it’s found everywhere, from bustling markets and roadside stalls to late-night eateries and even fine dining fusion menus, but its roots are humbler and deeply tied to Korea’s working class. The dish began as a savory stir-fry of garaetteok (long, cylindrical rice cakes) in soy sauce, eaten in royal courts during the Joseon dynasty. But it was in the mid-20th century, with the arrival of gochujang (fermented chili paste) into the recipe, that it became the spicy, affordable, and invigorating snack known across Korea today. Its popularity soared in the post-war years, as vendors sold it in modest pojangmacha (street stalls) to hungry laborers, schoolchildren, and university students looking for a cheap, filling bite.

That combination, cheap, filling, spicy, and portable, meant tteokbokki wasn’t just food. By 1960, it was fuel for a revolution.

The April Revolution of 1960 was a student-led uprising against Syngman Rhee, South Korea’s authoritarian first president. Rhee, who had taken power after liberation from Japanese rule in 1945 and was propped up by U.S. support during the Cold War, styled himself as a bulwark against communism. Yet his government became increasingly corrupt and dictatorial. He extended his tenure through manipulated elections, suppressed dissent, and relied heavily on police crackdowns.

The immediate spark for revolution came in March 1960, when Rhee’s regime blatantly rigged the presidential election. Ballots were stuffed, opposition supporters were beaten, and the outcome, Rhee winning by a landslide, was never in doubt. For students, many of whom were the first generation to come of age in an independent South Korea, this was a humiliation. They had grown up in poverty after the Korean War, endured authoritarianism in daily life, and were now told even their votes meant nothing.

The first protests began in Masan, a southern port city, when students demonstrated against the fraud. Police opened fire, killing several. When the body of one high school student, Kim Ju-yul, was found in a harbor weeks later, his face mangled by a tear gas grenade, outrage spread. In Seoul, Daegu, and other cities, students poured into the streets. On April 19th, tens of thousands marched in Seoul. They carried banners, shouted chants, and demanded Rhee’s resignation. The police responded with brutality, firing live rounds into the crowds. Over 100 were killed, and many more injured.

Yet the protests did not fade. The bloodshed only galvanized public anger. Professors, journalists, and even ordinary citizens joined the students. The uprising grew so large that even the army hesitated to crush it by force. Within days, the regime cracked. On April 26th, Syngman Rhee resigned and fled into exile in Hawaii, ending a twelve-year authoritarian rule and ushering in the brief Second Republic.

If the April Revolution was a movement of the young, tteokbokki was its dish. Vendors were everywhere in the streets of Seoul, women tending bubbling pans of rice cakes in crimson sauce, the steam mingling with the chants of demonstrators. Students marching from campus to city square would often stop to grab a paper cup of tteokbokki, its heat rushing down their throats like the passion that drove them forward.

Unlike expensive restaurant meals, tteokbokki was accessible. A few coins bought enough to fill a stomach, enough fuel to walk another mile.

The April Revolution succeeded in forcing Rhee’s resignation, but it did not deliver the stable democracy students had dreamed of. The new government, known as the Second Republic, promised reforms and constitutional change, but was plagued by internal divisions, economic hardship, and the looming specter of Cold War geopolitics. In May 1961, just a year later, a military coup led by Park Chung-hee toppled the fragile civilian government.

Still, the revolution left an indelible mark on South Korea’s history. It was the first mass movement in East Asia after World War II to topple an authoritarian leader through popular protest. It showed that students that united, people have the power to move mountains. The memory of April 1960 remained a touchstone for later generations of protesters, from the 1980 Gwangju Uprising to the 1987 June Democratic Struggle. Each time Koreans took to the streets, they recalled the example of their predecessors who had once toppled a dictator. Tteokbokki itself remained a popular street food, and does to this day.

The consistency and taste of Tteokbokki is not too dissimilar to “spicy spaghettios”. Feel free to put mozzarella on it, to add a bit of a cheesy taste.

Tteokbokki

This recipe for Tteokbokki (hot and spicy rice cakes) is a popular Korean street food.

