Korea JoongAng Daily - Daily News from Korea

Seoul's Gold Pig Restaurant has become Korea's most coveted barbecue spot through premium pork, exacting grill technique and a celebrity following from BTS to Donald Trump Jr.

BTS, G-Dragon, Blackpink and IU.

These A-list K-pop stars have all been spotted dining at this place.

The list doesn't end there.

Hollywood actors Chris Hemsworth and James Franco, American rapper Kanye West and British football icon David Beckham have all been there. More recently, Donald Trump Jr. was seen dining there.

So what is this outrageously coveted spot?

It's the Gold Pig Restaurant, a Seoul barbecue diner renowned for its premium pork cuts.

There are countless decent samgyeopsal (pork belly) restaurants in Seoul, but none match the fame of Gold Pig. You'll end up waiting behind 30 or more teams whenever you go, even if you arrive before opening time or on a slow day. The restaurant does not take reservations, meaning the only way to secure a table is to get in line and wait.

The Gold Pig is celebrating its 10th anniversary this year. What started out humbly on the first floor of a three-story building in Yaksu-dong, a gritty neighborhood in central Seoul, now occupies the entire building.

Despite the expansion, the eatery still can't accommodate all the customers who want a seat.

"The meat quality of our restaurant is undoubtedly top-notch, but what I believe makes the difference at a barbecue restaurant is the grilling technique," said Park Soo-kyung, founder and CEO of Gold Pig Restaurant.

"We pay the most attention to staff training. If they don't understand the grill and fire, I don't believe they can serve the customers."

Their signature cuts are "Bone Pork Belly" and "Pork Neck."

Pork Neck requires skill when grilling because it has little fat. Even when slightly overcooked, it can get overly firm and dry.

Park's path to building one of Korea's most sought-after barbecue joints was not easy. In her 20s, she began by selling fruit juice at Dongdaemun Market. Over the next six years, she tried her hand at some 20 different businesses before eventually finding success with the samgyeopsal restaurant.

"When working in a market, you instantly notice what people like and where they gather. Feedback there is also very fast," the 41-year-old said. "When I have an idea, I have to do it to see how it turns out. It's my personality."

The last job she had at the market was delivering samgyeopsal to vendors.

"They didn't have time to go to a restaurant to grab lunch or dinner, so I figured I would deliver pork barbecue when it was still warm. The business was a success. It earned me enough money to pay back some 200 million won [$130,000] of debt I had and a little more to start another business."

This last business gave her an opportunity to gain a deep understanding of the meat.

Afterward, she continued to perform extensive research into it.

The result of those years of experimentation and research is evident in every aspect of Gold Pig Restaurant — from its grill plates and ventilation system to its rigorous staff training, carefully selected cuts of meat and thoughtfully curated side dishes.

One of the Gold Pig's signature touches is serving its pork with fresh basil leaves. In Korea, basil is more commonly associated with Western dishes such as salads, pasta and pizza. But Park thought outside the box.

Park says basil leaves were her hidden weapon even before opening the restaurant. She has done multiple tests with various herbs and green leaves, including coriander, but basil leaves were the perfect match.

"I first discovered the pairing while traveling in Thailand," she said. "That's where I learned that basil enhances the flavor of grilled meat. The herb's aroma refreshes the palate after a bite of rich pork, but what I really love is grilling the basil itself. Once it hits the heat, the fragrance is simply incredible."

The Gold Pig recently added hanwoo (high-end Korean beef) skirt steak and hanwoo yukhoe (raw sliced meat) to its men...

In an interview with the Korea JoongAng Daily, Norway Ambassador to Korea Anne Kari Hansen Ovind discussed Koreans' appetite for Norwegian seafood, the two countries' growing bilateral ties in defense and Arctic research, and how to build democratic trust.

Seoul's ambassadors are often gastronomes keen to share a taste of their home cuisine. In this series, the Korea JoongAng Daily asks the diplomatic corps to introduce our readers to their favorite restaurants representing cuisine from their homelands, while chatting about issues of interest to our Korean and global audience. — Ed.

Norway's ambassador to Korea was once on the path toward a very different career.

