What’s Koreatown like? Nowadays, whenever my ethnicity comes up, one of the first questions people ask is how Koreatown is. Five years ago, I didn’t think I would even have a formulated answer to this question, but with the frequency of this question now, I’ve memorized an answer. Koreatown is walkable, explorable, and dynamic. Whenever I go there, it feels like home, because through the past nine years, I’ve had countless conversations with the restaurant owners, and learned to finesse service or freebies from them. The next bit of the question is recommendations. I go through my preplanned list, recommending the trendy white-marble bakeries, a bunshik or street food restaurant, and then finally a Korean desert cafe. It has been an absolute blessing to be able to share this part of me, and it’s exciting almost every time. But sometimes, it reminds me that Koreatown is changing, and not always for the best. 

The Last Time I Saw a Korean Grandma at H-Mart

The last time I saw a Korean grandma at H-Mart, I was 16. She shoves a glass noodle dumpling in mouth, with no warning of how hot it was. Immediately, it burns. As I twirl the dumpling left and right, and up and down, the grandma laughs: “and this is why we cool things down for our babies.” 

Now, I clutch onto that memory whenever I go into the H-Mart. We still have the same produce, the same snacks, and the same Korean bakery with the French name. The grandmas aren’t really there anymore. With the increase in non-Korean customers, the market decided to cut many of its older, non-English speaking workers. It’s bittersweet, because I understand the need for accessibility, but I feel as though a childhood memory that I thought would continue to last is now gone. It’s been a mixed bag seeing this change where I live, especially considering that many places in Koreatown are being bought out by larger chains, instead of mom and pop businesses.  

The Chicken Village that Baked Pizzas 

One of these was called “Pizza-baking chicken village,” a restaurant owned by a couple from my church. A decade ago, my family treated our neighbors there. I specifically remember the overly Italian-looking box and how sweet my neighbors thought the pizza was. We sat in the car, in front of all the Korean signs, in all their foreign comfort. Now it’s called K-Chicken Pizza, a subtle change to most, but to me it symbolizes something much larger: the wave of erasure of Korean signs and of unique names for marketability. Their signature slightly too sweet sauce is now replaced with something more standard: salty, a little spicy, and regular. Their wings are now in the latest trendy packaging, something far from the unique, and almost bizarre chickens that held pizzas for their logos. 

The Perfect French Bakery

Some people don’t even realize Koreatown is Korean. To some it is Japantown; it is the two corporate Japanese stationary stores and the hundreds of Korean Sushi restaurants, where we’re gifted with beer, desert, and a smile by the owner. To some it is Chinatown; the one plaza with the Great Wall super market and premium Korean-Chinese cuisine. Many will often go to our bakeries, and play it up as an exotic experience, a truly authentic French bakery. This is often due to Korean bakeries having French names; it is seen as a symbol of prestige and good quality. Of course, the red bean butter pastries, corn cheese bread, and mango bingsoo is an iconic part of French eating culture. I think the reason it bothers me is because the home I’ve known for so long is not even worth naming properly, respecting it, to the people who love to go there. 

Resilience

Mom always said the best Korean quality is our resilience. She would reference Yi Sun Shin, the warrior who won against 300 ships with only 13, or our grandparents who fended for themselves through the devastation of the Korean War. It almost seems like a different reality, when my mom describes the straw-woven floors she slept on, only 40 years ago. I think even if Koreatown loses its Korean signs, its Korean grandmas, its boiling hot Korean food, our community will still continue to be resilient. I continue to learn about our history, and I’ve learned that even when the last Koreatown named Doraville was abandoned, we built up another in Duluth. One that is ultra-popular, bustling, mazy, historic and home.