Old-School Tteokbokki in Apgujeong: A Quiet Seoul Classic
Food & Drink • Korean Culture • Seoul Culture • Gangnam & Seocho
There is an old-school tteokbokki place in Apgujeong that feels untouched by time, and somehow, that feels exactly right.
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Tteokbokki as instinct
Tteokbokki is one of Korea’s most familiar foods, but also one of its most instinctive. You don’t plan to eat it. You drift towards it. It appears somewhere between errands, between conversations, between being hungry and not quite knowing what you want.
For me, it has always lived somewhere between school and home. Not tied to a single shop, but to a habit. The walk. The smell. The moment when you slow down because you’ve already decided, without saying it out loud, that you’re stopping.
Even now, long past school uniforms and exam timetables, that reflex hasn’t gone away.
Tteokbokki is not just something Koreans eat. It is something they carry.
Most memories begin outside a school gate. Plastic stools pulled too close together. Steam rising from a wide metal pan. Sauce splashing a little too generously. A red colour that felt exciting at the time, slightly dangerous even. You burned your mouth. You complained. You went back the next day.
These days, tteokbokki is everywhere. Delivered late. Packaged neatly. Reinvented endlessly. And yet, the phrase people still use is always the same. Old-school tteokbokki. As if the past itself had a specific flavour.
Mil-tteok vs Ssal-tteok, and the Tangsuyuk argument
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The debate that never dies. Wheat cakes vs rice cakes. |
Everyone has a favourite. Usually near where they grew up. Usually defended with surprising seriousness. And inevitably, the debate follows. Wheat cakes or rice cakes. Mil-tteok or ssal-tteok. It carries the same energy as the eternal Tangsuyuk argument. Do you dip it, or do you pour the sauce over. There is no right answer. Only loyalty.
I’ve had this conversation more times than I can count. Usually late. Usually casually. Usually with someone who insists their version is objectively correct. And I’ve noticed something. People rarely change sides. Not because of texture or logic, but because whichever version fed you first tends to win for life.
I’ve always leaned towards wheat cakes. I like how they give slightly when you bite into them, how they soak up sauce without becoming heavy. Rice cakes, for me, often feel a little too polite. Too controlled.
That preference comes from habit, not theory. Growing up, the tteokbokki I knew was always near school. Cheap enough to buy with leftover lunch money. Filling enough to count as a meal. Sweet and spicy in a way that felt thrilling when you were young.
I don’t remember the name of the shop I went to most often. I remember the order instead. One portion. Extra sauce. Eating too fast. Burning my mouth. Pretending it didn’t hurt. Tteokbokki was never about the shop. It was about the pause it created in the day.
Why students have always gravitated towards it
There is a reason students have always gravitated towards tteokbokki. After the Korean War, flour-based foods became widespread, and over time, tteokbokki shifted into the gochujang-based dish most people recognise today. Affordable. Filling. Energising. Designed, quietly, to get you through long days.
Tteokbokki was never meant to be precious. It was meant to keep you going.
One of the reasons tteokbokki stays so personal is that it rarely tastes the same from place to place. Each area seems to develop its own version, shaped quietly by who eats it and when. Seoul’s old-school spots often lean towards balance and restraint, while other cities allow themselves a little more attitude.
Busan, in particular, plays by different rules. The flavours are bolder, the seasoning more confident, the nostalgia louder. If you’re curious how the same dish shifts once you leave Seoul, I wrote about it in my Busan Halmae tteokbokki post, where regional memory and local habits gently rewrite what tteokbokki means.
Beon-gangsoe(변강쇠) Tteokbokki in Apgujeong
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A place that keeps the focus on the food, not the décor. |
Beon-gangsoe Tteokbokki doesn’t announce itself. Plastic green plates. Self-serve fish cake broth. Condiment containers lined up without ceremony. Nothing here is trying to be charming. Nothing is trying to impress.
One thing you do start to notice, though, once you sit down. The walls are filled with celebrity signatures. Names written casually, layered over time. It’s the kind of detail that doesn’t interrupt the atmosphere but quietly confirms it. People with many dining options have passed through here too, eaten quickly, signed their name, and moved on.
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Walls full of signatures. Proof this little stop has long been on Seoul’s radar. |
We ordered lightly. A shared set of tteokbokki, sundae, and fried snacks. Portions are modest. This is a stop, not a destination.
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The classic trio. Tteokbokki, sundae and 튀김. |
Halfway through, I realised I wasn’t analysing anymore. I was just eating. That, for me, is usually the sign that a place has done something right.
- Beon-gangsoe Tteokbokki (변강쇠 떡볶이),33 Eonju-ro 148-gil, Gangnam District, Seoul Seoul
- Opening hours: From 11:30am, with a short midday break
- Best time: After 12:30pm
- Ordering: Kiosk, card payment
- Parking: Paid nearby
Why it stays with you
I’m still a wheat-cake person. But I understand now why rice-cake loyalists defend places like this so fiercely. Some flavours aren’t about preference. They’re about recognition.
Tteokbokki doesn’t always need to impress. Sometimes, it only needs to remember.
One of the reasons tteokbokki stays so personal is that it rarely tastes the same from place to place. Every area seems to develop its own version. Slightly sweeter, more peppery, looser, thicker. Shaped by who eats it and when. Seoul’s old-school spots often lean towards balance and restraint, while other cities allow themselves more attitude.
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