Anne Kari Hansen Ovind competed as a junior speed skating champion — even training with the Norwegian national team — until an injury cut her days on the ice short and directed her to years of study abroad and, eventually, the Norwegian foreign service.

"Through sports, doors open to the rest of the world," Hansen Ovind told the Korea JoongAng Daily in an interview on June 12. "By traveling and competing internationally at a young age, my interest in other people, other countries, foreign languages and what is outside of Norway truly began."

For a Norwegian ambassador, seafood is among the most powerful tools of public diplomacy.

Korea is Norway's second-largest seafood market in Asia, and Hansen Ovind traces the demand to a natural fit: Norway's cold, clean Arctic waters produce fish of exceptional quality for a consumer base that knows the difference.

"I think I was surprised by how Koreans are embracing those products," she said. "In every shop with fresh seafood, I see Norwegian seafood brands," nothing that she "immediately" recognizes "the Norwegian mackerel with its tiger stripes" at markets and restaurants as well.

Ovind sat down with the Korea JoongAng Daily at Lofoten by Longboat Smoker in Mapo District, western Seoul, to discuss topics ranging from Norway's seafood strategy and Arctic governance to the challenge of protecting democratic trust in an age of artificial intelligence.

The Korea-Norway bilateral relationship did not begin with salmon. Norwegian shipowners have been ordering vessels from Korean yards since the late 1970s, and Hansen Ovind said that history quietly built something more durable than trade volume.

"We have a very solid foundation in the maritime sector, where trust [between our countries] has been built year by year, project by project," she said. "And that trust is what we see now broadening more into cooperation in green shipping, the energy sector, the defense sector [and] an interesting growth in demand for Nordic design and Nordic style."

The speed skater-turned-diplomat has never stopped competing. While serving as the ambassador to Canada, she completed a 52-kilometer (32.3-mile) cross-country skiing marathon five times in temperatures as low as minus 20 degrees Celsius (minus 4 degrees Fahrenheit). In Seoul, she has made an annual ski competition at Pyeongchang's Olympic slopes a regular fixture in her routine and recently crossed the finish line of a 5-kilometer marathon race in 27 minutes.

Below are excerpts from the interview, edited for length and clarity.

A. In Norway at the moment, we are facing a very serious security situation. It's a war in Europe, and we are investing in all sectors of our defense. In the procurement process, the Korean system delivered on all factors: delivery, the time for delivery and also […] within the budget.

Norway has already purchased the K9 self-propelled howitzer, and our logistics ship, KNM Maud, was produced in Korea. So we are now continuing to cooperate with Korea in many […] aspects. I'm very hopeful that we are now embarking on a process toward a strategic partnership that will cover a lot of different areas.

We value Korea's constructive contribution and participation very much. In the area of research — climate change research and marine livelihood research — we are truly ve...

[A STUDY OF KIM JONG-UN 6]

North Korea's approach to quarantine during the Covid-19 pandemic was brutally straightforward.

Anyone displaying symptoms, arriving from overseas or coming into contact with either group was designated a "medical surveillance subject" and placed under isolation.

"Quarantine is a polite way of putting it," one North Korean defector recalled in testimony obtained by Amnesty International and other human rights organizations. "People were simply rounded up, separated and locked away. There was no support. If they died, they died. They were left to fend for themselves."

Another defector described isolation as little different from a death sentence.

"The state had neither money nor medicine," the source said. "Being quarantined was practically the same as being dead. Those who survived, survived. Those who died were buried. That was how it was handled."

Sources familiar with North Korean affairs said quarantine often led to death not only from disease but also from starvation. Some people reportedly died after being confined for extended periods with little access to food. Those caught trying to escape were sometimes confined by nailing doors shut from the outside.

It was a period so severe that North Korean leader Kim Jong-un described it as the country's "greatest upheaval since its founding." Yet even as the crisis deepened, Kim rejected offers of foreign vaccine assistance. Instead, state propaganda promoted folk remedies, including drinking willow-leaf infusions three times a day.

The harsh response reflected a broader shift in Kim's priorities after the collapse of the Hanoi summit in February 2019.