Ingredients

4 cups water
7 large dried anchovies (heads and guts removed)
1 piece dried kelp
1 pound cylinder-shaped rice cakes (tteok)
3-4 tablespoons gochujang
1-2 tablespoons gochugaru
1 tablespoon sugar
2 green onions, cut into 2-inch pieces
Optional: fish cakes, hard-boiled eggs

Step-by-Step Instructions

Boil water, anchovies, kelp for 15 minutes over medium-high. Remove anchovies and kelp.
Mix gochujang, gochugaru, sugar in a bowl.
Add rice cakes, spicy mixture, green onions, optional fish cakes/eggs to pot (stock about 2½ cups).
Boil, stir gently, simmer 10-15 minutes until rice cakes soften and sauce thickens.
Serve hot.

Notes

Thaw and soak frozen rice cakes in cold water first. Variations include cheese or ramen.

Haemul Pajeon: Fired Up Pancakes

Golden and crispy on the outside, tender and chewy inside, haemul pajeon is a pancake, fried in large pans, cut into wedges, and shared at the table with friends and family. Often eaten on rainy days, haemul pajeon is about more than flavor, it is about warmth and community. The batter is simple: flour, egg, scallions, and seafood like squid, clams, or shrimp.

The history of pajeon itself stretches back centuries. Variants of jeon (Korean pancakes) appear in royal cuisine and peasant kitchens alike, often as a way to bind seasonal vegetables and scraps of seafood into something hearty. In fishing towns, haemul pajeon became common, the sea offering its bounty to the frying pan. By the 20th century, pajeon had settled into the rhythm of ordinary life. Families fried it for festivals, markets sold it by the platter, and workers ate it in cramped taverns after long shifts. But in May 1980, in the city of Gwangju, haemul pajeon took on a different meaning. It became the food of defiance and solidarity.

The Gwangju Uprising was one of the most significant and tragic moments in modern Korean history. To understand its importance, one has to look at the decades preceding it.

After Syngman Rhee’s corrupt authoritarian rule gave way to a popular revolution in 1960, a brief democratic republic was established. A military coup brought this brief period of democracy to an end in 1961, when Park Chung-hee seized power. Park’s regime brought rapid industrialization, transforming South Korea from a war-torn country into a modernizing state. But progress came with repression. The press was censored, unions were crushed, and dissent was violently suppressed.

When Park was assassinated in 1979, hopes briefly flickered for democratic change. Yet instead of reform, another general, Chun Doo-hwan, seized power through a coup in December of that year. Martial law was extended. Universities, long the centers of student activism, were placed under strict surveillance. Protests broke out in Seoul and other cities, but in Gwangju, an industrial city in the southwest, known for its rebellious spirit, the resistance grew fiercest.

On May 18, students gathered in Gwangju to protest the closing of universities and demand democracy. They were met by paratroopers and special forces, who attacked with batons, bayonets, and rifles. The violence was shocking. Young people were beaten bloody in the streets. Women were dragged by their hair. Citizens who tried to intervene were also struck down.

But instead of quelling the protest, the brutality ignited the city. Taxi drivers began driving their cars into military lines. Factory workers and mothers joined the demonstrations. Over the course of ten days, the city was transformed. Barricades went up. Citizens armed themselves with stolen rifles and Molotov cocktails. Entire neighborhoods rallied together to defend themselves against the military.

It was in this crucible that food became as important as weapons. Kitchens opened. Housewives, vendors, and students set up communal cooking stations to feed the protesters and defenders. Rice was rationed. Soup was ladled out. And in frying pans crackling with oil, haemul pajeon was flipped and served.

The dish’s communal nature mirrored the uprising itself: people coming together, bound by a shared struggle, tearing pieces from the same pancake as they tore down barriers of fear. Its crispy edges reflected the sharp confrontations in the streets; its soft, sustaining center echoed the tenderness of neighbors caring for one another.

Eyewitnesses recall how quickly the city organized itself once the military briefly retreated. For a few days, Gwangju was run by its own citizens, workers patrolled neighborhoods, students managed supplies, and families cooked for strangers. Haemul pajeon, inexpensive and filling, was prepared with whatever seafood and vegetables could be gathered. Fried in batches, it could be carried to barricades or eaten in hurried circles before the next clash.

