East Meets West: Culinary Journey Comparing Prague and Seoul's Food Scenes

Prague and Seoul might seem like an odd pairing for a culinary comparison – one a medieval European jewel with Gothic spires and cobblestone streets, the other a hyper-modern Asian metropolis of neon and skyscrapers. Yet both cities hold centuries of history expressed through their food traditions, and both have undergone dramatic culinary renaissances in recent decades.

Prague's food scene reflects its geographic position as a crossroads of Central European influences. The Czech capital embraces hearty, soul-warming dishes designed to fortify you through cold winters and complement the world's finest beer. There's a certain unhurried quality to Prague's food culture – meals are meant to be lingered over, often in historic beer halls or cozy restaurants tucked into centuries-old buildings.

By contrast, Seoul operates at a different tempo entirely. Korean food culture pulses with the same energy that drives the city itself. Meals can be quick affairs at street food stalls or elaborate, hours-long experiences with dozens of banchan (side dishes). The flavors are bold, often spicy, sour, and umami-rich all at once. Seoul embraces food innovation while maintaining deep respect for traditional techniques like fermentation that date back thousands of years.

What struck me most was how both cities' cuisines reflect their broader cultural values. Czech food, with its emphasis on comfort and tradition, mirrors Prague's preservation of its architectural heritage and unhurried pace of life. Korean cuisine, with its perfect balance of contrasting flavors and temperatures, reflects Seoul's dynamic blend of ancient traditions and cutting-edge modernity.

Before my trip, I invested in a quality travel journal to document my culinary discoveries. This became invaluable as I compared flavor profiles and ingredients across continents, creating a personal food map that connected these seemingly disparate culinary worlds.

My Czech culinary journey began in a centuries-old beer hall near Old Town Square, where wooden tables worn smooth by generations of elbows supported my first proper Czech meal. The svíčková na smetaně (marinated sirloin with cream sauce) arrived like a declaration of cultural values – a tender beef centerpiece surrounded by a moat of rich sauce, topped with a dollop of cranberry compote and a slice of lemon, all accompanied by knedlíky (bread dumplings) that seemed designed specifically for sauce-soaking duty.

"Food here is fuel, but it's also pleasure and community," explained Tomas, my local guide and a third-generation Prague resident. "We Czechs don't rush meals. Notice how everyone orders a second beer before they're halfway through their first?"

Indeed, beer is practically a food group in Prague. The Czech Republic consumes more beer per capita than any nation on earth, and after tasting the impossibly fresh, unpasteurized tank beer (tankové pivo) served at pubs like Lokal, I understood why. The beer culture here isn't about getting drunk – it's about appreciating a craft perfected over centuries, paired perfectly with specific dishes.

Beyond the classics, Prague surprised me with its emerging modern food scene. At Eska in the Karlín district, I experienced Czech ingredients reimagined through Nordic-inspired techniques – think fermented, foraged, and visually stunning. This new wave of Czech cuisine honors traditional ingredients while presenting them in ways that would have been unimaginable during the Communist era when culinary innovation was stifled.

One afternoon, I joined a small-group food tour that took us through both traditional and contemporary Czech cuisine. Our guide explained how Prague's food scene has evolved dramatically since the Velvet Revolution, with young chefs now free to experiment while still honoring their culinary heritage. The tour provided context I couldn't have discovered on my own and introduced me to hidden gems I would have otherwise missed.

What I found most compelling about Prague's food scene was its honesty. There's little pretension – even at high-end restaurants, the focus remains on quality ingredients prepared with care rather than molecular gastronomy tricks or Instagram-bait presentations. It's food that knows exactly what it is and makes no apologies for its sometimes rustic appearance because the flavors speak for themselves.

Stepping off the plane in Seoul just days after leaving Prague felt like culinary whiplash. Where Prague had been all about slow-cooked, hearty comfort, Seoul immediately assaulted my senses with intensity – the pungent aroma of fermenting kimchi, the sizzle of meat on tabletop grills, the vibrant colors of banchan filling every available inch of table space.

"Korean food is all about balance," explained Ji-hye, my friend's colleague who'd offered to show me her favorite spots. "Sweet, salty, spicy, sour, bitter – sometimes all in one dish. And always with contrasting textures."

This balance was immediately apparent at my first proper Korean barbecue experience. The ritual of cooking marinated beef (bulgogi) and pork belly (samgyeopsal) on the tabletop grill while wrapping pieces in lettuce leaves with ssamjang (spicy paste), garlic, and kimchi created flavor combinations that evolved with each bite. The interactive nature of the meal – cooking, wrapping, sharing – made it as much social experience as dinner.