For Kim, the failed negotiations with the United States after the 2019 Hanoi summit were more than a diplomatic setback. His immediate concern became restoring the supreme leader's authority after a public blow to his prestige. Rather than focusing on treatment or mitigation, the regime prioritized total control. Kim sought to reestablish himself as an unrivaled figure, one capable of surpassing not only foreign adversaries but also the legacies of his father and grandfather.

That transformation is visible in the language of North Korea's state media.

A joint analysis conducted by the JoongAng Ilbo and AI-based big data firm Speechlog examined all 137,513 articles published in the Rodong Sinmun, the North's ruling Workers' Party newspaper, between January 2016 and January 2026. The study analyzed more than 18 million words to trace changes in Kim's rhetoric and the regime's messaging.

Because the Rodong Sinmun functions as North Korea's primary domestic propaganda outlet, its language reflects not what citizens want to hear but what Kim wants them to hear.

One of the most notable findings involved the word suryong, or "Great Leader."

During the period of summit diplomacy between Kim, U.S. President Donald Trump during his first term and then-South Korean President Moon Jae-in, from 2018 through February 2019, the term appeared 12,601 times in the Rodong Sinmun. Following the collapse of the Hanoi summit, the figure surged to 34,694 mentions between 2019 and 2022.

The increase was significant, but the shift in meaning was even more telling.

Before Hanoi, suryong referred exclusively to North Korea's founder Kim Il Sung (1912-1994) — Kim Jong-un's grandfather. Beginning in 2020, however, the title started to be applied to Kim Jong-un himself. Usage accelerated sharply after the Eighth Workers' Party Congress in January 2021.

Kim Jong-il (1941-2011), Kim Jong-un's father, only received the title after his death. Kim Jong-un effectively granted it to himself at age 36.

In doing so, he elevated himself into the ranks of his predecessors while simultaneously beginning to separate himself from them.

The analysis divided Kim's rule into four distinct periods: the nuclear-focused years of 2016 and 2017; the summit diplomacy era from 2018 through February 2019; the post-Hanoi and Covid-19 period from 2019 to ...

PTSD can take years to rear its head, and when it does, society plays a considerable role in healing. Sometimes, however, support is lacking, and sometimes, that's deliberate.

*The series is based on the real-life experience of Kim Nam-young, a JoongAng Ilbo reporter currently living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The following articles are written from Kim's first-person perspective.

Itaewon is a well-known nightlife district in Yongsan District, central Seoul, and a popular spot for Halloween celebrations because of its diverse international culture. The disaster occurred during the first Halloween weekend after social distancing restrictions imposed during the Covid-19 pandemic had been lifted. Large crowds gathered in the area to celebrate.

As more and more people poured into the neighborhood, the crowd insidiously swelled into a dangerously packed mass. The situation eventually led to a crowd crush in a narrow alley, amid a lack of effective control measures to control the on-foot traffic, leaving some 350 people dead or injured, including 159 fatalities.

I have PTSD.

As a reporter on the social affairs desk, I covered the Itaewon disaster on Oct. 29, 2022. Since November of the following year, I have been receiving treatment regularly. I attend psychiatric counseling sessions and take medication every day.

I am only revealing the illness now, more than two years later, not because I have overcome it. This is not a story about recovery, but a record of living through the illness. To be honest, I still do not know when, or if, I will overcome it.

Instead, I want to talk about the time I have spent living alongside PTSD. Even now, I continue to work as a policy and social affairs reporter while exercising, traveling and getting on with daily life.

If someone is hesitating to see a doctor, I hope this piece can help. I also hope we can become a society where people do not feel forced to hide emotional pain and trauma.

It's no different from a traffic accident.

They went there for fun and died.

I had always assumed that the natural response of Korean society to a major tragedy was mourning. I thought that was simply how people should react.

But after witnessing the secondary harm that surfaced after every major disaster — from when the Sewol ferry sank in 2014 to the Itaewon crowd crush in 2022 and the Jeju Air crash in 2024 — I began to wonder if that assumption was wrong.

The Sewol ferry sank on April 16, 2014. The overloaded ship capsized in waters off the southwestern coast, leaving 304 people dead, mostly teenagers on a high school trip.

