One standard: not “it’s good considering there’s no meat,” but “it’s good—wait, there’s no meat?” People should be able to eat it without registering that it’s vegan.

Honestly, I couldn’t believe it. When people think Michelin, they picture fine dining. We have a short menu and a modest interior. The fact that we were selected feels like Michelin saying, “Yes, places like this count too”—and that makes it mean even more. I think what worked in our favor was honesty. We don’t pretend to use expensive ingredients or make things more complicated than they are. We take gosari—an ordinary ingredient—treat it properly, and serve it at a fair price.

We want to make plant-based eating mainstream—something people who’ve never thought about veganism just wander into naturally. A traditional market is everyone’s space: vendors, office workers, tourists, local residents. Where else could we find a better fit for that goal? There’s also the ingredient access. We can source whatever’s in season right away and move quickly when we want to test new ideas.

Gosari Express started from a concept: a grandmother’s old noodle shop, reimagined by her granddaughter. The graffiti on the exterior was our way of expressing that—a visual language for how we’re redefining plant-based food, with all its freedom and defiance. The day the artists came to paint it, some of the older residents in the neighborhood came out worried, asking why we were drawing on the walls.

But this place works because things that shouldn’t go together somehow do. Seoul Jungang Market is one of the three major pork byproduct markets in the area. When we opened, people around us were understandably puzzled. We’ve worked through that, though, and built real memories with the people here. A grandmother who tasted our vegetable broth and kept coming back. An elderly man who saved up his allowance to bring friends for multiple visits. A market vendor who tried our basil makgeolli and rosemary makgeolli from a local brewery and liked it so much he quietly started sharing it around.

Every time something like that happens, I’m reminded of why this work matters. Watching people who shouldn’t overlap—vegan and non-vegan, young and old, vendors and tourists—come together naturally over a bowl of food. The idea that food can connect anyone across any divide: that’s what keeps me going.

I’ve come to think what I’m actually doing is less about the food itself and more about connecting people. Before anything else, I want to be a good person—build a good team, and let that team make good food together. The bigger dream? To show the world what Korean vegetables are capable of. I want the day to come when Korean ingredients feel familiar and beloved everywhere. And I want our brand to be the one that gets them there.

Burnout brought me here. Severe stress from my previous job landed me in the hospital—and the company didn’t care. That was the turning point. My parents were getting older and struggling, so the timing aligned. I always knew I’d run a business someday, and this was always one of the options. Growing up watching them, I had a clear sense of what good oil should taste like. Even so, replicating their flavor exactly took five years. Customers come for the original. Coasting on that reputation was never an option—I had to own the craft myself. The moment that foundation slips, everything else goes with it.

First came the systems. We used to do local deliveries by motorcycle, but every hour on the road was an hour not spent making oil—and it wasn’t safe either. We worried about losing existing accounts if we stopped. Then COVID-19 hit, and the shift to contactless gave us our opening. We offered free shipping to bring customers over and talked our restaurant clients into making the switch.

A longtime regular once told me she’d bought oil on a friend’s recommendation, but it didn’t suit her taste—and she felt too guilty to throw it away. That got me thinking: what if customers could taste before they buy? Our motto is “a hundred words are worth less than one taste.” Like a wine tasting, I walk customers through the ingredients and roasting methods before they try each oil. The look on their faces when it clicks—“Wait, what is this?”—makes everything worth it.

My parents worked by feel. But feel can’t be passed down or taught. So I standardized the process. The key shift was moving to a real-time digital temperature gauge for roasting. One degree makes all the difference with sesame—one degree too low and you get a raw, off note; one degree too high and the clean finish disappears. There was friction with my father over the investment—new machines aren’t cheap. I told him I’d recoup the cost within six months and proved it. After that, he was fully on board.

This year, a fan flew in from Taiwan after seeing content featuring chef Yoon Nam-no, known from Netflix’s “Culinary Class Wars.” After a tasting, she left with a suitcase full of oil. That felt like real payoff.

I plan to open a proper facility outside the city with automated systems. But I won’t chase volume. Good raw ingredients are finite, and I’ll only produce as much as quality allows. Even after the new facility opens, this space will become a kind of museum—a living record of where the brand came from.