Seoul's street food culture provided another stark contrast to Prague. In markets like Gwangjang and Namdaemun, vendors specialized in single dishes perfected over decades – from bindaetteok (mung bean pancakes) to tteokbokki (spicy rice cakes). The energy was frenetic, with crowds gathering around popular stalls, eating standing up or perched on plastic stools. This was food designed for a fast-paced urban lifestyle, yet prepared with techniques passed down through generations.

Most fascinating was Seoul's relationship with fermentation. While Prague's preservation techniques leaned toward smoking and curing, Korean cuisine has elevated fermentation to an art form. At a traditional restaurant in Bukchon Hanok Village, I was served kimchi made from recipes specific to different seasons and regions, each with distinct flavor profiles ranging from mild and fruity to deeply funky and spicy.

For capturing these vibrant food scenes, my smartphone gimbal proved invaluable. The bustling markets of Seoul and intimate beer halls of Prague presented challenging shooting conditions, but the stabilizer allowed me to capture smooth video even in low light or crowded spaces. It's compact enough to slip into a jacket pocket but made a dramatic difference in the quality of my food videos.

Perhaps the most striking difference between the two food cultures was their approach to meals as events. In Prague, a single dish often constituted the main event, accompanied by beer. In Seoul, even a simple meal might include five or more distinct preparations served simultaneously, creating a mosaic of flavors, colors, and textures that engaged all senses at once.

What fascinated me most about both Prague and Seoul was watching how each city balanced tradition with innovation. Both cultures take immense pride in their culinary heritage, yet both are experiencing creative renaissances led by young chefs pushing boundaries while respecting their roots.

In Prague, this manifested at places like Field and La Degustation Bohême Bourgeoise, where chefs were reinterpreting classic Czech dishes with modern techniques. At Field, I experienced a tasting menu that included a deconstructed version of traditional bramboračka (potato soup) that maintained the soul of the dish while presenting it in an entirely new way. These restaurants were earning Michelin stars not by abandoning Czech cuisine but by elevating it.

"We're not trying to be French or Italian," explained Pavel, a young chef I met at a cocktail bar in Vinohrady. "We're rediscovering our own food heritage and asking what it means to be Czech in the 21st century. The ingredients and flavors are traditional – it's the approach that's new."

Seoul's innovation took a different path, with a stronger emphasis on fusion and cross-cultural experimentation. In neighborhoods like Hongdae and Gangnam, I found restaurants blending Korean techniques and flavors with everything from Italian pasta to American barbecue. At Mingles, chef Mingoo Kang creates dishes that honor Korean traditions while incorporating Japanese, Spanish, and French influences – earning him multiple Michelin stars in the process.

What struck me was how both cities' contemporary food scenes reflected their broader cultural positions. Prague, still reconnecting with its pre-Communist identity, focused on rediscovering and refining its own traditions. Seoul, confident in its cultural foundations but eager to absorb global influences, embraced fusion and experimentation more readily.

To document these culinary adventures properly, I used my food photography lighting kit for indoor restaurant shots. In dimly lit traditional restaurants, this compact lighting setup made a tremendous difference in capturing the true colors and textures of dishes without disturbing other diners. It's small enough to fit in a daypack but powerful enough to illuminate food beautifully without harsh flash.

Both cities also showed me how political and economic history shapes food culture. Prague's cuisine reflected decades of Communist-era limitations, when ingredients were restricted and culinary innovation discouraged. The current renaissance feels like a reclaiming of lost time. Seoul's food scene, meanwhile, carries the legacy of post-war hardship through dishes like budae-jjigae (army stew), which originated from creative use of American military base leftovers and has evolved into a beloved comfort food despite its origins in scarcity.

No culinary comparison between Prague and Seoul would be complete without exploring their distinctive drinking cultures, which reveal just as much about local values as the food itself.

Prague's beer culture is legendary, and rightfully so. Czech beer (pivo) isn't just a beverage – it's a national institution. What impressed me most wasn't just the quality of the pilsners and lagers, but the reverence with which they're served. Proper Czech pubs employ specialized tapsters (výčepní) who train for years to master the art of pouring the perfect beer with precisely the right amount of foam (pěna).