At times, I even found myself questioning whether hate spreads in the same way mold slowly takes over a home.

My heart would race and I would feel nauseous whenever I saw people turning others' suffering into entertainment or exploiting it for political gain. No matter how much love and support I received from those around me, a single hateful comment could send my PTSD back to square one.

Moments like those always remind me of one thing: People are capable of helping one to stand up again, but they are also capable of destroying them.

The same is true of society. Many experts say that what helps people endure PTSD — and eventually recover from it — is society itself.

Shortly after the Itaewon disaster in 2022, my company informed me that psychological counseling and treatment would be available.

A Jeju Air passenger plane from Bangkok crashed into a concrete mound at Muan International Airport in Muan County, South Jeolla, while attempting an emergency belly landing on Dec. 29, 2024. The accident killed all but two crew members on board.

Around the same time, the Journalists Association of Korea announced that it would also provide financial support for counseling and treatment.

Later, journalists dispatched to Muan County in South Jeolla following the 2024 Jeju Air crash were offered similar mental health support.

Those experiences strengthened my trust in my organiza...

After the illness entered my life, it was my psychiatrist who held me together inside the consultation room. Outside the clinic, it was the handful of people who knew about my illness — my partner and close friends — who kept me going.

*The series is based on the real-life experience of Kim Nam-young, a JoongAng Ilbo reporter currently living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The following articles are written from Kim's first-person perspective.

I have PTSD.

Itaewon is a well-known nightlife district in Yongsan District, central Seoul, and a popular spot for Halloween celebrations because of its diverse international culture. The disaster occurred during the first Halloween weekend after social distancing restrictions imposed during the Covid-19 pandemic had been lifted. Large crowds gathered in the area to celebrate.

As more and more people poured into the neighborhood, the crowd insidiously swelled into a dangerously packed mass. The situation eventually led to a crowd crush in a narrow alley, amid a lack of effective control measures to control the on-foot traffic, leaving some 350 people dead or injured, including 159 fatalities.

As a reporter on the social affairs desk, I covered the Itaewon disaster on Oct. 29, 2022. Since November of the following year, I have been receiving treatment regularly. I attend psychiatric counseling sessions and take medication every day.

I am only revealing the illness now, more than two years later, not because I have overcome it. This is not a story about recovery, but a record of living through the illness. To be honest, I still do not know when, or if, I will overcome it.

Instead, I want to talk about the time I have spent living alongside PTSD. Even now, I continue to work as a policy and social affairs reporter while exercising, traveling and getting on with daily life.

If someone is hesitating to see a doctor, I hope this piece can help. I also hope we can become a society where people do not feel forced to hide emotional pain and trauma.

What did the doctor say today?

Whenever I returned from a visit to my psychiatrist, my partner would always ask the same question. No matter how rambling my answer was, my partner listened until the very end.

As I spoke, my partner would often respond with words of empathy.

"I'm glad you told the doctor that," my significant other would say, or "What did the doctor say about it?"

On days when I was too exhausted to keep talking, my partner would simply say, "You can tell me another time."

For a long time, I believed I could live perfectly well on my own. As long as I could support myself financially, I thought I could get by without family, friends or a partner. That was before PTSD pulled me down.

After the illness entered my life, it was my psychiatrist who held me together inside the consultation room. Outside the clinic, it was the handful of people who knew about my illness — my partner and close friends — who kept me going.

I wasn't going through it alone. I was able to continue moving forward with the illness because of their care and love.

For people living with mental illness, the attitudes of those around them can be just as important as professional treatment.

Some people help you stay standing. Others make you stumble.

"Did you take your medication?"

I didn't need a phone alarm to tell me to take my medication because my partner would ask every night before going to bed.

As we lived far apart and my family did not know about my condition, my partner was the one who consistently took on the responsibility to check in on me.

From the Itaewon crowd crush that triggered my PTSD to my first psychiatric appointment and every moment since, my partner witnessed my entire journey more closely than anyone else.

My partner was also the first person — and most persistent — to insist that I seek professional help. Watching me sinking into guilt, anxiety and depression, they convinced me that I needed expert care more than anyone else c...