However, the military was relentless. On May 27, government troops stormed Gwangju with overwhelming force. Tanks rolled through the streets. Helicopters fired from above. Soldiers shot indiscriminately into crowds. By the time the uprising was crushed, hundreds, some say over 2,000. were dead. Many more were injured or imprisoned. The official narrative branded the protesters as “rioters,” their sacrifice smeared as chaos rather than courage. Families were silenced by fear.

Still, the memory of Gwangju did not die. It lingered like the smell of frying oil, impossible to erase. In kitchens, haemul pajeon continued to be shared, now with a weight it had never carried before. A simple dish had been bound forever to the taste of resilience and the bitterness of loss.

Throughout the 1980s, South Korea remained under authoritarian rule. Yet Gwangju became a rallying cry. Students in Seoul carried signs saying “Remember Gwangju.” Workers on strike invoked its spirit. Exiled dissidents spoke of it abroad. The truth slowly forced itself into the national consciousness, until by 1987, another wave of mass protests compelled the regime to grant democratic reforms. South Korea held direct presidential elections, and though democracy was still fragile, the road had shifted.

In retrospect, the Gwangju Uprising was the hinge of Korean democracy. The blood of May 1980 watered the seeds of June 1987. And in the city itself, food, memory, and sacrifice intertwined.

I had a few misfires with this. I found that I didn’t trust myself. When making it, trust the egg and dough to combine, and don’t flip too fast.

Haemul Pajeon

This recipe for Haemul Pajeon (seafood green onion pancake) is crispy and savory.

Ingredients

½ cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon potato starch
½ teaspoon kosher salt + pinch
Pinch ground black pepper
¾ cup stock (anchovy kelp, chicken, or vegetable) or water
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
12 green onions, trimmed to 8-9 inches
½ cup seafood (shrimp, squid, clams), chopped
1 large egg, beaten
1 fresh red pepper, sliced

For dipping sauce: soy sauce, vinegar, gochugaru, green onion, sesame seeds

Step-by-Step Instructions

Mix dipping sauce ingredients, set aside.
Season chopped seafood with pinch salt and pepper.
Mix flour, starch, ½ teaspoon salt, ¾ cup stock into batter.
Heat 2 tablespoons oil in skillet.
Coat green onions in batter, place side by side in skillet.
Add battered seafood on top.
Add red pepper, pour egg over.
Cook 6 minutes until bottom browns.
Flip, add remaining oil around edges, cook 3 minutes.
Flip again, cook 1 minute for crunch.
Serve with sauce.

Notes

Vegetarian: Skip seafood/egg, use vegetable stock. Press pancake while cooking for evenness.

Bulgogi: BBQ at the Barricades

Bulgogi is one of Korea’s most beloved dishes, instantly recognizable to anyone who has visited a Korean restaurant or sat down for a backyard barbecue in Seoul. Literally meaning “fire meat,” bulgogi is thinly sliced beef marinated in a mixture of soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, sugar, and pear, then grilled over an open flame or on a sizzling hot pan. Its flavors are sweet, savory, smoky, and deeply communal. Historically, bulgogi stretches back centuries. Traces of its ancestor dish appear in the Goguryeo kingdom (37 BCE–668 CE), when marinated meats were grilled on skewers. Over time, bulgogi evolved into the modern form we know today: marinated beef, thin enough to cook quickly and shared in a social setting.

That sense of shared heat, shared labor, and shared transformation made bulgogi more than just food in the late 20th century. In 1987, Korea’s streets ignited with the June Democratic Uprising and the Great Workers’ Struggle, mass movements that forced the authoritarian regime to concede to direct presidential elections and unleashed the largest labor mobilization in Korean history. At protest camps, picket lines, and university courtyards, bulgogi was there, grilled in makeshift stalls, distributed by volunteers, eaten by striking workers and exhausted students. The smoky aroma filled Seoul’s neighborhoods alongside the tear gas.