"The foam is a seal that protects the beer's freshness and flavor," explained Martin, a výčepní at U Fleků, Prague's oldest brewery operating continuously since 1499. "A good pour should have at least three fingers of dense, creamy foam that leaves rings on the glass as you drink."

Beer halls like U Fleků and U Zlatého Tygra (The Golden Tiger) function as Prague's living rooms – places where locals from all walks of life gather to debate politics, celebrate milestones, or simply unwind after work. The atmosphere is communal, with shared tables encouraging conversation between strangers. Beer is served in a continuous flow, with servers replacing empty glasses without being asked until you signal you're finished by placing a coaster on top.

By contrast, Seoul's drinking culture centers around soju and makgeolli, often consumed at lively outdoor tents called pojangmacha or in specialized bars. Where Czech drinking emphasizes slow appreciation, Korean drinking culture can be more spirited, with various drinking games and the important ritual of pouring drinks for others rather than yourself.

"You never pour your own drink in Korea," Ji-hye instructed me as we sat at a bustling pojangmacha near Dongdaemun. "It's about showing respect and building connection. Always pour for others with both hands, and receive with both hands."

The food that accompanies drinking in each city reveals another cultural contrast. Prague's beer snacks tend toward the hearty and salty – utopenec (pickled sausage), nakládaný hermelín (pickled cheese), or bramboráky (potato pancakes). Seoul's drinking food, or anju, ranges from spicy tteokbokki to crispy Korean fried chicken that undergoes a double-frying process resulting in a shattering crunch that puts American versions to shame.

For navigating Seoul's complex drinking districts, I relied heavily on my language translation device to translate menu items and communicate with vendors in pojangmacha where English was rarely spoken. This pocket-sized scanner translated Korean text instantly, helping me discover hidden gems I would have otherwise walked past due to language barriers.

What both drinking cultures share is their role as social lubricant – creating spaces where conversation flows as freely as the beverages. In both cities, I found that joining locals for drinks opened doors to authentic experiences and connections that would have been impossible otherwise.

Perhaps nowhere was the contrast between Prague and Seoul more evident than in their morning food rituals. How a culture starts its day reveals fundamental values and rhythms of daily life, and these two cities approach breakfast from completely different philosophies.

In Prague, breakfast (snídaně) traditionally skews simple and hearty. My mornings often began at local cafés like Café Savoy, where I'd enjoy chlebíčky (open-faced sandwiches) topped with Prague ham, hard-boiled egg, or creamy potato salad. These delicate yet satisfying bites were always accompanied by strong coffee, often served alongside a small glass of water.

More traditional Czech breakfasts feature rolls with butter, jam, and white cheese, or heartier options like párek v rohlíku (sausage in a roll). What struck me was the unhurried nature of Prague's breakfast culture – even on weekdays, people took time to sit and ease into their day rather than rushing with grab-and-go options.

"Breakfast should prepare you properly for the day," explained my Airbnb host Markéta. "Not just feeding your body but giving your mind time to wake up before rushing into work."

Seoul's breakfast landscape couldn't be more different. Traditional Korean breakfasts barely resemble Western morning meals at all – they're essentially smaller versions of lunch or dinner, featuring soup, rice, kimchi, and banchan. At Migabon in Myeongdong, I experienced a traditional Korean breakfast of juk (rice porridge) with various savory toppings and side dishes, including kimchi that had more depth and complexity than any I'd tasted before.

"Many Koreans, especially younger generations, don't eat traditional breakfasts daily anymore," Ji-hye told me. "But weekend breakfast with family might still be soup, rice, and banchan – the same foods we eat all day."

Increasingly, Seoul embraces Western breakfast options and coffee culture, with trendy cafés in neighborhoods like Garosu-gil serving everything from avocado toast to elaborate brunch plates. Yet even these Western-style breakfasts often incorporate Korean ingredients or techniques – like Egg Drop's famous egg sandwiches with gochujang-infused sauces.

The pace differs dramatically too. While Prague breakfasts invited lingering, Seoul's morning rush featured efficient kiosks selling grab-and-go items to commuters. Street vendors near subway stations did brisk business selling hotteok (sweet filled pancakes) and gyeranppang (egg bread) to workers hurrying to their offices.

To capture the distinct morning light in both cities, I relied on my travel tripod for stable morning photography. Its carbon fiber construction made it light enough to carry daily while still providing the stability needed for low-light morning shots in cafés and markets. The compact design meant I could document these breakfast scenes without creating an obtrusive presence in intimate morning settings.