For a long time, I wondered why I reacted so strongly to things that seemed minor. It was only through treatment and time that I realized it was not a matter of willpower; it was a consequence of physical changes in the brain.

*The series is based on the real-life experience of Kim Nam-young, a JoongAng Ilbo reporter currently living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The following articles are written from Kim's first-person perspective.

I have PTSD.

Itaewon is a well-known nightlife district in Yongsan District, central Seoul, and a popular spot for Halloween celebrations because of its diverse international culture. The disaster occurred during the first Halloween season after social distancing restrictions imposed during the Covid-19 pandemic had been lifted. Large crowds gathered in the area to celebrate.

As more and more people poured into the neighborhood, the crowd became dangerously packed. The situation eventually led to a crowd crush in a narrow alley, amid a lack of effective crowd-control measures, leaving some 350 people dead or injured, including 159 fatalities.

As a reporter on the social affairs desk, I covered the Itaewon disaster on Oct. 29, 2022. Since November of the following year, I have been receiving treatment regularly. I attend psychiatric counseling sessions and take medication every day.

I am only revealing the illness now, more than two years later, not because I have overcome it. This is not a story about recovery, but a record of living through the illness. To be honest, I still do not know when, or if, I will overcome it.

Instead, I want to talk about the time I have spent living alongside PTSD. Even now, I continue to work as a policy and social affairs reporter while exercising, traveling and going on with daily life.

If someone is hesitating to see a doctor, I hope this piece can help. I also hope we can become a society where people do not feel forced to hide emotional pain and trauma.

"How can a person do something like that?"

After forcing out those words, all I could do was cry silently. Tears streamed down my face. My doctor pushed a box of tissues toward me across the table without saying a word.

I cried for the first time in my doctor's office on Dec. 13, 2024, despite having visited countless times before. I didn't even shed a tear when I talked about my PTSD symptoms.

Four days earlier on Dec. 9, 2024, Lee Sang-min — the then Minister of the Interior and Safety — had stepped down from office. In his farewell message, he wrote, "Every moment was truly happy."

Those words, coming from one of the key officials held responsible for the Itaewon disaster on Oct. 29, 2022, hit me harder than I expected. Hearing what felt like a statement devoid of responsibility only deepened my pain.

During my appointment, I began talking about him and suddenly found myself overwhelmed by emotion.

PTSD is an illness of memories, but it is also an illness of emotions.

Guilt, fear, anxiety, depression, helplessness, sadness and anger — these negative emotions are amplified as if someone has turned a loudspeaker toward them.

I do not feel these emotions every moment of every day. But sometimes they rise unexpectedly to the surface and take hold of me.

Fortunately, medication has helped me keep them under control.

The following story contains descriptions related to the Itaewon disaster of October 2022. Some readers may find references to disaster scenes, rescue efforts and emotional or physical reactions from the time distressing or psychologically unsettling. If you have experienced a similar trauma or are currently struggling emotionally, we encourage you to stop reading or seek support if needed. Assistance is available through nearby psychiatric clinics or mental health counseling centers.

PTSD is not simply a state of heightened emotional sensitivity.

For a long time, I wondered why I reacted so strongly to things that seemed minor. It was only through treatment and time that I realized i...

For many K-pop listeners, ONF's name is tied first and foremost to its music — polished, melody-driven songs that have earned the boy band a reputation for bright, lyrical pop with an unmistakably K-pop sound.

With its latest album, "ONF: My Self," the sextet stays true to that identity with its lead single "Open The Door," a surging effort that captures the rush of emotion felt at the moment of opening a door to an unknown future.

"When I first heard our lead track, 'Open the Door,' I thought it was the epitome of K-pop," member Wyatt said during a press showcase for "ONF: My Self," a six-track release the group describes as the second part of its second full-length album, held in western Seoul on Wednesday.

"It's a song about that fleeting moment when we open the door to an unseen future amid the uncertainty of the present," Wyatt said. "As I wrote the lyrics about the emotions felt in that instant, I found myself relating to them a lot."