South Korea in the decades leading up to 1987 was a nation of contradictions. After the Korean War, it experienced rapid industrialization under authoritarian regimes. General Park Chung-hee, who seized power in a 1961 coup, pushed through export-led growth that transformed the economy, turning South Korea into one of Asia’s “Four Tigers.” Yet workers toiled under brutal conditions, low wages, long hours, and near-total suppression of unions. Political freedoms were minimal. When Park was assassinated in 1979, hopes for liberalization were quickly crushed by another general, Chun Doo-hwan, who seized power in 1980. His regime brutally suppressed the Gwangju Uprising that same year, leaving hundreds dead. The lesson for many Koreans was clear: democracy would not be granted from above; it would have to be taken from below.

By the mid-1980s, a broad coalition of students, intellectuals, workers, and religious groups had been building networks of dissent. Underground labor organizations sprouted in factories. Churches became havens for activists. University campuses roiled with protests. Like bulgogi marinating quietly in the kitchen, the society was soaking up years of anger, repression, and determination, waiting for the right flame to set it off.

The spark came in January 1987, when student activist Park Jong-chul was tortured to death by police. The regime tried to cover it up, but news leaked, igniting fury. By June, millions were on the streets across South Korea demanding democratic reforms. The protests, known as the June Democratic Uprising, saw students clashing with riot police, workers striking in solidarity, and ordinary citizens banging pots, waving banners, and marching shoulder to shoulder.

Here, bulgogi became more than a meal. Volunteers set up food stations near protest sites to feed demonstrators. Workers returning from marches grilled bulgogi on makeshift stoves, its quick cooking time perfect for feeding hungry crowds. The smell of sizzling beef mingled with the sting of tear gas, turning the streets into surreal battlegrounds of both violence and solidarity.

By late June, the regime relented. On June 29th, Chun’s chosen successor, Roh Tae-woo, announced sweeping concessions: direct presidential elections, freedom of the press, and the release of political prisoners. It was a monumental victory, but it was only the beginning.

What followed was unprecedented. The June Uprising had opened the lid, and now the pot boiled over. From July to September 1987, South Korea witnessed the Great Workers’ Struggle, a wave of strikes involving more than 3,000 workplaces and nearly 1.5 million workers. Shipyards, car factories, steel plants, and mines all became battlegrounds. Workers who had been silenced for decades now demanded union recognition, higher wages, and safer conditions.

At factory gates and picket lines, bulgogi was once again present. Families of strikers brought food to sustain them through long nights. Communal grills were set up where workers ate together, strengthening bonds of solidarity. The dish’s long history as a celebratory meal, served at family gatherings, holidays, and weddings, was reimagined as revolutionary fuel.

The June Democratic Uprising and the Great Workers’ Struggle together marked Korea’s turning point. While the transition to democracy was imperfect, (Roh Tae-woo, a former general, won the first direct election in December 1987 due to a split opposition), the principle of electoral democracy had been secured, and the labor movement, though facing setbacks in later years, had won legal recognition and had proven its strength. Most importantly, ordinary citizens had learned their collective power.

Remember, Bulgogi should be cooked fast and furiously.

Bulgogi (Korean Beef BBQ)

This easy Bulgogi recipe is a classic, simplified for home cooking with an authentic touch.

Ingredients

1 pound beef tenderloin, top sirloin, or skirt steak, sliced ⅛-inch thick
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 green onions, chopped
1/2 Asian pear or 1/4 apple, grated or puréed
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds, ground
½ teaspoon ground black pepper

Lettuce Wraps & Accompaniments

Fresh lettuce leaves (like romaine, red leaf, or green leaf)
Cooked white rice
Ssamjang with gochujang
Thinly sliced raw garlic and green chiles (optional)

Spicy Pickled Cucumber (Oi Muchim)

1-2 English or Korean cucumbers, sliced
1 tsp salt
2 tbsp gochugaru (Korean chili flakes)
1 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tsp sugar or honey
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp sesame oil
1 tsp toasted sesame seeds

Pickled Daikon & Carrot Matchsticks (Mu-jangajji & Danggeun-jangajji)

1 cup daikon radish, peeled and cut into matchsticks
1 cup carrots, peeled and cut into matchstickS
1 cup zucchini peeled and cut into matchsticks
1 cup sliced red pepper

