Inside a teaching kitchen south-east of Seoul, I coat a whole chicken – cut into eight parts – in batter and dip the pieces carefully into a bowl of powdered mix until covered in a light, fluffy layer.

A chef watches intently. “Don’t rub it,” he says. “Keep it delicate.”

The chicken, already brined in what I’m told is a secret marinade, goes into a fryer filled with an olive oil blend, heated to 165C. I slowly lower the pieces a third of the way, then drop them in away from myself to avoid splashing. I set a timer for 10 minutes.

This is Chicken University, a sprawling campus with a giant chicken statue at the entrance. It exists to train would-be owners of the BBQ Chicken franchise chain through a two-week residential programme. More than 50,000 people have passed through its classrooms.

This humble dish is relatively simple, and is not even traditional Korean cuisine, but it is part of a national obsession that has gone global, both physically and culturally as part of the K-food wave. The country has been only half-jokingly dubbed the Republic of Fried Chicken.

South Korea has around 40,000 fried chicken restaurants – just a few thousand short of the number of McDonald’s branches worldwide. Most are small, family-run operations. But now, Korean chicken brands operate more than 1,800 stores in around 60 countries, nearly double the number of stores a decade ago. From London to Los Angeles, Korean fried chicken appears on the menu.

It is the most popular Korean food among international consumers, according to a South Korean government survey of about 11,000 consumers across 22 cities, spanning Asia, Europe, the Americas and Australia.

From post-war import to K-food export

South Korea’s most successful culinary export is not traditionally Korean. Fried chicken arrived with American soldiers stationed in the country after the Korean war, but the technique that made it distinctly Korean emerged decades later.

About 1980, a chicken shop owner in the southern city of Daegu, Yoon Jong-gye, noticed customers abandoning their chicken once it grew cold, when the meat became dry. So he began experimenting with brining the chicken to keep it juicy and a glaze made from chilli powder. A neighbourhood grandmother suggested adding corn syrup.

The result was yangnyeom chicken – sweet, sticky and spicy – and still appealing at room temperature. Yoon never patented his recipe and died in December 2025 at 74, having watched his invention spread far beyond his tiny shop where it began.

Korean chicken brands had been expanding internationally since the early 2000s, but the cultural breakthrough came in 2014, when the Korean drama My Love from the Star became a sensation across China.

A line from its lead character – that “on the day of the first snow, you should have chicken and beer” – reportedly triggered queues outside Korean chicken restaurants, even during an avian flu outbreak.

Chimaek, the portmanteau meaning “fried chicken and beer” from the Korean words “chikin” and “maekju”, has since become a cultural shorthand, even entering the Oxford English Dictionary.

It describes as much an act of collective pleasure as a meal: friends gathered around a table, with a plate of chicken at the centre and draught beer within reach. Every July, Daegu hosts a chimaek festival that draws more than a million visitors.

One defining feature of Korean fried chicken is how it is served. Kim Ki-deuk, who has run an independent chicken shop near Korea University in Seoul with his wife Baek Hye-kyeong for more than 20 years, puts it simply. “In fast food places, they may sell one or several pieces,” he says. “Korean chicken is one full bird.”

Technique is another factor, though methods vary.

At shops like Kim and Baek’s, chicken is fried twice. “We fry it once first, then when the customer orders, we fry it again,” he says. “Otherwise it gets soggy. That’s what makes it extra crispy.”

The batter, typically made with potato or corn starch, holds up under the sauce – whether a sweet-spicy yangnyeom glaze or a soy-garlic coating – allowing it to stay crisp long after it has been boxed up for delivery.

Prof Joo Young-ha, a cultural anthropologist at the Academy of Korean Studies who specialises in food culture, argues that Korean chicken’s global success stems from its simplicity.

“Unlike pork, chicken crosses religious prohibition boundaries,” he says. “And unlike kimchi, which is treated like a side dish, or bibimbap, which isn’t immediately obvious as a dish, fried chicken is immediately recognisable as a meal.”

Beyond its global appeal, fried chicken’s rise in South Korea reflects something about modern life there. Prof Joo traces its rise to the 1980s and 1990s, when apartment living, dual-income households, and delivery culture were reshaping Korean life. Fried chicken, fast, convenient, and boxed for takeaway, fitted the moment.

The industry has long attracted mid-career Koreans seeking a route back to income after leaving corporate jobs, though the market is fiercely competitive and margins are thin.

Back at their fried chicken shop, Kim Ki-deuk slides another batch of chicken gizzards, another popular menu item, into the crackling oil. “Same as usual,” one customer says.

“It’s great that Korean chicken is known worldwide,” Kim says, wiping down the counter between orders. “Chicken is for everyone, young and old.

“Korea is such a small place. One bird doing all this work, introducing our country, our culture. It’s quite something.”