ONF debuted in 2017 with the EP "On/Off." The sextet, comprising members Hyojin, E-Tion, Seungjun, Wyatt, Minkyun and Yuto, is best known for songs like "Complete" (2018), "Why" (2019), "Beautiful Beautiful" (2021), "Love Effect" (2023) and "The Stranger" (2025).

The second part of "ONF: My Self" continues from the first half of the group's second full-length album, "ONF: My Identity," released in February last year. The album also marks the band's first new release since the members left their previous agency, WM Entertainment, after their contracts expired in January, and signed with KI Entertainment in March.

"With this album, we wanted to express ourselves as we are," Hyojin said. "I think it is an album that captures ONF's present in the most honest way."

The latest album consists of six songs: lead track "Open the Door" and B-sides "Bad Dream," "Escape," "Mirage," "Silver Lining" and "Once in a Red Moon."

All six members actively participated in the production and preparation of the album, with Wyatt and Minkyun credited for songwriting and lyrics, Yuto taking part as performance director and Seungjun contributing to the album's overall planning.

The biggest appeal of the lead track lies in its lyrics, said member E-Tion.

"I think people may gain courage from this song when they feel anxious about future," he said. "Because the future is unknown, everyone feels some sense of uncertainty. So, for example, when you are changing jobs or need courage for something new, I think this song can give you great strength and energy."

Wyatt, who was credited for the song's lyrics, said he was also facing uncertainties while working on the track.

"I wanted to portray the worries we feel about an unseen future," he said. "But at the same time, when I wrote these lyrics, I hoped many people would listen to the song and see a hopeful future ahead of them. I wrote it hoping that it could be a source of comfort."

As the group remains tight-knit after nine years, even moving to a new agency together, the members say their aspirations for the future, built on strong trust in one another, continue to tie them together.

Wyatt expressed particular gratitude to Seungjun, who he said helped bring the members together.

"We had anxieties about whether we could keep going," Wyatt admitted. "But Seungjun said, 'Wouldn't it be such a waste? We can do more. We've come this far — can't we do a little longer?' Those words really moved me, and I think they moved the hearts of the other members as well."

The group still hopes to perform on bigger stages in front of larger crowds — and to reach more people in moments when they need comfort.

"I thought that ONF's albums are like a reflection of ONF's reality," Seungjun said. "I think everyone has a closed door somewhere in their heart. We want to give people the strength to challenge themselves and, through our story, reach many people, resonate with them and offer them comfort."

BY SHIN HA-NEE [[email protected]]

Jinjujip has built a loyal following with its rich oxtail soup, preserving a three-generation legacy in Seoul's fish-focused Namdaemun Market.

Inside a narrow galchijorim (spicy braised cutlassfish) alley just west of Namdaemun Market in central Seoul, one diner is waging a solitary battle, serving oxtail soup in a neighborhood dominated by fish dishes.

Yet its presence is quite significant. The diner fills with customers seeking a hangover cure in the morning, a hearty lunch in the afternoon and a bottle of soju in the evening.

This diner is Jinjujip, a restaurant that has been in the business for more than seven decades across three generations, specializing in oxtail only, either in soup or braised versions.

Oxtail soup is not a dish unique to Korea. In fact, the soup with thick and sticky broth of oxtail simmered for hours, is a common dish in the West as well, such as British oxtail soup in which the oxtail is often browned first and simmered with root vegetables, red wine, and herbs to create a rich, dark, and savory stew-like broth.

In Korea, oxtail soup — called kkorigomtang — is considered one of the country's premium beef broth soups. It stands alongside dishes like seolleongtang, known for an opaque broth yielded by boiling beef bones and meat, and gomtang, a clear soup prepared by slow-cooking the meat alone.

The signature dish at Jinjujip, which opened in 1950, is kkoritomak—a premium oxtail soup whose name translates to "chopped pieces of oxtail." While a whole ox tail yields about 18 to 20 bone segments, Jinjujip's specialty uses only the five thickest, meatiest cuts from the base of the tail, known locally as tomak.

The segments included in the restaurant's normal kkorigomtang dish are the mid- and small-sized pieces of the ox tail.

Because of that difference, kkoritomak costs 34,000 won ($22) compared to kkorigomtang's price of 29,000 won.