Pickling Brine:

1 cup water
1 cup rice vinegar
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp salt

Korean Seasoned Spinach (Sigeumchi Namul)

1 bunch fresh spinach, washed
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tsp sesame oil
1 tsp toasted sesame seeds
Pinch of salt

Step-by-Step Instructions

Prepare the Pickles (Do First!): This step can be done a day or two ahead. In a small saucepan, combine the water, rice vinegar, sugar, and salt for the pickling brine. Bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar and salt have dissolved. Remove from heat and let it cool completely. Place the daikon and carrot matchsticks in a clean jar. Pour the cooled brine over the vegetables, making sure they are completely submerged. Seal the jar and refrigerate. The pickles will be ready to eat in a few hours but are best after a day.
Prepare the Marinade: In a large bowl, mix the grated pear/apple, minced garlic, chopped green onions, soy sauce, sugar, water, sesame oil, ground sesame seeds, and ground black pepper until the sugar dissolves.
Marinate the Beef: Add the sliced beef to the marinade. Use your hands to mix everything together, ensuring the beef is well-coated. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes, or for a deeper flavor and more tender texture, marinate for 2-4 hours. (Note: For easier slicing, you can freeze the beef for about 30 minutes before cutting.)
Prepare the Pickled Cucumbers: Slice the cucumbers and toss with salt. Let them sit for 15-20 minutes to draw out excess water. Squeeze out the liquid, then toss with the gochugaru, rice vinegar, sugar, minced garlic, sesame oil, and sesame seeds.
Prepare the Seasoned Spinach: Bring a pot of water to a boil. Add the spinach and blanch for about 30 seconds. Immediately drain and rinse with cold water. Squeeze the spinach firmly to remove as much water as possible. Place the spinach in a bowl and toss with the minced garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and sesame seeds.
Cook the Bulgogi: Heat a pan or grill over medium-high heat. Cook the marinated beef in a single layer until it is browned and cooked through, about 1-2 minutes per side. Cook in batches to avoid overcrowding the pan.
Serve: Arrange the cooked bulgogi on a platter. Serve it family-style with bowls of cooked rice, fresh lettuce leaves for wrapping, ssamjang with gochujang, the spicy pickled cucumbers, the pickled green daikon and carrot matchsticks, and the seasoned spinach. Encourage guests to build their own lettuce wraps by adding a piece of bulgogi, a scoop of rice, and a smear of ssamjang to a lettuce leaf, along with any of the fresh or pickled vegetables.

Notes

This recipe serves 2-4 people.
The Spicy Pickled Cucumbers and Seasoned Spinach are best when fresh, but can be made slightly ahead of time. The Pickled Daikon & Carrots will keep in the refrigerator for a couple of weeks and can be made well in advance.

Jjangmyeon: Noodles at the Factory Gates

Jjajangmyeon, the inky-black noodle dish beloved across Korea, has humble immigrant roots and a distinctly working-class soul. Thick wheat noodles are coated in a glossy sauce of fermented black bean paste (chunjang), stir-fried with onions, pork, and sometimes diced vegetables, then slicked with oil and starch until every strand is coated. It was introduced to Korea in the late 19th century by Chinese migrants in Incheon’s Chinatown, and over decades it transformed from foreign fare into one of Korea’s most iconic comfort foods.

By the 1970s and 1980s, jjajangmyeon was the quintessential delivery meal, eaten on paydays, after moving into a new apartment, or simply shared at the end of a long shift. It was fast, cheap, and filling. No wonder it became known as a “people’s dish.” By the 1990s, it had another identity: the strike food of the Korean labor movement. Nowhere was that clearer than during the great general strikes of 1996 and 1997.

South Korea’s democratization in 1987 had unleashed long-suppressed demands for political freedoms. Workers, students, and civic groups who had braved tear gas and military rule saw the downfall of authoritarianism as only the first step. The 1990s became a battleground over what democracy meant in the workplace.

