Gwangjang Market opened in 1905 as Seoul's first permanent daily market, predating modern refrigeration by decades. Vendors still fry mung-bean pancakes on cast-iron griddles passed down through three generations, the same bindaetteok recipe their great-grandmothers sold to laborers building the city's first tram lines. The market spans 5,000 square meters across Jongno-gu, sheltering more than 200 food stalls beneath a corrugated roof that amplifies the sizzle of pajeon batter hitting hot oil at 6 a.m. A street food tour in Seoul centers on Gwangjang because the market never modernized its cooking methods. Grandmothers roll mayak gimbap by hand at wooden counters, the name translating to "narcotic kimbap" for its addictive sesame-oil glaze. Tteokbokki vendors simmer gochujang sauce in aluminum pots large enough to bathe a child, adjusting spice levels by eye rather than thermometer. The narrow aisles force proximity: you stand elbow-to-elbow with office workers on lunch break, university students splitting a plate of sundae, tourists photographing the rust-red chili flakes mounded in plastic bins. This density matters because Korean food culture is communal, designed for sharing banchan and disputing which ajumma fries the crispest hotteok. Beyond Gwangjang, Seoul's food tours extend to Mangwon Market in Mapo-gu, where younger vendors experiment with fusion tteok and organic makgeolli, and the night markets near Dongdaemun, where grilled gopchang and soju flow until 2 a.m. Each district offers a different register of Korean street food: Jongno preserves Joseon-era recipes, Mangwon interprets tradition through a millennial lens, Dongdaemun caters to the post-club crowd seeking hangover prevention in broth and grilled intestines. The taxonomy of Seoul's culinary walking tours maps directly onto the city's economic history—markets that fed construction workers in the 1960s now serve international food bloggers, but the banchan portions remain generous and the ajummas still scold you for not finishing your kimchi. Gwangjang's endurance reflects a pragmatic truth: the market owns its building and land, insulating vendors from the gentrification that shuttered Namdaemun's smaller food alleys. The architecture is utilitarian, fluorescent-lit, stained with decades of frying oil, yet it holds more culinary authority than any Michelin-starred restaurant in Gangnam. A Korean street food tasting here is not curated nostalgia but living infrastructure, the same breakfast a taxi driver eats before a 12-hour shift.