At this reporter's visit, the kkoritomak was served in a boiling hot ttukbaegi (earthenware pot) with two sizable tomaks submerged in sticky, thick broth.

At first, it seemed dexterous chopstick skills could surmount the challenge of removing the meat from the bone, but that strategy devolved into holding the piece with a bare hand and biting off every last bit of the meat.

"Next time, try the jan tomak instead of the big one," said Ha Yang-sook, 72, who had run the diner since 1990 with her older sister Ha Mi-soon. A few years ago, they again passed down the diner to Ha Mi-soon's daughter, Kang In-sook.

"The founder of this restaurant was called 'Granny Kwon' and she considered my older sister [Ha Mi-soon], who was from the same hometown of Jinju, as her own daughter. At first, Jinjujip was located on the basement level of a vintage shopping arcade before moving to this location when it was passed down to me and my older sister," Ha said.

According to Ha, younger customers tend to prefer tomak No. 1, which has the most amount of meat, but those who really have a taste for the dish prefer No. 4 and No. 5, which have less meat but a chewier texture. "We usually put two pieces of the larger tomaks in one pot of kkoritomak or three to four smaller pieces — what we call jan tomak," she said.

Kkoritomak's broth is extremely sticky, as expected, to the point where one's upper and lower lips stick to each other when closing one's mouth. In terms of transparency, it is neither opaque nor transluscent.

"Oxtail dishes are considered premium because each cow yields only a small amount of tail meat, and the ingredient requires extensive preparation," she said. "If you just simmer the oxtail, it gives you sticky yet clear broth. That broth is subtle and refined in its own way, but customers seemed to prefer thicker, milkier broth. So we started blending broths made from knee cartilage, beef leg bones and assorted beef bones to achieve this color and texture."

Trimming oxtail bones is a laborious process. The staff at Jinjujip comes to work at six in the morning before opening the d...

Generative AI is helping smaller law firms compete with larger rivals. But for independent lawyers, it's an entirely different story.

The shift has been especially painful for newly licensed lawyers. Tasks once assigned to junior associates — such as carrying out legal research, writing case summaries and drafting documents — are increasingly being handled by AI tools. The shift has reduced hiring demand across law firms, corporations and public institutions.

"Lawyers are losing work, just as accountants and translators did before us," said Kim Min-kyu, a lawyer of 10 years. Kim shut down his solo practice earlier this year and took a more stable job after concluding that independent lawyers could no longer compete in the AI era.

"I've even seen lawyers take delivery jobs after struggling to find work for an extended period," Kim said.

For those who are fresh out of law school, the reality is even more bleak. What associate lawyers — those with less than three years of experience — used to handle is now being done by more experienced attorneys using AI, without the need for younger lawyers to do the time-consuming research and paperwork.

In fact, job postings for newly licensed lawyers at law firms, companies and public institutions fell to 3,167 in 2025 from 3,895 in 2021, a decline of 18.7 percent, according to data posted on the Korean Bar Association's website.

"If we hire a junior associate, even a trainee, we have to pay more than 5 million won ($3,300) a month after taxes," a seventh-year lawyer in Seoul's Seocho District, southern Seoul, said. "For about 1 million won a month [in AI subscriptions], we can save 25 million won a month," equivalent to the salary of five associates.

Scrapping plans to hire new associate lawyers is likewise becoming more common.

"We decided not to move forward with hiring after having planned to hire two new [associates]," said one lawyer in Seocho District. "One AI assistant can now handle the tasks of five lawyer trainees as the hallucination issue has improved drastically."

While some lawyers paint a bleak picture for an AI era, the technology has created opportunities for lawyers at small and midsize firms.

"Large firms have long enjoyed advantages in expertise and research resources," said Jeon Hee-jung, an attorney who runs a law office in Daejeon. "AI can do the work of five to 10 people when it comes to research and has lowered the barriers to specialized legal knowledge."

The outlook has also improved for some solo practitioners.

Yoon Se-hwan, a lawyer with six years of experience, had considered hiring his first employee this year but ultimately decided against it.