The ruling conservative government, led by President Kim Young-sam, pushed forward rapid liberalization. The country’s economy, part of the so-called “Miracle on the Han River,” relied heavily on conglomerates (chaebols) like Hyundai, Daewoo, and Samsung. These corporations depended on a disciplined labor force working long hours for relatively low wages. As global competition intensified and the Asian financial crisis loomed, elites sought “labor flexibility”, a euphemism for easier layoffs, temporary contracts, and curbing the growing strength of trade unions.

In December 1996, the government rushed through a labor reform bill in the dead of night. Passed in less than seven minutes, with opposition lawmakers literally locked out of the chamber, the bill allowed employers to lay off workers with minimal notice and legalized temporary and contract labor on a wide scale. To unions, it was nothing short of an ambush. The move was seen not only as an attack on workers’ livelihoods but as a betrayal of democratic principles won less than a decade earlier.

The response was unprecedented. On December 26, 1996, the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions (KCTU), joined by the more moderate Federation of Korean Trade Unions (FKTU), declared an all-out strike. Workers in auto plants, shipyards, and subways walked off the job. Within days, over a million workers had joined, the largest labor mobilization in South Korean history.

Factories ground to a halt. Subway trains ran empty. Ports slowed to a crawl. The air in industrial cities was filled with chants, banners, and bonfires as workers gathered at factory gates and public squares. It was winter, bitterly cold, with snow and icy winds. But the strikers endured, buoyed by solidarity and sustenance.

And what fueled them? Among other things, countless bowls of steaming jjajangmyeon.

Jjajangmyeon, with its easy delivery system, became the de facto strike meal of 1996–1997. Delivery men on scooters could weave through frozen streets, dropping off boxes of noodles packed into metal containers. Shared at picket lines, strike headquarters, and occupied factories, the dish was cheap enough for workers pooling their strike funds, filling enough to keep energy up through long nights of protest, and communal enough to be eaten in groups, slurping side by side.

Workers joked that jjajangmyeon was the “official cuisine of resistance.” Photographs from the strike show crowds of bundled-up men and women in puffy jackets and hard hats, steam rising from plastic bowls, chopsticks clattering between chants. It was food that could be eaten standing up, shouting in between bites, and still sustain the body.

The strikes shook the nation. International observers marveled at the scale and discipline of Korean labor. For four weeks, the confrontation dominated headlines, with even conservative newspapers acknowledging the legitimacy of workers’ anger.

The government, facing a paralysis of key industries, was forced to the table. In January 1997, the bill was partially revised. While some provisions of labor flexibility remained, concessions were made: union rights were expanded, collective bargaining strengthened, and future changes required more negotiation. The strike had not secured everything, but it had demonstrated a new reality, organized labor in democratic Korea could not be ignored.

Yet victory was bittersweet. The Asian financial crisis struck later in 1997, leading to an IMF bailout. Layoffs, austerity, and restructuring swept the country regardless, and many of the hard-won gains were eroded. Still, the strikes marked a turning point: they cemented the role of labor unions as key actors in post-dictatorship Korea and inspired a generation of activism.

Today, jjajangmyeon remains one of Korea’s most beloved dishes. Families order it on casual nights, students celebrate exam results with it, couples split bowls on “Black Day” each April. Few stop to think of its role in the bitter winter of 1996–1997, when it was more than comfort food,it was fuel for democracy.

When serving, keep the noodles and sauce separated, with vegetable garnish in the middle, allowing the person eating to mix everything together. Its traditional, and elevates the look of the dish.

Jajangmyeon

This recipe for Jajangmyeon (noodles in black bean sauce) serves 2-3.

Ingredients

Jjajangmyeon noodles
½ pound pork belly, cubed (1½ cups)
1 cup Korean radish (or daikon), cubed
1 cup zucchini, cubed
1 cup potato, peeled and cubed
1½ cups onion chunks
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
¼ cup + 1 tablespoon chunjang (black bean paste)
2 tablespoons potato starch + ¼ cup water + 1 teaspoon sugar (slurry)
1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil
½ cup cucumber matchsticks, for garnish
Water (2 cups for sauce)

Step-by-Step Instructions

Stir-fry pork in 1 tablespoon oil 4-5 minutes until crispy. Remove excess fat.
Add radish, stir 1 minute.
Add potato, onion, zucchini, stir 3 minutes.
Push ingredients aside, add 2 tablespoons oil and chunjang, fry 1 minute, then mix all.
Add 2 cups water, simmer covered 10 minutes.
Stir in slurry until thick, add sesame oil, remove from heat.
Boil noodles, rinse in cold water.
Serve noodles with sauce, garnish with cucumber. Optional kimchi or pickled radish.

Notes

Adjust sweetness/salt with sugar or salt. Variations include gochugaru for spice.

Yangnyeom Chicken: Sweet and Spicy Rebellion

Yangnyeom chicken, Korea’s beloved sweet-and-spicy fried chicken, is a dish born of transformation. At its heart is the humblest of foods: fried chicken, first introduced by American GIs in the 1950s and 1960s. Korean cooks, ingenious and hungry, adopted the idea but remade it in their own image. By the 1980s, local shops were frying chicken twice for crispness, tossing it in sauces, and delivering it to doorsteps with cold beer. The version that won hearts everywhere was yangnyeom, crispy wings drenched in a sticky red glaze of gochujang, garlic, sugar, and vinegar. Sweet, hot, messy, communal.

In the 2000s and 2010s, fried chicken became Korea’s delivery king. It was eaten in living rooms during soccer matches, in neon-lit joints on late nights out, and on sidewalks by students and workers alike. Globalization helped, too, Korean fried chicken chains spread worldwide, turning a once-humble bar snack into a cultural ambassador. But at home, its identity remained rooted in togetherness: chicken was rarely eaten alone. It was food for gathering, food for sharing, food for movements.

Which made it a fitting companion for the Candlelight Revolution of 2016 and 2017.

The scandal began with revelations that President Park Geun-hye, daughter of former dictator Park Chung-hee, had allowed her confidante Choi Soon-sil to secretly wield influence over state affairs, from policy decisions to university admissions to extorting chaebols. For many South Koreans, it was the last straw in a long line of grievances: widening inequality, precarious work, rising youth unemployment, and the arrogance of entrenched elites. The outrage was not just about corruption, it was about a system that seemed rigged against ordinary people.

In October 2016, the first candlelight vigils began. What started with thousands quickly grew into tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. By December, over a million people were gathering weekly in Gwanghwamun Square in Seoul, joined by rallies in every major city and countless smaller towns. Families came bundled against the cold, children held paper lanterns, and workers marched with union banners. For 20 straight weeks, the candles lit the nights, a sea of flickering lights demanding truth, accountability, and justice.

And what sustained these crowds? Alongside hot drinks and gimbap rolls, it was often fried chicken, cheap, shareable, and easy to eat in the streets. Chicken shops near protest sites became gathering points. Delivery scooters, weaving through packed boulevards, brought boxes of crisp wings to clusters of protesters huddled under blankets. Photos from the time show groups seated on the pavement, candles in one hand, chicken in the other. The dish’s messy sweetness, its communal tearing and sharing, seemed to embody the movement itself, ordinary people, bound together, refusing to be ignored.

The protests worked. On December 9, 2016, the National Assembly voted to impeach Park. In March 2017, the Constitutional Court unanimously upheld the impeachment, formally removing her from office, the first time in Korean history a democratically elected president was ousted by mass mobilization. Elections were called, and Moon Jae-in was swept into office with promises of reform.

For workers, the victory was both inspiring and incomplete. The Candlelight Revolution proved that collective action could topple a president. But deep structural issues, precarious labor, housing inequality, the power of the chaebols, remained. The protests were a reminder that certain issues cannot be fixed by changing politics.

Yangnyeom chicken captures that moment perfectly. Once foreign, now distinctly Korean, it is food that spread virally, much like the revolution itself. Its spice and sweetness mirror the passion and hope of those winter nights.

Today, Korean fried chicken remains a global craze.

Serve with pickled daikon cubes for a nice pairing!

Yangnyeom Chicken

This recipe for Korean Fried Chicken (Yangnyeom Chicken) features chicken wings with a thin, crackly crust glazed in a spicy red sauce, and includes an option for soy garlic sauce.