"When I saw the new Claude Code model released earlier this year, I thought I could hold out a little longer," Yoon said. "I spend as much as 1 million won a month on AI subscriptions, but AI has allowed me to take on cases I wouldn't have been able to handle before. I've already recouped a full year's worth of subscription costs."

Some lawyers argue that AI has enabled them to focus more on the "core" of their legal profession.

Lawyers, once jokingly described as "document-writing machines," are increasingly delegating drafting work to AI and concentrating instead on tasks that require a human touch, such as consultations with clients, gathering evidence and speaking in the courtroom.

"There are duties that just cannot be replaced by AI, such as answering calls from clients facing urgent situations and conducting investigations or being present for emergency arrests," said attorney Lee Hye-in.

Lee hired two junior associates and one trainee lawyer last year on the belief that "face-to-face human interaction has become even more important in the AI era."

"Work is shifting as lawyers are spending less time drafting legal documents thanks to AI and more time on business development and client management," said Cho Jeong-hyeon, an attorney who heads the Suwon, Gyeonggi, office of a midsize law firm. "We've entered an...

Queer international students describe their university experiences as shaped less by open rejection than by limited awareness and institutional support

For most international students, arriving in Korea means navigating a familiar set of challenges: keeping up with classes, making friends and adjusting to a new culture.

For LGBTQ+ students, however, another question often lingers beneath those concerns: How welcoming will this country be?

Miko Fusco, from the United States, arrived in Korea expecting the worst.

"Before coming here, I thought it would feel like a prison in that regard," Fusco, who is now studying business at Korea University, said in an interview with the Korea JoongAng Daily. "The impression came from social media because that's where we see inflated stories of people's bad experiences, which can spread misinformation and lead to broad generalizations."

"I was surprised when I realized that Koreans are not hostile to LGBTQ+ people. If anything, I feel more liberated here," Fusco added.

Argentinian student Rocio Alvarez, who is studying Healthcare Management and Policy at Seoul National University (SNU), expressed a somewhat different view from Fusco's, sharing her experience of being disappointed in people's attitudes toward the LGBTQ+ community in Korea.

"I got to know about Korea because of K-pop and Korean movies, and K-pop is often perceived as being open to LGBTQ+ people, mainly because of how male K-pop artists dress and wear makeup," Alvarez said. "People back in my country would even make fun of me because of that aspect, but I was pretty shocked to find out that Koreans are almost ignorant when it comes to LGBTQ+ issues."

"I always had to explain what I am, and I gave up and stopped telling Koreans about my identity," the SNU student added.

Fusco and Alvarez's experiences reflect the varied realities LGBTQ+ international students encounter on Korean campuses, where experiences often depend on factors such as campus culture, social circles and housing arrangements.

To better understand those experiences, the Korea JoongAng Daily spoke with four international students from different corners of the globe and three leaders of LGBTQ+ campus organizations about issues ranging from classroom discussions and dormitory life to perceptions of LGBTQ+ identities in Korea.

While some of the students interviewed said they had experienced discrimination off campus, none reported encountering overt homophobia on campus. What stood out instead was how rarely LGBTQ+ issues entered everyday conversations or classroom discussions.

"Actually, I have never experienced discrimination here, but maybe it's because people don't really talk about it in the first place, not because Koreans are more woke," a Ukrainian design student at Hongik University said on the condition of anonymity, an experience echoed by all but one of the students interviewed.

"Even in discussion-based lectures, I don't really get the opportunity to talk about it," the Ukrainian student said. "In Europe, we would talk about it very often and very casually."

Bice, an Italian student who asked to be identified by a nickname, agreed. Bice recalled enrolling in a gender-related course at Yonsei University expecting broader discussions of sexuality and gender diversity, only to find those expectations largely unmet.

"The curriculum focused primarily on the social roles of men and women, family structures and gender-related social issues, but there was no dedicated section on LGBTQ+ identities or communities," Bice said, expressing surprise at the gap between the course title and its content.

Bice added that the biggest challenge was not outright hostility but how quickly conversations seemed to stall whenever topics related to LGBTQ+ emerged, referring to another elective class she attended recently.

"During one classroom presentation on marriage, a group focused exclusively on heterosexual relationships," Bice said. "When someone asked about same-sex ma...