Ingredients

For the chicken:

2 pounds chicken wings (about 16 drumettes and wingettes)
1.5 teaspoons salt (use 1 ts if using table salt)
Pinch black pepper (or to taste)
1 teaspoon grated ginger
4-5 cups oil for frying (about 2-inch deep, use deep, bottom heavy, medium size pot or pan)

For the wet batter option:

1/2 cup frying mix (aka tempura mix) or all-purpose flour with 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and optional sugar 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder or onion powder
1/4 cup potato starch (or cornstarch)
3/4 cup water

For the red spicy sauce:

1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice wine (or mirin) or other cooking wine
1 tablespoon or 1.5 tablespoons gochujang
1 tablespoon or 2 tablespoons hot sauce (sriracha, tabasco, Franks Original, etc.) You can use 2 tablespoons ketchup instead along with a teaspoon vinegar, if you don't want extra heat.
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons honey (or 2.5 tablespoons corn syrup, rice syrup, or oligo syrup)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1/2 teaspoon honey dijon mustard - optional
4 tablespoons water

For the soy garlic sauce (optional alternative):

2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons rice wine (or mirin or other cooking wine)
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons honey (or 2.5 tablespoons corn syrup, rice syrup, or oligo syrup)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon vinegar (white, rice, apple cider, etc.)
1 teaspoon or 2 teaspoons oyster sauce - optional
4 tablespoons water

For the optional garnish:

1/2 teaspoon sesame seeds
1 tablespoon chopped scallions

Pickled Daikon Cubes (Chicken-mu)

2 cups daikon or Korean radish, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes

Pickling Brine:

1 cup water
1 cup rice vinegar
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp salt

Step-by-Step Instructions

Prepare the Pickles (Do First!): This step should be done at least one day in advance for the best flavor. In a small saucepan, combine the water, rice vinegar, sugar, and salt for the pickling brine. Bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar and salt have dissolved. Remove from heat and let it cool completely. Place the daikon cubes in a clean jar. Pour the cooled brine over the cubes, making sure they are completely submerged. Seal the jar and refrigerate.
Wash chicken wings, and drain thoroughly. Mix with the salt, pepper, and ginger. Let it sit in the fridge for 2 hours or longer (overnight to 24 hours).
Combine all the sauce ingredients of your choice and stir well. Boil over medium heat until it thickens slightly, about 4 to 5 minutes. Turn the heat off.
Mix the wet batter ingredients in a bowl, and stir well until smooth with no visible lumps.
Add the oil to a deep fryer, wok, or large pot. Heat the oil to 320°F (up to 330°F). Drop the chicken in the oil, one piece at a time. If using wet batter, dip each piece in the wet batter with tongs and shake off excess batter before dropping the chicken in the oil. Fry them in two batches. Cook until lightly golden, about 6 minutes, depending on the size of the chicken wings. Remove them with a wire skimmer or a slotted spoon. Drain on a wire rack or in a large mesh strainer set on a bowl.
Reheat the oil to 350°F (up to 360°F). Add the chicken (you can do this in one batch for the second frying), and deep fry again, for about 5 minutes, until golden brown. Drain on a wire rack or in a large mesh strainer set on a bowl.
You can either toss the fried chicken pieces in the sauce or hand-brush them. Sprinkle with the optional sesame seeds or chopped scallion to serve.

Notes

For a thicker sauce variation (old version): Use 2 tablespoons grated onion, 1 tablespoon minced garlic, 1 teaspoon finely grated ginger, 1 tablespoon soy sauce, 4 tablespoons rice wine (or mirin), 2-3 tablespoons hot sauce, 4 tablespoons chili sauce or ketchup, 2 tablespoons gochujang, 2 tablespoons corn syrup or honey, 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 teaspoon sesame oil. Sauté onion, garlic, and ginger in 1 tablespoon oil before adding the rest and simmering.
Double frying is key for crispiness: First at lower temperature to cook through, second at higher for the crust.
Adjust gochujang and hot sauce for spice level.
Serve with pickled radish (mu) or beer for authenticity.